Could Have Been Worse.

"You do realise it's all your fault?" Jim asks, trying to shift and find a more comfortable position, succeeding only in having the gear shift dig into his thigh. It's not entire true, of course, he had been the one insisting on coming along, but all the following disasters had been entirely of Bruce's doing.

Well, fine, maybe apart from the decision to turn left that first time. But it did seem like a logical choice at the time.

Thankfully, Bruce doesn't say anything, just tilts his cowled head, looking at Jim pointedly. Jim sighs, letting his head fall back. "Do you even have air conditioning here?"

"Didn't seem like the most important thing in the design," Bruce offers, reaching to take off the cowl, the heat slowly getting to him as well, hair plastered to his forehead. "I think I traded it for an additional cannon."

"They always skim you on the options," Jim agrees, and bangs his head against the tinted window, closing his eyes for a brief moment before he looks out. "You do have tinted windows, I hope?" he asks, just to make sure, because he can see Stephens looking right back at him, and that's not a comforting thing at the very moment.

"They can't see us," he assures Jim, but it doesn't make the entire situation much better.

"Any ways of getting us out of here?" he asks pleasantly, or at least the least irritatingly he can. He tugs at his tie forcefully, but the knot refuses to give. Forcing himself to breathe evenly, he slowly unties it, and unbuttons the top of his shirt. Better. Slightly.

"A few," Bruce says, and shakes his head. "None of them is an option."

That means casualties, Jim thinks. Not an option, for any of them. The cops surrounding the car are keeping their distance, and Stephens is talking on the phone with someone, hopefully not calling in the reinforcements. "So, we wait?"

"There's no way they actually manage to get in, and I don't think they actually want to try. Stephens will play it safe," Bruce says matter-of-factly, and Jim nods, he can agree with the assessment. "Hopefully, in the process they'll give us an opening to get out of here without driving over anyone."

Yes, hopefully. Jim can't help but think that his experience with Batman's first car was much more preferable, horror and mayhem and all, yes, but he really hates to sit on his ass and not be able to do anything. Especially if sitting is damn uncomfortable. The car was really not designed for anyone but the driver.

It takes him a grand three minutes before he is bored with watching the officers outside. That's why he hated stakeouts, when he actually had to go on them. One good part about the commissioner gig, the ability to delegate.

"Does it have a radio?" he asks, and Bruce has that passing annoyed expression Jim knows from experience, from the one time he was convinced to take the kids on a roadtrip and they kept asking whether they were there yet, starting five minutes after the car rolled out of their street.

"Yes. But unless you want to listen to the police scanner, it's pretty much useless."

"You should really change your car dealership," he offers, and gets another look. Fine, maybe he is being insufferable and immature, but the car is worse than a sauna at the moment, and there really isn't a lot of things one can do in this particular situation but get frustrated.

Of course, if he's getting overheated and cranky, Batman must be positively going insane in that suit. Not like it has a good ventilation system, either.

"How long, do you think?" he asks, and wills his voice to be matter-of-fact and even.

"Two hours, maybe, before they get frustrated and restless," Bruce offers, staring ahead, his fingers running absently across the clasps on the side of his suit. They won't be the only ones, to be honest.

"An hour before I go insane," Jim mutters, and catches a slightly amused, smirking look. "More than now."

"I didn't say anything," Bruce is clearly trying not to laugh now, and Jim rolls his eyes.

It's another two minutes, give or take, Jim banging his fingers against the car door in a faintly familiar rhythm of a song he can't remember the title of, or the lyrics to, even though he's racking his brain to come up with it, as a mental distraction from being locked in a damn uncomfortable car.

"Next time, let's get stranded in the Lamborghini," he offers, and pauses when he looks at Bruce, who looks more than a little flustered, and more than a little weary, head leaning against the tinted glass, as if trying to absorb the remain of cold on it. "Bruce, come on," he says, shifting in his seat, turning to face the other man, reaching to brush the damp hair away from his face. His forehead is a little too warm, even for the temperature inside. "This has to go," Jim mutters, poking at the clasps and hidden fastenings of the suit.

Bruce nods, not arguing for once, which says a lot about how hot he must be right now. The suit was clearly designed for nighttime in Gotham, not tropical conditions.

It takes a considerable effort from them both, it's not easy to take off normally, not in a limited space of the car, and they fumble with the pieces, probably interrupting each other more than helping, but in the end, Bruce is out of the suit, and breathing harshly, just in an undershirt and boxers, and Jim smiles. "I feel really overdressed now," he jokes, and Bruce glances at him, eyes half closed, breathing slowly calming down.

"Need some help with that?" he asks, and Jim looks up at the tone, soft and inviting.

"I can see you're feeling better," he says dryly, covering the gentle tremble in his tone. Not the time. Definitely not the place, for god's sake, he can see most of the task force from here, gathered few metres away, and if that had been strange before, it's nothing compared to now, when Bruce's hand rests on his thigh, and slowly, very slowly, moves up. "Not the best timing, Bruce."

Bruce reaches out to press something on the control panel, and the seats shift, and really, Jim hates when the cars do that. He's still not over the last one. It's not more comfortable, but the seats are closer, and the gear shift is somehow not in the way anymore, which seems to serve Bruce's purpose of leaning over, leg bending and the knee resting on the edge of the seat, wordlessly starting to work Jim's shirt buttons open.

"Bruce," Jim says warningly, but all it achieves is Bruce kissing his throat, teeth grazing just the spot they both know will make Jim groan and his hips twitch, and really, was he always that predictable? He might be, judging from the way his body responds to Bruce's hand sliding down his chest, fingers slightly bent, short fingernails leaving the faint trace that will soon fade. "Is this all designed to distract me from complaining?" he asks, pausing for breath, and Bruce laughs against his skin.

"Now that you mention it..." he says, looking all too pleased for Jim's liking. But before he can comment on that, the expression shifts, becoming concentrated and determined, like when he's working on some kind of problem, turning it over and over in his head, looking for a way in. Jim feels a little anxious when he considers that right now, he's being the problem Bruce wants to work out; anxious, and a little but, no, he's lying, not little, greatly turned on.

Montoya is outside now, talking animatedly to Stephens, gesturing at the car. Stephens shrugs, waving his phone vaguely in the air, and they turn to look straight in Jim's direction, at the very same moment when Bruce's hand slides over the front of Jim's pants, thumb flicking across the buttons before he sets more diligently to popping them open.

Not the time, Jim thinks, and definitely not the place, and he shouldn't be rock hard already, breathing harshly as if he had just run a marathon.

"Bruce, please," he says, trying desperately for a dry annoyance, and missing by several miles, arriving somewhere on the shores of out of his mind with need.

He's ignored, or maybe rather, his protest is. Provided it is a protest, as he's not entirely sure what he really wants now, but whatever it is, it only makes Bruce sneak his hand inside Jim's boxers, stroking slowly, almost lazily. At the same time his other hand moves to tilt Jim's head closer to him, granting himself a better access to Jim's mouth, licking at their corner, then working them open with his tongue, kissing hungrily.

Montoya squints her eyes, peering at the car suspiciously, as if she wanted to use an X-ray vision to see through the tinted glass. It makes Jim shiver; he might know they can't be seen, but what he knows and what he feels are usually quite different things. He groans into Bruce's mouth, and his hips twitch shamelessly, all thoughts of protesting well out of his mind.

"Bruce," he says, a moan more than a word, when their lips part for a moment.

"Keep quiet, Jim," Bruce admonishes him, fingers briefly squeezing Jim's cock to stress the warning. "It's not completely sound proof, you know?"

It only makes him shiver, and he wants to close his eyes as Bruce's hand resumes its slow pace, but he can't make himself do so, instead, he's staring at all the people moving outside, transfixed.

"Bruce," he says, reaching out, pulling him closer, fumbling with Bruce's boxers, and he might be turned on too much to care for finesse, but he's always been good at getting to the point, and quite soon Bruce is shifting in his seat, inching even closer, kissing Jim hard enough to draw blood from his lower lip.

When they pull away, almost out of breath, Bruce is smiling, eyes dark and clouded, but his lips set into a mischievous curl, and Jim know he's in a deep trouble. Which he probably is going to enjoy.

"You know, I'd be careful, how you move in here," Bruce says, playing up his best serious expression. If he is to be honest, Jim doesn't think it's that convincing. "A little shift too much to the right, and you're in danger of switching off the tinted windows."

Jim is pretty sure Bruce is lying through his teeth. But it doesn't matter at this point, just the thought alone is enough to have him shiver and moan, sound muffled by Bruce's lips as he swallows the moan, and they're working together now, getting closer and closer, no real rhythm or plan, just one purpose. And when they kiss then, it tastes like perfection.

In the silence after that, Jim watches the people outside, trying to find his breath and his coherent thoughts. Stephens is on the phone again, before he disconnects with a grimace. Montoya is leaning against a squad car, clearly bored. He wonders if they're trying to reach his office, or maybe the cell he had lost somewhere on the way of the chase before they reached the car.

"I think I've figured out how to get us out of here," Jim says, and his voice sounds hoarse and rough, and he coughs to clear his throat.

Bruce gives him a look. "You figured it out before or after I was jerking you off?"

Jim shrugs. "During, I think."

"You never cease to amaze me," Bruce offers dryly, but he's clearly trying not to smile, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Go on, tell me."

"You can make the car call someone, right?" he asks, already knowing the answer. Bruce nods, watching him. "Call Stephens."

Bruce rolls his eyes. "And you're going to tell him to stand down because what exactly?"

"That he should stop staring at a decoy car and send the task force to the Narrows, where the Batman had just been sighted. And when we drive away, like a good decoy car should, I'm going to take it home, and you're going to make a trip to the Narrows as to not make a liar out of me."

"Could work," Bruce shrugs, and shakes his head at Jim's look. "It's not the best plan you ever had, you have to admit."

"Feel free to jump in with yours."

After a moment, Bruce reaches to open a control panel, punching in a series of commands. Jim smiles. As entertaining as it was, he really can't wait to get out of this car. But he has to admit, it was greatly entertaining.