[anomaly by cimorene]

Anomaly

Although Jim's covert ops training wasn't up to getting him into Wayne Manor without Alfred's knowledge, his people skills were able to get him past alone when he said "I'll find my own way up, if that's okay." Alfred nodded at him and melted away, and it wasn't until he pushed past the half-open oak doors into the dim yellow glow of the library that Jim recognized the motive behind Alfred's willingness.

The motive was rumpled and still in his suit jacket, hunched behind the massive desk in the big leather chair, with one hand in his hair. A closed laptop and a glass of mineral water on the desk were the only things out of place - the only things besides Bruce Wayne, whose face was stiff with lines of tension, whose powerful, lithe body looked painfully wrong bunched up like that, out of its accustomed lazy panther sprawl.

He looked up and his handsome face immediately closed down, like a mask sliding into place. "Batman isn't here right now," he said coolly.

Slumped deep in the chair, he moved to put his face in shadow and looked at Jim challengingly, a frowning parody of his idle, drawling playboy performances. The glad-handing Bruce Wayne of the penthouse parties was as entitled as his unofficial royal title predicted, but there was none of that character's affable good nature in Bruce's pose. It was hard to even imagine the Prince of Gotham like this - weary, disheveled, pained.

"That's all right," said Jim, stopping inside the circle of lamplight around the desk. "I wasn't looking for him anyway." Bruce's face didn't change. "You can give him my regards, later," he added, out of a sense of fairness, because he couldn't pretend not to be... attached to Batman. (Besides anything else, his libido owed a big thank you to the suit.)

Bruce raised one eyebrow. "You want to leave a message?" He almost sounded like he was joking.

But Jim Gordon hadn't spent fifteen years as a cop without recognizing the coiling tension in him - it was hanging around the desk like smog, and it was getting worse.

A part of Jim didn't think this should be a high-stress conversation when he'd known the man behind the Bat mask for well over a year now. He'd never seen Bruce quite like this before - offensive because he was defensive, like he was protecting a wound, dark but vulnerable.

Jim put his hands in his pockets and edged a step or two closer to the desk. "I don't think that's necessary, do you?"

Bruce occasionally, when alone, demonstrated a desire for as much personal space as Batman ever took without actually disappearing mid-conversation. He allowed Jim right up to the edge of his desk without retreating himself. His eyes were narrowed in consideration. "I'll take your word. Can I get you something?"

Jim smiled at him. "I think you know my position on you getting me things, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce huffed a little half-laugh, his mouth curving in a tense slash of smile. "To drink?"

Bruce's hand had unclenched from the chair; he had both of them on the desk now, turning the water idly around. His hands were neat, long-fingered, strong and not over large, manicured but roughened (Jim knew) on the palms and fingertips in a way a manicure couldn't hide. They were masculine and elegant, not powerful and faintly menacing like Batman's black gloves. The water was mostly drained from the heavy-bottomed cut glass tumbler.

Jim licked his lips. "Not really thirsty." Bruce's lips looked better to Jim than the glass, right now. "I could take a seat, maybe."

The big leather chair tilted back, the circle of golden light slipping up over the planes of Bruce's face. Amusement was starting to relax some of the deeper vertical lines now. That sensuous mouth was tilted at the corner in secret amusement, a shape and an expression that Jim couldn't help thinking he must have instantly recognized if he'd ever had the opportunity, before, to observe it on Bruce Wayne's face. That would probably never happen. In public, Bruce's amusement wasn't subtle.

Jim expected be my guest or something else like that. Batman in costume wouldn't say anything to that. Instead Bruce said, "I don't know what you want from me."

There were so many answers to that, starting with A lot and, most relevantly, I'll take what I can get, but Jim went with "To talk, if you want."

Bruce looked away quickly, all the way to his left. His rumpled collar shifted, exposing the hollow of his throat. His jaw was rough with stubble. Jim took the opportunity to sit down on the polished edge of the desk. Bruce's eyes flickered at the move, but he looked down again, buried his face in his hand and rubbed at his eyes. A sigh came from behind the hand. "I'm not sure I do," he said, like he was afraid to give the denial, or like there was a penalty for not being sure.

Jim's chest hurt from being on the wrong damn side of the desk. "That's fine too," he said quietly.

"Sorry." When Bruce lifted his head, it was like it was heavier than usual.

Jim shook his head no. "Don't. Not with me."

Bruce looked at him deliberately, eyes bright and alert even though his head was lolling back on a neck like a wet noodle. It was easy to see the intelligent calculation at work under that expression now.

"Okay." Apparently Bruce had made a decision. He swiveled in his chair, turning slightly away from the desk. "I've been in this chair for a couple of hours. My spine could have frozen like this, if Alfred is to be believed. If you're not up to getting me out..."

Jim tilted his head, waiting for the rest of the sentence (although he was fairly sure he was up to the task of removing even Batman from a desk chair, unless there was a bomb involved - then he'd need someone to talk him through it).

Bruce shrugged. "We'll manage. I'll do the voice."

"But what?" said Jim, sliding off and ambling around the desk to the inviting pathway presented by Bruce's casually splayed legs. "If I take you over to the sofa, you've got a spare pointy-eared hat?"

A faint crease appeared between Bruce's eyebrows. "Cowl."

Jim stopped when his knee bumped up against the padded edge of the chair. It certainly looked big enough for two, but he wasn't so sure he wanted to find out. "You've got a cowl in the sofa?"

Bruce blinked up at him, smirking, bravado over exhaustion, and opened his mouth. He still seemed a little pale under his tan. Jim leaned forward, braced his hand beside Bruce's head, and said before Bruce could say anything, "What makes you think I want you to do the voice?"

That look, that one, accounted for approximately all of the times Jim had discovered, in the last year, what the sexiest thing on Earth was. There was a hint of smile in it, under the shock, the glazed eyes and slowly flushing cheeks. It didn't matter if it was framed in a plush leather chair and a four-thousand-dollar suit or Jim's moonlit bedsheets and a black cape - Bruce's face, Bruce's wide soft mouth, the hard grip of Bruce's hands around his wrists, was all he saw in moments like this, even with the cowl in the way, and it was hard for Jim to wrap his mind around what the problem was here. It sounded ludicrous that the Prince of Gotham could not know how beautiful he was. He opened up willingly to the kiss, sucked wetly on Jim's tongue and held onto his wrist like a lifeline, almost hard enough to hurt for a while, until he relaxed into it and let go.

When Jim moved his mouth to the long, tan throat, and Bruce's body moved up against him like a bow drawing back, Bruce whispered, "Jim," that hoarse, tense voice of pleasure.

Jim nuzzled where he'd licked and nipped at the soft skin under Bruce's jaw just to hear Bruce gasp like he was drowning, another noise the Prince of Gotham would never make, to remind himself that it was the Prince of Gotham who was the anomaly - not the Bruce in his arms, whatever he wanted to call himself.

"See?" said Jim. "No talking necessary." Bruce didn't even open his eyes. "Do I have to carry you to the sofa, really?" It probably wasn't the time to make a crack about wishing Batman was here.

"I dunno," Bruce said, like maybe he really had to think about it some more, or they would have to experiment.

"I gotta warn you," said Jim, "I've been a gentleman so far, but if I have to do that - well -" he leaned closer to whisper right in Bruce's ear, "I'd probably take advantage of the situation."

Bruce turned his head so Jim's nose brushed against his cheek and looked right into his eyes. Well, right into his glasses, anyway. "Are you trying to warn me that you might cop a feel?"

"Full disclosure," said Jim confidingly, and was rewarded with seeing the hazel eyes crinkle up. "I'll definitely cop a feel."

Bruce looked almost relaxed, now. "I guess that's all right."

"I can't resist a man in a nice suit." Bruce's eyebrow quirked, and Jim corrected himself, "A really, really nice suit. It has to be up in the... oh... four thousand dollar range before I completely lose it."

"Really? I don't remember that from the charity ball last week."

"A bit more than four thousand," said Jim, but he lost the thread of thought when Bruce's hand settled on the front of his thigh. "Um... it would have to be - more like - really one of a kind. Tailoring -" the hand was moving. Bruce was smiling at him. Before it gave up entirely, Jim's brain presented the results of its final vocabulary search: "Bespoke," he gasped.

Bruce unfolding his sleek, long limbs from the leather chair was the kind of mouth-drying event to keep around for mental playback during annual budget meetings. Unfortunately it was over so quickly that by the time Jim could form words about it, he was pressed up against the desk with his hands full, and Bruce looking down into his eyes again, the tips of their noses almost touching. "Full disclosure," Bruce teased, his voice warm and amused, deepened with pleasure to a warm baritone. "You can feel all you want," and then he slid like silk into Jim's arms, one long hard thigh parting Jim's legs, hands pinning Jim to the desk.

Jim really could feel all he wanted, then, because Bruce kissed like taking Jim's mouth was just the first move, and he was moving out to colonize the rest of Jim's body - chest to chest, cock to cock, they were practically ankle to ankle. He was kissing hard, now, a little needy, the steel strength behind the silk suit.

"Expensive suits, huh," he murmured into Jim's ear, "do you want to know what this one cost?"

"Not really," said Jim, startled into honesty when he pulled the dress shirt free from Bruce's slacks and his hand met warm, supple skin and then lower, the knitted edge of fine silk briefs.

Bruce hummed. "Coincidentally, I'm developing sort of a thing for men in off-the-rack sportswear. I like khaki." He had a fold of Jim's slacks between his thumb and forefinger. Jim was a little worried he was going to rip them off. Instead, his hand wrapped around the outside of Jim's thigh and stroked slowly down and up.

Jim wanted to wrap his legs around him and climb onto his cock if necessary. He settled for jerking Bruce's belt open and unzipping his pants to get at the front of those silk briefs. They were damp through. Jim felt a full-body shudder of arousal at the feel of the wet silk in his hand sliding over the hot, hard flesh. Bruce was still, briefly, controlling himself, and then he propelled Jim by both arms to the sofa and pushed him down onto it. Jim fumbled with his pants on the way. If he was clumsy with lust, Bruce was the opposite. He was never clumsy with adrenaline; maybe not always controlled, but never clumsy.

He was back on top of Jim again in a moment, aligning their cocks carefully as he lowered himself between Jim's thighs and then thrusting carefully, sweaty and hot and so goddamned fucking good Jim's head was going to explode - and then he moved again with a pivot of his narrow hips, muscles standing out in his arms, trapping Jim's cock against his smooth muscular belly.

"Fuck," said Jim.

Bruce's eyes gleamed down at him, feverish and intent, almost... fanatic, and he said nothing, just shifted for leverage and lifted Jim's leg up around his hip and oh, fuck, this would be a lot better with some kind of lube or just an extra hand or a bigger couch, but Jim wasn't going to be too picky when Bruce was finally speaking, his voice as deep as Batman's soft growl: "You want me."

And yes, Jim wanted him so hard his stomach hurt. He gripped the back of Bruce's neck and pulled himself up to kiss him (he wasn't strong enough to pull Bruce down if Bruce wasn't going), and Bruce slid a hand between their bodies, wrapped it around both their cocks and jacked them off until Jim came and bit down so hard that Bruce's lip bled.

Jim shifted so Bruce could settle against the back of the sofa. His shirt and pants hanging open, his scarred chest streaked with come, his head tipped back against the velvet cushions, Bruce licked his bleeding lip thoughtfully. "I almost wish it would scar," he said slowly. "It's been so long since I bled from - something like this." He seemed content, though.

After a messy, fumbling, half-dressed orgasm on the sofa (something that had been a thing of the past until Batman), it seemed a little superfluous, but Jim still said, "I want you."

Bruce tilted his head so he could look at Jim, direct and amused. "You might have to wait a while."

"I was just thinking some more about expensive suits," Jim explained. "You know."

"You were kind of talking out of your ass about the tailoring," Bruce agreed, but his look was brighter than before, intent.

"I know they come more expensive than four grand. Look at you. I mean, for example. You must have -" Jim almost let some kind of tic through, but it was bad enough trying to say things like this; he made himself keep going without even a pause, "- other suits. Special ones." He couldn't look directly at Bruce and sound casual; thank God for impatient billionaires who couldn't stop to take your glasses off before humping you into the sofa. "But what do I know about suits?"

Bruce's voice came from right up next to his ear. "Four thousand is way too low for some of them," he said, low and calm. "You've been thinking about it, huh?"

"Yeah," Jim confessed. Bruce was a gleam of dark eyes and pale skin and red mouth along his side, serious and silent as the Batman - and when Jim turned to look, still vulnerable, painfully so, with his hair all mussed and his neck red from Jim's mouth and his shirt falling off him. Bruce was waiting. "It isn't the suit."

End