another love i would abuse; no circumstances could excuse

[kingofrooks.livejournal.com]

WHO: Jim Gordon [finestdetective] and Batman [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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[finestdetective.livejournal.com]

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.

[kingofrooks.livejournal.com]

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?

[finestdetective.livejournal.com]

"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."

[kingofrooks.livejournal.com]

"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."

[finestdetective.livejournal.com]

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.

[kingofrooks.livejournal.com]

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."