Through the Holes in Your Veins.

The first time they kiss, Gordon's glasses crack a little. They clink against Batman's mask, scratch on the glass, small but noticeable. It will be quite funny, later, but at the moment, it's just inconvenient, and Gordon tugs them off, letting them fall to the ground, maybe even break.

His glasses are the least of the problems, of course, the batsuit wasn't designed to be taken off easily, eased off shoulders and thrown to the floor; one would probably have more luck with a full body armour. The feel of gloves against his skin is rough and detached, and his elbow keeps hitting against something sharp, enough to earn him bruises for tomorrow.

None of this matters.

They're both alive, they're fucking alive and it's more than Gordon expected waking up this morning, and it feels insanely good, even the pain, and the way Batman's fingers clutch his shoulders a little too hard, fingers digging into his skin as they move in the messy uneven rhythm driven by sheer adrenaline and relief and, yes, desire. It doesn't really matter, the adrenaline itself would be enough.


The second time they fuck, it's the real beginning. The first time they never mentioned again, by mutual agreement, as much as an awkward silence could be considered a mutual agreement.

Jim can't, for the life of him, and probably never will, remember what they were talking about. All he knows is that Batman looked really out of place in the garden at the back of Jim's house, like a shadow, or a dream, unreal. Blurry at the edges, too, as Jim's second pair of glasses wasn't really suited to his worsening eyesight anymore, and he didn't quite get around to getting a new one yet.

If pressed, he will always claim he doesn't remember who moved first, but in truth, he rather suspects it was him. What he does most certainly remember is pulling Batman inside, expecting protests and not getting any, just Batman's lips on his, and hands pushing up his shirt.

It's not what he wants, not exactly, again there's not enough skin touching his, and really, his elbow still aches. Jim eases off his tie and holds it up, Batman's eyes confused and just a little bit clouded.

No words pass between them as Jim pulls the tie over his eyes, and ties the hard knot at the back of his head, but Batman's breath hitches noticeably, short inhale, long exhale, throaty and maddening. Then, a rustle of material, a hard click of something unlocking... Jim's still astonished he actually did that, and tries to calm down his rapid heartbeat, but, after all, if there's anyone he trusts enough, trusts completely, it's Batman. Batman, who is touching him finally, bare hands, long fingers on the side of Jim's face, fingernails scratching down his jaw line.

Jim's hands are still at his sides, fists clenched, fingernails digging into his skin, enough to hurt, enough to leave marks, but he doesn't dare touch, not yet, not when he can actually feel the heat of Batman's skin against his. Would it be presuming too much, he wonders, would it be crossing the line he doesn't dare, doesn't want to cross? He has never been good at faces, recognising someone he'd never seen, even if he touched them so intimately, would be nearing impossible, but he still doesn't know how far this trust goes, how much Batman can allow, will allow.

His shirt hangs open, Batman's hands just edging the line of his belt, careful and slow and almost teasing, not the kind of caress Jim expected from the man, but he'll take it, he is taking it gladly, and shivering at the contact. He is pretty sure he is close to breaking the skin of his palms, and bites his lip, tasting copper, instead of moaning loudly when lips and tongue travel down the side of his neck; and he can feel the warm breath, and not a trace of the hard mask or armor, just skin.

Fingers close on his wrists, thumbs tracing the lines of the tendons there, hard under his skin. He relaxes slowly, fists unclenching, numb and uncomfortable. He imagines he can feel the soft ridges of Batman's fingerprints on him, the unavoidable proof that the man is human, that he exists. Further proof to that is in the way his breathing speeds up as he brings Gordon's hands to his chest, not just a permission, more of a request. Gordon's fingers ache at the contact, it's both unexpected and wonderful. He spreads his palm, feels the heartbeat underneath the layers of skin and muscles, and the scar tissue much closer. Very much human.

"Jim," the man says, close to his ear, so close the lips are touching the earlobe as they move, dry and parched. Gordon shifts, clumsily trying to find them in his personal darkness, licking them until they soften and part, until the silence becomes a guttural moan, raw and unrestrained. In his darkness, it sounds unlike anything he had ever heard, obscene and needy and fucking fantastic.

It's a bit hazy, after that, everything that happens later Gordon won't be able to remember exactly. He feels the brick wall against his back, edge of every brick etched into his back even through his shirt. Mouth on his again, the kiss as rough as any, as hard as possible, drawing blood, tongue swiping it up, wet sounds that send something like an electric current all the way to his dick. And the flurry of movement, and sudden realisation that Batman is on his knees, and Jim's belt is coming off, pants all but ripped open impatiently. With this, with the warm and wet sensations all around him, his world turns into moans and shivers, a litany of obscenities and pleading filling his ears, almost deafening, and he might be saying it all out loud, and he fucking doesn't care because god fuck yes.

After, his legs give in, his knees aching as he falls to the floor, fall softened by strong hands and warm body. He reaches out and this time his hand instinctively finds just what he was looking for, and he can feel the blood pumping, he scratches the long vein on the underside, and doesn't stop even when he feels mouth and teeth against his shoulder, hard and desperate.

They lay on the floor for a while, a heap of tangled limbs and Gordon can still taste salt and iron in his mouth.

"I..." Batman says, and never finishes, and Jim doesn't want him to. There are hundreds of ways to finish that sentence, but he takes it for the confession it is, and doesn't say anything.

When he's alone again, later, with the memory of the last kiss still pressed against his mouth, he unties the blindfold slowly, his eyes still closed for a while, listening to his own breathing as it slows down, and to the sounds behind the window. They may be footsteps of someone disappearing into the dark night, but it might just be the rain.


There is one time, months later, when Gordon is scared within an inch of his life as Batman falls to the ground, not breathing. His hands shake as he removes the cowl, performs the CPR, a different litany ringing in his ears, and his eyes closed shut desperately. He doesn't open them at the sputtering cough, doesn't open them at the muttered curse and movement, doesn't open them at the sound of his own name.

"Just put it back on," he mutters, and turns his head away.


His fingers are getting more skilled, he thinks, god knows he gets enough practice. He can feel every new bruise now, trace it with his fingertips, place it on the map of scars. His mouth and his tongue follow the same path; Batman's body arching, shifting to get closer, as Gordon licks along his hipbone.

The blindfold is no longer makeshift and crude, the tie gave way to something wide and soft and silky. And on the subject of improvement and education, Gordon had learned how to read the sounds Batman makes, from the gentlest hitch of breath to the harsh groans when Jim takes him into his mouth.

His hips twitch, and Jim steadies them, one hands on each thigh, fingers digging into the skin just hard enough to apply pressure but not enough to break it. Sometimes, he hopes that Batman's skin bruises a little from this, that some mark is left from their encounters, however fleeting, however immaterial in the light of all other scars and bruises, marks that matter differently, and probably more than this.

He's pretty sure the marks will be gone by the time they have a chance to meet again like this, but he just figures he'll have to try and leave some evidence of this again.


One night, when he's required to make another appearance at yet another event he has no interest in, a handshake makes his fingers ache. He must have exchanged a dozen or more shakes this evening, but the texture is strangely familiar, skin between the thumb and index finger taut and tense, with just a hint of a rope burn, and he knows how it happened, and he knows when it was, how it felt through all the stages of healing, he knows how this hand feels against every inch of his body, because it's been there.

There's no shock, not really, there's just a faint flush spreading throughout his body, starting in his hand, blood rushing through his veins, pulsing right under his skin.

He closes his eyes and allows himself to smile.