Divergence - Chapter Five
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
Summary: Unexpected connections.
Barbara cut off three people whipping into the parking space across the road from Gotham Elementary, but after her absolutely grueling day, she could honestly say she didn't care. She was nearly fifteen minutes late picking up Jimmy and Barb, and she could just imagine what Jim would have to say about that when, or if, one of them blurted it out to him. The very thought made her grit her teeth in irritation. Half of this was his fault anyway; the argument last night (one of many) had made for one long, miserable sleep, shortly leading to a grinding day where every minute seemed to crawl except for the last thirty, where she realized she was behind schedule. Sometimes it seemed to her like even the most simple of conversations was beyond she and her husband now. They used to fight about the little things, like normal people, but now there were no little things, and everything that went wrong meant something. She alternated between feeling guilty and letting her pride get in the way. She longed for the days of gentle contentment, if not happiness. She thought of ways to try and bring those days back.
She thought of how to tell Jim she was leaving him.
It wouldn’t be easy. Though it had been years since they’d seen eye-to-eye on just about anything, Barbara still ached for Jim, who couldn’t see how life in Gotham was destroying him, and by proxy, them. He couldn’t see how this city poisoned everything it touched, and Barbara couldn’t afford to keep trying to convince him. But that didn’t mean it would be easy.
She ran a distracted hand through her hair and hopped out of the car, darting between traffic and other harried parents in the desperate crush of people, each trying to inch their way home fastest. Jimmy and Barb were standing in plain sight, thankfully, kicking at the curb as they waited. Barb perked right up and ran to her when she stepped onto the sidewalk, calling, "mum!" Jimmy was more reserved, picking up his backpack and shambling toward her. Barbara almost sighed. After this long day she really didn't feel up to dealing with Jimmy's quiet resentment. Her son wasn't an outspoken boy, but he usually made his feelings clear, and it could not be more obvious how he felt about his parent’s growing distance.
And how, she wondered, was she going to tell him she was leaving his father. Stabbing herself with a dull knife might be less painful.
"Hey kids," she said, with forced cheer. "Sorry I'm late; I got held up at the office. I'll buy you an ice cream to make up for it." Barb looked ecstatic at this announcement, but Jimmy's face only cleared for the briefest of moments.
As they began to make their way back to the car, Barbara felt a small hand slip into hers and looked down to see guileless eyes staring up at her. Jimmy was looking resolutely in the other direction, pretending at deafness, and Barbara could have told him he was doing a terrible job of it; if anyone should know about contrived silence, it was certainly she.
“What’s wrong, honey?” She squeezed Barb’s fingers once, tugging her along. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen such a solemn look on her daughters face, nor was it likely to be the last, but it tugged at Barbara’s heartstrings with steady, guilty pressure.
“Is daddy going to meet us for ice cream?” That tiny voice asked, and Barbara closed her eyes gently, opening them only when she felt she could look at her children without flinching or providing them with anything but a smile.
“No, sweetie,” she said gently, ruffling her hair and darting a quick look at her son, who wouldn’t, she knew, have looked in her direction at that moment to save his life. “Daddy hasn’t met us after school for a long time, you know that.”
Barb dropped her eyes, looking disproportionately disappointed, and slipped her hand out of her mothers as they crossed the street. Barbara felt her heart clench painfully. It was going to kill Jim; it was going to kill them both, but sooner rather than later, they had to do something before this crippled the kids. More than it already had.
She was so distracted she almost walked into the car before noticing it was there. She stumbled back a step, realizing that Barb and Jimmy had already stopped several steps before, staring at the sleek silver sports car parked illegally parallel to her small blue sedan. She took a moment to admire the color and clean lines of it before getting annoyed; she’d never been a lover of cars, but even she could see quality when it drove, literally, right up to her door. Although that didn’t stop her from getting angry that it was there.
“What the hell,” she muttered, ushering the kids off the street and away from traffic, which was swerving to avoid the vehicle. “Whose car is this? What idiot would-“
“It does take a certain kind, doesn’t it?” A smooth baritone voice inquired from behind her; she jumped in surprise. “Of idiot, I mean.”
She turned, ready to tear a strip off the man for his presumption, but when the handsome face came into focus, attached to a tailored business suit and Italian leather shoes, she felt her heart, which had previously been clenching in pain, squeeze suddenly in fear.
Bruce Wayne was not the sort of person one ever saw standing casually in the middle of the road in a residential area. And he was certainly not the kind of person who accidentally parked his car in just such a spot as to prevent you from leaving.
She could have said anything at that moment. Greeted him, apologized profusely, told him there was a growing line of traffic backing up behind him with nary a sound because no one would ever dare honk at the prince of Gotham. But she said nothing, feeling quite as though her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth.
Bruce could, possibly, have imagined the panic his sudden appearance might evoke if he'd considered it, but if he put any thought to it at all, it might only have encouraged him. He was not the sort of man who curtailed his own plans because it might be inconvenient for someone else. Certainly he didn't care if one particular woman found him objectionable. He'd expected to come into and out of this encounter as wrapped in confidence as he normally was, but his first glimpse of Barbara Gordon made him falter, if only slightly. Though not classically beautiful, the woman had a grace and natural willowy figure that made her quite striking. It made him distinctly uneasy; he forced himself not to size her up as he would any potential unknown in a hostile situation.
She's done nothing, he told himself, and there’s no reason to evaluate her. You came here for information, so get to it and get out.
"Mrs. Gordon, if I'm not mistaken?" He smiled at her. "I do apologize about the car. I was in a bit of a hurry."
"A hurry," she said faintly, staring at him.
He nodded. "Yes. I saw you here and couldn't resist coming over to say hello. You're Jim Gordon's wife, aren't you?"
She stared at him, and her fear made Bruce pause. He wasn’t the greatest conversationalist out there, but he was used to beguiling people, especially women, with his physical charms. He’d thought, prematurely it seemed, that insinuating himself into Barbara Gordon’s good graces would have been simple, if not easy. But looked at though she was truly Gordon’s wife; her knowledge of him gave her fear where another’s ignorance might have bred flattery.
A more direct strategy was called for, and Bruce found himself almost relieved to drop the façade of friendliness for a more honest look of frank curiosity.
Barbara swallowed harshly, lips parting in a failed attempt to make noise. Below her, a small voice prodded, "mum, is he talking about daddy?" Bruce looked down, taking in the little girl with fine red-brown hair and the boy, who stared so openly, the earlier sullen mien Bruce had witnessed gone at the first glimpse of his Lamborghini. If only it was always so easy to procure respect.
"Hello," he said easily. "What's your name?" Both children blinked at him, the girl drawing closer to her mother, but the boy looked directly at him, perhaps intrigued despite himself. Bruce felt his mouth soften into a genuine impression of a smile.
"Jimmy," the kid said. Bruce nodded at him solemnly, affording him a respect many adults wouldn't, and the kid seemed to grow an inch at the gesture.
"Jimmy!" His mother scolded sharply, and when Bruce glanced at her, he could see her eyes darting between them, the first glaze of anger filming them. He let the smile grow cold, staring at her. He didn't like this woman.
"You know my dad?" Jimmy asked. Bruce noticed that Barbara didn't dare object to them speaking so long as he was looking at her. He didn't take his eyes from hers when he replied in the affirmative.
"Do you work together?" Bruce blinked looking down to see an inquisitive face turned up to him. It occurred to him, belatedly, that these two children didn't know who he was. He stood a moment, processing that idea. Since his return to Gotham, there had almost never been a person to whom he spoke who didn't first know the rules of any conversation taking place with Bruce Wayne, from whom nothing was hidden and nothing was sacred. It was a novel experience, seeing neither fear nor greed in the gaze that turned his way now. Gordon's unexpected appearance in his life had precipitated many such novel experiences lately.
Bruce couldn't decide whether he approved or not.
"Well," he said at last, "we work together after a fashion." Thinking, if only your father knew what kind of fashion.
"Really?" A tiny voice piped up. Bruce swept his eyes toward the little girl, who promptly hid her shy face in her mothers coat. He forced himself to look unthreatening, another unusual experience and one he was sure he didn't quite pull off.
"Really." He confirmed, raising his eyes and daring Barbara to say otherwise. She didn't, but he could almost see her panic as she looked despairingly at her car, the school behind her, and her son between them, staring in fascination at the Lamborghini. Bruce reached over and tapped the window.
"Ever seen a car like this?" He asked. Jimmy shook his head, looking like it was the most fascinating piece of machinery he'd ever seen. Maybe it was.
Bruce opened the door, pocketed the keys and gestured grandly. "Be my guest." Jimmy didn't need to be told twice and scrambled inside eagerly. His sister held back, though Bruce could see she was also curious. He looked at their mother, who appeared as though she couldn't choose between fatally offending the billionaire or calling her son back.
"Mrs. Gordon," he said. She looked at him, as immobile as granite. Ten years ago her fear might have made Bruce's skin crawl, but if there was one thing Felconi had taught him, it was that ninety-percent of respect was invested first in fear. "There are some things I've been meaning to ask your husband that I'm sure you could answer."
She went absolutely white in the face. Bruce stared at her, impassively, until she shut her eyes as though by sheer force of will she could make him disappear.
"Things?" She whispered.
"Yes. I'm - curious to know certain things about him. What he does when he's not at work. When he's with you." He didn't put any emphasis on the word 'you', but he felt a spark of distaste when he said it. Curious.
Jimmy poked his head out of the window, looking mussed and excited. "Dad doesn’t come home much," he puffed, and Bruce swung his eyes toward him, raising his eyebrows in encouragement. "Says being a cop is a ’24-hour job’. He used to come home more, but he and mom fight so often now-” He stopped, seeming to realize he'd made a social faux pas.
“Oh?” Bruce asked, vaguely startled. Beginning to feel like he was the ball in a ping pong match, he darted his eyes back to Barbara, who hadn’t moved or opened her eyes. “Your parents fight?”
But Jimmy bit his lip, glancing at his mother and away. Loyalty to her kept him quiet. Bruce almost sighed in frustration; so close and yet so far.
"My parents fought," he said in subtle encouragement, and it wasn't even a lie. "My mother used to say that she'd worry more if they didn't fight."
"Really?" Jimmy asked, looking astonished that any adult might admit to something so strange. "What did they fight about?"
"Everything," Bruce said, remembering it even as he said it. “Mostly Gotham.” Once, these memories might have been painful, but he was surprised to note only a vague fondness lingered at the touch of them now. Sometimes, before it had all come to - this - he used to pull out these treasured moments, those few he still remembered, and play them until he could almost feel the warmth of his mothers hand on his face, the scent of his fathers cologne. Now, their images were reduced to tools to further his pursuits. And yet, certainly no parent could ask more than to help their child accomplish his goals. He had made this city safe off the backbone of his parent’s memories; surely they would be proud.
“Yeah, mom and dad argue about Gotham too,” Jimmy said.
“Jimmy, no,” his mother croaked. Bruce speared her with his eyes, unwilling to let her fear silence the well of information peering out from his car.
“Do they?” Bruce asked quietly, staring at her. “What do they say?”
Jimmy looked once at his mothers white face and hesitated, but Bruce smiled at him reassuringly, watching him bask in the attention - obviously this was a boy too used to adults ignoring him. “Mom doesn’t think it’s safe here. But Dad doesn’t want to leave.”
Barbara closed her eyes as though expecting any moment to be struck down. Bruce considered it, but discarded the idea. In a way, this might have been marvelously easier if she were a criminal and he could interrogate her as he was used to without all this useless subtlety.
“It is safe here,” Bruce said to Jimmy. “With the new no-tolerance policies, the crime rate is down almost ninety percent since last year.” At Jimmy’s blank look of confusion, he clarified, “there are less criminals on the streets.”
“Well, yeah,” Jimmy said, actually looking at him fully for the first time since he’d gotten into the car. The look on his face clearly said he thought Bruce was short a few screws. “But everyone’s afraid now. More than they were before.”
Bruce almost, almost winced. It was one thing to strike fear into the hearts of his - of Gotham’s - enemies. It was another to hear it ‘out of the mouths of babes’.
Bruce had never before felt uncertain about his methods maintaining control in Gotham; his actions had always been carefully justified. In the eyes of the law, a man was allowed to defend himself using lethal, deadly force, as necessary. The only difference between his policy on crime and the strict adherence to the law, was that his definition of necessary was perhaps a little more lax than some. And Bruce had always believed that a good defense was wrapped up in an even better offense. If he had to protect Gotham from even itself, he was more than willing to do so. If someone else had done so, many years ago, his parent’s lives might have been spared.
He pushed the doubts aside until they vanished. What was done, was done, and couldn’t be changed. More to the point, he wouldn’t change it even if he could.
“Jimmy, what does your father think about the city?”
Jimmy took a moment to answer, buried as he was in a stack of Bruce’s new CD’s that hadn’t even been released yet in America. “He loves Gotham, but he’s scared for us. Always tells us it’s not safe to go out alone.”
Now that was interesting, because of all things, Gotham was now the most safe it had ever been. Even alone. “Why not?”
“Don’t know. Says Batman is always watching, and that we need to be careful.”
A knife of something harsh and painful slid through Bruce’s gut like ice. The feeling was remarkably physical, like taking a kick to the solar plexus, and he marveled at it. Breath became a scarce commodity; he couldn’t seem to get enough of it to tell Jimmy that wasn’t true, that Batman would never hurt him, would never stand for him being harmed. He hadn’t felt such crushing weight in years, not since he’d given up on guilt, on the world, as it had given up on him. But it was a cold pill to swallow, that all his painstaking efforts to make Gotham safe, all his training, was reduced to having children run in fear from him. They, who of all people, were safest from him. It was terribly bleak. Almost depressing.
“Jimmy,” Barbara whispered. Bruce noticed that she’d tucked her little girl behind her, hidden from his eyes. Though he stared at her in warning, she forced herself to speak words. “Come here, please.”
Jimmy ignored her, all defiance and bravado, enthralled with this strange, powerful man who had given him such undivided attention. Who looked at him, and treated him as though what he had to say actually mattered. Bruce could almost see the hidden pain radiating underneath the boys’ shell of indifference. It was perhaps the more surreal sensation yet, to see himself in the eyes of a boy who was not at all like him, but who dealt with his pain in a way Bruce could distinctly remember had never gotten him anywhere. It wasn’t the same; he hoped he never met another person with quite the same scars as him. But it was so similar he could almost imagine the thoughts running through Jimmy’s head. They were thoughts he’d had, wants and needs that he’d had. He made a quick decision.
“Jimmy,” he said, and the boy looked at him solemnly. “Go to your mother.” Jimmy dropped his eyes, chastened, flushing, and Bruce amended, “It’s been - nice (Did I just say that? he thought) meeting you, but I do need to get going.”
The boy scrambled out, shame-faced. Bruce reached out for him, past his own inner voice warning him not to, past Barbara’s pained gasp next to them. Jimmy looked up at the glancing brush against his arm, and Bruce saw his own long-ago pain reflected there, the loneliness and hopeless bravery and sadness. Somewhere beneath the ice, a resonance connected the two of them, and Bruce felt an unexpected warmth begin to spread, like the first unpleasant tingles of blood re-circulating through a sleeping limb.
Jimmy was staring up at him, searching his face for answers Bruce didn’t have to give; answers that no one had ever been able to give him. He had nothing to offer this boy but his experience, and that information was more painful, more precious and closely guarded than even the treasures of the Wayne vault.
He opened one of those inner secrets then, uncurling it like an old, dusty scroll, forcing himself to pull the memory out and examine it under a microscope. Because Jimmy needed someone to understand, and Bruce understood. Intimately.
“It doesn’t go away,” he told him, truthfully, because if only someone had told him truthfully, he might have been spared the anguish. “What you feel now. It doesn’t fade or magically disappear. But it does get better. One day it’ll be so much better you’ll hardly even notice it’s still there. Alright?”
Jimmy stared at him in silence, and no one there could have been more surprised at Bruce than he himself. They shared a quiet look, an understanding that spread like fine, invisible filaments between them. It was a sad twist of fate that Bruce found his greatest connections in the shared, unfortunate pain of others. “Alright,” the boy said quietly, and touched Bruce simply on the hand, and went to his mother.
Bruce vaguely recalled Barbara Gordon’s face, her astonishment and relief and love and fear, but as he climbed into his car and drove away, and later thought about that moment, again and again, he mostly remembered the look in Jimmy Gordon’s eyes.
And though it burned him to admit it, he remembered also his own, brief, terrible flash of jealousy, watching the boy return to his mother.
And because it burned him, and because he would never admit to being afraid, he shut it all away, threw himself once more into saving Gotham, and pretended not to notice the small kernel of warmth in his stomach that absolutely refused to fade away.
Note: I have no idea how old these kids are, so I went with what worked best for me here, lol. Convenient? Oh, yes!
Sorry this was late... the week before finals is packed with due dates for papers, and ugh, I feel like I've been run over by a bus. Thank you so much to everyone who's been commenting! Feedback is so wonderful; it not only lets me know what people think, it lets me know who's reading, and who's interested!
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
Summary: Unexpected connections.
Barbara cut off three people whipping into the parking space across the road from Gotham Elementary, but after her absolutely grueling day, she could honestly say she didn't care. She was nearly fifteen minutes late picking up Jimmy and Barb, and she could just imagine what Jim would have to say about that when, or if, one of them blurted it out to him. The very thought made her grit her teeth in irritation. Half of this was his fault anyway; the argument last night (one of many) had made for one long, miserable sleep, shortly leading to a grinding day where every minute seemed to crawl except for the last thirty, where she realized she was behind schedule. Sometimes it seemed to her like even the most simple of conversations was beyond she and her husband now. They used to fight about the little things, like normal people, but now there were no little things, and everything that went wrong meant something. She alternated between feeling guilty and letting her pride get in the way. She longed for the days of gentle contentment, if not happiness. She thought of ways to try and bring those days back.
She thought of how to tell Jim she was leaving him.
It wouldn’t be easy. Though it had been years since they’d seen eye-to-eye on just about anything, Barbara still ached for Jim, who couldn’t see how life in Gotham was destroying him, and by proxy, them. He couldn’t see how this city poisoned everything it touched, and Barbara couldn’t afford to keep trying to convince him. But that didn’t mean it would be easy.
She ran a distracted hand through her hair and hopped out of the car, darting between traffic and other harried parents in the desperate crush of people, each trying to inch their way home fastest. Jimmy and Barb were standing in plain sight, thankfully, kicking at the curb as they waited. Barb perked right up and ran to her when she stepped onto the sidewalk, calling, "mum!" Jimmy was more reserved, picking up his backpack and shambling toward her. Barbara almost sighed. After this long day she really didn't feel up to dealing with Jimmy's quiet resentment. Her son wasn't an outspoken boy, but he usually made his feelings clear, and it could not be more obvious how he felt about his parent’s growing distance.
And how, she wondered, was she going to tell him she was leaving his father. Stabbing herself with a dull knife might be less painful.
"Hey kids," she said, with forced cheer. "Sorry I'm late; I got held up at the office. I'll buy you an ice cream to make up for it." Barb looked ecstatic at this announcement, but Jimmy's face only cleared for the briefest of moments.
As they began to make their way back to the car, Barbara felt a small hand slip into hers and looked down to see guileless eyes staring up at her. Jimmy was looking resolutely in the other direction, pretending at deafness, and Barbara could have told him he was doing a terrible job of it; if anyone should know about contrived silence, it was certainly she.
“What’s wrong, honey?” She squeezed Barb’s fingers once, tugging her along. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen such a solemn look on her daughters face, nor was it likely to be the last, but it tugged at Barbara’s heartstrings with steady, guilty pressure.
“Is daddy going to meet us for ice cream?” That tiny voice asked, and Barbara closed her eyes gently, opening them only when she felt she could look at her children without flinching or providing them with anything but a smile.
“No, sweetie,” she said gently, ruffling her hair and darting a quick look at her son, who wouldn’t, she knew, have looked in her direction at that moment to save his life. “Daddy hasn’t met us after school for a long time, you know that.”
Barb dropped her eyes, looking disproportionately disappointed, and slipped her hand out of her mothers as they crossed the street. Barbara felt her heart clench painfully. It was going to kill Jim; it was going to kill them both, but sooner rather than later, they had to do something before this crippled the kids. More than it already had.
She was so distracted she almost walked into the car before noticing it was there. She stumbled back a step, realizing that Barb and Jimmy had already stopped several steps before, staring at the sleek silver sports car parked illegally parallel to her small blue sedan. She took a moment to admire the color and clean lines of it before getting annoyed; she’d never been a lover of cars, but even she could see quality when it drove, literally, right up to her door. Although that didn’t stop her from getting angry that it was there.
“What the hell,” she muttered, ushering the kids off the street and away from traffic, which was swerving to avoid the vehicle. “Whose car is this? What idiot would-“
“It does take a certain kind, doesn’t it?” A smooth baritone voice inquired from behind her; she jumped in surprise. “Of idiot, I mean.”
She turned, ready to tear a strip off the man for his presumption, but when the handsome face came into focus, attached to a tailored business suit and Italian leather shoes, she felt her heart, which had previously been clenching in pain, squeeze suddenly in fear.
Bruce Wayne was not the sort of person one ever saw standing casually in the middle of the road in a residential area. And he was certainly not the kind of person who accidentally parked his car in just such a spot as to prevent you from leaving.
She could have said anything at that moment. Greeted him, apologized profusely, told him there was a growing line of traffic backing up behind him with nary a sound because no one would ever dare honk at the prince of Gotham. But she said nothing, feeling quite as though her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth.
Bruce could, possibly, have imagined the panic his sudden appearance might evoke if he'd considered it, but if he put any thought to it at all, it might only have encouraged him. He was not the sort of man who curtailed his own plans because it might be inconvenient for someone else. Certainly he didn't care if one particular woman found him objectionable. He'd expected to come into and out of this encounter as wrapped in confidence as he normally was, but his first glimpse of Barbara Gordon made him falter, if only slightly. Though not classically beautiful, the woman had a grace and natural willowy figure that made her quite striking. It made him distinctly uneasy; he forced himself not to size her up as he would any potential unknown in a hostile situation.
She's done nothing, he told himself, and there’s no reason to evaluate her. You came here for information, so get to it and get out.
"Mrs. Gordon, if I'm not mistaken?" He smiled at her. "I do apologize about the car. I was in a bit of a hurry."
"A hurry," she said faintly, staring at him.
He nodded. "Yes. I saw you here and couldn't resist coming over to say hello. You're Jim Gordon's wife, aren't you?"
She stared at him, and her fear made Bruce pause. He wasn’t the greatest conversationalist out there, but he was used to beguiling people, especially women, with his physical charms. He’d thought, prematurely it seemed, that insinuating himself into Barbara Gordon’s good graces would have been simple, if not easy. But looked at though she was truly Gordon’s wife; her knowledge of him gave her fear where another’s ignorance might have bred flattery.
A more direct strategy was called for, and Bruce found himself almost relieved to drop the façade of friendliness for a more honest look of frank curiosity.
Barbara swallowed harshly, lips parting in a failed attempt to make noise. Below her, a small voice prodded, "mum, is he talking about daddy?" Bruce looked down, taking in the little girl with fine red-brown hair and the boy, who stared so openly, the earlier sullen mien Bruce had witnessed gone at the first glimpse of his Lamborghini. If only it was always so easy to procure respect.
"Hello," he said easily. "What's your name?" Both children blinked at him, the girl drawing closer to her mother, but the boy looked directly at him, perhaps intrigued despite himself. Bruce felt his mouth soften into a genuine impression of a smile.
"Jimmy," the kid said. Bruce nodded at him solemnly, affording him a respect many adults wouldn't, and the kid seemed to grow an inch at the gesture.
"Jimmy!" His mother scolded sharply, and when Bruce glanced at her, he could see her eyes darting between them, the first glaze of anger filming them. He let the smile grow cold, staring at her. He didn't like this woman.
"You know my dad?" Jimmy asked. Bruce noticed that Barbara didn't dare object to them speaking so long as he was looking at her. He didn't take his eyes from hers when he replied in the affirmative.
"Do you work together?" Bruce blinked looking down to see an inquisitive face turned up to him. It occurred to him, belatedly, that these two children didn't know who he was. He stood a moment, processing that idea. Since his return to Gotham, there had almost never been a person to whom he spoke who didn't first know the rules of any conversation taking place with Bruce Wayne, from whom nothing was hidden and nothing was sacred. It was a novel experience, seeing neither fear nor greed in the gaze that turned his way now. Gordon's unexpected appearance in his life had precipitated many such novel experiences lately.
Bruce couldn't decide whether he approved or not.
"Well," he said at last, "we work together after a fashion." Thinking, if only your father knew what kind of fashion.
"Really?" A tiny voice piped up. Bruce swept his eyes toward the little girl, who promptly hid her shy face in her mothers coat. He forced himself to look unthreatening, another unusual experience and one he was sure he didn't quite pull off.
"Really." He confirmed, raising his eyes and daring Barbara to say otherwise. She didn't, but he could almost see her panic as she looked despairingly at her car, the school behind her, and her son between them, staring in fascination at the Lamborghini. Bruce reached over and tapped the window.
"Ever seen a car like this?" He asked. Jimmy shook his head, looking like it was the most fascinating piece of machinery he'd ever seen. Maybe it was.
Bruce opened the door, pocketed the keys and gestured grandly. "Be my guest." Jimmy didn't need to be told twice and scrambled inside eagerly. His sister held back, though Bruce could see she was also curious. He looked at their mother, who appeared as though she couldn't choose between fatally offending the billionaire or calling her son back.
"Mrs. Gordon," he said. She looked at him, as immobile as granite. Ten years ago her fear might have made Bruce's skin crawl, but if there was one thing Felconi had taught him, it was that ninety-percent of respect was invested first in fear. "There are some things I've been meaning to ask your husband that I'm sure you could answer."
She went absolutely white in the face. Bruce stared at her, impassively, until she shut her eyes as though by sheer force of will she could make him disappear.
"Things?" She whispered.
"Yes. I'm - curious to know certain things about him. What he does when he's not at work. When he's with you." He didn't put any emphasis on the word 'you', but he felt a spark of distaste when he said it. Curious.
Jimmy poked his head out of the window, looking mussed and excited. "Dad doesn’t come home much," he puffed, and Bruce swung his eyes toward him, raising his eyebrows in encouragement. "Says being a cop is a ’24-hour job’. He used to come home more, but he and mom fight so often now-” He stopped, seeming to realize he'd made a social faux pas.
“Oh?” Bruce asked, vaguely startled. Beginning to feel like he was the ball in a ping pong match, he darted his eyes back to Barbara, who hadn’t moved or opened her eyes. “Your parents fight?”
But Jimmy bit his lip, glancing at his mother and away. Loyalty to her kept him quiet. Bruce almost sighed in frustration; so close and yet so far.
"My parents fought," he said in subtle encouragement, and it wasn't even a lie. "My mother used to say that she'd worry more if they didn't fight."
"Really?" Jimmy asked, looking astonished that any adult might admit to something so strange. "What did they fight about?"
"Everything," Bruce said, remembering it even as he said it. “Mostly Gotham.” Once, these memories might have been painful, but he was surprised to note only a vague fondness lingered at the touch of them now. Sometimes, before it had all come to - this - he used to pull out these treasured moments, those few he still remembered, and play them until he could almost feel the warmth of his mothers hand on his face, the scent of his fathers cologne. Now, their images were reduced to tools to further his pursuits. And yet, certainly no parent could ask more than to help their child accomplish his goals. He had made this city safe off the backbone of his parent’s memories; surely they would be proud.
“Yeah, mom and dad argue about Gotham too,” Jimmy said.
“Jimmy, no,” his mother croaked. Bruce speared her with his eyes, unwilling to let her fear silence the well of information peering out from his car.
“Do they?” Bruce asked quietly, staring at her. “What do they say?”
Jimmy looked once at his mothers white face and hesitated, but Bruce smiled at him reassuringly, watching him bask in the attention - obviously this was a boy too used to adults ignoring him. “Mom doesn’t think it’s safe here. But Dad doesn’t want to leave.”
Barbara closed her eyes as though expecting any moment to be struck down. Bruce considered it, but discarded the idea. In a way, this might have been marvelously easier if she were a criminal and he could interrogate her as he was used to without all this useless subtlety.
“It is safe here,” Bruce said to Jimmy. “With the new no-tolerance policies, the crime rate is down almost ninety percent since last year.” At Jimmy’s blank look of confusion, he clarified, “there are less criminals on the streets.”
“Well, yeah,” Jimmy said, actually looking at him fully for the first time since he’d gotten into the car. The look on his face clearly said he thought Bruce was short a few screws. “But everyone’s afraid now. More than they were before.”
Bruce almost, almost winced. It was one thing to strike fear into the hearts of his - of Gotham’s - enemies. It was another to hear it ‘out of the mouths of babes’.
Bruce had never before felt uncertain about his methods maintaining control in Gotham; his actions had always been carefully justified. In the eyes of the law, a man was allowed to defend himself using lethal, deadly force, as necessary. The only difference between his policy on crime and the strict adherence to the law, was that his definition of necessary was perhaps a little more lax than some. And Bruce had always believed that a good defense was wrapped up in an even better offense. If he had to protect Gotham from even itself, he was more than willing to do so. If someone else had done so, many years ago, his parent’s lives might have been spared.
He pushed the doubts aside until they vanished. What was done, was done, and couldn’t be changed. More to the point, he wouldn’t change it even if he could.
“Jimmy, what does your father think about the city?”
Jimmy took a moment to answer, buried as he was in a stack of Bruce’s new CD’s that hadn’t even been released yet in America. “He loves Gotham, but he’s scared for us. Always tells us it’s not safe to go out alone.”
Now that was interesting, because of all things, Gotham was now the most safe it had ever been. Even alone. “Why not?”
“Don’t know. Says Batman is always watching, and that we need to be careful.”
A knife of something harsh and painful slid through Bruce’s gut like ice. The feeling was remarkably physical, like taking a kick to the solar plexus, and he marveled at it. Breath became a scarce commodity; he couldn’t seem to get enough of it to tell Jimmy that wasn’t true, that Batman would never hurt him, would never stand for him being harmed. He hadn’t felt such crushing weight in years, not since he’d given up on guilt, on the world, as it had given up on him. But it was a cold pill to swallow, that all his painstaking efforts to make Gotham safe, all his training, was reduced to having children run in fear from him. They, who of all people, were safest from him. It was terribly bleak. Almost depressing.
“Jimmy,” Barbara whispered. Bruce noticed that she’d tucked her little girl behind her, hidden from his eyes. Though he stared at her in warning, she forced herself to speak words. “Come here, please.”
Jimmy ignored her, all defiance and bravado, enthralled with this strange, powerful man who had given him such undivided attention. Who looked at him, and treated him as though what he had to say actually mattered. Bruce could almost see the hidden pain radiating underneath the boys’ shell of indifference. It was perhaps the more surreal sensation yet, to see himself in the eyes of a boy who was not at all like him, but who dealt with his pain in a way Bruce could distinctly remember had never gotten him anywhere. It wasn’t the same; he hoped he never met another person with quite the same scars as him. But it was so similar he could almost imagine the thoughts running through Jimmy’s head. They were thoughts he’d had, wants and needs that he’d had. He made a quick decision.
“Jimmy,” he said, and the boy looked at him solemnly. “Go to your mother.” Jimmy dropped his eyes, chastened, flushing, and Bruce amended, “It’s been - nice (Did I just say that? he thought) meeting you, but I do need to get going.”
The boy scrambled out, shame-faced. Bruce reached out for him, past his own inner voice warning him not to, past Barbara’s pained gasp next to them. Jimmy looked up at the glancing brush against his arm, and Bruce saw his own long-ago pain reflected there, the loneliness and hopeless bravery and sadness. Somewhere beneath the ice, a resonance connected the two of them, and Bruce felt an unexpected warmth begin to spread, like the first unpleasant tingles of blood re-circulating through a sleeping limb.
Jimmy was staring up at him, searching his face for answers Bruce didn’t have to give; answers that no one had ever been able to give him. He had nothing to offer this boy but his experience, and that information was more painful, more precious and closely guarded than even the treasures of the Wayne vault.
He opened one of those inner secrets then, uncurling it like an old, dusty scroll, forcing himself to pull the memory out and examine it under a microscope. Because Jimmy needed someone to understand, and Bruce understood. Intimately.
“It doesn’t go away,” he told him, truthfully, because if only someone had told him truthfully, he might have been spared the anguish. “What you feel now. It doesn’t fade or magically disappear. But it does get better. One day it’ll be so much better you’ll hardly even notice it’s still there. Alright?”
Jimmy stared at him in silence, and no one there could have been more surprised at Bruce than he himself. They shared a quiet look, an understanding that spread like fine, invisible filaments between them. It was a sad twist of fate that Bruce found his greatest connections in the shared, unfortunate pain of others. “Alright,” the boy said quietly, and touched Bruce simply on the hand, and went to his mother.
Bruce vaguely recalled Barbara Gordon’s face, her astonishment and relief and love and fear, but as he climbed into his car and drove away, and later thought about that moment, again and again, he mostly remembered the look in Jimmy Gordon’s eyes.
And though it burned him to admit it, he remembered also his own, brief, terrible flash of jealousy, watching the boy return to his mother.
And because it burned him, and because he would never admit to being afraid, he shut it all away, threw himself once more into saving Gotham, and pretended not to notice the small kernel of warmth in his stomach that absolutely refused to fade away.
Note: I have no idea how old these kids are, so I went with what worked best for me here, lol. Convenient? Oh, yes!
Sorry this was late... the week before finals is packed with due dates for papers, and ugh, I feel like I've been run over by a bus. Thank you so much to everyone who's been commenting! Feedback is so wonderful; it not only lets me know what people think, it lets me know who's reading, and who's interested!