Chapter title inspired by "My Hero" by Foo Fighters

Claire woke up in the hotel bed with a sinking realization that perhaps Mistress had gone too far. Her sub had pleaded with her to stay; he clearly needed her and was very adamant that it wasn't a sexual need. She just hadn't known how to respond and had panicked. Sure, partners at the club had asked to go home with her before, but they'd done so with the inner knowledge that it probably wasn't going to happen. And saying no at the club, where boundaries were clearly defined, was easy. Nothing with Jim was well-defined anymore. And saying no when you wanted to say yes was hard.

She threw her look together quickly, dying to knock on his door and gauge his mood. Of course her mind imagined the worst, like front desk Lila answering Jim's door with a bedsheet wrapped around her. That's how it would happen in the movies, right? But real life was a little less dramatic, albeit troubling at first. Claire knocked three times, with a long pause after each, her heart racing faster and faster. God, what if Jim was really pissed and took off to the airport without her? She was choking back tears by the time he finally answered— messy haired, bleary eyed, glasses off. He'd thrown his boxers back on at some point and added a white tee.

"Morning, Greene," he greeted her.

Claire's mouth gaped a bit before she responded. "Morning... Commissioner?"

Jim stepped aside and held the door open for her to enter. Well, that was a good sign at least.

"Are you okay?" Claire asked nervously. "You're not packed yet. We're supposed to leave for the airport at 9:30."

"No, I'm not okay," he muttered, and he took a rather dramatic nosedive back onto the bed, stomach down, face buried in the fluffy euro sham. "My head hurts like hell."

Claire perched on the edge of the bed and rubbed his back timidly. "Because of the coasters? I'll go grab some medicine."

"I have some," he mumbled. "In the leather case in the bathroom."

Claire scrambled to find the pills and searched the shelves in the main part of the room for the usual stash of paper cups. As she was unwrapping one to get him some water, her eyes fell on a crumpled receipt laying in front of the tv. She recalled him neatly folding their receipt from her first night in Cleveland into his wallet, so it immediately struck her as odd. Sure enough, it was dated with today's date — 12:09 a.m.— and held all the evidence she needed of the true nature of his headache.

Oh, my god, she thought. I drove the man to drink that much? Just by coming to his room and helping him get off?

Claire chastised herself inwardly. She was using Mistress's cold logic to justify her actions and make things black and white. But it hadn't been that way. She knew Jim was in this for more than orgasms — but how could she ever know that the man cared for her and not just his first-ever Dominatrix? It was often a mind-blowing and confusing experience for a new sub, and the tendency to latch onto one's first Dominant emotionally was an easy pitfall.

Hell, her best friend Grace was still madly in love with Hans Gruber, and she would drop everything in her life whenever he came to town to pay her a visit. Not that Claire could blame her; Hans was magnetic, powerful, and a master of dominance. He'd been a mentor to Claire for years, and she always felt protected when back in his sphere, even if he was a hardened criminal. He wouldn't hurt Claire or Grace if his life depended on it.

What the hell will Hans say when he finds out I'm falling in love with the police commissioner? Worse yet, what will Jim say when he finds out about Hans?

Claire shook her head and refused to go down that road at the moment. Jim was in pain— pain that she'd caused, and she needed to take care of him.

"Can you sit up for me... Jim?" She bit back the words 'baby boy' and opted for this instead, not even entertaining the notion of their workplace addresses he'd used earlier. Jim beat the pillow as he hoisted himself up, running his hands through his hair as he brought his knees to his chest. He looked embarrassed, remorseful, and miserable.

"Here," Claire said, opening her purse. "I always carry a snack on me. You never know when you'll get stuck somewhere. It's just graham crackers... nice and light. You need something on your stomach before you take the ibuprofen." She watched him nibble the snack slowly, as if the simple act of chewing even pained him. Poor guy. She was fairly certain he wasn't used to hangovers. Once he'd gotten a cracker down, she lifted the medicine to his mouth along with some water. He swallowed obediently but refused to make eye contact with her. Claire allowed a few awkward silent moments to pass, contemplating what she needed to do to fix this.

With a sigh, she slid up the mattress to snuggle at his side, grabbing his arm and placing it around her. Her hand snaked beneath the bottom of his shirt, smoothing over his chest.

"I'm sorry, Jim," she said quietly. "I screwed up."

More silence.

"Yeah, you did," he finally agreed.

"I'm not worth getting drunk over, by the way," she joked. He didn't laugh.

"Well, that's embarrassing," Claire continued. "I guess I shouldn't have assumed it was me. You're going through a lot, with your family..."

"Yes, I am," Jim said through gritted teeth. "My world was already upside down when you moved in on me, Claire. And you just grabbed it and started spinning it off its axis. I don't even recognize myself. It's like I left a normal, respectable life and walked onto the set of a porn flick. I keep fooling myself into thinking it's more than that, but the way you acted last night— makes me feel fucking cheap. And like I'm wasting my time."

Claire buried her nose in the cotton wrinkles of his shirt and still avoided looking at him. Part of her flared at the judgmental overtones in his comment, hurt by his characterization of her lifestyle as some kind of deviance. She refused to feel guilty for how she chose to find pleasure. But she knew that to straight-laced, all-American good-cop Jim, the lifestyle did still feel deviant and probably always would to a certain extent. He likely used his feelings for her to absolve some of his own guilt and assign some higher purpose to his carnality. She chose to overlook his hurtful remark.

"I know how you feel, Jim," she apologized. "And I'm an idiot. I'm just fucking scared. And I need to be sure."

"Sure of what, damn it? You act like a child sometimes, Claire."

She sat up sharply. "I am, Jim. When it comes to this. I've only been in one relationship in my whole entire life, and it was a confusing clusterfuck. I have no idea what I'm doing here. Every time I think about you my brain turns to literally nothing. I'm terrified to let myself want you this much, because what if suddenly you're no longer there?"

"Why would I leave?" he protested. "I've told you I'm in. Do I seem like the kind of guy who lies about something like that?" He gripped his stomach with a pained look.

Claire's eyes widened. "Do you need the bathroom? Should I empty the ice bucket?"

Jim shook his head. "I'm okay. It just sucks. I can't believe people drink like this for fun."

She laughed. "Me either. Okay, listen to me. I have an idea. And I need you to agree."

Jim's blue eyes locked on hers warily, and he didn't speak.

"I need you to be with one other Domme."

"I've already told you no," he replied sternly. "And you told me you wouldn't make me again, Teacher."

Claire took both his hands in hers and squeezed, wincing a bit at the memory of that particular night.

"Not just any Domme," she explained. "My best friend, Grace. She's not just some other woman. I trust her with my life."

"You want me to sleep with your best friend, Claire? That's sick!"

"It's not. She and I... well, we have a history... of sharing."

Jim scowled petulantly. "Yes, I'm kind of aware."

"You are? How?"

"Ben."

Claire felt her stomach tighten. "How much did he tell you?"

"Vague generalities. And Zac warned me not to ask."

Claire nodded. "I'll give you the details someday, once we get past this hurdle. You just have to promise to stay open minded and not hate me."

Jim rolled his eyes. "Oh, boy. This sounds fun."

Claire sighed. "Jim, I'm not a normal girl, okay? You should have known that from night one. If you can't handle that, then it's a good thing we're having this conversation now, before we fall even harder."

Jim peered at her above the glasses he'd just donned, his mouth twisting as he considered her words. "You're falling? Really?"

Claire blushed. "You're not?"

"We're not talking about me right now. I asked about you." His eyebrow raised in a challenge, and he rested his elbow on a bent knee, legs splayed open. She could see straight up the leg of his boxers, and her only thought was how easy it would be to slide a hand up there and completely avoid this conversation. A total Mistress move. But Claire inwardly told Mistress to sit down.

"Yes, I'm falling," she admitted, her voice strained. "But I need you to do this for me. I need to believe that this is about me and not just you bouncing back from a divorce and craving a Domme. Please scene with Grace, just once, and let me know how you feel after. If you want to experience more, or if you're certain this is about us and not about roles at a club. Please?"

Jim sighed and rubbed his temples. "I thought Grace was a sub?"

"She is," Claire admitted. "And she's not quite a switch officially, but she can. If the situation warrants or if she's really interested in someone. But she's played the role to entertain people for me before, and I know she'll do it this time. She thinks you're cute."

Jim was still frowning, in spite of what Claire thought may be a little ego boost for him. "It feels like cheating," he said flatly.

"Even if I bless it?" Claire had to admit, part of her loved hearing that he thought of it that way. Having his loyalty made her tingle a bit.

"Then it feels like you don't really care about me, if you'd bless something like that," he answered honestly. He looked so vulnerable, so adorable— that it made Claire's heart ache.

"I do care, Jim. That's why I want us to enter this clear-headed and 100 percent sure. Please do this for me?"

Jim crossed his arms over his knees and rested his head on his arms. "Okay," he finally said. "As crazy as it is, I feel like might do anything for you, Claire. But I won't promise sex. I'll go into a room with her, hear her out. Scene a bit. But on my terms. I'll have limits. Do you understand?"

Claire nodded slowly. "I suppose that's fair. Everyone's entitled to their limits, after all." She slapped her hands on her legs decisively and made a move to get up, but Jim grabbed her upper arm and pulled her to him with one swift tug, his lips crashing to hers. Their mouths played a bit before he drew away, resting forehead to forehead and giving her another stern look.

"Promise me at the end of this insanity that I get to make love to you. Me, Jim— making love to you, Claire."

She felt a warmth start in her toes and unravel up to her head at the thought. Thank goodness for Mother Nature preventing such a prospect right now, or she surely would have given in.

"Yes," she agreed with a smile. "I hope we get there eventually, Jim. And I know it will be worth all this when we do."

XXXXXXXXX

Claire arrived home to a package notice stuffed in her door knocker, so she promptly went back downstairs to the building's front desk to retrieve it. It was certainly odd— she wasn't much for online shopping since she was so frugal, and her birthday was in June— over seven months away. Maybe Hans had sent her something? He liked to surprise her and Grace from time to time. After Stan's death, Hans had taken Claire even more under his wing, though more like a daughter now. Claire rarely spoke to her own parents, and they didn't know even a tenth of her activities since moving to Gotham nearly two decades ago. It wouldn't be unlike Hans to send her a little trinket.

"Afternoon, Ms. Greene," the bellman greeted her. "Here for your package?"

"Yes, Albert. Thank you."

Claire jogged up the steps with the Amazon package in lieu of the elevator, remembering her cheeseburger, milkshake, and funnel cake from yesterday. She headed to her small kitchen and cut the package open, removing a CD— Beethoven: The Complete Piano Sonatas.

Yes, theoretically Hans could have sent the gift, but it seemed strange. Both he and Stan were fond of the composer, Stan especially. Stan had requested it be played in the background during that fateful evening as a foursome so many years ago. He even walked around frequently with headphones, playing various classical pieces, but Ludwig had certainly been his favorite. There was also a club patron, a pianist, who liked to don early-19th-century clothing and role play accordingly. Perhaps he'd sent the mysterious gift? Surely not. He was a Dom and much preferred Grace, out of the two of them.

Claire ran a fingernail along the plastic wrapping. It was factory sealed, so there couldn't be any clues inside. She perused the booklet and checked behind the disc, but everything seemed normal. She took one last look inside the padded envelope and on the mailing label, searching for a gift note. It was strange... and unsettling. But she was tired from their trip and had to get to the market to prep for the work week, so she decided to place it on her shelf and not give it another thought.

XXXXXXXXX

Prior to Cleveland, Mistress and Toy had stuck faithfully to their three-plus night per week commitment to the club. Following Cleveland, they seemed to slack a bit. They both fell victim to the sad reality of returning post-vacation to huge pile of work that no one had touched in their absence, for one thing. Jim had also wanted to spend some time talking to the kids and following up with them after his visit. Claire was anxious to speak to Grace before they decided any next steps, and Grace's work schedule at the hospital had her busy until Friday. Claire told Jim she'd be having dinner with Grace Friday night to discuss, so Jim found himself on his own when things began to wind down at the office around seven.

Jim spun back and forth and rocked slightly in his chair, definitely feeling excess energy. He'd spent the day putting together the blueprint for an important investigation and assigning a team. Strategizing like that always hyped him up a bit. As his eyes fell on a series of random post-its stuck to his computer monitor, one glared at him in particular: CALL WAYNE FOUNDATION RE: XMAS SPONSORSHIP.

Crap, it's already November, Jim thought. GCPD was hosting a benefit for the children's hospital as part of their amped-up philanthropic efforts, and Jim was supposed to talk to someone over at Wayne many weeks ago about being the top-billed sponsor. Kay had suggested their newest board member... something Tate, but Jim had dragged his feet in making the call. He fingered the yellow note thoughtfully. Perhaps taking advantage of a shared connection and going straight to the source might be easier. He grabbed his keys and jacket and headed to his car.

Jim had only seen Bruce Wayne at the club twice since that first sighting, and it was always just quick glimpses. The man stayed in costume and kept to himself while on the floor, giving small nods and waves to those required before seeming to disappear into the neon darkness. The papers had started to harp on the billionaire's absence at the usual events over the past year and to speculate on various ailments, drama, or afflictions that may be keeping the man off the radar. Jim was surprised to see him at the Asylum even that much, as reclusive as the media made him out to be. He knew Wayne Enterprises itself was in the throes of a huge clean energy project that promised groundbreaking things for Gotham, so it seemed logical the man was preoccupied with overseeing that and probably only came up for air to play in his club.

As far as Jim knew, Mr. Wayne had no idea Gotham's police commissioner had signed on as a member of his adult establishment. Jim had seen Bruce in passing at society events over the years, but he didn't recall ever formally meeting the man... well, as a man. He'd never forget seeing him as a fragile little boy, sitting in the station in a coat far too large for his shaking little shoulders. Jim had no idea what words would be appropriate to console an eight-year old who had just watched both parents be murdered in the Gotham streets. So he'd just tucked the coat around the boy, given him as much of a smile as he could muster, and given him an assurance it would be okay. Because everything eventually got easier, with time.

Since learning the billionaire liked to parade around in mockery of a wanted vigilante, though, Jim's stomach had been a bit unsettled at the prospect of an encounter. His guilt over Batman already haunted him enough without supporting some silly, ill-informed ego game like that. Jim still wanted to shout from the rooftops sometimes that everyone had it all wrong, had it all backwards— that Batman was the hero— but then the very foundation they'd built to clean up Gotham would crumble. Jim knew he could never make such a bold move, but the heaviness of the truth was a lot to bear.

Jim greeted Zac upon his arrival to the Asylum and settled in his usual seat at the bar, ordering the now famous JJ cocktail to humor the young bartender.

"Hey, Zac," he began nonchalantly.

"Hey, Daddy," Zac returned.

Jim stifled a laugh. "What are my chances of running into the club owner tonight?"

"Pretty good, actually. Maybe you should by a lotto ticket while you're at it. He's back in the corner of members-only, last I heard. He's been here all day as part of licensing inspections. Just came out of the conference room and ordered a drink about ten minutes ago. What do you want him for? Need an introduction?"

Wow, that was lucky, Jim thought. Maybe I should play that lottery. Or pay a visit to Claire. Or both.

"Is he dressed like the Batman tonight?" Jim asked warily.

Zac laughed. "Does that make a difference? But no, not tonight."

Jim swallowed the last of his drink. "Nah, I'm good. I can manage it myself. Just arm me with a second drink, will you?"

Zac obliged, and Jim made his way into the more shadowy section of the club with its luxurious padded leather seats and forgiving muted blue light. It took Jim a minute to figure out who he was— he hadn't expected to find the former playboy sitting alone. The young man rested his chin on folded hands, his eyes weary as he watched two women in an elaborate scene on the elevated platform. He didn't smile or even look to be enjoying the scene all that much; he might as well be birdwatching or viewing the evening news.

"Mr. Wayne?" Jim offered cautiously, lowering the mask he'd sported while at the bar.

A pair of dark eyes shifted independently of his head at first, until they saw the identity of their visitor. Then they flickered a bit with recognition. Jim suddenly remembered their last encounter, when the billionaire had wrecked his car the day Gotham General was overtaken by the Joker. It had seemed like Bruce had used his vehicle to fend off an attack on another; Jim had commended him on the heroic deed only to met with a blasé joke from Wayne that he'd just been trying to catch a yellow light.

"Um, hello there," Jim said to him with a half wave. "You may not recognize me— Commissioner Jim Gordon."

Bruce was fingering an amber drink thoughtfully. "Everyone recognizes you, Commissioner. You're a hero," he returned.

Jim gave a half smile to go with the half wave. "Doesn't always feel that way, but thanks. I'm trying to be, which is the reason I'm bothering you in your club on a Friday night. May I sit down?"

Bruce gave a nod, shifting curiously in his seat. He raised a hand to attract the attention of a nearby bar server. "Give my friend here whatever he wants, on the house."

"I'm set," Jim protested, lifting his nearly full martini glass.

Bruce shook his head. "Get the man a beer then." Apparently seeing Jim's uneasiness he added, "I can get you a lift home. And have someone pick up your car."

Jim nodded. "Thanks. Must be nice to solve common little problems so easily," he joked.

Bruce shrugged. "Money definitely has its advantages. It's also completely useless when it comes to fixing other things. Some things can never be bought."

"Yes," Jim agreed. "Some things require a lot more work."

Bruce polished off the last of his drink just as the server delivered a fresh one along with Jim's beer. He squinted at Jim in the dim light. "Didn't know you were a member of the club, Commissioner. No judgment, of course."

Jim glanced at the table sheepishly. "I guess we both like to moonlight as something we're not."

Bruce chuckled. "You saw the costume, then? What did you think?"

"Flashy... but a little soft."

"Point taken," Bruce said. "I'll work on it. Now as far as the club— which way do you lean, if you don't mind me asking?"

Jim felt a blush rise, and he hid behind his glass. "I prefer the company of a Dominatrix." There. That sounded better than labeling himself a sub.

"You collared?" Bruce asked with interest.

"No," Jim answered. "Not yet."

Bruce slapped the table and started looking around the room. "I'm going to set you up with someone. The best here."

Jim held up a hand. "No! I mean— thank you. But I'm working with someone. And I think she is the best here."

"Oh yeah? I would ask you who, but that would be intrusive, I guess. But she's treating you well?"

Jim wasn't quite sure what he'd done to earn so much respect from Bruce Wayne, but he was flattered. He also wasn't quite sure how to answer the question. "She's a brilliant Dominatrix and takes good care of her subs," he finally answered. That seemed sufficient enough for Bruce, who quickly inquired as to the original reason for Jim's visit.

"Gotham PD Christmas Party," Jim explained. "It's not just an employee event this year. We've turned it into a charity event for the children's hospital at Gotham General. It's still in need of a lot after the rebuild, and the mayor seems to want to rebrand GCPD into a kind of community service organization, now that the Dent Act has freed up some resources. We'd be honored if the Wayne Foundation would sponsor. Top billing of course, right after GCPD."

Bruce shook his head with a smirk. "I hate shit like that. No offense to you or what the mayor's trying to do. But those parties are just so a bunch of rich people can stand around and metaphorically circle jerk about how good and honorable they are."

Jim chuckled. "True. But having the Wayne name encourages others not to be outdone. So they pony up. It is a game, but a classic one. I was hoping I could convince you to play."

Bruce gave a wave of his hand. "Of course I'll do it. But I won't be there. Again, no offense."

"None taken. Excuse my intrusion, but surely you've noticed the papers commenting on you declining invitations like this more often lately. You doing okay?" Jim surveyed the man, who was no longer meeting his eye and toyed with the ice in his glass.

"I'm fine," Bruce said dismissively. "Now— how about I say yes to whatever sponsorship level you were seeking, and throw in an extra 10k if you give me the name of your impressive Dominatrix? Mere curiosity— that's all."

Jim laughed. "How about you come to that party and see for yourself? I'll make sure she's my date."

Bruce just shook his head, flashing his billion dollar grin. "You drive a hard bargain, Commissioner. Deal." He extended his hand, and they sealed it with a firm shake.

Shit, Jim thought, realizing the humiliation he might have just unwittingly heaped upon himself. Now I have to ask Claire on a date again. To a work thing.

He'd make it innocent enough. Just friends, to keep them out of trouble. Nothing wrong with two friends attending a charity event together, right?