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.
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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?"