Divergence - Chapter Four
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
Summary: Bruce thought he had everything figured out until someone threw a wrench in his life.
"You're very lucky to have a family to love."
The words echoed through Bruce’s mind like a haunting lullaby he’d known once, long ago, and since forgotten. They conjured foggy images that he only managed to push aside with determined effort. Life, he told himself, was a numbers game, and should be treated that way; it was a day-to-day collection of intellectual gambits, nothing more. People couldn’t wallow in the bitter times of the past; he knew that better than most.
In the two days since speaking to Gordon in his car, he’d reflected on their conversation often. That in itself was disconcerting, since there hadn’t been much of a conversation to contemplate; certainly, what little there had been, couldn’t exactly be called compelling. Bruce often thought of plebian conversations as business deals - it was all about meeting the surface needs of others while arranging for them to meet all of his deeper ones. Gordon, whether accidentally or by design, had managed to frustrate all of Bruce’s intentions. He couldn’t decide if it was a brilliant power play, a mind game, or just hopelessly stupid, but if the man had hoped to alienate him, he’d managed quite the opposite. Which was healthier for him in the long run, really. People who alienated Bruce didn’t often have much chance to repeat their mistakes.
His obsession with this police detective was inexplicable and endlessly irritating. It had been a fantastic breach of his own unwritten rules of conduct when he’d pulled Gordon from the station to participate in an unproductive and ultimately useless conversation. Many years had passed since impulse had ruled him so utterly. Since long before Ra’s, before his own exile; it could be traced back to the moment of his parents death, perhaps, which might explain his own strange connection with this man who’d seen him, been with him, that night when everything had changed.
It’s okay. It’s okay…
But it hadn’t been. Gordon had lied. Perhaps that was why he watched the man now. Was he angry? He could hardly tell. Whatever this was, it didn’t seem motivated by base needs for vengeance or violence, which was almost more disturbing, as these, at least, were motivations Bruce understood. This… this incessant curiosity baffled him.
He settled easily one floor up from Gordon’s home, on the fire escape of the adjoining building. He wasn’t uncomfortable in his perch. As Batman, none would dare approach him, and he need not justify his illegal spying to any citizen of Gotham. The only one he might be obligated to explain that to would be Bruce Wayne and that thought, at least, was almost enough to make him smile. It also wiped away any trace of unnecessary guilt as he observed Gordon stalking about his own home, out of the gray rain and storm clouds. The Batsuit kept Bruce well insulated, thankfully.
He’d gotten more than a cursory glance at Gordon’s profile, and he could well imagine his features now, set in that same defiant, fearful cast. The fear had been expected, but the defiance was new. Bruce couldn’t even recall the last time anyone had done more than look him in the eye. The officer (and Bruce was still interested in the blemishes on his service record and would bring it up with Loeb as soon as it was prudent to do so) had been home less than an hour, but he spent much of that time pacing agitatedly through his house. A woman, his wife presumably, had come in shortly after his arrival, and Bruce had spent the last fifteen minutes deeply regretting that he hadn’t taken the time to install the audio tracers yet and was reduced to attempting to read their lips from fifty feet away. He caught only a few words here or there, but truthfully, he was less interested in what the man was saying than the tension that suffused his body as he said it. He couldn’t imagine any sort of affectionate conversation between Gordon and his wife that would be of any interest at all to him. Frankly, the thought annoyed him; perfect waste of time, trying to eavesdrop on small talk between two married persons…
He did notice, to his surprise, that they both went to great pains to avoid bumping into one another, which confused him. He’d rather thought that Gordon’s family was his best bargaining chip; he’d seemed frantic about it in the car. His behavior then and his demeanor now were completely at odds. Bruce was a good judge of character, but this was the second or third time he’d called Gordon wrong, first in Loeb’s office, then in the car, and now. What was it about this man that put all Bruce’s assumptions on their heads? People were not complicated; their motivations were not complicated. That Gordon seemed to be, fascinated Bruce. The contradictions only made him more and more curious.
As he watched the two of them interact, he observed their sharp abortive motions and realized they were fighting. He (obviously) couldn’t hear them, but he could imagine the types of worried, uncertain things they might be saying to one another. Had he told her about Bruce’s sudden appearance in his life? The billionaire had no illusions about his own power and influence. Perhaps Gordon had just told her now and that was the reason behind her wild gesticulations. It took passion to be so riled, a passion Bruce had chosen to lock away. It reminded him, suddenly, of the harrowing arguments he and Rachel used to have before… just before. Everything.
The sudden thoughts of Rachel were a little surprising. Before this week he hadn’t thought about her in months, if not years. Did he miss her, he wondered, examining his own frame of mind. Impossible to tell, really. How would he recognize the feeling if he did? It had been many years since he’d seen her. He wasn’t even sure he’d be able to recognize her face if he saw it.
He hadn’t meant that to happen, at the courthouse, that day so long ago. Even these many years later he could recall the hours and hours of planning he’d gone through; ten thousand contingency plans and lists of consequences and escape routes, and not one thought for the people who might be caught in the fallout when all was said and done. And all that scheming for naught, in the end. At the moment when he’d drawn the gun and shot the man who murdered his parents, all plans and clever ideas were discarded. There was only him, and his revenge. He’d heard Chill died before the ambulance ever arrived, and been glad for it; personally, he’d been preoccupied at the time being arrested. It had been three painful, tormented days in a holding cell before he’d managed to buy a favor and get bail posted (for what was, truly, an open and shut case that had both an abundance of evidence and a multitude of eyewitnesses). For anyone else, such a thing would have been out of the question, but in Gotham, money for more than a lubricant, it was a commodity.
Rachel hadn’t even been able to look him in the eye. She’s paid him one visit, the first evening after the courthouse, perhaps out of courtesy, where they’d stared at each other in helpless silence across the vast plain of disbelief that separated them. He couldn’t remember what was said, or even if he’d said anything at all, but he did remember the results: she’d unequivocally broken ties and walked away. He couldn’t blame her; he’d walked away first. Away from her ideals, her morality, her sense of justice; away from his own anguish, and helplessness.
Alfred had been both easier to handle, and more horrifying than the loss of Rachel. Bruce hadn’t expected him to understand, but he also hadn’t anticipated so painful a cut, either. Bruce could still hear his own voice, shockingly raw, as it begged for a forgiveness no man could grant.
“You said you’d never give up on me.”
But Alfred, it seemed, did have a line, and Bruce had crossed it. The look in his eyes that night, when Bruce returned to the mansion hurting and in pain - the billionaire understood intellectually, with emotion so far removed, that he hadn’t been the only one in pain that night. But the small seed of silence his actions had planted had spread since then, and now it could not be breached. They’d made overtures in the last two years, his old friends, attempts to reconnect, forgive, move on, but Bruce found he was uninterested in reconnecting.
And there was nothing he needed forgiveness for.
Watching Gordon pace in front of the dimly lit window, Bruce felt an old pain surface that ached like an untreated bruise. Too much time had passed, too much of him was walled away now, but he admitted there were times he almost missed the days when friends were more than just business acquaintances. He’d left Gotham long ago, and had not spoken to Alfred or Rachel until his return. The coldness that had taken root in his heart had only grown; he couldn’t stop it and wouldn’t choose to even if he could. Ra’s Al Ghul had seen that frozen strength in him and nurtured it. Bruce would be forever grateful. It had taken years to find someone who appreciated the subtle necessity of death, the mirror of justice and vengeance. When his ambitions had finally found a confidant, all his doubts had vanished, his self-flagellation disintegrating. He’d understood then that Joe Chill’s death was a tragedy, yes, but necessary, not the travesty he’d begun to imagine it might be; he’d understood that the people who turned their backs to him could not be counted on, that his only refuge lay within.
Bruce only wished that things could have been different with his mentor. Ra’s plans for Gotham had been rigid, unchangeable, and they didn’t mesh with Bruce’s. He hadn’t wanted to leave the house in the mountains, but while in their hearts the same ice spread, intellectually they were different people, with different ideals. Bruce lived only to save Gotham, while Ra’s would raze it to the ground. He’d learned all he dared from the man before he’d been unable to endure. Bruce knew the damage that lay within him, and the private fears he harbored he’d not shared with his teacher. Instead he’d fled in the night, ashamed, pained. And now Ra’s Al Ghul was dead, and for his death at least, Bruce was sorry.
Sorry, but not regretful.
Bruce was almost startled from his perch when something unexpected changed below him. Two more shadows slipped through Gordon’s bedroom door, coalescing into a young boy and girl. He stared at them; he’d forgotten, in the grand scheme of things, that Gordon had children. The two kids flung themselves at their father, the wife watching with what was undoubtedly an insipid look of adoration from several feet away, though she didn’t approach. What a perfect little family. Bruce felt the stirrings of another set of emotions he’d thought long buried: jealousy. Which was patently ridiculous, of course, and unworthy and a waste of time and who was he jealous of, anyway? He was too old to want or need a father figure. But there must be something he wanted from Gordon. What?
He took stock of himself, but he couldn’t see it. It was like trying to catch quicksilver; his grasp of his own motivations was astoundingly weak. The thought made him angry, and for him, anger had always been the most dangerous of instigators. Some people shouted, in anger, or punched walls, or threw breakable objects. When Bruce was angry, he made plans.
They say the eyes are windows to the soul, but Bruce had seen James Gordon’s eyes and they showed him nothing. Perhaps the eyes of his family would tell him more. He should introduce himself to these undoubtedly charming children, maybe get to know them a little. And through them, the wife. Threat assess. They were all innocents, beyond his reach, but there was nothing wrong with a reconnaissance mission.
It was time to get the measure of Barbara Gordon. And her husband.
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
Summary: Bruce thought he had everything figured out until someone threw a wrench in his life.
"You're very lucky to have a family to love."
The words echoed through Bruce’s mind like a haunting lullaby he’d known once, long ago, and since forgotten. They conjured foggy images that he only managed to push aside with determined effort. Life, he told himself, was a numbers game, and should be treated that way; it was a day-to-day collection of intellectual gambits, nothing more. People couldn’t wallow in the bitter times of the past; he knew that better than most.
In the two days since speaking to Gordon in his car, he’d reflected on their conversation often. That in itself was disconcerting, since there hadn’t been much of a conversation to contemplate; certainly, what little there had been, couldn’t exactly be called compelling. Bruce often thought of plebian conversations as business deals - it was all about meeting the surface needs of others while arranging for them to meet all of his deeper ones. Gordon, whether accidentally or by design, had managed to frustrate all of Bruce’s intentions. He couldn’t decide if it was a brilliant power play, a mind game, or just hopelessly stupid, but if the man had hoped to alienate him, he’d managed quite the opposite. Which was healthier for him in the long run, really. People who alienated Bruce didn’t often have much chance to repeat their mistakes.
His obsession with this police detective was inexplicable and endlessly irritating. It had been a fantastic breach of his own unwritten rules of conduct when he’d pulled Gordon from the station to participate in an unproductive and ultimately useless conversation. Many years had passed since impulse had ruled him so utterly. Since long before Ra’s, before his own exile; it could be traced back to the moment of his parents death, perhaps, which might explain his own strange connection with this man who’d seen him, been with him, that night when everything had changed.
It’s okay. It’s okay…
But it hadn’t been. Gordon had lied. Perhaps that was why he watched the man now. Was he angry? He could hardly tell. Whatever this was, it didn’t seem motivated by base needs for vengeance or violence, which was almost more disturbing, as these, at least, were motivations Bruce understood. This… this incessant curiosity baffled him.
He settled easily one floor up from Gordon’s home, on the fire escape of the adjoining building. He wasn’t uncomfortable in his perch. As Batman, none would dare approach him, and he need not justify his illegal spying to any citizen of Gotham. The only one he might be obligated to explain that to would be Bruce Wayne and that thought, at least, was almost enough to make him smile. It also wiped away any trace of unnecessary guilt as he observed Gordon stalking about his own home, out of the gray rain and storm clouds. The Batsuit kept Bruce well insulated, thankfully.
He’d gotten more than a cursory glance at Gordon’s profile, and he could well imagine his features now, set in that same defiant, fearful cast. The fear had been expected, but the defiance was new. Bruce couldn’t even recall the last time anyone had done more than look him in the eye. The officer (and Bruce was still interested in the blemishes on his service record and would bring it up with Loeb as soon as it was prudent to do so) had been home less than an hour, but he spent much of that time pacing agitatedly through his house. A woman, his wife presumably, had come in shortly after his arrival, and Bruce had spent the last fifteen minutes deeply regretting that he hadn’t taken the time to install the audio tracers yet and was reduced to attempting to read their lips from fifty feet away. He caught only a few words here or there, but truthfully, he was less interested in what the man was saying than the tension that suffused his body as he said it. He couldn’t imagine any sort of affectionate conversation between Gordon and his wife that would be of any interest at all to him. Frankly, the thought annoyed him; perfect waste of time, trying to eavesdrop on small talk between two married persons…
He did notice, to his surprise, that they both went to great pains to avoid bumping into one another, which confused him. He’d rather thought that Gordon’s family was his best bargaining chip; he’d seemed frantic about it in the car. His behavior then and his demeanor now were completely at odds. Bruce was a good judge of character, but this was the second or third time he’d called Gordon wrong, first in Loeb’s office, then in the car, and now. What was it about this man that put all Bruce’s assumptions on their heads? People were not complicated; their motivations were not complicated. That Gordon seemed to be, fascinated Bruce. The contradictions only made him more and more curious.
As he watched the two of them interact, he observed their sharp abortive motions and realized they were fighting. He (obviously) couldn’t hear them, but he could imagine the types of worried, uncertain things they might be saying to one another. Had he told her about Bruce’s sudden appearance in his life? The billionaire had no illusions about his own power and influence. Perhaps Gordon had just told her now and that was the reason behind her wild gesticulations. It took passion to be so riled, a passion Bruce had chosen to lock away. It reminded him, suddenly, of the harrowing arguments he and Rachel used to have before… just before. Everything.
The sudden thoughts of Rachel were a little surprising. Before this week he hadn’t thought about her in months, if not years. Did he miss her, he wondered, examining his own frame of mind. Impossible to tell, really. How would he recognize the feeling if he did? It had been many years since he’d seen her. He wasn’t even sure he’d be able to recognize her face if he saw it.
He hadn’t meant that to happen, at the courthouse, that day so long ago. Even these many years later he could recall the hours and hours of planning he’d gone through; ten thousand contingency plans and lists of consequences and escape routes, and not one thought for the people who might be caught in the fallout when all was said and done. And all that scheming for naught, in the end. At the moment when he’d drawn the gun and shot the man who murdered his parents, all plans and clever ideas were discarded. There was only him, and his revenge. He’d heard Chill died before the ambulance ever arrived, and been glad for it; personally, he’d been preoccupied at the time being arrested. It had been three painful, tormented days in a holding cell before he’d managed to buy a favor and get bail posted (for what was, truly, an open and shut case that had both an abundance of evidence and a multitude of eyewitnesses). For anyone else, such a thing would have been out of the question, but in Gotham, money for more than a lubricant, it was a commodity.
Rachel hadn’t even been able to look him in the eye. She’s paid him one visit, the first evening after the courthouse, perhaps out of courtesy, where they’d stared at each other in helpless silence across the vast plain of disbelief that separated them. He couldn’t remember what was said, or even if he’d said anything at all, but he did remember the results: she’d unequivocally broken ties and walked away. He couldn’t blame her; he’d walked away first. Away from her ideals, her morality, her sense of justice; away from his own anguish, and helplessness.
Alfred had been both easier to handle, and more horrifying than the loss of Rachel. Bruce hadn’t expected him to understand, but he also hadn’t anticipated so painful a cut, either. Bruce could still hear his own voice, shockingly raw, as it begged for a forgiveness no man could grant.
“You said you’d never give up on me.”
But Alfred, it seemed, did have a line, and Bruce had crossed it. The look in his eyes that night, when Bruce returned to the mansion hurting and in pain - the billionaire understood intellectually, with emotion so far removed, that he hadn’t been the only one in pain that night. But the small seed of silence his actions had planted had spread since then, and now it could not be breached. They’d made overtures in the last two years, his old friends, attempts to reconnect, forgive, move on, but Bruce found he was uninterested in reconnecting.
And there was nothing he needed forgiveness for.
Watching Gordon pace in front of the dimly lit window, Bruce felt an old pain surface that ached like an untreated bruise. Too much time had passed, too much of him was walled away now, but he admitted there were times he almost missed the days when friends were more than just business acquaintances. He’d left Gotham long ago, and had not spoken to Alfred or Rachel until his return. The coldness that had taken root in his heart had only grown; he couldn’t stop it and wouldn’t choose to even if he could. Ra’s Al Ghul had seen that frozen strength in him and nurtured it. Bruce would be forever grateful. It had taken years to find someone who appreciated the subtle necessity of death, the mirror of justice and vengeance. When his ambitions had finally found a confidant, all his doubts had vanished, his self-flagellation disintegrating. He’d understood then that Joe Chill’s death was a tragedy, yes, but necessary, not the travesty he’d begun to imagine it might be; he’d understood that the people who turned their backs to him could not be counted on, that his only refuge lay within.
Bruce only wished that things could have been different with his mentor. Ra’s plans for Gotham had been rigid, unchangeable, and they didn’t mesh with Bruce’s. He hadn’t wanted to leave the house in the mountains, but while in their hearts the same ice spread, intellectually they were different people, with different ideals. Bruce lived only to save Gotham, while Ra’s would raze it to the ground. He’d learned all he dared from the man before he’d been unable to endure. Bruce knew the damage that lay within him, and the private fears he harbored he’d not shared with his teacher. Instead he’d fled in the night, ashamed, pained. And now Ra’s Al Ghul was dead, and for his death at least, Bruce was sorry.
Sorry, but not regretful.
Bruce was almost startled from his perch when something unexpected changed below him. Two more shadows slipped through Gordon’s bedroom door, coalescing into a young boy and girl. He stared at them; he’d forgotten, in the grand scheme of things, that Gordon had children. The two kids flung themselves at their father, the wife watching with what was undoubtedly an insipid look of adoration from several feet away, though she didn’t approach. What a perfect little family. Bruce felt the stirrings of another set of emotions he’d thought long buried: jealousy. Which was patently ridiculous, of course, and unworthy and a waste of time and who was he jealous of, anyway? He was too old to want or need a father figure. But there must be something he wanted from Gordon. What?
He took stock of himself, but he couldn’t see it. It was like trying to catch quicksilver; his grasp of his own motivations was astoundingly weak. The thought made him angry, and for him, anger had always been the most dangerous of instigators. Some people shouted, in anger, or punched walls, or threw breakable objects. When Bruce was angry, he made plans.
They say the eyes are windows to the soul, but Bruce had seen James Gordon’s eyes and they showed him nothing. Perhaps the eyes of his family would tell him more. He should introduce himself to these undoubtedly charming children, maybe get to know them a little. And through them, the wife. Threat assess. They were all innocents, beyond his reach, but there was nothing wrong with a reconnaissance mission.
It was time to get the measure of Barbara Gordon. And her husband.