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Some days, Jim wishes he lived somewhere else: somewhere a little cleaner, somewhere where the sky was bluer, somewhere where the scum didn't decide to settle. It's not often he feels like this; Gotham is home.
It's where he grew up. It's where he worked the beat. It's where he got married, had kids, settled down. And where he got divorced, but -
But there are some days.
Today, for instance. Two bodies. Flayed, but immaculately. Someone took their time, and not where the killing happened. This is a display - and it turns his stomach, even after all these years of seeing every dark corner of Gotham's darkest corners.
He's not running the scene but he came out anyway, and part of him regrets it. He watches his people work for a moment: crowd control, crime scene techs, possible witnesses being questioned. Another day in Gotham. Organized crime might be down now, after Harvey, but that doesn't have anything to do with the freaks who string people up in grotesque poses like grotesque angels.
The lead detective briefs him quickly. It's rare for the Commissioner to show up at a crime scene, but Jim likes to know what's happening in his city, and the best way to know is to see it for himself. He nods along as the detective tells him what's transpired so far. His people are doing everything they're supposed to and doing it by the book.
"Keep me in the loop," he tells Kramer, then heads back to his car. A low-slung silver sports model shoots past as he pauses a moment before going around to the driver's side - Bruce Wayne, no doubt. No one else in this city owns a vehicle like that. For a second, Jim wonders where he's going, then figures: it's Wayne, he's probably got a date with several models at once. Free-flowing champagne all night long, that sort of thing. For a brief second he remembers the scared little boy in the bullpen, trying to hold back tears.
Then he puts Wayne out of his mind and gets in his car, swings out into traffic and then around the block to head back to his office.
Two meetings and a frustrating budget session later, Jim's just pulled his coat on to go home for the night when there's a loud hiss of air brakes outside the building and a shadow outside the windows where something's blocking the streetlights. "What's this now?" he murmurs to himself, looking down through the glass at the street below.
It's a delivery truck; the back is now open, and three uniformed men - he recognizes the bonded and insured armored car insignia on their jackets - start rolling dollies of crates out of the truck and down to the pavement.
Jim goes down the back set of stairs to the MCU's lobby, which is still well-lit with fluorescents despite the walk-up counter and records offices being closed for more than an hour now. "Jana, what's this?" he calls - lucky that their most well-informed civilian employee hasn't left for the day.
Jana barely looks up from her computer. "Delivery from Wayne Enterprises. Scheduled, Commissioner. It's legit."
The main door bangs open and one of the uniform guards sticks his head in. His chin lifts in recognition when he sees Jim by the stairs. "Commissioner Gordon, just who we were hoping to find - these are for you to sign for specifically, sir. Mr. Wayne insisted."
"Little late for deliveries," Jim replies, taking the clipboard the guard holds out. It's an itemized list, mostly Kevlar and riot gear, with a single handwritten line in block letters at the bottom. Heard you were in need of some things. -BW
He signs where indicated.
*
He doesn't expect to get a meeting with Wayne. The man's a recluse these days, has been for more than a year. Jim heard something about a skiing accident, a badly broken leg. He's more inclined to think there's a broken heart involved: Rachel Dawes, Wayne's friend since childhood, a violent casualty of the Joker's reign of terror.
He tries anyway, wanting to thank the man in person for the donation. He calls WE the day after the delivery. He's transferred through a few people, then asks, sure he'll be turned down.
"Hold a moment, please, while I relay your request," says the crisp voice of someone Jim would put money on being Lucius Fox's assistant.
He reads reports while he waits on hold for six minutes exactly. The music is Brahms, a violin concerto. Then the crisp voice returns. "Commissioner Gordon, Mr. Wayne is unavailable for the foreseeable future. However, an invitation has been extended for the upcoming Wayne Foundation gala on the 18th, and Mr. Wayne assures me he could find a few minutes for a conversation with you then."
That's more than Jim was figuring, honestly. "Thank you for your time."
He's barely hung up the phone when it rings again. "Gordon."
"Commissioner," says a smooth voice, "Bruce Wayne. Heard you were trying to get in touch?"
Jim's startled for a brief second. Recovering, he says, "I was told you were unavailable."
"Only for most people."
He's surprised again. "I wanted to thank you for the equipment."
"You're welcome." There's a pause, long enough that Jim looks down at the screen of his desk phone to be sure the connection is still active. Then Wayne says, "I'd heard there were some cuts - budget cuts, with the new Dent Act putting so many bad guys behind bars -"
He laughs lightly, but something about it sounds strange to Jim's ear. "Thought I could at least help with something."
"You did. Thank you."
"The gala, are you coming?"
"The Mayor likes it when I show up at those things." Jim had never wanted this job; there was no one else, so he accepted the promotion, reluctantly. He doesn't want to keep it and has drafted more than one resignation letter, but the Mayor has made it clear that right now there's still no one else.
"That's not a yes," Wayne says dryly, and Jim enjoys the unexpected frisson of amusement. "I hope to see you there, Commissioner. Good night."
The line does go dead then, dial tone droning for a brief second before Jim slips the handset back into the cradle. He shakes his head and adds the Wayne Foundation gala to his calendar. A personal invitation from Bruce Wayne himself seems like something he should accept.
One more thing, and maybe then he'll actually deliver a resignation letter.
He sighs, turns back to his computer. There's another victim of the Flayer, this time in the Narrows, discovered early this morning in a dark corner of a street that's barely traveled. The body's at the morgue right now and waiting for an identification - possibly. The last two are still John Does.
Organized crime might be starting to trend downward now that the Dent Act has passed and the mob is getting swept up and locked up, but the random, mindless murders that have always plagued Gotham haven't changed. Something about this city draws the twisted, and there's never a shortage of victims: people who've fallen through the cracks, gone to live on the streets or underground, no matter what programs are introduced to try and catch them before they disappear.
It's not his case but he has to stay informed. City officials, the press, they always want to know.
*
One moment the streets are clear, the next, a bone-jarring pain is searing through him and all the blood is rushing to his head, because his car is upside down.
Jim thinks he smells gas but the dizziness is so overwhelming, so quickly - he thinks he's reaching for the seat belt, trying to get free, get clear, but maybe his arms aren't even moving at all.
Unconsciousness reaches up and drags him down.
It's a bright light that wakes him. He jerks, instinctively trying to move away, and a familiar raspy voice says, "Stay still, Gordon."
The shape of the Batman behind the light. Where have you been? Jim wants to ask, but his mouth isn't working yet. Gloved hands touch his face. The brightness is a penlight, shining into his eyes. It takes him a minute but he realizes the Batman is checking him for a concussion.
His left arm throbs terribly up through the shoulder. "Stay still," the Batman repeats.
The penlight disappears. Jim blinks. He realizes he's in his own apartment, on his own bed.
He thinks the Batman is removing his gloves, turning away briefly. Then he smells a harsh antiseptic scent. Batman leans over him again and says, "I popped your shoulder back into the socket while you were unconscious, and wrapped up your wrist - it's not broken, but I think it's sprained. The morphine will kick in shortly. You've got some small cuts and scratches on your face, I'm going to clean them up now."
"Okay," Jim breathes.
It stings. He does his best not to flinch. The hands touching him are warm and move with care. The soft bloom of the morphine starts to take hold and the throbbing in his arm settles, then disappears. His eyelids start to feel heavy.
Somehow he lifts his right hand and touches the Batman over the mask and asks, "Who are you, really?"
"You still don't know?" Batman asks. There's stubble beneath the heel of Jim's hand where it's touching skin. Whoever the man is beneath the mask, he hadn't shaved before donning the costume to free Jim from the wreck of the car.
Jim might have the smallest suspicion, but it feels so farfetched -
He takes his hand away, feeling a vague faraway flush of embarrassment at touching the Batman like that. "Where have you been?" The question he thought earlier now falls dumbly from his morphine-slackened mouth.
A ghost of a smile crosses the part of Batman's face he can see. "We agreed I'd stay in the shadows."
"So what, you - " he pauses to breathe through the wooziness, "reappeared just to save me from a wreck?"
"Something like that. You can sleep now, Commissioner."
Jim tries to say thank you, but he's not sure if the words make it out before unconsciousness overtakes him once more.
*
With one arm in a sling, it's a struggle to do all the things he'd normally take for granted: sleeping, showering, getting dressed.
The Batman was still there when he'd woken after the crash. Sitting in one of the two chairs Jim had for his tiny kitchen table, clearly carried into the bedroom and placed next to the window, so that when Jim opened his eyes into the sunlight he could only make out the shape of the man once more.
"You didn't leave," he muttered through a mouth that felt like sandpaper. He would have liked to push himself up, but the brace and sling holding his injured arm to his chest reminded him he only had one good elbow. His whole body ached - no doubt all his muscles sore from tensing at the moment of impact - but he felt more clear-headed than before.
He turned his head on the pillow to look at the Batman. The cowl was in place, but the suit wasn't the same, and no cape. "No," the Batman replied, "I didn't leave. Someone needed to keep watch."
He stood up and leaned over Jim, sliding an arm around his shoulders to lift him into a sitting position. Jim swallowed through his still-dry mouth, then said hoarsely, "I'd offer you coffee, but given the circumstances…"
The Batman lifted a glass of water to his mouth. Jim drank gratefully.
"The Mayor has been made aware of the attempt on your life," the Batman said next, and Jim felt himself go cold. His arm throbbed steadily again.
"No mistake." The Batman's voice was quieter, but still gravelly, his true voice still obscured.
He pressed painkillers into Jim's right hand, helped him up from the bed and into the bathroom.
That was two weeks ago. He hasn't seen the Batman since, although one morning he'd found a file folder on his desk with an anonymous-looking typed report spelling out information about the small explosive that had been fired at his car, sending it burning into the air.
Now he's at Wayne Manor with two hundred other of Gotham's finest citizens, in his best suit with his arm in the sling the Batman left him in, a sleek but sturdy thing made of some material JIm couldn't identify offhand.
As Commissioner, he's obliged to attend all sorts of fundraisers and events, but at least the Wayne Foundation galas have better food and drink than most; the buffet here stretches through several tents. Small bars are scattered around, each staffed by at least two bartenders.
Here's Bruce Wayne himself, in a dark suit and with a cane. People are looking after him with startled expressions, like they can't believe he's made an appearance. He's walking towards Jim. "Commissioner."
"Mr. Wayne."
"Any more on our latest serial killer?"
There'd been another body found last night, making four now. He was sure they'd need a press conference soon, unless the killer was found in the next few days. But there were no witnesses, and little forensics.
"You heard about that?" Jim asks before he can stop himself.
Bruce's face rearranges itself into something that looks like mild amusement. "I do watch the news, Commissioner."
"I wasn't trying to imply -"
An actual smile this time, which makes Jim realize how much thinner Wayne's face looks than the last time he actually saw the man. "You were, but I won't hold it against you." Bruce jerks his chin at Jim's arm in the sling. "Don't suppose you went skiing."
"Car wreck."
"Bad luck. Want a drink? I notice you don't have anything in hand."
Jim realizes that by talking to him, Wayne is keeping other would-be conversationalists at bay. There are a few people circling nearby - but no one is approaching. "Whatever you're having," he replies.
Wayne glances around and must catch someone's eye, because a moment later a uniformed caterer is there. "Would you get us the Macallan I know is on hand, please?" Jim hears Wayne murmur. "We'll be over -" he points with the cane.
The circling guests seem to give up as Wayne gestures for Jim to follow him to the furthest small table. "Thanks," Wayne says, as they sit down. "I'm no good for standing very long, and I didn't want to talk to any of those people besides."
"Me, neither," Jim admits. A smile flickers across Wayne's face. There's something familiar about the movement, but Jim can't put a finger on it. He takes a sip of the whiskey and watches Wayne do the same.
*
Later, Jim will wonder why it took him so long to put all the pieces together. Figuring out who was beneath the cowl took time and resources - both things he was short on, when crime never slept in Gotham. Busy with the actual criminals, he didn't care who the Batman was in daylight. Only that the vigilante delivered both suspects and evidence, which were also both things in short supply when it paid more to be in some Mob pocket than to uphold the law to the fullest extent.
Looking at the scars on Bruce Wayne's back as the man pushed buttons on an expensive espresso maker while part of his brain is distracted by how Bruce's skin had felt under his hands last night, all Jim can think is, maybe I should have figured it out before now.
Jim's stepping out of his office for the night when he nearly runs right into Wayne, who's standing in the corridor, having clearly charmed his way into the building and upstairs. He's in slacks and a dark sweater, with a long coat over everything, and a cane in his hand. He catches Jim's good elbow before they collide.
"Mr. Wayne -"
"I know we don't really know each other," Wayne interrupts. His gaze seems to search Jim's face for a moment, sharper than Jim can recall ever seeing before now. Then his expression relaxes slightly. "Call me Bruce."
"Bruce," Jim repeats.
"Jim. Let's get something to eat."
It's late. Jim hasn't eaten since a hurried sandwich at lunch. And it's not like he has anyone to go home to.
Bruce is leaning on his cane, his brows lifted slightly in question. For a split second, Jim sees a flash of the boy he'd once been. "Sure," he says, somewhat belatedly. "Something to eat."
There's a BMW outside. "No Lamborghini tonight?" Jim asks.
"Too difficult to drive with the leg like this." Bruce glances down at the brace. Then he opens the passenger side door and gestures. "But she's a smooth ride, I promise."
"No doubt."
"Alfred taught me to drive," Bruce says, as he steers the X5 away from the curb. The leather seat is the most comfortable thing Jim's sat in all week, and he lets himself relax into it, still marveling over suddenly being invited to dinner by the city's most reclusive billionaire. Then Bruce adds, "Not in a Lamborghini, in case you were going to ask."
A chuckle escapes him at that. "I wouldn't have been surprised."
"Alfred would never."
"So what did you learn to drive in? I'm guessing the oldest car in the garage was still brand-new by street standards."
The slight insult seems to roll right off of Bruce. He palms the wheel as he turns the BMW smoothly around a corner; Jim sees him grimace slightly as he readjusts his leg. "Alfred drove the Bentley, so I learned in that. Everything else, well - it gathered dust."
"Ah." He understands then, what Bruce means.
"I did take the Aston Martin out for a joyride when I turned sixteen."
"I remember that," Jim says, as the memory of teenage Bruce Wayne being pulled over for speeding strikes him.
Bruce turns his head briefly, his gaze flickering so quickly over Jim that Jim would have missed it if he hadn't already been watching Wayne drive. "It wasn't you that caught me."
"No. But I saw the report."
"Alfred read me the riot act." Bruce slows the car, turns it into a small parking lot. Sodium vapor lights dot the area, bathing the lot and the square building next to it in a warm glow.
The BMW slips into a parking stall. Jim asks, "What, no valet?"
Bruce laughs at that. "Not here. Come on."
Inside, the restaurant - Jim's almost hesitant to label it as such, since it seems more like a private club, the sort of place he's never been in because it's the sort of place the cops never get called - is softly lit, with plenty of shadows. The booths and chairs are luxuriously upholstered, and fat candles flicker on tabletops.
They're immediately shown to a corner-tucked booth by a man in a suit that's clearly expensive. He takes their coats away before Jim even realizes he's slipped out of his. A moment later, a woman in a dress that must be just as expensive as the maitre d's suit brings Wayne a glass of something dark - whiskey, bourbon, something; she looks at Jim expectantly.
"Um - whatever Mr. Wayne is having," Jim says, barely settled in the booth.
Bruce is smiling at him over the candle's orange flame. "You've never been here before."
"I didn't even know this was a place," Jim replies honestly. The tablecloth looks too pristine to rest his hands on, so he leaves them resting on his thighs.
"Is there anything you don't eat?" Bruce asks.
Jim shakes his head, looking around the dim room. If there are other patrons, he can't see them, except as a moving shadow a few booths away. Bruce follows his gaze and says, "Britzi's is never what you'd call busy - and it's a weeknight."
Jim can only guess how expensive it must be, then. The woman in the designer dress returns with another glass of liquor. She sets it in front of Jim, steps back, and looks at Bruce. "Two of whatever the special is tonight, Monica," he says.
"It's excellent tonight, Mr. Wayne."
"Thank you." Bruce gives her a smooth smile, but Jim can see it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Say hello to Maurice for me."
"How's the arm now?" Bruce asks once Monica's disappeared, tilting his chin in the direction of Jim's left arm. "No more sling."
"It wasn't broken, just wrenched; my shoulder was out of the socket, and I had a bad sprain in my wrist." He'd gone to the walk-in clinic after the Batman left his apartment that morning, and they'd taken x-rays to confirm. He's still wearing a brace on the wrist, but mostly so he doesn't accidentally turn it the wrong way and aggravate anything, and the brace fits almost slim beneath his shirt, only visible where it wraps around his thumb.
"That's good. It's hard to get through the day with only one working arm. All those things we take for granted, like buttoning up a shirt."
He sounds like he knows from experience. Jim asks, and Bruce takes a sip of his scotch before replying, "I've probably broken everything you can break."
"What - skiing?" Jim scoffs.
"Skiing. Snowboarding. Parasailing... HALO-jumping."
He's never even heard of whatever-jumping. "That's not a real thing."
"High-altitude low-opening," Bruce says smoothly. "You jump from a plane -" he points upward, then mimes what Jim assumes is a parachute opening, "but don't open your chute until the last possible moment. The military uses it for stealth insertions."
"You're a billionaire, not a paratrooper."
"Alfred tells me the same thing." Bruce smiles over the rim of his glass. "It's fun."
Jim shakes his head. "Now I understand why a man your age needs to lean so heavily on a cane."
*
The roof of police headquarters is the quietest place in the whole building; even late at night there's always a radio on in a supervisor's office, the FAX machine grinding, or the low hum from the basement dispatch center. Jim could go home to his one-bedroom apartment and find something for a late dinner, or he could stand on the roof for a few minutes, breathing in the chill air and wondering - again - where the Batman had disappeared to the last few months, why he'd shown his masked face to free Jim from the burning car.
As if thinking about the Bat summons the man, a dark shape drops silently onto the roof beside Jim, this time with cape.
"You took out the light," the Batman says.
"We had to chase you, remember."
A moment's pause. "I remember, Commissioner."
Jim pats his coat pockets absently, feeling for a pack of cigarettes that hasn't been there in years. Then he stills and looks up at the stars. Down on the ground, Gotham is still seething; it's not late enough for the city to settle. "Are you here for a reason, or did you miss me?" he asks the Batman, tucking his hands into his pockets.
A flash of something that could be amusement. "I did some digging."
"About?"
"The attempt on your life."
Jim shrugs with more nonchalance than he actually feels inside. "Am I doing my job, if someone's not trying to kill me?" he asks, aiming for levity.
Batman's expression - or what Jim can see of it - seems to harden. "Gotham's lost enough good men."
"I don't know if I want this job anymore," Jim mutters, looking up at the dark sky again. "Paperwork. Meetings. You know, I miss being out on the streets." He pauses, then asks, "Do you?"
The Batman either ignores the question completely, or chooses not to answer it. Instead, he says, "Gotham no longer needs Batman. But his friends still might."
"Am I your friend?" Jim asks. He gives up on his pockets and zips his coat higher. When he looks over, the Batman is gone.
"Figures," he mutters to no one, before he gives up on the chill and goes back inside.
*
With a large part of the criminal underworld cut off at the knees, there's less cops on the take, but Jim's still rattled by two of the detectives he'd wanted to trust the most turning out to be so disloyal. Ramirez he could almost understand; when it's your family being threatened, things get slippery. But Wuertz had no excuse other than money, and apathy.
Money and apathy. That's fitting for Gotham, Jim thinks.
He's been going through personnel files, terminating some and opening IA investigations on others , starting hiring processes to fill the gaps. Even the P&F commission had to be overhauled, and that meant a slow start to any hiring. Garcia was amenable to replacing the officers the city had lost to the Joker's reign of terror, but the city council refused to hire more than that.
He's still at his desk one night when he realizes: the last time he didn't go home exhausted was the night Bruce Wayne appeared out of the shadows and took him to dinner. Instead, he'd gone home well-fed and pleasantly warm from the wine, and pleasantly surprised by how much he enjoyed Bruce's company.
Jim thinks about the comfortable feeling for a moment longer, then takes his wallet from his desk drawer. Between the bills is a card with nothing on it except a hand-written phone number. Bruce handed it over before dropping Jim at his car outside Gotham Central.
He looks at it for a while. A noisy gust of wind makes the old window rattle slightly in the frame and Jim glances towards the sound out of habit, sees that it's darker outside than he thought.
Bruce answers after the first ring. "Jim, how are you?"
"I, ah -" It's as though every thought has gone out of his head.
A soft laugh, but not mean. "Bruce, would you like to grab a drink? Yes, I would. Thanks for calling - meet you at your car in fifteen."
"Well. That saves me having to ask," Jim replies, once he's gotten past his initial shock. A warm frisson runs through him at Bruce's amused huff when it comes through the line. "Fifteen minutes, then."
A cold gust of wind greets him as he pushes open the side door of the building fifteen minutes later. Since the Batman saved him from the car wreck, he's taken to using a different exit every time he leaves the building, being random about it, trying not to establish a pattern. He turns up the collar of his coat and goes around the corner to the small outdoor lot - there's an underground garage, but he doesn't park in it every day, for the same reasons.
Bruce is leaning up against Jim's old Buick. He's wearing the same wool coat as before, but now with a navy blue scarf around his neck, his hands in leather gloves. "Don't you have better things to do than drink with me, Mr. Wayne?" Jim asks as he walks up.
"No." Bruce smiles, and it's the sort of thing that makes Jim feel flushed despite the chill. He shrinks into his coat a little more, unsure of what to do with the feeling, or with the way Bruce is looking at him.
"I doubt you should be out in this weather with that leg," he says to cover, nodding at Bruce's braced-stiff leg, and the cane.
"No one should be out in this weather, and honestly - I've been in worse."
Jim lifts a brow, and a smile pulls at Bruce's face once more. "Come on, I'll tell you about it over whatever the special is at Carmine's." His hand reaches out, cups Jim's elbow, and tugs him forward slightly.
"Carmine's?" Another place I've never been, Jim thinks.
"It's on the East side, over on Third." Bruce lifts the navy scarf from around his neck and loops it around Jim's, then turns and opens the passenger door of the BMW. "I kept it running, should be warm."
"How's that wrist sprain doing?" Bruce asks, once they're in the car, Jim lifting his hands to touch the scarf without thinking about it.
It aches on occasion, but he's sure that's the weather right now. Getting older - everything aches as winter approaches. "It's all healed."
"Car wreck, you said?"
Jim leans back in the seat, just as comfortable now as it was the last time. "There was some evidence... that someone was trying to kill me."
"Kill you?" Bruce glances at him with an expression of not-quite surprise. "That's - well, isn't there some sort of saying about how you're not doing your job right if they're not trying to kill you?"
"That feels applicable to Gotham." Jim closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of Bruce's cologne where it clings to the scarf.
"So what exactly does the Police Commissioner do?" Bruce asks, guileless, and Jim laughs tiredly and starts to explain.
That gets them to the bar and inside, to a small table much less plush than Britzi's but still as dim and expensive-feeling, and also sparsely populated. Again, there's no menu. Two rocks glasses appear. Lump ice, a large orange peel, the scent of something bitter when Jim lifts it to his nose. He watches Bruce take a sip and relax back into his chair. They don't talk for a while; it's comfortable enough, and Jim drinks the Boulevardier slowly and lets all the day's petty annoyances dissolve.
A quiet bar and a good drink, he thinks, watching Bruce's long fingers around his own glass - sure beats the last bottle of beer and leftover fried rice that's waiting in the fridge at his apartment.
He says as much, finally breaking the silence, and Bruce shrugs. The corner of his mouth pulls slightly. "I don't know, fried rice sounds good to me."
"Where'd you go all those years?" Jim asks, changing the subject abruptly, figuring he'll never get another chance to ask.
"What?"
He wonders if he's just caught Bruce off guard. Unlikely. "After Chill got murdered, when no one saw you for so long I heard they declared you dead. Where'd you go?"
"Everywhere," Bruce says.
Jim keeps looking at him, keeping his expression neutral, waiting for more of an answer. After a few seconds, Bruce lifts a shoulder in something like a shrug. "Honestly, I do mean everywhere," he murmurs. "Dirty places. Ratholes. I went to all the back alley places no tourist would ever go. I lived on the streets in South Africa - stole food, so I could eat. Prison, in Bhutan."
"Why? You're wealthy," Jim hears himself say, shocked.
"I wanted to see what drove a man to kill for a warlord. Or to pick pockets for someone like Carmine Falcone."
"And did you? Learn?"
Bruce nods slowly, then says, "I used to be angry all the time." He looks down at his glass, then back up at Jim. There's an expression on his face that Jim can't parse, a faraway look in his eyes. "It makes you tired, being angry like that, that - coldness."
In Jim's experience, anger is white-hot. He says as much.
"When I was younger I thought rage made you burn. It doesn't, though."
"God, I barely remember being young," Jim says, as Bruce's expression smoothes out. He leans back in his chair and lifts a hand, signaling for another round. Jim adds, "I shouldn't. Have another, I mean."
"You can sleep it off at my place."
"All the way out in the Palisades? You must be joking."
A slow smile crosses Bruce's face. Two new drinks are set in front of them. "I've got a penthouse in the city, Jim. You think I go all the way out to the Manor every night?"
He waves a hand - intending, Jim thinks, for it to look casual and nonchalant, but even in the dim light of this bar he can see the flush across Bruce's cheeks. It looks good on him.
"Just so we're clear - you're inviting me back to your penthouse at…" he checks his watch, "eleven o'clock at night?"
Bruce nods.
Jim picks up the glass.
*
In the private elevator, warm with liquor, Jim leans his shoulders back against the wall and feels Bruce Wayne slide his fingers gently over Jim's wrist, the one he'd sprained, from the outside to the inside where his pulse is hammering.
The doors open. They step out. He turns, and Bruce turns, and it's the work of a single step for Jim to pin Bruce against the closest wall. The body against his own is lean, but feels stronger than it looks in Wayne's tailored suits. Hands settle on his hips, feeling, thumbs tracing the bone. The arousal curling in his belly flares hot, all the way up his throat and into his mouth.
Bruce kisses him; it's nearly a collision. Jim tastes bourbon. Then he feels Bruce's hands slide between them and fingers at his belt.
He steps back only slightly, and keeps a knee between Bruce's knees. "Don't you usually fuck supermodels?"
"What, you think I'm slumming it with you?" Bruce raises a lazy eyebrow as he says it and his palm presses hard against Jim's cock through his slacks. Jim feels his hips jump despite his desire to stay calm about this.
He hasn't gotten laid since Barbara left. He can feel his pulse singing.
"There's a bed in this place, right?"
Bruce slides out from between Jim and the wall, then tilts his head. Jim follows him through the mostly empty-seeming space towards a minimalist set of stairs. Bruce sheds clothes as he goes, and Jim picks it up as he follows, not far behind since the stairs have no handrail and Bruce has to awkwardly swing his bad leg to move up each step.
Bruce sees him pick up the dress shirt and raises an eyebrow even as he unbuckles the slim leather belt he's wearing.
"Some of us aren't used to having help," Jim says.
Bruce chuckles, low. "Fair enough." His face is flushed; Jim suddenly and desperately wants to know what he looks like on his knees. He wants to know what Bruce looks like naked so badly he can taste it.
He licks his lips. Bruce's gaze follows the movement.
The upstairs also feels wide-open, the darkness of Gotham pressing in on the endless windows. "Sit down before you fall down," Jim murmurs, stepping close to Bruce and using his body to urge Bruce towards the huge bed. It works, but strong arms wrap around his waist and hold him there.
He pushes a hand roughly through Bruce's hair and feels him shudder. The "that's right" drops from his mouth without a thought, and he pulls at the silky strands in his fist, feeling Bruce tense up and relax again.
Fingers move to the button of his shirt, Bruce pulling it free from Jim's waistband before he's even out of his jacket. He lets go of Bruce's hair and shrugs the jacket off, tossing it aside without looking where it's going, then reaching back and gripping his shirt by the collar, and simply hauling it up over his head.
"Fantastic," Bruce murmurs, as he opens Jim's slacks and slides his hand inside.
Jim lets it happen for a moment, letting the heat run through his veins before he nudges Bruce backwards, then pushes him backwards, so they can both stretch out on the bed. The monochrome duvet and sheets wrinkle underneath them. Jim thinks briefly of the double bed he'd be sleeping on instead, with it's utilitarian white sheets bought off the shelf without any contemplation, and then he's distracted by Bruce slipping his slacks from his slim hips and revealing the form-fitting black briefs underneath.
Jim looks, then runs a hand up Bruce's torso. He's almost startled by the scars interrupting the otherwise smooth pale skin - so many more than he'd expect, and some clearly younger than others. "These aren't all from your prison tour of China," he says.
"No," Bruce replies. He takes Jim's glasses from his face. Blurry, Jim watches him fold them onto the sleek nightstand beside the bed. He adds, "Not all of them," then pushes his hand into Jim's boxers.
The touch is hot and dry. Jim rolls his hips into it, arousal coursing through him, a prickle at first turning into a flood. It settles blood-hot behind his eyes and in his throat and filling his cock in Bruce's hand.
Bruce makes a soft sound and Jim squeezes his length through the briefs. He glances up at Bruce's face, but Bruce's head is tipped back, chin towards the ceiling, his eyes closed.
He tries not to think about Barbara or how they used to kiss lazily all through lovemaking, but his mouth feels empty just the same, so he puts it on Bruce's neck and the immediate shiver is a rewarding jolt of excitement.
"Maybe we should…" Bruce murmurs, but that's all, and his free hand pulls at Jim's open slacks. They hurry out of what's left of their clothes, pants and Jim's shirt and the duvet all kicked onto the floor over the edge of the bed. The brace around Bruce's left knee is bulkier than Jim would have guessed when covered, solid straps and hinges at the joint, and a compression sleeve underneath it.
"How about you not move that?" Jim says.
He ends up halfway draped over Bruce as they jerk each other off. Jim's head is swimming the whole time, feeling hot and sticky even though the bedroom isn't overly warm, breathing against Bruce's mouth as he strokes Bruce's cock. The grip on his own is tighter and more deliberate than what he'd use on himself; Bruce's fingertips run roughly over sensitive skin.
Wayne is a restless lover even with the injury - the hand not on Jim's cock traveling everywhere he can reach, his good leg sliding over the smooth sheets, his hips moving constantly. He hisses when Jim's grip tightens, his muscles straining.
This high up, the audible sounds of Gotham at night are almost nonexistent. There is only the thick rushing of his own blood in his own ears, the slide of skin against skin and against the expensive sheets, and Bruce's moans.
The heat building in him starts building faster. He registers the tremor running through Bruce's body; he ducks his head in close and kisses Bruce's mouth. Bruce tilts his chin up into it. Jim feels a calloused thumb run over the tip of his cock, making him jolt, sparks shivering his spine. Then Bruce inhales sharply though his nose and Jim feels the pulse of it, wet and hot.
His own release follows only seconds behind: teeth close on his bottom lip, just hard enough to be surprising, and send another cascade of bright sparks through his nervous system. Bruce makes a quiet, low sound that's almost like a growl before Jim feels him relax into the bed.
Jim exhales, rolling onto his back and stretching out - there's plenty of room even if he sprawls. He waits for his pulse to settle and rubs a slow hand over his eyes. He feels like the skin is too thin beneath his fingertips. It was late before and it's even later now, and he's been awake going on twenty hours.
Maybe he'll take the morning tomorrow. Bruce probably has expensive coffee, if there's a kitchen in this place.
"When Rachel died I shut myself away," Bruce says, breaking the silence. Jim looks over and sees him staring up at the ceiling. "I let myself get hurt, to match the pain I felt inside."
Jim moves his hand slightly and folds his fingers around Bruce's wrist. Then he hears the low buzz of his cell phone, vibrating in his jacket pocket. "Sorry," he groans, sitting up, then fumbling for his glasses on the nightstand before swinging his legs out of the very comfortable bed and walking naked to fish the phone from his pocket. The screen reads P. Foley. "Gordon," he answers. He turns slightly to see Bruce looking at him.
"We got the Flayer, Jim."
"Alive? Dead? How?"
"Anonymous tip."
"Someone ratted him out, huh," Jim says. He watches Bruce stretch languidly, smiling - seemingly at nothing, but there's something about that particular smile that feels familiar. Then Bruce rests his forearm over his eyes and the thing Jim's suddenly thinking feels so far-fetched, so -
Peter says, "All sorts of evidence all over his place," and Jim snaps back to the conversation he's having. "We don't need you, but I thought you'd want to know."
"I do. Thanks. Cross all the t's, you know the drill."
"Got it, boss."
"Do you have to go?" Bruce asks when Jim lowers the phone.
"No."
Bruce rolls over and sits up at the edge of the bed, and Jim watches him remove the brace. Bruce pushes himself to his feet in in one slow movement, then rubs a hand through his hair as he glances over. "Want to have sex in the shower?"
Jim stares after him as Bruce limps towards the bathroom, his gaze held on the web of surgical scars around Bruce's left knee. Skiing.
Bruce disappears through a doorway. A moment later, there's the sound of water starting. "It's big enough for two," he hears Bruce call out. "Probably big enough for four, really."
Details are starting to cascade together. Jim rocks on his heels at the lineup - certainly all circumstantial, but: it takes time, money to be the Batman. Knowledge of how criminals operate and space to keep all the equipment.
"Gordon?" Bruce calls. A moment later and his head and one bare shoulder appears through the doorway at which Jim's still staring. Both of Bruce's eyebrows raise. "Everything okay?"
"Were you ever going to tell me you're the Batman?"
Bruce's expression settles. Then he smiles. "I was sort of waiting for you to figure it out," he says. He drums his fingertips against the doorframe. "Come on. Even my hot water isn't unlimited."