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.
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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?"