Drifting.

It will probably sound incredibly wrong, but Jim Gordon sometimes actually prefers the crime scenes, or the hostage situations, or even the shoot-outs in the dark alleys, to some of the parties Bruce throws. Yes, it does sound wrong, even in his own head, but it only makes it shameful, not untrue. At crime scenes, after all, he knows what to do, and at hostage situations all the conversations are to the point, and there's no navigating the murky waters of small talk without a clue or a map.

He tried to explain it once, but Bruce just gave him a blank stare, the one he calls up when he really just wants the conversation to be onto something more interesting, and asked whether the shoot-outs weren't slightly more dangerous than the parties, and Jim had to bite back a remark that, judging by some of Bruce's parties, only slightly.

Someone might, of course, ask why he did bother to show up then, and some people did, repeatedly, starting with Montoya, when he had made the mistake of mentioning it around her, or Stephens, when Jim complained about one too many fundraiser. He muttered something about playing politics, and the downside of getting the Mayor to sign off on the budget, because it's not like he can actually give the real reason.

And speaking of the real reason, currently quickly approaching Jim, making his way through the sea of tuxes and gowns. "I think we talked about you trying to have some fun at these?" Bruce asks, standing next to Jim, close enough to lower his voice to an intimate whisper.

"We talked. I agreed to try. I don't think it's working, though," Jim offers pleasantly, and smiles at the wife of the new DA, passing them and looking at them curiously. Well, looking at Bruce curiously, probably.

"You gave it what, ten minutes?"

"Fifteen. Which is about ten minutes longer than I promised," he mutters, then shakes his head. "Fine, I'll give it another hour."

Bruce nods. "I might know a way to make it up to you later," he says, drawing the words in his particular fashion, and Jim flushes under the collar. It's kind of amazing that he still does, considering it's been a good few months now, but there it is. "And let's settle on thirty minutes. I saw how you glance at that watch, don't think I didn't," he chides good-naturedly, and Jim shrugs.

"We're supposed to get the DNA results in about two hours. This could be a break in..." he pauses as Bruce's fingers gently run across the back of his hand, seemingly by accident, but it's never an accident with Bruce.

"Do you ever stop working?"

"As you well know, yes, occasionally," Jim says pointedly, and Bruce smiles.

"Ah, yes." He seems to think about something for a moment, then places his champagne glass on the nearest table. It's still full, Jim notes, which is surprising, as the champagne in Bruce's glasses usually evaporates immediately, as if by magic. Even more curious, he is yet to catch Bruce on actually drinking the champagne, but he has time for that. It passes the time at the parties, to some extent. "Come on, Commissioner, the party can go on without me for a moment, and I have something in the study I'd like you to look at."

The tone is almost businesslike, and to any casual observer it wouldn't be at all out of place, considering Wayne Enterprises' generous donations to all branches of the city services, but Jim can see the smile in Bruce's eyes, and it's anything but business now.

"After you, Mr Wayne," he offers, trying to match the official tone, and heading out of the vast ballroom into the study on the first floor. He knows the layout of the Manor by now, but makes a point of following Bruce, as if he didn't. The moment the doors close behind them, Bruce's official smile fades into a soft expression, that quickly becomes blurry as he pulls off Jim's glasses and presses him tightly against the doors, launching into a hungry kiss.

"So, what was it that you wanted me to look at?" Jim asks, laughing, as they pull away, breathless.

"Don't give me openings like that, Jim, I have quite a few responses to this one," Bruce says, pulling at Jim's bowtie, efficiently working the knot untied, and easing it off with a slick sound. "Much better," he mutters, getting the top two buttons undone.

"Not complaining," Jim states seriously, "but it might cause a few comments when we get back."

"Sure. Because you intended to get back, and not slip away given the first opportunity," Bruce looks at him pointedly. Guilty as charged, yes, but it's slightly offending, to be that transparent.

"The thought hadn't crossed my mind, really, but now that you mention it..."

It gets him an exasperated look, and then Bruce is busy with pushing Jim's jacket off his shoulders, hooking one of his thumbs around the suspender, and the rest of Jim's sentence is silenced by the kiss, Bruce's teeth grazing his lower lip, pulling at it gently.

"I remembered why I come to these parties," Jim mutters, his voice hitching just slightly as Bruce starts to work his hand into his pants, fumbling briefly before he manages to cup Jim's cock in his hand,

"Thankfully," Bruce says, starting to stroke Jim lazily, moving even closer, palm resting flatly on the door, on the side of Jim's head, his thumb close enough to Jim's neck to gently touch his skin when Jim throws his head back, eyes closed and breathing harsh, "not everyone needs this sort of incentive."

"I certainly hope so," Jim says, amazed at the fact that the words still come out. Not quite as dry as he intended, especially since the last words comes out more like a moan than anything else, but actual words, that's something. "Bruce..." he says, and Bruce's mouth cover his again, tongue sliding across his lips, pushing in just as Bruce's thumb flickers across the head of Jim's cock, causing him to groan loudly, the sound swallowed eagerly by Bruce, the echo of it resonating in Bruce's throat as he moans, moving even closer to Jim, even though he thought it impossible moments before.

"Yes," Bruce whispers, and presses at just the right point, and Jim is shaking against him, biting at his lip to keep himself from groaning too loudly.

Moments later, he pulls away slightly, Bruce's hands steadying him, his body still pressed against Jim the only thing keeping him mostly uprights. "I really hope you still have some clothes in here," he mutters. "Otherwise there might be a slight problem with me going anywhere."

"As much as I'm tempted to keep you here for a while," Bruce says softly, lips moving against Jim's neck, "that's not a problem."

"And for yourself?" Jim asks, and Bruce pulls away, smiling.

"This sounds as if you were planning something, Commissioner," he says, smirking, and Jim shrugs.

"It might be because I do," he admits matter-of-factly, right before he reaches out blindly to lock the door, and then gently pushes Bruce backwards, guiding him to the guest chair, at the same time working his pants undone, pushing them down efficiently.

"Jim," Bruce breathes out, his eyes closing, head falling back as he's pushed into the chair, his hand reaching out to rest on the side of Jim's face as he kneels down, and move to the back of his neck, fingers tangled in the soft hair there.

Jim nods, smiling, and leans in, taking Bruce's cock into his mouth, and it's practiced enough by now that it doesn't take long until Bruce's fingers tighten on his neck, his hips rising eagerly, and Jim knows the right moment to steady him, hand on each thigh, fingernails leaving faint red trails.

"Jim, please," Bruce says, and this is enough for Jim to speed up, and have his hand add to the movements, working Bruce up just enough to groan loudly, and then bite his lip as he comes.

The silence afterwards is not quite complete, there are the very distant sounds of the party coming from downstairs, and Bruce's harsh breathing as he pushes himself off the chair to land on the floor without much grace but with some enthusiasm to make up for it, and moves to kiss Jim lingeringly, licking at his lips as if to taste himself, and that makes Jim moan again, and shift restlessly, and he really thought he had left this kind of behaviour behind him, some good twenty years ago, but apparently not.

"Do you really have to go?" Bruce asks, and for a few moments, longer than he thought they would be, Jim is actually tempted to say no.

"Yes. I need to check up on things, the case we have..."

Bruce groans, as if bored already, even though Jim had caught him quite a few times on being interested in the cases, enough to ask questions and raise some surprisingly good points in relation to them. "Spare me the details," he says, and Jim rolls his eyes, then smiles.

"I can still come over later," he says, and Bruce makes a show of considering it, then nods, and rests his forehead against Jim's, closing his eyes briefly.

"Please do," he mutters, so quiet that if Jim was few centimetres away, he probably wouldn't have caught that.

"I'll try to hurry," he says, and kisses Bruce on last time before standing up, walking up to the antique wardrobe in the corner, slightly out of place in the study, but a part of the same furniture set as the large desk in the centre, and finds a spare pair of pants, which might even be his. He throws Bruce a quick glance, and gets an unrepentant smile, just a confirmation that this was very much planned. Obviously.

He changes, and extends his hand towards Bruce, who after a moment of innocent staring back rolls his eyes and gives back the bowtie. "Thank you."

"You don't like it anyway," Bruce offers pointedly. "And you look much better without."

"I'll remember for the future reference," Jim nods. He might have foregone it a good while ago, to be honest, he does dislike it greatly, but Bruce has too much satisfaction in taking it off, every damn time, and Jim really doesn't want to deprive him of this particular pleasure, especially since he enjoys it immensely, every damn time. He fixes it back, tying the knot carefully, knowing very well he'll tug it off the very moment he gets to his car, maybe even earlier, on the steps down, but the appearances must be kept. "I'll see you later," he adds, and Bruce nods, already fixing up his own clothes.

"Yes, you will," he says, and on that thought, Jim walks out.

On the way out, no one pays him much attention, save for Alfred, who gives him an annoyingly knowing look, but then again, all of Alfred's looks are annoyingly knowing. He takes off the bowtie the moment he sits behind the wheel, putting it in his coat's pocket, and working the top two buttons open again, it feels much better immediately, at least he breathes easily.

Glancing at his watch he puts the car into the first gear and slowly rolls it out of the Wayne Manor's driveway, heading for the city centre. He calls Montoya's cell, as she's the one officially working the case, but the results are not back as of yet, as the DNA sample is ' a complex mixture of multiple donors' according to the lab techs, and might take much longer than expected. He hates this kind of waiting.

Of course, this time it means that he's not really needed back at the MCU at the moment, which also means he'll have time to make another stop on the way. He tells Montoya to keep him posted if anything comes up, connected to the results or not, and takes left at the intersection, heading for his own house. It's safer than the MCU at least, even though he does miss the old floodlight on the rooftop.

He's not entirely sure how Batman does that, but whenever Jim actually wants him to show up, he does. Jim supposes he's under surveillance, and this should make him angry, or resentful, but somehow it doesn't, and instead it makes him oddly grateful that Batman considers him important enough to actually come when Jim wishes. It happens more regularly than it did with the light working, but of course, now Jim doesn't dare to initiate those meetings all that often. Even if he wishes he could.

Upon arrival, he switches on the porch light, and gets inside, putting the kettle on for coffee, then taking a moment to change from the tux into a normal suit, much more comfortable, if worn and with a slightly wrinkled shirt, as all his shirts are ever since the divorce. He can't get the hang of the ironing, even though apart from that, he's doing just fine. He takes the steaming cup outside, and waits as it cools down, taking careful sips of the still burning hot liquid.

"Anything new on the forensics front?" Batman asks, and Jim doesn't startle, just shrugs, putting the cup away onto the railing, standing up.

"DNA is a complex mixture, I am told, it will take a while. Did you have a chance to check the surveillance photos I gave you?"

Batman nods, coming slightly closer to the circle of light, but not yet into it, keeping right on the edge of it. "Nothing in any of the databases I have access to."

"Meaning nothing at all," Jim sighs, and leans against the railing, looking down at his hands. "I'm beginning to hate this case," he mutters. Batman moves to stand next to him, almost mirroring Jim's position, gloved hands resting on the railing as they look out onto the street.

"How long is it since the last time you actually slept through the night?" Batman asks, and Jim throws him a curious look. This kind of admonishments he expects from everyone else, really, but not the Bat.

"I'm not sure. How long is it for you?" he asks, and holds his breath for a moment, because this is not the sort of conversations they have, and he wonders if he had crossed the line here, but Batman just shrugs, not looking up, just making a sound that could be a laugh, if laughing was completely humourless.

"Even longer, I suppose," he says, and Jim nods, as it's just as he suspected, and it doesn't make him feel any better. They're not even close to getting any useful lead on this case, and they're doing even worse on finding anything to clean Batman's name, especially since this one he works on his own, with just a slightly reluctant Stephens, who can't figure out why Jim' so bent on this, even though he knows the truth about Dent.

Batman looks weary, as much as Jim can tell with the cowl in the way, and the usual tight set of his jaw and mouth. Jim wouldn't have blamed him if he had stopped doing this long while ago, after the Joker and Dent, even though he's not sure what he would do if Batman really disappeared one night, to never come back. He had come to rely so much on that man he doesn't even really know, and he doesn't mean because of the cases, and the evidence, and the assistance.

What he means is this, the meetings so late at night they become early mornings, when the city sleeps around them, almost peacefully, the city they both sworn to protect, Jim bound by the duty of his badge, and Batman just choosing to do so because...

Jim pauses, turning slightly, looking at Batman in wonder that isn't really new but it hits him all over again. "How long is it for you, really?" he asks, and Batman turns as well, just a slight shift of his shoulders, and the cowled head turned to look at Jim, and they're mere inches away now, and it's the only natural thing to do, to step forward, and Jim does, all thoughts gone from his head as his mouth press against Batman's, his glasses clinking against the cowl softly, and, the most surprising thing of all, Batman instinctively relaxing against him, his body surprisingly soft and pliable under the suit, but tensing the next moment, moving away, lips parted in shock and slightly swollen.

Shit, Jim thinks, mortified. Shit.

He doesn't wait for the reaction, Batman's or his own, just turns, skipping two steps as he almost runs off and gets into his car, pulling away, flooring the accelerator the moment he drives into the street. He's not sure where he's going, and he's pretty sure he left his doors unlocked, and all the lights on, but for now, he just drives off, aimlessly moving through the almost empty streets.

Did he really just do that? The extremely vivid sensory memory tells him that yes, indeed, he did, as the tingling on his lips attests. His heart beats too fast, pulse racing, for more reasons than one.

Montoya calls, to let him know the DNA analysis didn't get them anything new, the only hit is a sample they had before in connection to this case, and couldn't identify the suspect either. The disappointment doesn't even register properly, he just tells her to keep him posted and disconnects, throwing the phone at the passenger seat, and it bounces, landing on the floor.

The car slows down, the rush of panic giving in to the confusion and guilt, and he takes turns randomly, not caring where he ends up. At least he has an almost full tank, he can spend hours driving like this, telling himself off for being an idiot. Of course he had been attracted to Batman almost from the beginning, it was hard not to, when someone like this appeared, bringing hope and change; but for god's sake, acting on it was always out of question, especially now that he and Bruce...

He's not entirely sure about himself and Bruce, but what he does know is that he might love him, or be on the best way to falling really hard for him, and maybe he already have. Jim has never been very good at relationships, as a failed marriage can attest, but he can recognise something good and true that happened to him, and honestly, what the hell was he thinking?

Apart from the fact that he clearly wasn't thinking?

He looks straight ahead at the road, the buildings are gone now, the road surrounded by trees from both sides, and he realises the random driving had brought him straight to the Wayne Manor, the last place he wanted to go at the moment, and the only place he should go. Resigned, he pulls onto the driveway, and parks on the side, away from the shiny cars, and sighs, unbuckling the safety belt and letting his head roll back, glasses shifting on his nose as he does.

The guests are slowly leaving, the expensive cars disappearing behind the gates. The lights on the first floor go off, which means that Alfred is making his rounds, Bruce can easily afford the abysmal electricity bill, but Alfred still makes sure the lights are out in all the unused rooms, unless absolutely necessary.

Jim wonders briefly where Bruce is now, it's after a major party, so probably kitchen, drinking coffee, tie and jacket gone, and he really wishes he could be there now, being made fun of for choosing work over the party. He sighs. No time like the present, he thinks, and moves to fish out the cellphone from under the seat, pocketing it with a sigh. He almost wishes Montoya would call, for any reason that would require him to drive back to the MCU.

With another, heavier sigh, he gets out of the car and makes his way up the steps, hesitating briefly by the doors, wondering if he should ring, but he hadn't done that in a long while, and starting now is even worse than just letting himself in as he usually does. He walks in, carefully closing the doors, and heads for the kitchen, passing Alfred on the way, who gives him a curt nod and a small smile, but somehow, it seems a little forced this time. Or Jim is probably imagining it, forcing his own emotions on others, because his own smile is incredibly forced.

Bruce is, predictably, found in the kitchen, sitting by the counter, a coffee mug in his hands, fingers grasping it tightly. He looks more tired than he usually does after those affairs, staring into the dark liquid, his face set into a tight expression, one that Jim can't really read.

"You're earlier than I thought you'd be," Bruce says, not looking up, taking a sip of the coffee, closing his eyes briefly as the hot steam rises to his face. "No leads?"

"None," Jim shakes his head, and steps forward, sitting down on the other chair. "I really hate this case," he adds, and Bruce nods.

"I've noticed that much," he says flatly. He seems deep in thought, and for a while, it suits Jim just fine, he's trying to figure out what to do and coming up blank. Bruce places the mug on the counter, pushing it away, as if having lost the taste for coffee, and that's a first. "I wanted..." he starts, the very same moment Jim says "I need to..."

They pause, silence stretching between them, and Bruce is the first to move, wordlessly, two steps that take him close to Jim, pulling him to his feet, and all that Jim thought of saying disappears under Bruce's lips pressed against his, and it feels like an apology, puzzling Jim enough for him to pull back and peer at Bruce confusedly over the rims of his glasses.

"Bruce," he starts, and again is silenced, Bruce's hand cupping his face, thumb in the corner of his lips.

"Later, please," he says, and Jim can't refuse this, even though he knows very well he should. But when it comes to Bruce, he never could really distinguish between should and shouldn't, and now he just nods, letting Bruce guide him out of the kitchen and up the stairs, to the bedroom, and the way their hands brush against each other on the way is like seeking a lifeline in a deep fog.

Inside, he pushes Jim's coat off his shoulders, and Jim stills his hands, thumbs on the wrists, feeling the pulse racing under his fingertips. He wants to say something again, but there's not good place to start, and any place to end can be devastating, and in the end, he just breathes out, slow and careful, and his throat seems too tight to let any words through.

When they move, it's uncertain who guides the steps, who pulls and who pushes, everything becomes a blur to Jim, flashes of sensation overcoming him; he's pretty sure Bruce is kissing down the line of his throat, and that his own fingers tangle in Bruce's shirt, his fingertips numb as he tries to work the buttons undone. The silence is almost absolute, even their breathing is careful and slow, as if scared of disturbing the uneasy peace.

With the layers of clothes gone, the skin on skin contact is almost electrifying, a strange sensation of a current running through Jim's body, heat carried through his veins, pulse speeding up, ringing in his ears, overcoming the silence. Bruce's hand trails down Jim's chest moments before it's followed by gentle lips, the touch almost ghostlike, careful, to the point where he can't stand it, and moves, kissing Bruce roughly, and Bruce responding in kind. After this, he doesn't think at all.

Later, when the ringing in his ears has almost completely quietened, and Bruce's hand rests on his stomach, palm flat and warm, Jim rolls his head to the side, willing his eyes to open, even though his eyelids are heavy as lead. "Bruce..." he says, and only the slightest twitch of Bruce's mouth is indicating that the younger man is not fast asleep.

"I don't play polo," Bruce offers, not even opening his eyes, and the remark is so odd and misplaced, Jim is sure he had misheard.

"What?"

Bruce opens his eyes now, shifting, so he rests against the headboard, taking a moment to settle, as if bracing himself for a serious conversation, and Jim racks his brain for whatever reason Bruce may have for it.

"I don't play polo," Bruce repeats, slower, enunciating as he does when he thinks someone is being particularly dense, and Jim frowns at him for a moment before registering. "I don't even know the rules, actually. Frankly, the entire idea is rather dense, if you ask me."

"The bruises," Jim says, and it's not a question, not yet. Bruce nods, and Jim's frown deepens. "What are you trying to say?"

"Depends. What were you going to tell me?" The question is low, and the tone is almost flat, slight curiosity, no anger or resentment, and yet, Jim is almost tangibly sure Bruce does know, somehow, and he wonders briefly if he really is incapable of keeping any secret, as Barbara used to tell him, is everything really plainly written on his face.

"I kissed someone," he says, and it still rings too loud in his ears, his lips parched dry as he forms the words. Bruce, however, just nods, still no change in his eyes, just the open expression that is as clear and transparent as an armed wall. "Batman," Jim clarifies, and there it is, the slightest shift, but Bruce doesn't look surprised at all, as Jim expected, but something in his face just softens.

He looks weary, Jim thinks, and wonders how come he hadn't noticed that before. There were moments of exhaustion, yes, and simple tiredness after a long day, but this is different, this is the weariness you feel in your bones, deep down ache of fighting against the current with all your might. Jim had seen it before.

"You're not angry," he says, and it almost sounds like an accusation, which he tries to retract, but doesn't know how.

Bruce shrugs, just a twitch of one shoulder, as he watches Jim carefully. "How can I?" he asks, and it sounds odd, except it doesn't, something nagging at the back of Jim's head, a persistent thought, like a distant memory. He feels like he's having two conversations, and he's not sure he's aware of what's going on in either of them.

"You should," Jim says, his mouth working almost independently, because the whole of his brain is busy with being overwhelmed by one dawning idea, almost within his grasp.

"Why should I?" Bruce turns the question around, his eyes still fixed on Jim with uncommon intensity.

It's almost funny, how nothing really changes, but suddenly everything is different. It's almost like watching clouds in the summer, and the odd shapes and patterns in one moment, form a complete picture of a ship in the next.

"So, you don't play polo," Jim mutters, because nothing really smart or profound comes to mind, and he closes his eyes briefly, wondering when his life had become this insane.

"I don't," Bruce agrees, and the look on his face is so open now Jim is not sure he can keep looking at him. "I don't go skiing either. I can't stand most of my own parties. I hadn't slept with any of the supermodels the tabloids claim I have, but I guess you knew that. And I think I might..." he stops abruptly, but Jim hears the rest anyway, and is rather grateful it hadn't came out loud. Neither of them is ready. "You're not angry either," he points out, and Jim snorts.

"Whatever for?" he asks, shaking his head. It feels anticlimactic somehow. He's not sure what he expected, both from his admittance now, and the hypothetical reveal of Batman's identity, but neither happened as it should. Then again, he never was very good at should and shouldn't, after all.

"I should have told you earlier," Bruce says, and Jim is not sure if this is an answer, or a random remark of guilt, and he doesn't really care all that much.

He shrugs. "Maybe. Does it matter?" He's tired, his eyes are closing already, and this might have been a profound and lifechanging day, but it doesn't feel like this, it feels like it was long and exhausting, his muscles and bones aching. All he really wants to do at this moment is lay down, close his eyes, and sleep, knowing that next to him, Bruce is resting as well.

Bruce smiles, as he reaches out, hand covering Jim's. "I guess not."