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Lost Holidays
Chapter Two
written by destinyawakened
Wednesday, December 24 – Christmas Eve
Wayne Manor was dusted with a fresh blanket of snow covering the grounds and the huge decorated Christmas tree standing out in the front courtyard. Gordon stood, hands limply at his sides, staring at the magnificent size, breathing deeply through his nose to catch the fresh pine scent. It brought back memories from when the kids were much younger, before Barbara insisted on an artificial tree –she swore Susan had allergies to them, though Gordon suspected Barbara just didn't like the clean up involved. He couldn't wait until his kids saw the tree and how huge it was. One more day, he thought, then he would see them again.
“You know, Commissioner, 'black tie' usually means that you wear a black tie. Or at least a nice suit.” A suave voice cooed from behind him. Gordon turned around, mouth still slightly gaped from staring at the tree in awe. Bruce was walking down the stairs that lead up to the manor entrance, hands in pockets, taking each step with sleek, panther like mobility. He wore a traditional black tuxedo, including bow tie, hair parted down the center, and a small grin across his lips.
“I don't own a tux,” Gordon stated. Bruce was just staring at him as if that weren't an excuse at all, and then began to open his mouth for what Gordon knew was going to a smart-ass retort. He held up his hand. “Don't want to hear it. I just came from work; you know how busy it's been since Thanksgiving.”
Bruce hopped down off the last step, taking a couple long strides towards Gordon's side. He looked him over, obviously not too impressed with Gordon's dingy work clothes. He hadn't been home in three days, wearing the same work suit, and it wasn't even a nice one at that. He knew the thoughts running through the playboy's head had something to do with wishing it wasn't so close to the party time so he could take Gordon shopping, and why didn't Gordon just risk being late and find something else to wear, and blah blah blah...
“Sorry if I embarrass you,” Gordon grumbled through a forced laugh, half kidding. He knew Bruce didn't really care one way or another, but with the look the younger man was giving him, he realized it might not have not been the right time to be so sarcastic.
Bruce bowed his head, looking at his feet, then brought his face up enough that Gordon just saw his eyes –dark, shadowy, far from the sparkle he'd seen just seconds before. “You don't embarrass me, Jim.” His voice was on the edge of rough, a little sad, but sincere. Good one, Jim... Why was it he always said the wrong things?
He shifted, wanting to reach out and touch the younger man's shoulder, but thought better of it considering the sudden change in the mood of the other man. “Bruce...”
But Bruce was already back into his playboy mode, guests were arriving in the driveway with their fancy cars and limousines. Bruce walked past Gordon with out another word, glance or gesture. It was going to be a long evening, and he knew a scotch was going to be in order sooner rather than later. It was after five, right? He glanced at his watch – a little after seven. Perfect time to start relaxing.
Gordon sighed, placing a foot on the first step of the stairs, looking back at Bruce, who was greeting his guests – half of them surprised he was actually there on time – with a big smile and bubbly talk. Gordon took his cue to make his way up the stairs and find a place to be unnoticed for a while. He walked up the steps; to the house, where Alfred stood at the front door, holding it open, waiting for the sudden onslaught of guests.
“Commissioner Gordon,” Alfred said with a nod. Gordon nodded back, adding a little pat to the man's arm. Alfred looked slightly taken aback, but then smiled at Gordon as he slipped past him.
He walked slowly down the hall, observing all the paintings, poking his head into each room; he had not been to the manor before, as Bruce always insisted on meeting at the penthouse. The manor was huge, especially for one man and his butler, and it was no wonder to Gordon why Bruce preferred his other abode. Gordon walked past an open office, stepping inside. He took off his coat, tossing it on the back of the desk chair (aware he'd probably get grief from Alfred later).
Thousands of literary masterpieces lined the walls, many out of date prints, antiques even. Gordon hadn't read even a quarter of them, but he had heard of many. He was surprised Bruce would buy such an oddity of books; he didn't seem the type to sit and enjoy a good classic. Well, then again Bruce didn't look the type to go gallivanting around rooftops in Kevlar either. Gordon wanted to thumb through a couple books, take his mind off the party he was about to partake in, but decided he didn't want to risk tearing any pages or ruining the value.
Echoes of snobbish, sing-song voices radiated down the hall, a sign the party was starting. Gordon sighed heavily, checking himself in the mirror by the door quickly, fixing his hair the best he could manage. Presentable at least, if nothing else. He walked out of the office and headed towards the sounds of uppity society.
The hall was filled with gold and silver decorations, tables of food, waiters wandering around passing out glasses of champagne. Gordon walked in slowly, trying not to be noticed, but his attempt was mostly in vain. Many people stopped to gawk, giving him a careful glance with their fake, snooty smiles appearing on their obviously judging faces. A few came up to him to say hello and introduce themselves, most Gordon didn't know, but if he had to guess he would be sure a good portion of them were investors for the Wayne foundation. Gordon felt trapped in their conversations, like a disease that crept up on him and took over, feeling like he was going to suffocate if he didn't excuse himself.
Bruce, was of course, no where to be seen. Gordon saw Alfred, who gave him a nod; Gordon assumed that was to mean “Bruce is out on the town in a flying rodent suit, he'll be back in a bit”. Yeah, that sounded like Bruce; even on Christmas Eve he couldn't let a patrol go unheeded. Gordon was on his own now. He stepped across the party hall towards Alfred, who was serving glasses of champagne. He offered Gordon one who held his hand up, shaking his head.
“Stronger.”
Alfred smiled widely; “Ah, I know just what you need, sir.” He put the tray of crystal flutes down on a near by table and walked towards the kitchen, motioning for Gordon to follow. He did, falling in behind Alfred at the pantry, where the butler reached far behind all the other food items and pulled out a half bottle of twenty-year old scotch. Gordon gave an impressed smile.
“Master Wayne does not drink. However, I keep my own stash,” Alfred explained, finding a tumbler from the cabinets above the stove. He poured Gordon a half glass, tossing in some ice cubes from the bucket on the table.
“Thank you, Alfred,” Gordon said, taking a sip of the golden liquid, suddenly feeling as if everything might just be okay. Alfred waved him off, and he headed back out into the sea of swarming Gothamites.
A woman caught his arm – she was maybe in her early forties, blond, and far from quaint; she had over-done her make-up, her hair was ratted, and she was dressed in a formfitting, short dress she could hardly fit into. Gordon wanted to laugh, taking a sip of his drink to hide the smirk under his mustache.
“Commissioner Gordon,” the woman said, wrapping her hand around his bicep and making his skin crawl. “I hear the police department is working with the Batman. What's he like?”
Gordon groaned; what was it about women and Batman? Since they cleared his name and announced he was helping out here and there for the department, women suddenly flocked to him –much like they did to Bruce Wayne. He turned to the lady, removed her hand from his arm gently. “Oh, uh... he's swell,” Gordon quipped sarcastically, moving his eyes to somewhere else in the crowd, hoping to find someone he knew. The woman looked at him, a little annoyed, but Gordon was already moving across the room, taking another sip of his drink.
He walked out of the banquet hall and into the living room where a tree stood in the corner, dressed in silver tinsel and white lights. The room was dark aside from the glow of the fire and twinkling lights. Gordon took a seat on the leather sofa near the fire, enjoying the semi-silence (he could still hear the tainted voices of society in the next room). He finished his drink, leaving the glass on the the side table next to him. He laid his head back, arms folded in front of him, sleep pulling desperately at his eye lids. It had been a long day; he'd just close his eyes for a moment and then head back to the party once he felt more up to it...
“Gordon.” Someone was shaking him. Gordon waved a hand at whoever was touching him, keeping his eyes closed, forgetting where he was. More shaking. “Jim.”
Gordon groaned, opening his eyes a little, seeing the blurry face of Bruce standing in front of him, looking more than a little annoyed. Gordon yawned, sitting up straight, blinking the sleep from his eyes, and straightening his glasses. How long had he been asleep? Long enough for the slight buzz he had from the scotch to wear off, leaving him a little dry-mouthed. He licked his lips, thinking about a glass of water and how good it sounded right about then. He looked up at Bruce.
“You are not much of a party guest, Gordon.”
“Give an old man a break,” Gordon started, but the look on Bruce's face showed he was growing more annoyed. “Alright, alright. I'm sorry.” He gave Bruce an apologetic smile, raising his hands in defense, but the playboy was not budging on his obviously sour mood. Gordon could hear the voices and laughter of the party, and a sinking feeling hit the pit of his stomach; he had secretly hoped that he had slept through the rest of Bruce's Christmas extravaganza. No such luck, he thought.
He pushed up with his hands to stand, grabbing his glass from the table, Bruce's eyes watching him silently. He walked past the younger man towards the party banquet hall, feeling Bruce's eyes burn invisible holes into the back of his head. He didn't turn around though; he wasn't going to play into Bruce's mood and make matters worse. He'd give him time to get over it and stop brooding before he even attempted to talk to him.
He walked into the banquet hall, heading past many of the guests who tried to speak with him, including the woman from earlier, and towards the kitchen. Alfred was refilling flutes with a few of the other hired waiters for the evening. He offered his glass to the butler, who grinned.
“I see Master Bruce found you, sir.” Alfred took the glass, filling it from the scotch bottle that had been left out on the counter, as if he knew Gordon would be back for more. Alfred handed the glass back to him, wiping the bottom of it with a hand towel he was carrying.
“Is he always this moody at parties?” Gordon asked, accepting the glass back.
“Christmas was Master Bruce's favorite time of the year when he was a boy,” Alfred said as he leaned in closer to Gordon, whispering, “before the incident.”
Incident, Gordon assumed, meant the murder of Bruce's parents; happier and more carefree times. He remembered that night well, kneeling in front of a boy who had the most hopeless, lost eyes he'd ever seen. Christmas was a time for families, something Bruce no longer had. At least it explained the attitude Bruce was giving him. Gordon sighed, toasting his glass to Alfred before exiting the kitchen.
Across the room Bruce was talking – big, fake grin plastered on his face – to Alberto Falcone. What was he doing here? What was Bruce trying to pull? Alberto had a young brunette attached to his arm, talking quietly with the billionaire. Bruce flicked his eyes to Gordon for a second, a look that said it was 'business as usual', or prodding the Italian for information on any “underground work” while seeming interested for Wayne Enterprises to be involved. If there was anything to be involved in at all. Leave it to Bruce Wayne to mix business with pleasure.
“Gordon. I see you found time in your busy schedule to make it to Mr. Wayne's Christmas party this year,” Garcia said beside him, eyes set on Bruce, who was laughing his jolly, not-so-wholehearted, belly laugh. Garcia shifted his gaze to Gordon, a look that said he was now seeing through Bruce's facade as well; amazing how once someone found out it wasn't so hard to see through the act.
“I wasn't really given a choice,” Gordon answered. It was true at least, Bruce wouldn't let him skip another party; he was always telling him relax a little, not that this was relaxing for him. If anything it set him more on edge.
Garcia let out a chuckle that died down as his wife left his side to go talk to a friend she saw across the room. He stepped closer to Gordon; “There's talk, Gordon. Talk that someone is trying to take back control of the mob.”
“We've been looking into it. So far, it's just rumors.” Hadn't he tried very hard to keep this away from the mayor's ears? They were just rumors after all, no proof. The mob hadn't made a move since the Joker fiasco over a year ago. It was the only good thing, Gordon thought; stripping the mob of almost everything was the only good thing to come of the Joker's reign of terror. And a mob without money was like a doctor with-out credentials – you wouldn't trust them.
“Be sure it stays that way,” Garcia said quietly. “And if it changes, take care of it as discreetly as possible.” He walked away, towards his wife, who was now talking to Bruce.
Great, Gordon thought. With the cards out on the table now, he knew, just knew something was going to happen, if it wasn't already in the mix. He hoped Bruce had been able to weasel some information from Falcone.
------
Gordon stood in the corner of the party hall, sipping on a third glass of scotch. It was now midnight, the last of the guests were leaving, and he was attempting to making himself scarce –unnoticeable – until they all had left. Bruce was ushering guests out to their cars and limousines, being the kind host that he was.
Foot steps up the hall brought Gordon's eyes to the doorway of the banquet hall, where Bruce was now standing, shadowed by the dimmed lights, hands in pockets and glaring at the older man. Gordon couldn't tell if Bruce was just being broody or if he was in fact still mad at him for earlier. Which-ever the case was, Gordon didn't want to spoil the time they had together; as it was, this was their one day alone in over a week. He downed the last of his drink and placed the glass on a buffet table, as he walked across the hall to where Bruce was standing. The younger man was being very, very stubborn this evening; Gordon saw it as a bit of a challenge.
He didn't dare say a word, since anything he said would likely upset the playboy more or be used against him later when the playing field wasn't fair. Gordon stopped just feet away from Bruce, watching the younger man's eyes as they stared right back at him. He was always amazed at how well Bruce could stare someone down, strip them with his eyes, and make them feel vulnerable. It was the stare that struck terror into hardened criminals, but Gordon had grown to love the passion behind it.
He took a few more steps towards Bruce, reaching out and slipping the bow tie from around the other man's neck. Gordon tossed the tie towards a table, aware of Bruce's eyes still on him. He grasped the lapel of the tuxedo jacket, pushing if off Bruce's shoulders, down his arms, until it was off completely. Gordon threw that on the table, too. He carefully fingered the first few buttons on Bruce's shirt, leaving the skin of his neck and clavicle naked. Gordon brushed his finger tips against the bare skin, watching as goosebumps appeared on Bruce's skin, a sigh escaping the younger man's lips, one that Gordon knew meant he was giving in – forgetting about the events of the evening now passed, giving in to Gordon.
Gordon leaned towards Bruce, kissing at the crease where his neck met his jaw, flicking his tongue against the small shadow of stubble. He slid his hands up Bruce's arms to his shoulders, pulling him in until they meshed together, almost seamlessly. He felt the tension in Bruce's body start to fade, his arms encircling Gordon tightly. Gordon kissed a trail to Bruce's ear, pulling away, gazing into his eyes. He felt Bruce's hands let go of him, making their way between them, carefully removing Gordon's tie, and pushing his suit jacket off him.
Bruce's gaze turned a little sad, apologetic, and he opened his mouth as if to say something, but Gordon shook his head; he didn't want to hear the words, it wasn't important now. He snaked his hand up Bruce's back, to his head, entangling his fingers in his thick brown hair, and hungrily catching Bruce's mouth with his own. Their tongues tangled in a twisted, sloppy tango, each trying to get the best of the other –a competition, as it always was, neither one backing down. Bruce pushed Gordon up against the wall, pinning his shoulders, trailing his tongue down the older man's neck, causing him to shiver in desire while the rest of him grew hot and aroused. Gordon tried to push up on Bruce, to take control of the situation, but Bruce had him trapped securely under him.
“Bruce...” Gordon groaned as the younger man rubbed his hips into Gordon's, needy and desperate. Bruce moved back a bit to look into Gordon's eyes, a gaze glossed over with lust and passion. Gordon didn't have to say anything, he knew Bruce was thinking the same thing; they needed to move their endeavors upstairs, before it got too out of control. Bruce moved in and kissed Gordon hard, biting at his bottom lip, and then pulled away.
“Master bedroom. Five minutes,” he growled.
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