Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of this work of fiction, and no profit, monetary or otherwise, is being made through the writing of this.
A/N: Written as a Christmas present for someone who had asked for this pairing, but I didn't have time to write until today, so it's a day late. This is my first time writing anything for these two. Consider this AU.
Bruce closes his eyes, and rubs the back of his neck. He's not quite shaking, but it's a near thing. It's been one of those days, and he doubts that he'll get any reprieve during the night, especially not if his alter ego is needed somewhere in Gotham City.
Sighing, he grabs at the knot in his tie and works at it with one hand, using the other hand to balance his weight against the bathroom sink. Eyes still closed, Bruce works at the knot, feeling it begin to loosen beneath his numb fingertips.
The feel of a hand on the small of his back makes him stiffen, but he doesn't open his eyes. He knows, by the familiar weight of the hand, the smell of pipe tobacco and mint (used to cover up the pungent scent of the tobacco), and the heavy sigh, that it's Gordon, come to check on him.
"Bruce?" Gordon's voice is low, and filled with concern.
Bruce clears his throat, leans into his lover's touch, feeling some of his burgeoning headache bleed away, and lets out a breath that he's been holding since he left the office.
"One of those days?"
Bruce doesn't have to say anything. Gordon's fingers replace Bruce's on the knot, and Bruce lets himself relax – something that he doesn't often do, and something that he never does when with anyone else.
Gordon's fingers, though calloused, and worn from years of police work, are surprisingly nimble, and they make quick work of the knot. Gordon loosens the tie, leaves it draped over the back of Bruce's neck, and then, as though it's nothing, he leans close and kisses the back of Bruce's neck, making Bruce shiver. Undoing him, just as Gordon had undone his tie.
"You have no idea," Bruce says, though he can well imagine what Gordon's day, as a police commissioner, has been like – dealing with life and death situations, whereas all that Bruce has had to deal with are mergers and stocks, and pain-in-the-ass know-it-alls. The life and death happens after the corporate work day.
Gordon raises an eyebrow, and graces Bruce with an indulgent smile, twines his fingers into the hair at the nape of Bruce's neck, and lightly starts to massage, the muscles sore and stiff from stress. Hours spent in endless meetings, or bent over a computer, or talking on the phone, and simply being pleasant and maintaining his amiable, playboy image.
It's funny, in a way, that it's his day job which gives him the most stress. Or, maybe it's just that being Batman offers him a sort of stress-relief that his money earning occupation does not. Beating up criminals, and bringing them to justice, gives Bruce a kind of relief, close to euphoria, that nothing else can even come close to – save for Gordon's purposeful fingers, the careful way that he manipulates Bruce's body, wringing things from him that no woman has even come close to achieving.
Bruce's stomach flutters when Gordon starts to massage his lower back. He groans when Gordon's thumb presses against a particularly hard, stubborn knot located just beneath the waistband of his slacks.
"Damn, you're tense," Gordon mutters, voice almost a growl. He presses up against Bruce's back, shoving Bruce against the sink, and eliciting another groan from him.
Bruce's hands fly to his belt, fingers thick and shaking with need as he fumbles with the belt buckle. It's nothing like his utility belt, should be easier to undo, but, with Gordon pressed up against him, the commissioner's hardened cock pushing against his thigh, it's somehow become a little like playing Chinese checkers, or Russian roulette, except the stakes are much higher.
Gordon growls, nips at the back of Bruce's neck and that's all it takes. The belt buckle comes undone with an audible, 'pop,' and Bruce suddenly has a hard time remembering what it was that had given him the headache he no longer has.
It isn't until they're lying – limbs entwined – in bed, a series of moves that Bruce can't bother himself to remember later, that Bruce comes to himself, as though slowly waking. Gone is the stress of his day – lost in a tangle of abandoned clothes strewn haphazardly about the room, and sullied, disheveled sheets.
Replete, and satisfied, the stiffness and aches in his muscles long gone, Bruce brushes his lips over Gordon's, enjoys the traces of peppermint, and tobacco that he tastes when Gordon opens his mouth, deepening the kiss.
"Thank you," Bruce hums, lips pressed to Gordon's, enjoying the calm before the inevitable storm, because he knows that this won't last, that the night will hold headaches of its own for him, and for Gordon, before it's over.
"Mhm," Gordon murmurs, eyelids heavy, arm lying across the lower half of Bruce's back, fingers twined with Bruce's.
Bruce closes his eyes, and drifts, comfortable, safe, and secure in the knowledge that, at the end of a long, shitty day, he's got someone to come home to. At least for the next foreseeable future.
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