Divergence - Chapter Seven
Title: Divergence
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Gordon/Wayne
Warnings: Dark, disturbing themes.
Place: Nolan-verse. Based off events from Batman Begins.
Disclaimer: Not mine, more's the pity.
Summary: AU. Events in Nolan-verse take a different turn here than they should have.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Six
Summary: Jim remembers to think before he acts.
Jim spent the next few days hovering between paranoia and irritation. He swung from one extreme to the other so quickly that there were times he felt almost bipolar. He’d go to sleep thinking he had it all sorted out, compartmentalized, settled into his previous rhythm of unformed disapproval of Wayne. Then in the morning it would again be a muddle of disbelief over the amazing series of events that had rapidly spiraled out of his control. And over the minute thawing, almost a warmth, that was beginning to kindle unwillingly in his bones for a certain misanthropic businessman.
Some people had a weakness for good food, or flowers, or sporting events. Some people could be bought catering to their vanity, their accomplishments, or by offering them expensive gifts. Jim had always known his biggest weakness was his children. The minute Jimmy had come squirming into the world, he’d been doomed, and he’d never thought another person could exist who’d hold his heart between their two hands so thoroughly, until his daughter was born. Sometimes he thought he’d give up the whole city to keep them safe. Thankfully, he hadn’t needed to yet.
Away from the first furious blush of anger, distance had granted some much-needed perspective. Wayne had pried where he wasn’t welcome, true, but his protestations of innocence had some merit; as he’d said, even in Gotham a conversation between free persons wasn’t yet a crime. Jim had gone in with all guns blazing, blinded with a million ugly assumptions. Assumptions that, if Wayne were to be believed, were completely in error. He didn’t like to think of himself as a snap-judgement sort of man, but he hadn’t done much to disprove that. And he absolutely couldn’t believe the things he’d said to Gotham’s prince in reckless fury, or that the man had simply let him. He hadn’t been in the wrong in that office, but nor was he in the right.
Why was it so hard to look at Wayne and realize how young he truly was, how stifled his childhood had been, wrapped up in murder and Gotham and emotional destitution? Realistically, the man was only in his late twenties, not even as old as Thomas Wayne had been when he was killed. Jim just couldn’t reconcile the tears of the child against the indifference of the adult. Wayne had done great and terrible things, wrong things and right things for good and bad reasons. But he wasn’t immune to pain. It was just hard to look past the image of his power to see the man underneath.
If Wayne were a normal person, waylaying Barbara into a conversation in a public, crowded space in the middle of the day would have been startling, but not horrifying. Treat him as equally as you would anyone, Jim, he thought. Has he ever been known to take down innocent bystanders, women or children? Of course not. Even the outspoken Ms. Dawes was free to slander her old friend in public without censor. In fact, Wayne made it a point to have no contact at all with the assistant DA. Of course, Jim’s paranoia wasn’t entirely unfounded; cops had disappeared under Batman’s shadow before. The thing of it was, all those cops had been in Felconi’s pocket. Wayne’s no-tolerance policy was harsh, true, and enforced within and without the law, but it wasn’t unjustified. Just - brutal. And technically illegal, if you counted basic human rights into the whole mix of things.
You can’t scorn a man for crimes he hasn’t committed, he reminded himself; accusations have to be founded in facts. Wayne was responsible, however indirectly, for violations of privacy, use of excessive force, murder and a host of other crimes, but he wasn’t indiscriminate. His interest in Jim was inexplicable and unnerving, but in spite of an instinctively paranoid response, there was nothing anymore dangerous in it than coming to, say, Commissioner Loeb’s attention, which Jim could also boast about (and not in a good way). Wasn’t he the popular one lately?
Sometimes, he thought, you just have to work with the people you have; no one’s perfect. And Wayne had, for all his prying, been right about at least one thing: Jimmy needed something, something his parents couldn’t offer him. Not when they were, and would likely continue to be, part of the problem.
If only Wayne had been more dismissive, or less perceptive, Jim might have been able to look on his interference with his previous disgust, might have avoided this unfortunate quandary of gratitude he now found himself in. Someone other than him, someone unrelated, recognized that his son was in danger, and was willing to reach out and help. It all seemed to come back to Wayne’s words in the office, the feeling of them hitting Jim like a train wreck he couldn’t turn away from.
“Your son is headed down a dangerous path. I have some experience in that area, you could say.”
It was such an expressive, personal thing to say; even thinking back on it Jim was almost speechless. The man couldn’t have opened up in a more unexpected way if he’d wrenched out his heart (an organ some believed he lacked) and worn it on his sleeve.
In the days following the ‘incident’ at Wayne Tower, Jim felt as though he were sleep-walking through time, analyzing everything dozens of times, until he began to think himself in endless circles. Work only added to the general feeling of surrealism. His coworkers kept a respective distance, and for the first time in years Jim was free of the unfortunate heckling from the hopelessly insensitive among the GPD. He knew he wasn’t a big man, by any means, and it was only his temper that was intimidating; compared to most of the rough, rowdy officers on duty, he knew his gentle approach could be classed unusual, at least. Even Loeb seemed to be avoiding him. It occurred to him to be very grateful for the break, but he was too busy wondering if it came with a price.
He thought the price was about to become obvious when a package showed up mid-week, addressed to him, with a return address for Wayne Enterprises. When he came in Thursday morning to see it sitting on his desk, all of the officers in adjoining desks unobtrusively turned away from it, he swung between relief that he was about to get some clarity and a type of washed out fear.
He sat down, staring at it, drawing out the moment for his curious watchers. A spark of unexpected humor tickled him. All it took to get people to pay attention to him was having a billionaire send him gifts.
But finally his curiosity became too much to ignore. He reached out, determined not to borrow trouble, and drew the package closer, picking at the tape and peeling it away. When he raised the lid, he could almost feel a collective gasp echo through the room. He let the tension build, trying to beat down his odd urge to laugh. He coworkers interest in his private life was heart-warming, really.
It took him only a moment to see that inside the box lay a small, innocuous, nondescript phone. He frowned, wondering at the significance, but in a moment he startled to realize that it was, actually, his phone. The hell? He unconsciously patted himself down, only really recognizing the lack with the evidence staring him in the face. When-? He remembered barging into Wayne’s office, scraping through the two doors and shutting them behind him, hell-bent on hashing things out with the man regardless of the consequences. He hadn’t noticed at the time, but he must have dropped it in the mad rush of anger that had overtaken him. And he’d been too distracted to notice it missing the last couple days. What a strange way to have it returned…
Immediately suspicious, Jim reached in to grab it. From the way the entire bullpen tensed in anticipation, he thought they must be expecting him to pull out a bomb. Ridiculous. Jim examined the phone closely, looking for clues, turning it over to confirm it was his. When he flipped it open, an unread text message blinked at him from the screen.
Gordon. Thought you might need this. Should be more careful when barging into offices. - B. W.
Jim stared at it, baffled. From anyone else, that message might almost be considered playful. What the hell could he mean by it? Noticing the caller ID listed, on a lark he checked his digital phonebook and discovered several new numbers as he scrolled through. Wayne Enterprises, Wayne Manor, Wayne Penthouse, Bruce Wayne (mobile) personal, Bruce Wayne (landline) personal, and two or three other numbers he couldn’t recall ever putting in himself. Jim stared at it, having no idea what any of it could mean, and feeling vaguely perturbed that the man had gone through his cell phone and availed himself of the half dozen or so numbers Jim actually had in the phone. There weren’t exactly a lot of people he enjoyed spending time with, or needed to contact on a regular basis. Actually, it was almost funny how the various numbers for Wayne now nearly outnumbered the rest of numbers in the phone.
He stared at it, turning it over in his hands as though it truly were a bomb, debating. Having access to an unprecedented amount of phone numbers with which to contact the man, should he? On the one hand, he’d be glad enough to be rid of Wayne’s curiosity, his sly observations of his life, but on the other, Wayne wasn’t likely to simply disappear with his questions unanswered. Along with the less savory aspects of his reputation, he was considered painfully stubborn. Jim weighed the mans irritating, frightening interest in his life against the actual consequences thus far of Wayne’s interference. Barbara hadn’t spoken to him once since the incident, but Jim wasn’t convinced that was all that different from normal. She and the kids were currently at her sisters, and though they both made noises about the move being temporary, Jim at least was sure this was for the best. It seemed to him they’ve been moving in this direction for - longer than he could easily remember. He wasn’t sure what Barbara was thinking, but then, it seemed he never truly was.
Jimmy had been a pleasant surprise. His son’s disconnected, apathetic demeanor had melted into a subdued, quiet thoughtfulness, a sharp contrast to the angry silence he’d hovered in before. Jim didn’t know what had happened that could have shaken Jimmy out of his despair, but ever since meeting Wayne, there had been a spark in his son that had been lacking before.
It was a spark Jim could understand, as Wayne had brought a similar one into his life. Jim could simply not recall that last time he’d been so twisted up with emotion that he’d felt the need to physically express it. He’d been floating through life, untouched by it and unmoved by it. Good or bad, Bruce Wayne had lit something inside him that had been missing these last dreary years in Gotham. Be it fear, surprise, disgust, or pity, they leeched into him like slow poison, twisting his preconceived notions about truth and justice in unexpected ways. He’d never thought, for example, that he could have ever gathered the courage to brave Wayne, the ruthless tyrant, in his own den, or that he might come to question his black and white notions about the man himself, but he had, and still was. Judging by the incessant attention, Wayne felt the spark too, and somewhere between them was a connection Jim could never have imagined and wasn’t sure he wanted to know about. But there it was, all the same.
As though summoned by his thoughts, the phone trilled in his hand. Jim almost dropped it he was so surprised; a series of barely audible gasps informed him the rest of the bullpen was just as startled. The ring tone, much as his phonebook, had been tampered with; it was now some sort of Eastern Asian bamboo flute. He didn’t care for it.
Painfully aware of his audience, he hit the talk button. “Gordon.”
“I see the Gotham postal service, at least, can still be relied on in any circumstance.”
Jim swiveled until his back was to the room at large, hitching a shoulder to muffle the conversation. He had to take a deep breath to do it, but he forced himself not to respond instinctively with the same anger from the office. He’d overreacted there, he could admit that if only to himself, but that didn’t mean he was going to apologize. Wayne should know better than to butt into another mans family when he wasn’t invited. Even if the consequences of his visit were essentially benign, and in Jimmy’s circumstances, beneficial in its own way. “Well, you know the post, neither rain, nor sleet, nor dead of night…”
“A mandate as sacrosanct as the GPD’s dedication to truth and justice?”
Jim grimaced. As sharp a dig as that was, and as much as he’d like to deny it, Wayne had reason enough to be dismissive of Gotham’s law enforcement. He had, after all, almost single-handedly rid Gotham of the mob that had plagued it for decades, even if he’d had to employ the most ruthless enforcer imaginable to do it.
“Sometimes justice takes time, Mr. Wayne.”
“Time that many people can ill-afford, detective Gordon. There are time when sacrifice is necessary to ensure the greater good.”
Jim felt his temper flare up. “And who decides which sacrifices are necessary, what lines should be crossed?”
“Those with the power to effect change.” Beneath the rasp of his voice, Jim could hear, those like me.
What could he say to that? The Wayne murders certainly gave their son enough ammunition to justify his actions. Wayne had saved the city, but it was in more danger than ever, even if no one but Jim seemed to see it. There was a very fine line between justice and dictatorship, and Wayne had crossed it long ago, even if it was only vicariously through Batman. And just because Jim could see the necessity, and the reasoning, that didn’t mean he had to approve.
He’d let the silence linger a second too long, and the billionaire spoke into it. “You’re a difficult man to figure out, detective.”
“I could say the same of you, Mr. Wayne.”
“Well,” Wayne said, sounding suspiciously as though this was just the opening he’d been waiting for. “If you’re looking for greater insight, I’ll be free for lunch shortly.”
Jim hesitated, wishing fiercely that he didn’t have the entire bullpen listening. “And if I’m not?”
The room seethed with curiosity behind him. On the other end of the line, there was a silence so complete Jim wondered if Wayne had set down the line and was even now relaying his information to Batman to dispose of.
There was a big part of Jim that was appalled at his own daring. It was one thing to speak thus to Bruce Wayne in the heat of the moment, but to do it so casually smacked of suicide. Had it been only a week or so since he’d last reminded himself that refusing Bruce Wayne - in any respect - was something only a fool, or a dead man, would do?
Jim supposed he was about to test his theory regarding defiance as a preferred means of communication.
“In that case,” Wayne said with studied indifference, “I’d have to speak to Loeb about freeing up your schedule.” Typically ambiguous Wayne statement. That could mean anything from getting rid of his mountains of paperwork, to getting rid of his job altogether. Jim could feel his heart pounding, practically drowning out the conversation. Would Wayne be willing to ruin a man’s career with one ill-placed word? Probably, if Jim wasn’t careful. What about a man he’d just forced the Commissioner into reassigning? It was risky banking on his limited knowledge of the mans motivations, but Jim thought that in this game of poker, he certainly had the better hand, and Wayne had all his aces showing.
“I’m afraid I prefer my schedule just as it is, Mr. Wayne.”
Jim couldn’t decide whether this silence was more or less absolute than the last. Now it came down to how far Wayne was willing to let Jim push him.
“Bruce.”
“What?” He let the question out in a whoosh of breath, thrown completely off-balance. He’d been waiting, barely breathing, high strung, for something to give. That had been the last thing he expected to hear.
“I do have a name, detective.” Yeah, he thought incredulously, and I’m supposed to call you by it with the entire Gotham police force straining to listen in, not ten feet away?
He phrased his next response very carefully, banking the wild stress that wanted to leek into his voice. He was aware that he was again treading a very fine line. “People on a first name basis usually have an established relationship of mutual respect, Mr. Wayne.”
On the other end there was an ugly, wrenching laugh that made Jim stomach ache just to hear it. “Not in my experience, detective.”
“In mine,” Jim said, as softly as he knew how.
The rustling of papers on the other end almost, almost covered up the hard sigh disturbing the air near the receiver. “Have it your way, detective,” Wayne said, an echo of frustration plaguing the smooth baritone. Jim felt a pang of sympathy. He was playing with fire here, but Wayne was equally out of his depth. Hundreds of people would throw themselves at this man’s feet for his patronage; he’d just happened to pick, for unknown reasons, probably one of a dozen men that wouldn’t. He was so used to having things happen at his will. Not playing with fire, Jimbo, he thought unwillingly, you’re playing with your life here. Jim decided it was time to put another card on the table.
“Jim,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I have a name too, Mr. Wayne.” The businessman hadn’t needed to give in to Jim’s subtle request for respect, but he had. Jim could only afford him the same, in all fairness. It still didn’t make him trustwothy.
“Ah.” Wayne - Bruce - sounded impassive, but Jim was no longer fooled by the man’s façade of indifference. He heard surprise in that expressionless voice, surprise and a faint hint of something like appreciation. Jim wouldn’t go so far as to expect a thank you.
Jim hesitated to think of this entire experience like dealing with a wild animal, but it truly was, and had to be dealt with as delicately. There was a tiger stalking him, and he had two options: become lunch, or tame the tiger. Jim had no intention of becoming lunch. He had something - he didn’t know what - that Bruce Wayne wanted, and he wasn’t above using that to his advantage. He wondered when there had last been something (or someone) the man had wanted that he couldn’t just buy.
Probably as far back as assistant DA Dawes, and the long history between them obviously got in the way of any kind of reconciliation now. For one, Ms. Dawes puritan views regarding the law put her constantly at odds with Wayne.
Whatever it was Gotham’s prince wanted, he seemed to want it enough to play this game the way Jim wanted to play it. For now. And now that he was using his brain instead of his heart, Jim had his own curiosity to work around. What might a man with unlimited power and wealth want with a simple, unpopular police detective?
“Is that offer for dinner still open… Bruce?”
He tried to say it quietly, without whispering, but there wasn’t a sound in the entire room, and even a quiet voice carried. The shock over the line and inside the bullpen was almost tangible. He continued before anyone could get the wrong impression. “That helping hand you offered me?”
“Ah,” Wayne - Bruce - said again, on more familiar within the notion of someone coveting what he could give them. If it made him more comfortable to believe that, Jim wouldn’t disillusion him. “I’m available tomorrow night… Jim. Wayne Manor is-“
“No,” Jim said firmly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Not the manor. In city is closer and easier to access.” And less isolated. Frankly, whatever game they were playing here just wasn’t worth throwing his life away by meeting Bruce Wayne on his own terms with no escape route in mind. At least in the city Jim felt comfortable enough in her streets to draw strength from them.
After a stiff moment, Bruce said, “The manor is better equipped to provide dinner service at this time.”
“I’d be happy to provide the meal if it’s a problem.”
Jim wondered for a moment if he’d pushed too far. But after a long second where he sweated uncomfortably, and most of his coworkers seemed to sweat with him, the other man impassively intoned, “fine.”
“All right. Tomorrow then. Goodbye Mr. W- Bruce.”
“Good day Jim.”
Jim fumbled for the end button, having to hit it twice as his fingers were shaking just enough to throw it off. Around him, not even the normal bustle of office paperwork existed to interrupt the cavernous silence that permeated the room. No one was making a sound.
Jim was tempted to pull his gun and fire off a shot, just to see them all jump.
Well, he thought, slowly pocketing his returned phone, and flattening out the box it have arrived in. Guess who’s coming to dinner…
Note: I apologize if this chapter is crap. It's almost 6 AM and I need to sleep (it seems like I keep posting these later and later in the morning, somehow...). I promise the next one will be better.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Gordon/Wayne
Warnings: Dark, disturbing themes.
Place: Nolan-verse. Based off events from Batman Begins.
Disclaimer: Not mine, more's the pity.
Summary: AU. Events in Nolan-verse take a different turn here than they should have.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Six
Summary: Jim remembers to think before he acts.
Jim spent the next few days hovering between paranoia and irritation. He swung from one extreme to the other so quickly that there were times he felt almost bipolar. He’d go to sleep thinking he had it all sorted out, compartmentalized, settled into his previous rhythm of unformed disapproval of Wayne. Then in the morning it would again be a muddle of disbelief over the amazing series of events that had rapidly spiraled out of his control. And over the minute thawing, almost a warmth, that was beginning to kindle unwillingly in his bones for a certain misanthropic businessman.
Some people had a weakness for good food, or flowers, or sporting events. Some people could be bought catering to their vanity, their accomplishments, or by offering them expensive gifts. Jim had always known his biggest weakness was his children. The minute Jimmy had come squirming into the world, he’d been doomed, and he’d never thought another person could exist who’d hold his heart between their two hands so thoroughly, until his daughter was born. Sometimes he thought he’d give up the whole city to keep them safe. Thankfully, he hadn’t needed to yet.
Away from the first furious blush of anger, distance had granted some much-needed perspective. Wayne had pried where he wasn’t welcome, true, but his protestations of innocence had some merit; as he’d said, even in Gotham a conversation between free persons wasn’t yet a crime. Jim had gone in with all guns blazing, blinded with a million ugly assumptions. Assumptions that, if Wayne were to be believed, were completely in error. He didn’t like to think of himself as a snap-judgement sort of man, but he hadn’t done much to disprove that. And he absolutely couldn’t believe the things he’d said to Gotham’s prince in reckless fury, or that the man had simply let him. He hadn’t been in the wrong in that office, but nor was he in the right.
Why was it so hard to look at Wayne and realize how young he truly was, how stifled his childhood had been, wrapped up in murder and Gotham and emotional destitution? Realistically, the man was only in his late twenties, not even as old as Thomas Wayne had been when he was killed. Jim just couldn’t reconcile the tears of the child against the indifference of the adult. Wayne had done great and terrible things, wrong things and right things for good and bad reasons. But he wasn’t immune to pain. It was just hard to look past the image of his power to see the man underneath.
If Wayne were a normal person, waylaying Barbara into a conversation in a public, crowded space in the middle of the day would have been startling, but not horrifying. Treat him as equally as you would anyone, Jim, he thought. Has he ever been known to take down innocent bystanders, women or children? Of course not. Even the outspoken Ms. Dawes was free to slander her old friend in public without censor. In fact, Wayne made it a point to have no contact at all with the assistant DA. Of course, Jim’s paranoia wasn’t entirely unfounded; cops had disappeared under Batman’s shadow before. The thing of it was, all those cops had been in Felconi’s pocket. Wayne’s no-tolerance policy was harsh, true, and enforced within and without the law, but it wasn’t unjustified. Just - brutal. And technically illegal, if you counted basic human rights into the whole mix of things.
You can’t scorn a man for crimes he hasn’t committed, he reminded himself; accusations have to be founded in facts. Wayne was responsible, however indirectly, for violations of privacy, use of excessive force, murder and a host of other crimes, but he wasn’t indiscriminate. His interest in Jim was inexplicable and unnerving, but in spite of an instinctively paranoid response, there was nothing anymore dangerous in it than coming to, say, Commissioner Loeb’s attention, which Jim could also boast about (and not in a good way). Wasn’t he the popular one lately?
Sometimes, he thought, you just have to work with the people you have; no one’s perfect. And Wayne had, for all his prying, been right about at least one thing: Jimmy needed something, something his parents couldn’t offer him. Not when they were, and would likely continue to be, part of the problem.
If only Wayne had been more dismissive, or less perceptive, Jim might have been able to look on his interference with his previous disgust, might have avoided this unfortunate quandary of gratitude he now found himself in. Someone other than him, someone unrelated, recognized that his son was in danger, and was willing to reach out and help. It all seemed to come back to Wayne’s words in the office, the feeling of them hitting Jim like a train wreck he couldn’t turn away from.
“Your son is headed down a dangerous path. I have some experience in that area, you could say.”
It was such an expressive, personal thing to say; even thinking back on it Jim was almost speechless. The man couldn’t have opened up in a more unexpected way if he’d wrenched out his heart (an organ some believed he lacked) and worn it on his sleeve.
In the days following the ‘incident’ at Wayne Tower, Jim felt as though he were sleep-walking through time, analyzing everything dozens of times, until he began to think himself in endless circles. Work only added to the general feeling of surrealism. His coworkers kept a respective distance, and for the first time in years Jim was free of the unfortunate heckling from the hopelessly insensitive among the GPD. He knew he wasn’t a big man, by any means, and it was only his temper that was intimidating; compared to most of the rough, rowdy officers on duty, he knew his gentle approach could be classed unusual, at least. Even Loeb seemed to be avoiding him. It occurred to him to be very grateful for the break, but he was too busy wondering if it came with a price.
He thought the price was about to become obvious when a package showed up mid-week, addressed to him, with a return address for Wayne Enterprises. When he came in Thursday morning to see it sitting on his desk, all of the officers in adjoining desks unobtrusively turned away from it, he swung between relief that he was about to get some clarity and a type of washed out fear.
He sat down, staring at it, drawing out the moment for his curious watchers. A spark of unexpected humor tickled him. All it took to get people to pay attention to him was having a billionaire send him gifts.
But finally his curiosity became too much to ignore. He reached out, determined not to borrow trouble, and drew the package closer, picking at the tape and peeling it away. When he raised the lid, he could almost feel a collective gasp echo through the room. He let the tension build, trying to beat down his odd urge to laugh. He coworkers interest in his private life was heart-warming, really.
It took him only a moment to see that inside the box lay a small, innocuous, nondescript phone. He frowned, wondering at the significance, but in a moment he startled to realize that it was, actually, his phone. The hell? He unconsciously patted himself down, only really recognizing the lack with the evidence staring him in the face. When-? He remembered barging into Wayne’s office, scraping through the two doors and shutting them behind him, hell-bent on hashing things out with the man regardless of the consequences. He hadn’t noticed at the time, but he must have dropped it in the mad rush of anger that had overtaken him. And he’d been too distracted to notice it missing the last couple days. What a strange way to have it returned…
Immediately suspicious, Jim reached in to grab it. From the way the entire bullpen tensed in anticipation, he thought they must be expecting him to pull out a bomb. Ridiculous. Jim examined the phone closely, looking for clues, turning it over to confirm it was his. When he flipped it open, an unread text message blinked at him from the screen.
Gordon. Thought you might need this. Should be more careful when barging into offices. - B. W.
Jim stared at it, baffled. From anyone else, that message might almost be considered playful. What the hell could he mean by it? Noticing the caller ID listed, on a lark he checked his digital phonebook and discovered several new numbers as he scrolled through. Wayne Enterprises, Wayne Manor, Wayne Penthouse, Bruce Wayne (mobile) personal, Bruce Wayne (landline) personal, and two or three other numbers he couldn’t recall ever putting in himself. Jim stared at it, having no idea what any of it could mean, and feeling vaguely perturbed that the man had gone through his cell phone and availed himself of the half dozen or so numbers Jim actually had in the phone. There weren’t exactly a lot of people he enjoyed spending time with, or needed to contact on a regular basis. Actually, it was almost funny how the various numbers for Wayne now nearly outnumbered the rest of numbers in the phone.
He stared at it, turning it over in his hands as though it truly were a bomb, debating. Having access to an unprecedented amount of phone numbers with which to contact the man, should he? On the one hand, he’d be glad enough to be rid of Wayne’s curiosity, his sly observations of his life, but on the other, Wayne wasn’t likely to simply disappear with his questions unanswered. Along with the less savory aspects of his reputation, he was considered painfully stubborn. Jim weighed the mans irritating, frightening interest in his life against the actual consequences thus far of Wayne’s interference. Barbara hadn’t spoken to him once since the incident, but Jim wasn’t convinced that was all that different from normal. She and the kids were currently at her sisters, and though they both made noises about the move being temporary, Jim at least was sure this was for the best. It seemed to him they’ve been moving in this direction for - longer than he could easily remember. He wasn’t sure what Barbara was thinking, but then, it seemed he never truly was.
Jimmy had been a pleasant surprise. His son’s disconnected, apathetic demeanor had melted into a subdued, quiet thoughtfulness, a sharp contrast to the angry silence he’d hovered in before. Jim didn’t know what had happened that could have shaken Jimmy out of his despair, but ever since meeting Wayne, there had been a spark in his son that had been lacking before.
It was a spark Jim could understand, as Wayne had brought a similar one into his life. Jim could simply not recall that last time he’d been so twisted up with emotion that he’d felt the need to physically express it. He’d been floating through life, untouched by it and unmoved by it. Good or bad, Bruce Wayne had lit something inside him that had been missing these last dreary years in Gotham. Be it fear, surprise, disgust, or pity, they leeched into him like slow poison, twisting his preconceived notions about truth and justice in unexpected ways. He’d never thought, for example, that he could have ever gathered the courage to brave Wayne, the ruthless tyrant, in his own den, or that he might come to question his black and white notions about the man himself, but he had, and still was. Judging by the incessant attention, Wayne felt the spark too, and somewhere between them was a connection Jim could never have imagined and wasn’t sure he wanted to know about. But there it was, all the same.
As though summoned by his thoughts, the phone trilled in his hand. Jim almost dropped it he was so surprised; a series of barely audible gasps informed him the rest of the bullpen was just as startled. The ring tone, much as his phonebook, had been tampered with; it was now some sort of Eastern Asian bamboo flute. He didn’t care for it.
Painfully aware of his audience, he hit the talk button. “Gordon.”
“I see the Gotham postal service, at least, can still be relied on in any circumstance.”
Jim swiveled until his back was to the room at large, hitching a shoulder to muffle the conversation. He had to take a deep breath to do it, but he forced himself not to respond instinctively with the same anger from the office. He’d overreacted there, he could admit that if only to himself, but that didn’t mean he was going to apologize. Wayne should know better than to butt into another mans family when he wasn’t invited. Even if the consequences of his visit were essentially benign, and in Jimmy’s circumstances, beneficial in its own way. “Well, you know the post, neither rain, nor sleet, nor dead of night…”
“A mandate as sacrosanct as the GPD’s dedication to truth and justice?”
Jim grimaced. As sharp a dig as that was, and as much as he’d like to deny it, Wayne had reason enough to be dismissive of Gotham’s law enforcement. He had, after all, almost single-handedly rid Gotham of the mob that had plagued it for decades, even if he’d had to employ the most ruthless enforcer imaginable to do it.
“Sometimes justice takes time, Mr. Wayne.”
“Time that many people can ill-afford, detective Gordon. There are time when sacrifice is necessary to ensure the greater good.”
Jim felt his temper flare up. “And who decides which sacrifices are necessary, what lines should be crossed?”
“Those with the power to effect change.” Beneath the rasp of his voice, Jim could hear, those like me.
What could he say to that? The Wayne murders certainly gave their son enough ammunition to justify his actions. Wayne had saved the city, but it was in more danger than ever, even if no one but Jim seemed to see it. There was a very fine line between justice and dictatorship, and Wayne had crossed it long ago, even if it was only vicariously through Batman. And just because Jim could see the necessity, and the reasoning, that didn’t mean he had to approve.
He’d let the silence linger a second too long, and the billionaire spoke into it. “You’re a difficult man to figure out, detective.”
“I could say the same of you, Mr. Wayne.”
“Well,” Wayne said, sounding suspiciously as though this was just the opening he’d been waiting for. “If you’re looking for greater insight, I’ll be free for lunch shortly.”
Jim hesitated, wishing fiercely that he didn’t have the entire bullpen listening. “And if I’m not?”
The room seethed with curiosity behind him. On the other end of the line, there was a silence so complete Jim wondered if Wayne had set down the line and was even now relaying his information to Batman to dispose of.
There was a big part of Jim that was appalled at his own daring. It was one thing to speak thus to Bruce Wayne in the heat of the moment, but to do it so casually smacked of suicide. Had it been only a week or so since he’d last reminded himself that refusing Bruce Wayne - in any respect - was something only a fool, or a dead man, would do?
Jim supposed he was about to test his theory regarding defiance as a preferred means of communication.
“In that case,” Wayne said with studied indifference, “I’d have to speak to Loeb about freeing up your schedule.” Typically ambiguous Wayne statement. That could mean anything from getting rid of his mountains of paperwork, to getting rid of his job altogether. Jim could feel his heart pounding, practically drowning out the conversation. Would Wayne be willing to ruin a man’s career with one ill-placed word? Probably, if Jim wasn’t careful. What about a man he’d just forced the Commissioner into reassigning? It was risky banking on his limited knowledge of the mans motivations, but Jim thought that in this game of poker, he certainly had the better hand, and Wayne had all his aces showing.
“I’m afraid I prefer my schedule just as it is, Mr. Wayne.”
Jim couldn’t decide whether this silence was more or less absolute than the last. Now it came down to how far Wayne was willing to let Jim push him.
“Bruce.”
“What?” He let the question out in a whoosh of breath, thrown completely off-balance. He’d been waiting, barely breathing, high strung, for something to give. That had been the last thing he expected to hear.
“I do have a name, detective.” Yeah, he thought incredulously, and I’m supposed to call you by it with the entire Gotham police force straining to listen in, not ten feet away?
He phrased his next response very carefully, banking the wild stress that wanted to leek into his voice. He was aware that he was again treading a very fine line. “People on a first name basis usually have an established relationship of mutual respect, Mr. Wayne.”
On the other end there was an ugly, wrenching laugh that made Jim stomach ache just to hear it. “Not in my experience, detective.”
“In mine,” Jim said, as softly as he knew how.
The rustling of papers on the other end almost, almost covered up the hard sigh disturbing the air near the receiver. “Have it your way, detective,” Wayne said, an echo of frustration plaguing the smooth baritone. Jim felt a pang of sympathy. He was playing with fire here, but Wayne was equally out of his depth. Hundreds of people would throw themselves at this man’s feet for his patronage; he’d just happened to pick, for unknown reasons, probably one of a dozen men that wouldn’t. He was so used to having things happen at his will. Not playing with fire, Jimbo, he thought unwillingly, you’re playing with your life here. Jim decided it was time to put another card on the table.
“Jim,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I have a name too, Mr. Wayne.” The businessman hadn’t needed to give in to Jim’s subtle request for respect, but he had. Jim could only afford him the same, in all fairness. It still didn’t make him trustwothy.
“Ah.” Wayne - Bruce - sounded impassive, but Jim was no longer fooled by the man’s façade of indifference. He heard surprise in that expressionless voice, surprise and a faint hint of something like appreciation. Jim wouldn’t go so far as to expect a thank you.
Jim hesitated to think of this entire experience like dealing with a wild animal, but it truly was, and had to be dealt with as delicately. There was a tiger stalking him, and he had two options: become lunch, or tame the tiger. Jim had no intention of becoming lunch. He had something - he didn’t know what - that Bruce Wayne wanted, and he wasn’t above using that to his advantage. He wondered when there had last been something (or someone) the man had wanted that he couldn’t just buy.
Probably as far back as assistant DA Dawes, and the long history between them obviously got in the way of any kind of reconciliation now. For one, Ms. Dawes puritan views regarding the law put her constantly at odds with Wayne.
Whatever it was Gotham’s prince wanted, he seemed to want it enough to play this game the way Jim wanted to play it. For now. And now that he was using his brain instead of his heart, Jim had his own curiosity to work around. What might a man with unlimited power and wealth want with a simple, unpopular police detective?
“Is that offer for dinner still open… Bruce?”
He tried to say it quietly, without whispering, but there wasn’t a sound in the entire room, and even a quiet voice carried. The shock over the line and inside the bullpen was almost tangible. He continued before anyone could get the wrong impression. “That helping hand you offered me?”
“Ah,” Wayne - Bruce - said again, on more familiar within the notion of someone coveting what he could give them. If it made him more comfortable to believe that, Jim wouldn’t disillusion him. “I’m available tomorrow night… Jim. Wayne Manor is-“
“No,” Jim said firmly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Not the manor. In city is closer and easier to access.” And less isolated. Frankly, whatever game they were playing here just wasn’t worth throwing his life away by meeting Bruce Wayne on his own terms with no escape route in mind. At least in the city Jim felt comfortable enough in her streets to draw strength from them.
After a stiff moment, Bruce said, “The manor is better equipped to provide dinner service at this time.”
“I’d be happy to provide the meal if it’s a problem.”
Jim wondered for a moment if he’d pushed too far. But after a long second where he sweated uncomfortably, and most of his coworkers seemed to sweat with him, the other man impassively intoned, “fine.”
“All right. Tomorrow then. Goodbye Mr. W- Bruce.”
“Good day Jim.”
Jim fumbled for the end button, having to hit it twice as his fingers were shaking just enough to throw it off. Around him, not even the normal bustle of office paperwork existed to interrupt the cavernous silence that permeated the room. No one was making a sound.
Jim was tempted to pull his gun and fire off a shot, just to see them all jump.
Well, he thought, slowly pocketing his returned phone, and flattening out the box it have arrived in. Guess who’s coming to dinner…
Note: I apologize if this chapter is crap. It's almost 6 AM and I need to sleep (it seems like I keep posting these later and later in the morning, somehow...). I promise the next one will be better.