Through the Hole in the Sky.

Jim's breath against the glass clouds and blurs the view of the city, the brilliant lights and the shadows. The spot on the glass seems dark gray, a little brighter against the night sky. Gordon brushes his fingertip over the spot, a little sign only he finds comforting. It's been a while since he had seen it up there, it's been too long.

He doesn't have many chances to look at the city from this high up, the police headquarters are in the older part of town, buildings shorter and stodgier than the glamorous sky scrapers here. It's quiet up here, too, especially now that the guests are gone, and the only other person present moves with grace he shouldn't posses.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Bruce asks, moving to stand behind him, and Jim shakes his head.

"No, it's not," he agrees, despite his words, it's the awe in his voice that's the real answer. The city is beautiful, in that strange way that makes his stomach ache and his throat close on what he's not saying.

He knows the statistics, he makes a living of them. The crime rate, the accidents, the fires, arsons, murders, rapes, muggings, stabbings, suicides... The list goes on, and every item on it has its place on the calluses of his hand, it used to be from the pull and recoil, but now it's just from a pen, piles and piles of paperwork and reports passing through his desk.

The party tonight was just a little bit too much, he resents the cliches of last straws and camels, but right now, his back is aching, and it's not just from the hours spent at his desk. Well, not only that. All those people, high above the city, talking of things he doesn't understand and doesn't want to try. He knows the point of this gatherings, he had his own role explained, too, but the champagne, no matter how excellent, never quite agrees with him.

"You're tired," Bruce says, a matter-of-fact statement, but his fingers move questioningly down Jim's arm, no doubt finding only hard knots and kinks under the dress shirt that got rumpled over the course of the evening; he never had a talent for wearing a tux, even the ones he owns (well, one), look like rentals, hanging from his frame.

"I am always tired," Gordon tries, a small laugh, a little forced but it will do. "Benefits of an eighteen-hours working shift."

"Jim."

There's not much he can say to that, honestly. And not much to do, when a body presses against his, a fit perfected over time, pressure in just the right places, almost soothing. "Long day," he says, and it comes out in a whisper, another cloud on the glass. The little sign is still visible, and it's comforting too.

"All days are long," Bruce mutters, hands following the same path down Jim's arms. Jim watches the journey in their reflection, both of them against the background of the city, translucent and almost unreal, their outlines filled with the lights. It's kind of beautiful.

"This isn't some kind of self-pity party," he warns, and feels Bruce's lips move against the back of his neck, warm breath and soft smile.

"Oh, I know that." And, Jim thinks, he probably does.

The hands on his arms travel lower, gentle pressure on his wrists. "Let me?" Bruce asks, and it's not a question when you're absolutely certain of the answer.

"Please." It's not asking, or pleading, either, when it's going to be given freely and gladly.

Bruce reaches for his tie, eases it off, rolls around his fingers, as if testing, as if savouring, the texture, the strength. Jim's hands have already moved almost on their own; gesture that should be unfamiliar to a cop, but had been practiced as well. He had restrained... hundreds, probably, of perps and criminals, a click of metal, like a prayer for it to hold, and hold up in court. But this, this isn't a punishment, it's not for anyone's safety, or for a demonstration of justice.

It's because he needs it.

The tie circles his wrists, silky and strong, and Bruce's body behind him is like an anchor, guiding him through the initial surge of panic, the first regret and fear, that moment when he wants it away, and gone. A kiss on his neck, so warm, a whisper in his ear. "It's okay now." It's a lie, but it's the right one.

He can still see the reflection, blurry from the fog of their mixing breaths, see how Bruce's hand moves down his chest, just edging the line of the buttons, resting low on Jim's stomach, Jim's hands trapped between their bodies as they shift even closer, impossibly so.

Jim's shirt's collar is low now, tugged down by the movement, Bruce's mouth resting low on his neck, words resonating along his veins. "It's beautiful, isn't it? The city below?"

He wants to laugh, say it's mostly foggy now, through the haze on the window and his glasses. He doesn't, because he's pretty sure his voice would be strained and hoarse, or quite possibly, words wouldn't come at all.

"Jim?" hand lower on his stomach, on the inside of his pants, belt slowly undone by experienced fingers. Jim stares ahead, his eyes searching through the fog, and he has some skill in reading out the unreadable in Bruce's expression, even the transparent one, filled with the city lights. Need, and want, and a grain of softness that makes Jim's bones ache, but his muscles slowly relax into the touch.

"Yes," he mutters. "It is."

There's a half smile in Bruce's eyes, as he undoes Jim's pants all the way; there's a grin accompanying the first stroke. Jim likes that smile, not only because it goes with the welcome touch on his dick, but because it's one of the very few unguarded ones, bright and honest.

"What would you give up for it?" Bruce asks, and for a brief moment, Jim wants to pretend he doesn't understand. That's the first time he hears this question... no, this is a lie, too. Barbara had asked this a thousand times and more, and Batman had asked it again and again, and Jim asks himself this every day. He knows the answer as if it was etched in his bones, deep and hidden, he wears the answer for everyone to see.

"Everything," he says, and it feels like a confession, and it feels like a relief.

Bruce's hands feel like a reward, stroking slowly and steadily, and Jim groans, the sound echoing in his ears, painting the glass.

"You don't have to," Bruce says, moving away, and before Jim can protest at that, he's being gently turned around, pushed against the glass, his hands, heated and numb at the same time, pressed against the cold. Bruce sinks to his knees gracefully, his mouth almost too warm, and normally, Jim would be reaching for him, to stop, to pull him close; but his hands are trapped, and his bones seem to have turned to liquid.

"Please," he says, and couldn't for the life of him tell what he's asking for. It doesn't matter.

"Just let go, Jim," a whisper against him, so soft he almost doesn't hear it, but it resonates throughout his body somehow. "Here, now. Just let go."

His back is to the city, and he can almost feel it pulsing behind him, through the cold glass, or maybe it's just the sound of blood rushing through his veins, he never could tell really well.

Just for now, he lets go.