another love i would abuse; no circumstances could excuse
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."
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."