The Aged Ingenue (22/25)
Title: The Aged Ingénue
Chapter: 22/24
Genres: humor & romance
Main Pairing: Bruce Wayne/Jim Gordon
Rating: R
Warnings: random fluffs cooked with wee silvers of angst
Beta: none - mistakes abound!
Summary: the worse thing Jim Gordon ever did was shave off his mustache.
Chapter 22: Back to One
The morning mist settled over Gotham like a mourning veil, In this dawn, Bruce rested his chin on his hands and watched the man slumbering peacefully in his bed.
The early edition that Alfred had discretely slipped under his door had two break-ins; one which lead to the murder of two innocent children.
One night off the beat, and the price of lesser vigalence weighed heavily on his shoulders.
They couldn’t continue to do this, Bruce told himself, swallowing the despair that threatened to bury his heart in rocks. It was simply going to fast, and sooner or later something would break that he couldn’t afford to pay.
He buried his face in his fingers and closed his eyes againts the the encroaching light.
*
I can’t do this, Jim thought to himself as he reknotted his tie for the third time. Its going too fast.
They were going to meet in broad daylight. For lunch.
Broad daylight in the city. Jim was doomed.
He would never have accepted this invitation if the voice at the end of the line hadn’t been so brusque. There had been no twee remark this time from Bruce, no slyly humorous non-sequitur; and the somber conversation had been uncharacteristically short.
He was just happy that he’d managed to end the conversation and slammed down the phone just was his PA walked in, casting a look of intense curiosity at his flushed face.
His cellphone beeped from his pocket as him hurries to the lift, glad for once of his misbegotten impulse to go out and buy a younger jacket. Looks just like Burberry, the salesgirl had told him as she handed his purchase over, and Jim had been utterly mystified as to why anybody would wish to emulate a designer who had named himself after breakfast jam.
Of course he could do this. He only had to hold his own for an hour; make sure he picked up the right cutlery… and somewhere along the last course and coffee Jim would tell Bruce, calmly, that he had thought about it and found they were better off as friends.
How hard could it be?
*
There was a strange sort of tension in Bruce, a tightness of the jaw and hardness of the eyes that Jim had never encountered before. Before Jim reaches the table a voice within him already urges him to leave, the same intuitive voice that had saved Jim from wrong choices and violence and certain death in a lifetime fighting crime.
Jim pulls out the chair anyways, taking in the contained silence wrapped around Bruce like pall. It’s the calm before the storm, he knows, and Jim suddenly wished he could walk away from all this and get back behind the barricaded safety of his office doors. His mouth becomes suddenly and inexplicably parched.
Hesitantly, he made the first move. ‘How was your day?’
‘Good. How was your morning?’
‘Good.’
Bruce might have lifted the corners of his mouth, but it wasn’t a smile, it didn’t reach his eyes. He gave an elegant shrug and gestured at the menu. ‘Shall we order?’
Jim turned his eyes to the table, examining the beads of condensation sparkling on the bottle of mineral on the table. He was parched, but the bottle seemed too far away, a deceiving arms-length, untouchable. Like the man across him. Like the word Good.
He was grateful for the waiter (bulter? Service manager?) who filled his glass for him, who asked him how many slices of lemon he would like in his glass. The silence at the table after their orders had been taken was deafening. There was no wind, and Jim pulled at his tie and watches the sweating glass, and when the silence strained againts him, cast his desperate gaze around the décor.
‘It’s a nice place.’ One Jim was sure Bruce knew would put him at a disadvantage.
‘It has the trappings of adequacy,’ the younger man shrugged.
‘I see.’
‘After all the slumming.’
‘If you want me to take you seriously,’ Jim told him in a low voice, ‘why don’t you tell me exactly what you’re really trying to say?’
There was an inhuman gleam in Wayne’s lazy gaze when he leaned back and clasped his fingers together. ‘Surely you didn’t think I ever looked like somebody who took myself seriously, Commissioner?’
‘You were.’ Jim licked his lips, parched. His throat was a desert, the cavity of his heart was drying up. ‘Serious.’ Till today.
‘Perhaps we should go back to our own worlds,’ Wayne picked his glass and sipped slowly, fingers long and tanned, and Jim mirrored him by picking up his own glass.
It was this that he would remember this, he knew; more than the spoken words. The aftertaste of lemon rind on his tongue, the thick linen table cloth beneath his thumb pad and forefinger, the glimmering, perfect skin on Wayne’s hands. For god knows how long, the pained silence stretched between them. Jim counted the time by the strange jerking beneath his ribcage; it took some time to remember that the pounding, dying thing in his chest was his vital, unnecessary heart. Stupid organ, really. Totally excessive.
Reaching for the glass feels like a lifeline; feels like the only sane thing his mind could focus on because the rest of him has been swept away, swept away by-
By nothing. By nothing. Jim feels nothing. It had been a fling, nothing more.
With Bruce Wayne, no less. He ought to have been honored.
‘Jim…’
‘I’m fine.’
Bruce pushed his chair back. ‘I’ll get the cheque.’
*
A sudden urgency for the privacy of his car propelled him to quicken his footsteps, wrapping his trench coat against him again and again, and suddenly stopping short when he saw his own reflection against a shop window. Was that the Commissioner or Gotham, a reputably solid and unflappable man; hugging himself like a child? Looking like he was walking against a gale when there was nothing more than the faintest of breeze? Jim looked away, but he knew he was not a liar; at least not to himself. He knew his own body was trying to comfort him, arms heavy and protective over one’s vitals, trying to hold it all in. He’d seen it plenty of times in his line.
He’d seen Barbara do it, goddamm him, when he’d failed as a husband and father to her.
A limousine pulled up alongside, startling him badly. The opaque windows churned open and Bruce looked at him, opening his mouth; and for a split second something hanged between them - a gossamer, crystalline thing, and Jim hoped one of them would say- do something colossally idiotic, his heart almost stopping with the certainty of his hopes-
Then Wayne cleared his throat and the moment shattered, turned to dust, flickers once and was gone with the twisting wind, leaving a faint scent of burning that quickly disappeared.
‘Take care, Jim.’
He watched the windows whirl up and the car roll away - and slowly exhaled.
It was not right and it never had been, and he should be glad the charade was over. Yes. Yes. He just had to remember how to breathe, and how to… well, just to breath. Surely he could do that. Surely his lungs would not betray him now, at this juncture, when he had been through so much more.
Goodbye.
There was a faint scent of burning from somewhere; a razor dryness to the air. Somewhere a police siren breaks out into a wail, but Jim could neither hear, nor feel a thing.
*
Chapter: 22/24
Genres: humor & romance
Main Pairing: Bruce Wayne/Jim Gordon
Rating: R
Warnings: random fluffs cooked with wee silvers of angst
Beta: none - mistakes abound!
Summary: the worse thing Jim Gordon ever did was shave off his mustache.
Chapter 22: Back to One
The morning mist settled over Gotham like a mourning veil, In this dawn, Bruce rested his chin on his hands and watched the man slumbering peacefully in his bed.
The early edition that Alfred had discretely slipped under his door had two break-ins; one which lead to the murder of two innocent children.
One night off the beat, and the price of lesser vigalence weighed heavily on his shoulders.
They couldn’t continue to do this, Bruce told himself, swallowing the despair that threatened to bury his heart in rocks. It was simply going to fast, and sooner or later something would break that he couldn’t afford to pay.
He buried his face in his fingers and closed his eyes againts the the encroaching light.
*
I can’t do this, Jim thought to himself as he reknotted his tie for the third time. Its going too fast.
They were going to meet in broad daylight. For lunch.
Broad daylight in the city. Jim was doomed.
He would never have accepted this invitation if the voice at the end of the line hadn’t been so brusque. There had been no twee remark this time from Bruce, no slyly humorous non-sequitur; and the somber conversation had been uncharacteristically short.
He was just happy that he’d managed to end the conversation and slammed down the phone just was his PA walked in, casting a look of intense curiosity at his flushed face.
His cellphone beeped from his pocket as him hurries to the lift, glad for once of his misbegotten impulse to go out and buy a younger jacket. Looks just like Burberry, the salesgirl had told him as she handed his purchase over, and Jim had been utterly mystified as to why anybody would wish to emulate a designer who had named himself after breakfast jam.
Of course he could do this. He only had to hold his own for an hour; make sure he picked up the right cutlery… and somewhere along the last course and coffee Jim would tell Bruce, calmly, that he had thought about it and found they were better off as friends.
How hard could it be?
*
There was a strange sort of tension in Bruce, a tightness of the jaw and hardness of the eyes that Jim had never encountered before. Before Jim reaches the table a voice within him already urges him to leave, the same intuitive voice that had saved Jim from wrong choices and violence and certain death in a lifetime fighting crime.
Jim pulls out the chair anyways, taking in the contained silence wrapped around Bruce like pall. It’s the calm before the storm, he knows, and Jim suddenly wished he could walk away from all this and get back behind the barricaded safety of his office doors. His mouth becomes suddenly and inexplicably parched.
Hesitantly, he made the first move. ‘How was your day?’
‘Good. How was your morning?’
‘Good.’
Bruce might have lifted the corners of his mouth, but it wasn’t a smile, it didn’t reach his eyes. He gave an elegant shrug and gestured at the menu. ‘Shall we order?’
Jim turned his eyes to the table, examining the beads of condensation sparkling on the bottle of mineral on the table. He was parched, but the bottle seemed too far away, a deceiving arms-length, untouchable. Like the man across him. Like the word Good.
He was grateful for the waiter (bulter? Service manager?) who filled his glass for him, who asked him how many slices of lemon he would like in his glass. The silence at the table after their orders had been taken was deafening. There was no wind, and Jim pulled at his tie and watches the sweating glass, and when the silence strained againts him, cast his desperate gaze around the décor.
‘It’s a nice place.’ One Jim was sure Bruce knew would put him at a disadvantage.
‘It has the trappings of adequacy,’ the younger man shrugged.
‘I see.’
‘After all the slumming.’
‘If you want me to take you seriously,’ Jim told him in a low voice, ‘why don’t you tell me exactly what you’re really trying to say?’
There was an inhuman gleam in Wayne’s lazy gaze when he leaned back and clasped his fingers together. ‘Surely you didn’t think I ever looked like somebody who took myself seriously, Commissioner?’
‘You were.’ Jim licked his lips, parched. His throat was a desert, the cavity of his heart was drying up. ‘Serious.’ Till today.
‘Perhaps we should go back to our own worlds,’ Wayne picked his glass and sipped slowly, fingers long and tanned, and Jim mirrored him by picking up his own glass.
It was this that he would remember this, he knew; more than the spoken words. The aftertaste of lemon rind on his tongue, the thick linen table cloth beneath his thumb pad and forefinger, the glimmering, perfect skin on Wayne’s hands. For god knows how long, the pained silence stretched between them. Jim counted the time by the strange jerking beneath his ribcage; it took some time to remember that the pounding, dying thing in his chest was his vital, unnecessary heart. Stupid organ, really. Totally excessive.
Reaching for the glass feels like a lifeline; feels like the only sane thing his mind could focus on because the rest of him has been swept away, swept away by-
By nothing. By nothing. Jim feels nothing. It had been a fling, nothing more.
With Bruce Wayne, no less. He ought to have been honored.
‘Jim…’
‘I’m fine.’
Bruce pushed his chair back. ‘I’ll get the cheque.’
*
A sudden urgency for the privacy of his car propelled him to quicken his footsteps, wrapping his trench coat against him again and again, and suddenly stopping short when he saw his own reflection against a shop window. Was that the Commissioner or Gotham, a reputably solid and unflappable man; hugging himself like a child? Looking like he was walking against a gale when there was nothing more than the faintest of breeze? Jim looked away, but he knew he was not a liar; at least not to himself. He knew his own body was trying to comfort him, arms heavy and protective over one’s vitals, trying to hold it all in. He’d seen it plenty of times in his line.
He’d seen Barbara do it, goddamm him, when he’d failed as a husband and father to her.
A limousine pulled up alongside, startling him badly. The opaque windows churned open and Bruce looked at him, opening his mouth; and for a split second something hanged between them - a gossamer, crystalline thing, and Jim hoped one of them would say- do something colossally idiotic, his heart almost stopping with the certainty of his hopes-
Then Wayne cleared his throat and the moment shattered, turned to dust, flickers once and was gone with the twisting wind, leaving a faint scent of burning that quickly disappeared.
‘Take care, Jim.’
He watched the windows whirl up and the car roll away - and slowly exhaled.
It was not right and it never had been, and he should be glad the charade was over. Yes. Yes. He just had to remember how to breathe, and how to… well, just to breath. Surely he could do that. Surely his lungs would not betray him now, at this juncture, when he had been through so much more.
Goodbye.
There was a faint scent of burning from somewhere; a razor dryness to the air. Somewhere a police siren breaks out into a wail, but Jim could neither hear, nor feel a thing.
*