Batman, Batman / Gordon, G
Title: Playing Dead
Pairing: Batman/Jim Gordon (Implied)
Prompt: No. 45: Escapes you perfected, playing dead, playing
stupid, playing blind, deaf, weak, strong,
playing girl, playing boy, playing native, foreign,
in love, out of love, playing crazy, sane.
- Li-Young Lee
Summary: Set just after Commissioner Gordon "died" in The Dark Knight.
Warnings: None
Author: blacktofade
Words: 1,087
Rating: G
A/N: This was written as part of knightfest. This has not been beta'd, so feel free to point out mistakes/offer concrit.
Disclaimer: I am not associated with Warner Brothers or any of its affiliates. The Batman characters belong to their respective owners. I don't mean any harm, this is all made up.
Playing dead wasn’t something Jim Gordon did regularly.
In fact, the last time he played dead, he had been 8 years old and playing in the park with his friends; a stick in his right hand, pointing it like a gun, and making bang bang noises loudly. His friend, a blond haired kid with freckles sprinkled over his nose, had jumped out from behind a tree and shot him down, the imaginary bullets piercing through his bright blue tee-shirt and into his skin. He had stopped suddenly, looking down at his small torso, as the crimson blood, that wasn’t really there, poured from his wounds, and had then looked back up into the face of his killer. He had placed a hand over his heart and theatrically gasped for breath. With a thud, he had fallen to his knees, ignoring the stinging when his skin was grazed even through the thick denim of his jeans. Still staring at his killer, he had gasped one more time, before flopping forwards. (His hands had darted out to brace himself from the fall, though he had hoped no one noticed.) He had held his breath until his face had gone bright red and his friends had grown bored waiting for him to jump up and scream “gotcha!”. His friends had gone off to play a different game without him.
It was when everything went silent and time seemed to stand still that Jim had dreamt of his future as a cop. He imagined the smart uniforms, the cold steel of guns, and locking bad guys up. The villain would never escape like his friend just had; they would stay and rot in a gloomy cell forever.
Jim sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly. The only thing his 8-year-old self hadn’t dreamt of was the mountain of paperwork he’d have to fill out to play dead for a short period of time. He also hadn’t dreamt of how lonely he would become.
After his “death”, he was forced to stay in a small rundown apartment that overlooked a large playing field. During the day, he listened to the laughter of children as they played soccer and wrestled in the lush green blades, and he wished so badly to be able to open the window just a crack to let the fresh breeze waft inside. He knew he couldn’t blow his chance, and so he stayed sitting at his desk, diligently filling out long overdue paperwork, catching up while he had the chance.
His guilt kept him company. He knew he couldn’t even begin to understand how his wife must have felt upon receiving the news of his death. He knew he couldn’t even begin to understand how she must have felt when she’d had to tell their children. The images of how their faces must have fallen, the lights in their eyes washing away with the tears slipping down their cheeks, burned behind his eyelids when he tried to sleep at night. It was while confined in the small hideout he had come to realised that, as bad as it sounded, it wasn’t his wife or his kids that he missed the most. It was the short moments in between his family life and work life. The moments when he would take out the trash or have a covert cigarette on the front porch when everyone else was asleep; the moments when Batman would appear all swirling cape and frowns. Sometimes, they wouldn’t even speak, they’d just stand together with the night air brushing around their bodies like their unspoken words.
Jim wondered how Batman had reacted to his death; he wondered if the man behind the mask had put his head in his hands and drawn in a shaking breath. A breath that told too much, one that silently said everything he would never be able to put into words, one that brought him to his knees. No strength in the world could beat him down, but one melancholy breath could send him crashing to the floor in seconds. Jim wondered if Batman was sitting outside his house, waiting for Jim to walk out and tell him “gotcha!”. Or, had Batman moved onto another game? Had he grown bored of lingering in the past?
Jim sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly again. This was why he hated being alone; he was stuck with just his thoughts to entertain him. Outside the children had stopped laughing; night had fallen over the city, lulling its occupants to sleep with the constant hum of car engines and flickering streetlights. Jim, sure that it was now safe, walked to the window and peered out. He could see his reflection in the glass; his face was drawn and heavier stubble scattered over his chin where he’d missed sections from the morning's poor attempts at shaving with his police-issued switchblade. Would anybody even recognise him if he stepped out onto the street? Would Batman know who he was?
His breath flashed hotly over the window, fogging the pane in front of him. As it cleared, more city lights came into view and he was left staring at the city he had fallen in love with so many years ago. Now, he was temporarily ostracised, in some dusty, forgotten room, with only the view of his city at night to fill his heart with hope.
His heart sped up as he saw a ghost of movement on the top of the apartment roofs across the way. He ducked away from the window, not knowing if it was because he didn’t want to be caught, or if he didn’t want to catch Batman carrying on with his crime fighting as though things were okay.
Jim stepped away from the window completely and headed toward the lumpy mattress that was set up on the floor in the opposite corner. He flopped onto it, not bothering to change (he has nothing to change into anyway), and set his glasses on the floor. He stared at the ceiling, watching the out-of-focus shadows move as if they were alive, until it hurt to keep his eyes open, and then he slipped into an uneasy sleep.
In his dreams, he stood on his porch, a cigarette between his fingers, and the rain pouring down around him. Batman was perched on the fire escape, his watchful eyes regarding Jim, and for once, Jim felt safe. For once, everything was okay, even if the world was falling down around them and Jim was playing dead.
Pairing: Batman/Jim Gordon (Implied)
Prompt: No. 45: Escapes you perfected, playing dead, playing
stupid, playing blind, deaf, weak, strong,
playing girl, playing boy, playing native, foreign,
in love, out of love, playing crazy, sane.
- Li-Young Lee
Summary: Set just after Commissioner Gordon "died" in The Dark Knight.
Warnings: None
Author: blacktofade
Words: 1,087
Rating: G
A/N: This was written as part of knightfest. This has not been beta'd, so feel free to point out mistakes/offer concrit.
Disclaimer: I am not associated with Warner Brothers or any of its affiliates. The Batman characters belong to their respective owners. I don't mean any harm, this is all made up.
Playing dead wasn’t something Jim Gordon did regularly.
In fact, the last time he played dead, he had been 8 years old and playing in the park with his friends; a stick in his right hand, pointing it like a gun, and making bang bang noises loudly. His friend, a blond haired kid with freckles sprinkled over his nose, had jumped out from behind a tree and shot him down, the imaginary bullets piercing through his bright blue tee-shirt and into his skin. He had stopped suddenly, looking down at his small torso, as the crimson blood, that wasn’t really there, poured from his wounds, and had then looked back up into the face of his killer. He had placed a hand over his heart and theatrically gasped for breath. With a thud, he had fallen to his knees, ignoring the stinging when his skin was grazed even through the thick denim of his jeans. Still staring at his killer, he had gasped one more time, before flopping forwards. (His hands had darted out to brace himself from the fall, though he had hoped no one noticed.) He had held his breath until his face had gone bright red and his friends had grown bored waiting for him to jump up and scream “gotcha!”. His friends had gone off to play a different game without him.
It was when everything went silent and time seemed to stand still that Jim had dreamt of his future as a cop. He imagined the smart uniforms, the cold steel of guns, and locking bad guys up. The villain would never escape like his friend just had; they would stay and rot in a gloomy cell forever.
Jim sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly. The only thing his 8-year-old self hadn’t dreamt of was the mountain of paperwork he’d have to fill out to play dead for a short period of time. He also hadn’t dreamt of how lonely he would become.
After his “death”, he was forced to stay in a small rundown apartment that overlooked a large playing field. During the day, he listened to the laughter of children as they played soccer and wrestled in the lush green blades, and he wished so badly to be able to open the window just a crack to let the fresh breeze waft inside. He knew he couldn’t blow his chance, and so he stayed sitting at his desk, diligently filling out long overdue paperwork, catching up while he had the chance.
His guilt kept him company. He knew he couldn’t even begin to understand how his wife must have felt upon receiving the news of his death. He knew he couldn’t even begin to understand how she must have felt when she’d had to tell their children. The images of how their faces must have fallen, the lights in their eyes washing away with the tears slipping down their cheeks, burned behind his eyelids when he tried to sleep at night. It was while confined in the small hideout he had come to realised that, as bad as it sounded, it wasn’t his wife or his kids that he missed the most. It was the short moments in between his family life and work life. The moments when he would take out the trash or have a covert cigarette on the front porch when everyone else was asleep; the moments when Batman would appear all swirling cape and frowns. Sometimes, they wouldn’t even speak, they’d just stand together with the night air brushing around their bodies like their unspoken words.
Jim wondered how Batman had reacted to his death; he wondered if the man behind the mask had put his head in his hands and drawn in a shaking breath. A breath that told too much, one that silently said everything he would never be able to put into words, one that brought him to his knees. No strength in the world could beat him down, but one melancholy breath could send him crashing to the floor in seconds. Jim wondered if Batman was sitting outside his house, waiting for Jim to walk out and tell him “gotcha!”. Or, had Batman moved onto another game? Had he grown bored of lingering in the past?
Jim sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly again. This was why he hated being alone; he was stuck with just his thoughts to entertain him. Outside the children had stopped laughing; night had fallen over the city, lulling its occupants to sleep with the constant hum of car engines and flickering streetlights. Jim, sure that it was now safe, walked to the window and peered out. He could see his reflection in the glass; his face was drawn and heavier stubble scattered over his chin where he’d missed sections from the morning's poor attempts at shaving with his police-issued switchblade. Would anybody even recognise him if he stepped out onto the street? Would Batman know who he was?
His breath flashed hotly over the window, fogging the pane in front of him. As it cleared, more city lights came into view and he was left staring at the city he had fallen in love with so many years ago. Now, he was temporarily ostracised, in some dusty, forgotten room, with only the view of his city at night to fill his heart with hope.
His heart sped up as he saw a ghost of movement on the top of the apartment roofs across the way. He ducked away from the window, not knowing if it was because he didn’t want to be caught, or if he didn’t want to catch Batman carrying on with his crime fighting as though things were okay.
Jim stepped away from the window completely and headed toward the lumpy mattress that was set up on the floor in the opposite corner. He flopped onto it, not bothering to change (he has nothing to change into anyway), and set his glasses on the floor. He stared at the ceiling, watching the out-of-focus shadows move as if they were alive, until it hurt to keep his eyes open, and then he slipped into an uneasy sleep.
In his dreams, he stood on his porch, a cigarette between his fingers, and the rain pouring down around him. Batman was perched on the fire escape, his watchful eyes regarding Jim, and for once, Jim felt safe. For once, everything was okay, even if the world was falling down around them and Jim was playing dead.