It's not a game because there's no rules.

"I'm going to be late for court," Harvey says instead of a greeting, but nothing in Bruce's face suggests that he takes an offense for that. Truth be told, nothing in Bruce's face ever suggests anything but polite disinterest, or an occasional smug smirk. Harvey had given up trying to look for anything beyond that, or questioning the man's motives.

"Not that much," Bruce says, tapping on the screen separating them from the driver, well-manicured nails against the leathery plate. "They'll wait for you."

Rachel taps her fingers against a table when she's annoyed or anxious, or sways her chair, or plays with her hair, her moves quick and erratic. She's not patient, never was, but that's fine. She's probably already annoyed now, he can just as well be really late.

"And besides, Dent," Bruce is saying just as he moves to tint the windows with one flick of his hand. "You got into my car."

It's a fair point, he supposes, but doesn't find it in himself to admit that. Besides, Bruce isn't waiting for that, he's already busy undoing Harvey's pants, hand closing on his cock.

"You can do better than that, Wayne," Harvey manages to keep his voice calm and even, and the look Bruce gives him as he's sliding to his knees is almost impressed.

It's not exactly a situation he had ever imagined finding himself in, sprawled on the leather seats of Bruce Wayne's limousine, pants undone and Wayne himself kneeling between his legs, but it's becoming more and more frequent.

He has no idea why Wayne is doing this. Well, not the task at hand, that's easy, really easy; the way his hand slides up and down the length of Harvey's dick, the way his tongue darts to lick across the head, there's a clear goal here. But the general endgame is not something Harvey can comprehend, not something he wants to find out. It could be about Rachel, of course, he thought it was bound to be about Rachel, but it's been weeks now, and nothing indicates Bruce is any more willing to tell her than Harvey is.

"You still can do..." he starts, fingers tangling in Bruce's hair, pulling his head closer, but the rest of his words die out, turn into a moan.

It's not about Rachel, he tells himself, and he actually believes it, because it's not about her for him. It used to drive him insane when she talked about Wayne, her eyes turned down as if she was hiding something.

"Come on, Dent," Bruce's words are warm against his dick. "Like that, don't you?" Fingernails dig into his thighs, not hard enough to leave bruises but enough to make his hips twitch and rise, thrusting himself into Wayne's welcoming mouth.

He doesn't like to think why he himself is doing this, crawling into Wayne's limousine time after time, hard and ready. Part of him hates this, but it's only a part of him.