capeandcowllogs | another love i would abuse; no circumstances could excuse

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another love i would abuse; no circumstances could excuse

WHO: Jim Gordon [

kingofrooks]
WHERE: DOCKS because that is the most sensible.
WHEN: Right after Jim's post. Night, I think.
WARNINGS: Alternate universe shenainegans. The usual. TL;DR.
SUMMARY: Nolanverse meets comicsverse. Things probably won't go well. Shit.
FORMAT: Paragraphs of doom.

It was a City of ghosts.

Or perhaps he was a ghost, faded, rewound and placed on ground that his feet had tread but his mind could not remember. Bruce had sieved his memories over and over, looking for hints and clues of being here before- but there was nothing. He was from the past, planted into the future, looking into the faces through a thousand mirrors. Reflections of people he knew who no longer behaved as he expected them to. A house of distorted mirrors.

Or perhaps he was the one distorted. Turned back, changed again, taking a road travelled by the future but not the past. The timeline didn't make any sense, and that was one aspect of it that helped in convincing him that this was real. Or as real as anything could be, when it came to multiple universes and timelines.

(He missed the raw visceral nature of Gotham. Of its darkened streets and small-time crooks. Of its mob bosses and the sharp jerk of teeth against his knuckles. Of the ringing sound of broken bones echoing against high walls. He did not put on this uniform for the sake of the universe. Only a city.)

But.

Gordon, however, had not changed much. Less lines on his face, with brown hair instead of stark white. An uneasy smile, and a reference to a bright light and a mob boss that he didn't understand. Something about Gordon that he didn't know. Shadows instead of distortions. Bruce wanted to shine a bright light and chase it all away, because at least this- this, he could change. He was not of Bruce's world; not of a future that everyone seemed to know better than he did.

Docks. Bruce lingered on a rooftop, watching him from a distance. Far enough to not be seen; near enough to be felt. Nine minutes and twenty-four seconds. He stepped off the ledge and swung, feeling the light grow taut in his hand. Familiarity. As familiar as the shape of Gordon's jaw, or his overcoat. In the shadows, Bruce could almost forget the differences.

Ten minutes. His feet touched the ground, the cape flaring out then settling on the floor around him. Bruce tipped his head up, and followed the motion to stand. This close, the differences were starker. Shorter. It was startling.

"Gordon."

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It had taken him hours to get to the docks, even though he knew it'd be dark by the time he got there. He had to see the coast. Had to look out, and more importantly the walk did him good. It let him breathe the city in as the sun went down, let him feel it in the long worn callouses on his feet and the chill that bit into his exposed hands. His eyes grew tired.

Batman, he knew, crossed the city much faster. He was almost jealous. And while he could have waved down a squad car and flashed his badge at them, it just wasn't the visceral introduction to the place he needed.

It let him focus, let him take his mind off Barbara and the kids, paralysed in time and left behind. Let him browse through the network and quietly drink in some of the details. He still felt like he was on a tiny island in a sea of information. It was easy to pick out the things he was looking for: Batman, Joker, Harvey. To identify the Mayor. To look up Stark and just brush over the echoing vastness that awaited if he delved any deeper.

His anger hadn't dimmed yet. His hands were on the wall, and they were cold. It felt good, because the chill and the anger were the first thing about this place that felt real.

And then something else. The shadows taking form, the voice behind him, unmistakable in its authority despite the jarring difference. He turned around.

His denial was instant, even if it left an opening. The evidence to the contrary stood before him. Height, costume, voice. And yet Gordon wondered if he was the only one from Gotham who had enough experience to tell. Who had stood beside this man as he was born - or was that 'created' - and knew the intricacies of his disguise. Who had watched it evolve.

"You're not him."

A City of ghosts. A house of mirrors. And Gordon, standing in the middle, unique amongst them all. Different-yet-same. Bruce heard his own thoughts echoed by unfamiliar-familiar lips.

You're not him.

The recognition was immediate. That much was a relief; that Gordon knew him - the other him, whoever he might be - enough to notice. The problem was which him it was. There was always the possibility of Owlman, though he doubted that. Gordon would be different in an 'anti-matter' world, wouldn't he? This one was- similar. Yet not the same. Different enough for him to know that he was different.

A house of mirrors. A man he trusted, yet not. With a younger face and a similar attitude. Bruce watched him for a long moment more before he spoke.

"No."

It was obvious enough. What tipped Gordon off? For Bruce, it was his height, his oblique reference, his youth. It was in his carriage, in the light of his eyes, in the subtle gesture of his shoulders. He knew this man as well as himself. He had known this man for far too long to not spot the differences.

He jerked his head to the communicator in Gordon's hand. "That's not the Joker you know either." He paused, as if to continue- but no. No, not here. Not in this place. But there was no GCPD rooftop. No signal. But there were alleyways, full of shadows and darkness. But that wasn't suitable. Not for Gordon.

Bruce lifted his head, then looked back down. He reached out a hand, opened his fingers. His grapple gun hung on his other hand.

"Come with me."

The moment stretched out, and Jim wasn't used to it. Not from Batman. Batman was always immediate. He always knew what Jim was going to say, so he always had a response waiting. This time he seemed to be right in the middle of balancing and weighing all the weight on his shoulders. So much more weight than Gordon thought he'd ever seen there.

This man was older. Or was he? Was that an illusion? Had he simply more experience? It was impossible to tell through the cowl, the confident stance, the shadows that the cloak made eating at any hint. Gordon knew old, and Batman wasn't it.

The man was just different. The pieces he'd put together in time. He had a handful of them now; more than he'd been able to pluck from that conversation, anyway.

"So I gathered."

The Joker. The guy gave him the creeps, and that was almost an insult. People who could make you that angry, fill you with such loathing--how could they also creep you out. That was a definition you gave to ghost stories you told around the campfire as a kid, not freak faced clowns who threatened your family.

Batman seemed about to go on, then changed his mind, and Gordon followed his upward glance with a glance and a grimace of his own. He seriously hated that grapple line. He'd gone by it before, once, and once was enough. But that time, Batman had grabbed him by surprise, and Jim hadn't had a choice.

This time he knew what was coming.

"Just so you know, I can think of about a hundred ways I prefer to travel."

But he didn't argue. He trusted him by instinct, placed his hand into Batman's gloved fingers, and raised his eyes toward the rooftops.

Different, both of them, and yet he trusted Bruce so easily still. The hand in his own was strong, steady - it was not placed there with trepidation. It was trust, freely given; given not to him but to the man he resembled- to the Batman of Gordon's world. It meant that his doppelganger was, at least, a good man. It meant that Gordon could not have come from the anti-matter world.

That was a relief. A confirmation of what he already knew-suspected, but good, nonetheless. Bruce smirked a little before his hand closed on Gordon's, and he stepped closer, nearly overwhelming him with his height. He moved his hand around, wrapping his arm around Gordon's waist, pulling him inwards until he had a solid grip on him.

"Nothing quite so convenient, though. It's faster than an elevator."

Then, before Gordon could reply, he was already shooting the grapple line up. The hook caught on the ledge, and Bruce tugged on it to test the weight before he released the catch in the gun, and they shot upwards. The cold wind, spiced with the salt of the sea, whipped against the two of them, Bruce's cape flowing in to wrap around both of their bodies, meshing their figures into one in the shadows.

His hand slapped on the ledge and he swung them both over before he set Gordon down. Then, he turned his back, deliberately moving to take the hook off the ledge and letting it slip back into the gun before pocketing the thing.

"Was that different?"

Hard - that was his first thought - Batman was hard, not soft and warm and fleshy like a human should be but hard and cold. He had more time to soak it in this time, not overcome by shock, secured rather than snatched, so that he knew that he was safe. He had time to examine the fabric, to feel the armour under his fingertips, the hard shell that meant that Batman could take a fall down four stories, and get up and run away again.

So he lifted his hand and touched it - the symbol on his chest - and behind his eyes there was the tiniest flash of Gotham as he knew it. Skyscrapers and familiarity, even the smell of the place. Maybe he was getting sentimental--it passed.

How much must this thing weigh? His own kevlar vest was heavy enough--he was wearing it now, after all, and his shoulders would be bruised by the time he took it off. To carry all this, Batman must be as strong as an ox beneath it all. The cape alone--

And then they were flying upward, swooping higher, the cape wrapping around them. Gordon was introduced to that weight very personally, to the stresses and force of the grapple line, and against his better judgement he held on for dear life, clutched handfuls of the thick cape and summoned all his strength just to keep his eyes open.

The city flickered again. He saw Tri-corner from above, and he closed his eyes and inhaled. Gotham.

They landed.

Just like last time, he pretended to be just fine after the landing, keeping well away from the edge just until his stomach could catch up with him. The disorientation didn't help. He'd started seeing things. Right. Distance--distance was what he needed most.

"Different. You could say that."

He cast a glance at Batman, walked away, and braced his foot against the opposite ledge, looking over. It was dizzying, now he was looking down, but at least it was still an unfamiliar street. Carefully he stepped away, keeping his feet steady beneath him, meeting Batman's eyes across the space between them.

"You're going to ask me to tell you everything."

There was no flash of Gotham behind Bruce's eyelids. No, he could only see it mirrored in Gordon's eyes - the city in all of her darkness, all of her splendour. Bruce had not seen it for- for a long time. For longer than he had wanted, ever since Hurt and Granny Goodness and Darkseid, and he missed Gotham like a physical ache. A pull at the base of his spine, tugging and tugging but the end of the thread could not be reached.

But Gordon was here. A piece of Gotham that was not Gotham. Bruce watched him for a long moment, and he didn't reach out to steady him. Gordon didn't need it, and to do so would be an insult.

He smirked a little at those words, crossing his arms and leaning back against the ledge. The wind whipped against him, sending the cape curling against his body, flaring out like dark fingers reaching towards Gotham.

"You know Joker, and Harvey Dent. But not Selina Kyle or Catwoman." A statement. "Who else?"

Edited 2011-09-19 13:42 (UTC)

"Scarecrow. Jonathan Crane." Who is Selina Kyle, he wants to ask, but doesn't. "And an enemy you wouldn't name. Crane was their agent, poisoning Gotham's water supply with his fear toxin. That was earlier this year."

"And then Maroni. Falcone. The usual scum. You want my colleagues and my social circle too?"

If he sounds impatient, it's because he is. He leans back too. It's odd watching Batman lean. Reminds him of the last time he saw him, struggling back to his feet, leaning against a wall as he gathered his strength to run.

His mouth was suddenly very dry.

"They don't remember any of it, and I'm pretty sure I didn't make it up."

Scarecrow. The Gotham's water supply. Scarecrow listening to a man. A secret enemy that his counterpart wouldn't name. An enemy with enough power - financially and in terms of numbers - to try to harm an entire city.

Ra's al Ghul.

Crane and Ra's al Ghul. Bruce's lips pressed together flat, drew back until his teeth were shown, snarling almost automatically. The sound was sharp, animalistic, and angry - there were his enemies in another world. That enemy had harmed his city; had touched this man, and Bruce knew that his counterpart had solved the problem. But- he still wanted to do something. To reach through the fabrics of the universes and to tear through it, until he had Jonathan Crane's throat in his hands. Until he could-

(It had been coming easier and easier lately, these thoughts. The drugs he gave Ra's upon his resurrection. Hurt falling into the river. He didn't pull Tommy back up when he fell. Darkseid and a gun and a poisonous bullet.

Easier and easier. He told Jason once that if he killed one he would never stop. That still stood.)

"You didn't make it up," he straightened, walked towards Gordon and passed him, towards the other side of the ledge. The wind against his face was cold, and unfamiliar. He could hear the whispers of the city, nudging against his consciousness.

Not his city.

"The Joker and Dent here are mine. Not yours." He turned, and looked at him. "Both Maroni and Falcone are gone." A pause.

"Dent's face. Was it Maroni's thugs, during a trial?"

Did I fail him again, in another world?

There was a certain feeling around Batman, an unmistakable sensation of belonging to something greater than he was. It was just a man in a cape, but the bearing of him said Gotham and reminded him of home. It said I know what I'm doing, and Gordon found comfort in that he couldn't deny. He was drawn to it, like water into a sponge, or light sucked up by the deepest, blackest darkness. And whether he liked it or not, he was a part of Batman, a peripherary to him, a satellite.

Like hell.

The 'Mine, not yours' jarred him back to life, brought back that edge of anger that said no way are you keeping me out of the loop, and he whirled to watch Batman, not about to let the man out of his sight. He would go, he knew, before Gordon had all the information he needed--just as long as Batman had asked all his questions. Not this time. Not this time; he wasn't going to take his eyes off him.

"Members of the MCU. Corrupt cops working for Maroni. There was a gambit--Joker set it up. Rachel Dawes, Harvey Dent, different sides of the city. You went after her, but they'd pulled a switch. You saved Dent, but she..."

A heavy pause.

"I'm sorry."

He remembered Batman's growl. Which one are you going for? he'd asked. Rachel. Anger and passion and fear. But Gordon, he'd been the one who was too late. Too late to save her, while Harvey burned.

"They were my cops. Dent warned me about them, but I refused to listen. My fault. That's why he put a gun to my son's head."

Bruce despised himself but he couldn't help the quiet sigh of relief that it was not acid in a courtroom, the complete corruption of all that Harvey had ever worked for; the tripwire on the night of his triumph. It wasn't, and yet at the same time the story was more cruel, sharper.

Corrupt cops weren't a surprise. Neither was the Joker being involved. The changes should have been expected- and he realised, with the taste of bitterness at the back of his throat, that he was no longer surprised that he was still responsible for Harvey's fall. That he was still at fault. Not fast enough.

(Jason. An explosion. Steph. A thousand and one 'not fast enough's. Sometimes he despise Superman for his superspeed, if nothing else.)

Harvey. A gun to Gordon's son's head. Bruce still remembered. The lingering ghost of Holiday. It was Alberto Falcone in the end, but everyone had thought that it might be Harvey. He was obsessed. Chance.

"And he tossed a choice," he said, a soft whisper, and he knew this because this was something that did not change. It was something that had never changed. "From the way the coin fell, he decided if he wants to pull the trigger or not."

Bruce shook his head. No, no that wasn't what was strange. What was strange was that name. That person whom he chose over Harvey Dent. Over one of Batman's first friends.

"Who is Rachel Dawes?"

As though there couldn't be anything more jarring than that. Gordon snapped his eyes toward him again, eyes flashing with the briefest spur of confusion before he got it under control.

"Rachel Dawes was Harvey's Assistant DA. She was the daughter of a family that used to serve the Waynes before the shooting that left their son an orphan. I'm sure you've heard the story."

Heard. Ignore the obvious, keep moving. It wasn't obvious if he wasn't looking, and he didn't want to know.

"You saved her life when the Joker threw her out of a party in Wayne's penthouse suite. I mean literally. Threw her.

"The name really means nothing to you, does it? I'll guess it means nothing to Dent either. Damn it--"

He wants to drive his fist into something, but the stonework is too hard, and his hands are too frail for all this self-flagellation.

"This thing's changed my life. All of it. And the three most important players in it don't remember a damned thing! Not even Rachel Dawes. Damn it." Because once wasn't enough.

Dropping his shoulders onto the ledge, Gordon crumpled over it. He'd done what he hadn't meant to, turned away from Batman, closed his eyes tightly against the City and the sound of the gulls, the waves crashing below. He was shaking again, from frustration and exhaustion. If he hadn't been sleeping before, how was he supposed to now?

"What the hell am I supposed to do?"

There were too many layers. Too many questions. But none of them as important as the hunched figure over a man who should have never looked this way; who should not have his shoulders tightened and head bowed as if in defeat. Bruce looked at the weight on his shoulders and he was struck hard by Gordon's youth- by his youth, and yet inexperience. He could not have been Commissioner for more than a day, and yet that was how he declared himself to be, to an entire City.

And now this. The cruelty of seeing familiar faces that did not remember. Familiar faces that knew something else; that knew him to be someone else. The bitter taste of expectations was still at the base of his throat.

Not even Rachel Dawes.

A woman that was important enough to him that he would choose her instead of Harvey Dent. A woman important enough to Harvey that he would go mad for her; that he would choose to have her survive instead of himself. What was it that Gordon had called Harvey?

"Gotham's White Knight". At least that was- still true. Harvey Dent was a good man. The best of men. And there was still a sting at the back of his throat, a choking sort of bitterness, because it was Bruce who had not trusted, and it was Bruce who couldn't save him. Who couldn't lead him down that path.

He reached out and gently placed a hand on Gordon's shoulder, squeezing against it for the barest of moments before he let it drop back to his side. He turned, looking out to the City's skyline, and heard it again. The whispers of the City, carried by the wind- brighter than Gotham. He ignored it, and turned to Jim.

"Tell me," he said, his back straight and tall. "Tell me everything that happened. Everything that you know. Tell me so I will know it."

Tell me, because there is a weight to your shoulders that should not be there. Tell me, so there is something I can do.

So he'd been right all along. "You're going to ask me to tell you everything." And so he had. Jim found himself exhaling the tension he felt at the soft touch on his shoulder. The reassurance was a welcome one, even from as unlikely a source as this.

Tell me so I will know it. So that someone else in this damn city would. Tell the man who he could rely on to stand there and understand everything. Tell the man to whom it would be enough if he did just that. They could stand in silence then, and everything could be fine for just a little while.

He wanted to ask: "Are you sure you have the time?" He didn't. The answer wasn't one that he actually wanted to hear. So instead he leant into the wall, looked out across the city.

"We were running a sting. Targetting the mobs' money with your help. Way above and beyond what we could have done down at the MCU otherwise. Radioactively marked bills. The Joker ran off with some of it, and then the whole lot vanished. A leak from within my department." That was the bitterest pill of all. As Captain he'd put his faith and trust in those people, and they'd screwed him.

"I never asked how you did it, but you dragged their accountant back from Hong Kong and we nailed the whole lot of them. And that's when they get wise. You're our strongest link, and without you we're only as good as we were before. So they set the Joker loose on you. Crazy--" He spits the curse out under his breath, takes off his glasses. "Said if you didn't turn yourself in people would die, then went after all the people connected to the case; Judge Surrillo, Commissioner Loeb, Harvey Dent. Two out of three isn't bad work, is it?"

And he blamed himself for that. He'd been standing in the damn office, the words on the tip of his tongue, when Loeb had crashed to the floor. Too late. Too fucking late.

"Joker named the Mayor as his next victim, and that's where I dropped out of the game. Took a bullet, faked my own death. I couldn't have him going after my family."

He wondered if that would even scan.

"After that they were out for your blood. Dent held a press conference - announced he was Batman - and I end up driving him down the underpass with that psychopath firing goddamn bazookas at me."

The story stops here. Gordon, falling quiet, slid his glasses back onto his nose and patted his pockets. Somewhere--there. His wallet, a picture of his family inside, just opposite the glistening GCPD badge. It said 'Captain Gordon, Major Crimes Unit, Gotham City Police Department' underneath. They hadn't even had time to change that. He pushed it along the wall.

"Barbara's eight. James is ten. They're my world."

Dropped out of the game. Faked his own death. Bruce's breath choked in his throat, and he almost reeling backwards, his ears roaring suddenly. He remembers a body on the hospital bed, white hair and white face and white hands on sheets so white he wants to tear them all to pieces. Alfred's presence beside him, his gaze heavy and disapproving but Bruce could not care.

Did the Batman of this Gordon's world feel this way as well? A dead Commissioner. A dead best friend. The world tilted on its axis and he clawed and clawed at the walls, looking for some sort of a grip, and he couldn't find an equilibrium until Gordon managed to stand on his own again.

A crippling sense of helplessness. If it had been faked, if Gordon had pretended to have died- Bruce's leather gauntlet squeaked in, buried underneath the torrent of Gordon's words, and Bruce dragged himself back to the present. Bare seconds had passed, and he took a breath. Chased the images away, and focused on this man. Brown hair, not white. Straightened shoulders, even if they were tied in knots over a weight they should not have.

He raised a hand, pressed his fingers against the shiny badge. Captain Gordon. The badge itself was a surprise - when had Gordon needed a badge to identify himself?

(He was so young.)

His hand moved down, moved outwards so he was tracing the air away from the picture. Barbara looked startlingly young, like this. She was only eight years old. Far before the time when she had first gotten the idea to put on a costume. Far beyond a time before she opened a door for the wrong man and got a bullet through her spine for her efforts.

"They're beautiful children," his voice was a low murmur, and if Gordon squinted, he might see a hint of a smile. Bruce dropped his hand back to his side, tipping his head out to look at the City for a moment. The silence stretched between them, but it was a comfortable one. Like a breath taken in between movements of a song.

"What happened next?"

The truth was that Barbara had suffered the most from his efforts. She had been so torn up in grief over his death, and he had hated that he had to do that to her. It would - he had no doubt - have put an unreasonable strain on their marriage. Adding to the rest of them, he wouldn't be surprised if she left him this time; took James and just left. Back to Chicago, or maybe Keystone--somewhere safer.

"Thank you," he said, watching Batman as though he were a wild animal that had been tamed to alight on his doorstep. He touched the badge with care, traced his fingers above his family's photograph. It was touching to watch, and for the first time it really struck him:

This man is Commissioner Gordon's best friend.

It was a relationship that had been building, but it was by no means what Jim would call a friendship at home. They worked together. They relied on each other. They trusted each other. Gordon had become protective of Batman; even when it came to Harvey Dent it had been a matter that was discussed before it came to fruition. But this man. This terrifying man, this man who was fear to his enemies, cold even to the people who knew him - and oh, he had been watching - was warm with him in a way he couldn't have predicted. Warm like the Batman he knew. Human, and familiar.

He could almost deceive himself that they were the same.

Gordon didn't take the badge back. He soaked in the silence too and let his mind run like an engine warming up, the calm before the storm of his story's conclusion.

"I couldn't tell him--he had to believe I was dead." Batman. "He almost ran the Joker down. Dodged at the last second, almost killed himself. I was still dazed but I managed to take the Joker in myself. That's when everything went wrong. Maroni kidnapped Dent and Dawes. He used corrupt officers in my MCU to pull it off--officers Harvey had warned me about, people I trusted. So I have Joker in the MCU, my DA is missing, and the clown won't talk to me."

There's a bit he skips here. Batman's interrogation, his outrage, his anger, the door locked from the inside so he can beat his prisoner half to death. He doesn't have to say it, does he?

"Two bombs, two hostages, and only one of us with a military grade vehicle and the recklessness needed to get there in time. He saved Dent, but not before half his face was burned off. We were too late. Same time, the MCU is blown to pieces."

Edited 2011-09-20 15:12 (UTC)

There it was. Evidence that Gordon's death had affected him- at least, if his counterpart was anything like him and anger over the Joker only steadied his grip instead of making him lose it. ... almost ran the Joker down... almost killed himself. His counterpart must be young as well. As young as he had been when he had first met this man; as young as he was when he first met the Joker and knew the bitter horrors of a mad man wreaking havoc on his city.

(It got worse and worse, after a while. The press called it the mad drawing the mad, Batman's presence setting off a chain of insane criminals who targeted the city. There were truths to their statements that Bruce had always acknowledged and understood but would never say out loud.

If he said it out loud, it would be real. His efforts would crumble like dust, and he needed the concrete belief that he was making a difference. That he was still doing good by what he was doing.)

He needed to stop being distracted from Gordon's story. A military-grade vehicle- a different Batmobile, then? His own had always been based off sports cars rather than the military - they have better engines.

"Again," he said, and he wished he could swallow back the word. Again, I was too late. He wasn't fast enough for Dick. For Jason. For Tim. For any one of his children. For Harvey. For a thousand and one people that he had failed, and his lips twisted sharply.

"Rachel Dawes died." A confirmation. The death of a woman he didn't know; he couldn't have known. He mourned her, anyway, if only because she was part of the grand tragedy reflected in Gordon's eyes. "Harvey was burnt, but alive."

He shook his head, and he voiced what he knew Gordon needed to hear; what he believed.

"Jim," he said, falling back into the familiar address. "It's not your fault."

Edited 2011-09-20 16:30 (UTC)

Again. It was an interesting word to just use like that, and immediately it had Jim wondering what he meant by it. 'Again'. Was it Harvey? Was it just the whole act of fighting and winning, but losing far more in the process? The Harvey here had the same face, so whatever had happened to him could count as 'again', couldn't it?

He tried not to think about it too much, and shook off the words with his shoulder.

"No point reassuring me of that. The story's not over yet, and even if it was, Batman, there's not much you can do for my guilt. That's something I have to live with. It makes it real. The moment I give it up, or forget, is the moment I let this place win."

He picked up his badge now, folding it closed and dropping it into his breast pocket where it belonged. It must have wandered during the commotion with the TV studio. Was that all today?

"The Joker's free still, and some guy comes forward to say he knows who Batman is. Joker puts a price on his head, and while we're busy he pays a little visit to Dent in hospital, gives him an idea. Harvey went after the corrupt cops with his coin, and he went after me. Indirectly, of course. You were busy with the Joker, and my family was in danger. So I went, even though I knew it was a trap."

He'd expected to die. But it was Harvey. Harvey who had been District Attorney for Gotham City and still been bright, still been untouchable. Harvey who was above hurting innocents. "I thought I could reason with him. He was a good man."

"Instead he puts his gun to my son's head, and tells me to tell him that it's going to be alright, even though I know it isn't. Just like he did for Dawes. That's when you sweep in--I don't even know how you found us, I just know what happened next. That you couldn't catch both of them. You couldn't even stop yourself falling.

"Damn it... I thought you were dead. Dent was. And there had to be an explanation. Someone had to take the fall."

Words unspoken. His look said it all: it said 'Forgive me'.

Edited 2011-09-20 17:43 (UTC)

The images were so stark and clear, even when Gordon was using the most bare of languages. He could already feel it- being Batman in this man's world, rushing and rushing, trying to save a boy, trying to save the last ally he had. Trying to save Harvey Dent, even though he had already fallen and half of his face was already gone. Burned off, stripped down to flesh without skin, his lips eternally frozen into an eerie grin, his eyeball huge and staring.

Even though he was standing still, Bruce could almost hear the pounding of his own heart in his ears. The chase, the urgency- and throwing himself off of a bridge. It had to be a bridge- he had to catch, and Harvey fell and died; he could have fell. (He wondered if it was that bridge the first policeman that Holiday killed was found him, and if it was- if he didn't hate it before, he did now.)

He could even feel the strain on his own arm. Pulling Gordon's son up the bridge, returning him back to his father. Looking at the crowds, exposed in the light, before turning and running. Batman was supposed to be an urban legend to the majority in the city, much less the world. He appeared in the spaces in between; in the shadows; in the imaginations and ramblings of madmen and police officers.

Bruce closed his eyes, exhaled and he focused back on Gordon. He could see it, the need for forgiveness. The plea for it. Someone had to take the fall. Of course it had to be him - who else could it have been? Gotham needed a hero. It was a plan. Better than any other.

"It doesn't matter," his lips crooked upwards, and he lifted his shoulders into a shrug. "The GCPD had a long-standing warrant out for Batman's arrest. I'm wanted for multiple charges of assault and battery."

But that, he knew, wasn't murder.

"You know it won't last," he said, and he knew- knew, suddenly, that this was what inspired the need for forgiveness in Gordon's eyes. It was a smearing of Batman's reputation, but it was only a stopgap. The solution would not last. Gotham's decay would start again- but the smear would remain. A stain that would not be erased; a suspicion that would be brought up again and again.

Bruce shook his head.

"I don't need the good opinion of the people to do my work." He turned to Jim, white lenses flashing in the moonlight. The shadows seemed to stretch even further behind him. "You know the truth. That's enough."

But not murder.

His mind echoed it with as much certainty as he knew was behind that mask, that voice.

"But for as long as it does, Dent's prosecution lasts. Those people stay in jail, and there's time to do something about it. If they'd known what he became - that he killed Maroni and those cops - the city would have never have forgiven him. And right then they needed their hero. They needed to believe in Harvey Dent."

And it wouldn't last. Yes. That was why he was begging for forgiveness. The cops would waste their time chasing Batman halfway across the city, and the slur would be there forever. The story would become uncertain, and Gordon's role in it would be thrown into question. He could be demoted again. He didn't care.

But it was the same look of determination he'd seen in Batman's expression then, too. It had been his plan, after all.

"You know me, don't you? Not just as Commissioner. It's more than that. How long have we been working together in your..." He didn't want to say it, but now the idea had been planted in his head it was the only thing that made sense. He ground his teeth before forcing out the word: "--world."

The whole thing made him sick. Alternate worlds, people who were the same who weren't his people. His daughter, her friends. Other Batpeople. Child soldiers. An older Commissioner Gordon, with so much sadness in his life--with the Joker in his life.

"Universe," he corrected gently. Because 'worlds' had so many different meanings in his world. He was in the same universe from the Guardians of the Green Lantern Corps- but not the same world. It was a wide multiversal world out there, and Bruce still felt the same sense of nausea he felt when the Infinite Crisis first happened and all of the different universes crashed back into existence again.

Bruce came into this to fight petty criminals and thugs. He knew Gordon had, as well. This was not their world; this had never been their purpose when they set out. But Bruce had dealt; had joined the Justice League because he knew that the world had needed him. He left Gotham behind because if there was no world, no universe- there was no Gotham either.

But Gordon never had to. This Gordon never did. Bruce looked at him for a long moment before he quirked he lips up a little- an empty smile that still managed to convey the barest hint of sincerity.

"Fifteen years," he said, simply, and turned around to lean his arm against the ledge, looking out. There was a fondness in his voice when he spoke. "You were the newest cop, freshly transferred from Chicago. The only clean cop left in Gotham, even though you had everything to lose."

He pushed away from the ledge, fingers closing on the edge as he turned to Gordon again.

"You changed the city." The briefest flicker of a smile. "That doesn't seem to have changed."

"Universe." Echoed, because it implies something greater than just the Earth, and that gives him a sick feeling of futility deep in his gut. Not something a police officer needs. There's aliens here. Aliens, from alien worlds. Not humans. Gotham is already big enough. The world is already big enough. He can't get his head around being that tiny. That insignificant, because if they are then what's the point of fighting to save Gotham?

After if the city is the same as everything else, then it has a cycle of growth--and eventually it turns back to dust, just like everything else. Futility. Uselessness.

His life is far too visceral, too full of gristle and struggle, to even let the thought in. He hasn't the time or patience to deal with it. Instead he listens to Batman talk. Fifteen years alongside him. Fifteen years older--that's the Gordon that these freaks know. It's honestly terrifying, or it would be if he had time for fear. Times of difficulty focused him, rather than spooking him, and more often than not it was that spirit that kept him alive.

"You're wrong. I didn't change the city. I sat on my hands for twenty years and watched corruption from the passenger seat of my squad car. My own partner for half of it. I wasn't a hero. Then you drop into my office and tell me you want to take down Falcone and fight corruption at the same time. Clean Gotham up. I asked you if you were one man, and you said 'Now we're two.'"

His meaning is sharp and clear, meeting those blank white eyes.

"We. Is that how it's going to be here?"

I sat on my hands for twenty years and watched corruption from the passenger seat of my squad car.

He waited. Jim waited, for him. For him to make the first move, to do something- and for a moment Bruce's breath caught, tripped over itself, and he inhaled sharp, sharp, piercing against the back of his throat. It was such a strange thought, because Gordon had always been a better man than he could ever have been. He had always been-

(The sound of the Joker's bones breaking beneath his fists. Tommy Elliot's body- or what he believed it was- lying on the streets, bleeding and bleeding. The stark white of death. Shadows. Green hair and blood and Jim Gordon's gun trained on his back. Bruce remembered it like a visceral thing. The smell of blood and rain and mud and madness, both his own and the Joker's.

Jim stopped him. Always a better man.)

But there was always the possibility. He had watched him, during Batman's first year in Gotham. The way he stumbled, possibly tripped over himself. The lines in his mouth deepening over and over, the determination in his eyes. The same determination he saw now.

Now we're two.

In Bruce's world, Jim Gordon found his own inspiration. In this man's, he found it in Batman. In a shadowy figure without a face and barely a voice. A figure that probably voiced all that he had always been afraid to say.

"That depends," he said, his voice low. He had to be sure. This man was not a mirror; he was not a ghost. There was nothing here that Bruce knew except for a name, a face, and a template. He had to be sure.

"Will you be waiting for me again?"

Jim considered the question. He closed his eyes and thought about it hard for a few seconds. Would he wait for Batman? A man beneath a signal, staring up into the soft glow of light pollution that was the Gotham sky with a bleakness that said 'This is bigger than us' and a hopelessness sinking into his heart? No. No, he wouldn't. He couldn't afford to. As good as Batman was, Jim knew that he could be late. That a second more and his son would be dead. If it all happened again he would rush him; he would somehow get his son to safety and run Harvey over the edge and kill them both.

He couldn't wait for someone who might not come.

The same went for corruption. The same went for the killers that this Porter had brought here. They wanted Batman--fine. But that only meant they wouldn't see Gordon coming. He had to hope for that.

His hand reached out, brushing over the back of the other man's gauntlet, a fond touch - a farewell if he wanted it to be - and for a moment he saw a signal transposed over the unfamiliar skyline, as though they were standing on the roof of the MCU in another city. Waiting. His mind was made up.

"No," he answered, softly, all warmth rather than accusation. "I'm done waiting."

His hand fell away again, back to the wall in front of him, and Jim let his eyes fall away. If Batman wanted to vanish in that moment then he wouldn't blame him, but he hoped that their working relationship could continue here, as at home. He hoped, for the sake of the already deep feeling of loss in his hollowed out chest, that Batman would not add to it, and leave him alone here.

There was no other answer that Gordon- any Gordon- could give. Bruce knew that; knew this would be his answer. Yet at the same time he wanted to hear it from Gordon himself; to hear the weight of those words in his voice, in his tone. To hear the sincerity, and have it solidify in the City's air, instead of something unspoken.

He was done waiting. Gordon had a job to do, and it didn't matter that this was not the city that he signed up for. This wasn't Gotham, but it was still a City, and the people here weren't much different from Gotham.

And there was the fact that Gotham's trash was here, as well. Joker- and Bruce's eyes narrowed slightly, behind his lenses.

He had ignored the hints and clues so far, but now that he had the whole story, everything was- odd. The Joker being turned on Batman. He was planning, orchestrating something- and there was nothing at all funny about what he did. Of course, there might be humour in forcing an inhuman choice between Harvey and Rachel Dawes; there might be humour in forcing Harvey Dent insane- but there was no audience. There was no appreciative laughter.

There was nothing funny about anything that Jim had told him. Not even in the Joker's warped mind.

"The Joker," he said, and the moment of peace was gone. The had it, for a few moments- now back to business. "Tell me about him. All that you know."

The Joker from that world must be different. The problem was- how different?

Edited 2011-09-21 15:16 (UTC)

"Other than the fact that he's crazy? Not much else. We got no name, no history, no record of him ever existing when we ran his prints. What we know about him could have been written on the back of a postage stamp."

Jim took off his glasses. They were still scratched up from when he fell; struck by Harvey on the back of the head. He was usually so careful with them, and now that he was here, he had neither their case nor his spares. He felt the imperfections on the surface rather than saw them, running his thumb back over the scratches.

"You see a lot of criminals in a career like mine. Everyone is doing it for some reason. People do it because it's easy, or because they can't see any other way to support themselves or their kids. Mostly it's money. What isn't? But him? He stole the mob's money; millions and millions of dollars. And from what I hear he burned it. It's easy to write him off as crazy, but he's not. He's a genius. The DNA evidence he left on a body belonged to his next victims. The traps he'd planted were carefully chosen so they wouldn't be triggered until exactly the right time. He even maneuvered us into shutting down the bridges and tunnels so that we'd end up shipping prisoners out by ferry."

And the last bit, the bit that really stung:

"I faked my death to catch the son of a bitch, and you know what? He was planning for that, too. I've never had to deal with that kind of criminal before. Someone who's so much leaps and bounds ahead of the mobsters and slum lords that it's all I can do to keep up, let alone get the jump on them." A look. "It was all you could do, too. That's why it couldn't just be you--that's why I had to save you."

"It just means that I wasn't good enough," the answer was snapped out, almost unthinking- but sincere. His hand clenched hard against the ledge, leather fighting against concrete, and Bruce hissed out a short, sharp breath. That was true, wasn't it? His first encounter with the Joker, he had let so many of them die before he finally caught up to him. Until he finally figured out how that man's thought processes. Until he could think like him as easily as he could think as Batman, as Bruce Wayne, as Matches Malone. As any of the crooks on Gotham's streets.

But he brushed the anger away, concentrating on what Jim was saying. There was something strange here, something different. A Joker that planned ahead wasn't a Joker that he was unfamiliar with, neither was him burning his money. But there was no audience- Jim had only heard of it. The Joker he knew liked the spectacle.

Shipping the prisoners out by ferry. Burning the mob's money. Figuring out that Jim Gordon had faked his death. Threatening death until the Batman exposed himself- wanting the Batman to expose himself. For the sake of--

There. That was the problem. That was it. That was precisely the difference.

His hand clenched into a fist, smacking against concrete again. In that moment, he saw nothing with his eyes.

"He's not a performer. He has a goal." Pieces upon pieces. The Joker. A gun muzzle. Barbara Gordon. Sending Jim Gordon into that nightmare ride, watching and laughing. In contrast to- driving Harvey Dent mad in a hospital, without an audience to watch Harvey's downfall. Placing the gun in Harvey's hand. Hiding away, giggling.

The pieces fitted in front of him, and the man that Gordon saw spread out in front of him. When he smiled, it was far too sharp.

"He wants to make everyone just like he is. Just as mad." He thought back, fifteen years ago, and he shook his head. The problem he had with the Joker was that he had no goal, and yet, here- here he did. "I should have been able to deal with him."

Edited 2011-09-22 06:08 (UTC)

James paused, just listening to the other man, quietly judging what he was saying. He's not a performer. Meaning that this Joker was. He has a goal. Meaning that this Joker didn't. It was a terrifying thought. An audience...was that what this man wanted? He tilted his head slightly, frowning at the faraway city lights. Rich people spending money, poor people struggling over it. This city, like any other--like Chicago, New York and San Francisco. Not like Gotham. Gotham was special.

And Gotham's villains were special too--seemingly no matter which world they were from.

"You were. You were able to deal with him." He didn't know why he felt he needed to reassure him - this was Batman - but he did so none the less. He did so with all the warmth and companionship he could muster into his voice. For this man it was plenty.

"The ferries didn't go up. You caught Joker, and then you were even there for me. It can't happen like that again. I can't hold my breath and expect you to fly in and save the day at the last second. The real world doesn't work like that.

"So me, the Joker. Gotham or this city, I don't care. I'll be ready."

Determination. Confidence. He turned around again and sat on the very edge, arms folded, looking Batman straight in the eye.

"'Now we're two,' Batman. Partners."

He was looking for an equality that he wasn't sure the other could really offer him.

Partners. Was that really possible? Bruce couldn't help but still see the shadows at the back of his eyes. Jim, white-haired and faded, sprawled on stark white hospital sheets, barely noticeable because he was so pale, he had lost so much blood. Could he work with this man- as partners?

The only person he had ever used that word on was his Robins, and those he had trained for the specific purpose of being able to keep up with him. Could Gordon do that? Especially a Gordon that might not have an idea about the differences between himself and his counterpart, whoever that Batman might be?

And, more importantly, could Bruce risk it? Could he take the risk that he might be wrong about Gordon being able to keep up, and risk seeing him on a hospital bed, breathng through a tube again?

(He can't, he can't-)

Bruce lidded his eyes, and hissed out a breath through his teeth.

"We'll see," he said, because it was a better answer than a lie that he would. This was the truth, and Gordon deserved that- for this, at the very least. Bruce wondered what other things did he deserved truth- for who else did.

Damnit. He lidded his eyes slightly.

"I'll keep you in the loop. But-" he turned, and fixed Gordon with a sharp gaze. "There are people here you cannot deal with, because they have metahuman abilities. People I'm used to.

"You'll leave those to me."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

another love i would abuse; no circumstances could excuse

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