april showers.

The April showers in Gotham were objectively the worst time of the year. All the muck and grime of the city is carried via water to the sewers, the same sewers some of the city’s worst criminals liked to hang out in. Sivan would know, he has had to follow quite a few of them down there. April was the worst. Everyone knows the drill. Gotham’s a disgusting city, blah blah, the bowels of Gotham were blocked and it needed an enema, or something equally as disturbing and profound.

He wasn’t one for broody monologuing, the preferred choice of sport for literally everyone else in this forsaken hellhole. He preferred to keep things light and cheery. It’s what Eleanor had liked about him the most: the poorly timed jokes, the laugh at a funeral. He hadn’t laughed at hers. He had cried enough tears to, well, give Gotham an enema. Haha. Better late than never. Maybe she’d forgive him for taking his time to make one last final joke for her.

But other things could not be forgiven. Certainly not the feelings he had felt in the weeks leading up to her untimely death. Not the excuses he made to stay at work longer. Not the way he had delayed in picking her up for her lunch break that day because he was too busy with him. Him. The man whose door he found himself standing at like a lost puppy. It had been well over a week since they last spoke, when his lieutenant had given him the bad news, the suspension that followed it.

She wouldn’t forgive him for the way he had allowed himself to break in front of their daughter. Little Eli should not have been taking care of her father after their mutual loss. He should be there for her, showing her strength. Instead, he’s dumped her on a close family friend of theirs, someone who was likely also grieving. Could he be any more selfish?

Yes, yes he could be. After all, he was here. This visit was the reason he had made sure Eli wasn’t home alone. He didn’t intend to spend the night at home. He tries the buzzer one more time. She wouldn’t forgive his persistence in spite of the nagging part of his brain that judged him for seeking out God knows what from a man he had been harboring a crush for since they met. Of course, he’d lie to himself and say it was just a little joke at first, that he had merely enjoyed seeing his reactions, his staunch dismissals. He’d tell himself it was only a few months ago that he had started to really pay attention to the way he talked or moved or looked.

He looked good, clean-shaven and moustache preened, as he answered the door. Finally. Sivan breaks out into the hugest smile, leans casually against the doorframe.

“Hey Lieutenant Gordon, funny seeing you here.”

James’ confusion couldn’t be more evident. After all this time, one would think he’d have gotten used to Sivan’s antics. “You’re at my house, Fox. And you’re soaked, come in already.”

Sivan would’ve invited himself in regardless of the offer, but he accepts with all the grace of a rat, stumbling over himself as he forgets the little elevated step in the entranceway. He laughs at himself before taking off his shoes, noting that James did not do the same. He hoped they were indoor shoes and not the same ones he used to also chase down villains into the sewers.

James takes a seat on the ugly little brown couch he kept in the centre of the living room. The decor practically screamed single, not-looking, divorced. All things Sivan already knew about him; he was thorough in his background checks. He can feel the other’s gaze on his back as he inspects the liquor cabinet, for James was also thorough, and had likely smelled the alcohol on the other’s lips when he had arrived so unceremoniously.

“So… What brings you here?”

“Whaaat, you’re not happy to see me? I’m wounded, Jim.”

Sivan retrieves a bottle of brandy and a glass, filling it up about a third of the way.

“I didn’t say that. It’s just been a while since, you know. The incident.” There’s a pause as he waits for a reaction. Sivan gives him none. “How are you holding up?”

“Oh, you know,” he shrugs, plopping down beside him and turning the bottle over in his hand, squinting at the label. “Just peachy. Is this peach brandy?”

James doesn’t even look at the bottle. “And Eliana?”

Sivan downs his third and pours another thi-nope, he overpoured, that’s half. Oops. “She’s staying with Marion for a bit.”

James nods, thumb at his chin. Sivan is familiar with this action, knows it’s a habit the man has when he’s deep in thought. He decides to sip at his drink instead, take it slower, avoid swallowing it whole. Doesn’t want the other to be doing much thinking at all tonight. 

Apparently, this wasn’t enough to redirect his attention, as he reaches over and gently takes the bottle from Sivan, placing it on the end-table next to him. “I think that’s enough.”

“You stingy bastard.” Sivan elbows him with a snicker. “Fine fine, I won’t drink you into the poor house.”

A hush falls over them. Sivan shifts uncomfortably, drink now finished, and wishes he had poured it full, to the brim. He sets it down on the glass table in front of them, next to a full ashtray. An ashtray, perfect! He pats down his jacket, then holds out a box of menthols.

“Want one?”

“Not a fan of the minty flavor. I think it encourages youth to smoke.”

“Jiiiim, don’t be a killjoy. Take one.”

And he does. Yet another time Sivan’s whining has worked wonders on getting his superior to bend a few rules here and there. Like the time they had stopped for donuts while they had The Riddler locked up in the back of their patrol car, and they shared some with the poor bastard as he helped Jim with his crossword puzzles. Or that time when Sivan’s gun had misfired, nearly killing him, and Jim had covered it up with some bogus lie so that he wouldn’t have squandered their year of training.

James snaps his fingers in front of his face, startling him out of his thoughts. “You know we need to light these to smoke them, right?”

“Right, right. Sorry, haha.”

Sivan goes digging into his jacket, before remembering that he had switched the lighter to his back pocket. He hoped it’d still work in spite of all the rain. He lit his own before holding it out for James, watching intently at the cigarette pursed between his lips as he leaned in towards his hand. He might’ve thanked him, and he might’ve just nodded dumbly in response, but it happened so quickly that he wasn’t sure it happened at all.

That silence again. This has never happened before. They would always be gabbing about something or another, like a case, wanting the other’s fresh perspective to see if they missed something, or which movie review they’d read in the papers about a film they’d never go see, or whatever weird ads would be on TV. There was always something to talk about, but here they sat, quietly inhaling smoke. Watching each other. Waiting.

Sivan takes one large drag, places the menthol in the ashtray’s grooves to keep it in place, then kisses him. Although one of James’ hands had come up to rest on his chest, as though to push him away, no shove came, and James kissed him back just as hungry, just as eager. He allows his eyes to slide shut, blinding him in the safety of reciprocation, the comfort of the other’s warmth in contrast to the cold of Gotham that still clung to him. But that was the outside, not here inside James’ arms, which came to rest on either side of his waist.

He tasted of Marlboros, explaining the piles of ashes that were there long before Sivan had intruded with his own all-consuming flame. This brings a soft smile to him, a fondness for this man and all of his habits, but he was not here for softness. He wants more, so much more than some Hollywood kiss, so he bares his teeth and bites at James’ lip, a tug. An entryway for his tongue to lap at the sweet familiar taste of his partner, his mentor, his desire.

The absence of disapproval emboldens him and he climbs onto his lap, earning him a low groan, a vibration that immediately goes south. Sivan doesn’t want to pull the brakes here, wants to go full speed ahead. He finds his hands, having to remember he had them in the first place, and does exactly that, travelling south, foot on the gas. Over his chest, down towards the belt, his destination a peak, an insurmountable mountain.

He goes no further than a stroke before his luck runs out, James hastening to pull away and seize the other’s wrist. Sivan cannot hide his disappointment at having been so close yet so far, always just a moment’s away. He doesn’t want what comes next, the chiding, the sting of reality. He’d been doing such a good job at not facing it altogether.

“Sivan, I’m your superior officer.”

“I know.”

“We’re both men.”

“I know.”

“And you’re drunk.”

“I know.”

“And Christ, your wife just died.”

“I know, goddamn it! I know.”

At the raising of his voice, James sighs, then takes Sivan’s other wrist, pushing him off his lap and onto the couch. He now stood over him, looking down at him in… Concern? It certainly wasn’t pity. Sivan could just curl up and die here, embarrassment washing over him, churning in his stomach. That, or all that alcohol he had from before he made the awful decision to pay a visit was finally making him sick. The jury was still out on that.

“I’m sorry. I’ll leave,” he mumbles.

“No. No, it’s fine. Stay the night. I’ll grab some blankets.” He leaves Sivan’s field of view before abruptly returning with some patchy quilt, giving him another once over. “And maybe an empty garbage can. Some water...”

As he disappears into the halls once again, Sivan can still hear him listing off items to bring. Somehow, staying here after such a failed attempt was even worse than just having been kicked out. He doesn’t want to be taken care of anymore, not by Eleanor, not by Eli, and certainly not by Jim. The door was right there, he could leave right now and be spared of this humiliation. It was pathetic, how the man he had prioritized before his late wife didn’t even want him. She had died for nothing, a schoolboy puppy crush, one-sided, unrequited. Could he sink to a greater low? Tune in next week to find out, he thinks to himself, bitter, but that stupid smile ever present on his face. He had smiled in the face of a great deal of tragedies, why would this time be any different?

He runs his hands over his own stupid tragic face, which should be long-dry by now, but wasn’t.