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."
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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."