Divergence - Chapter Six
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.
A/N: There's a lot about this chapter I'm not sure I like, and I feel like if I had more time I'd realize what it was about it that I needed to fix. But it's four in the morning and I can't keep my eyes open any longer to edit this. I have to sleep, and because it's so late I'm really sorry for all the terrible grammar, poor continuity, and any other mistakes. I've stared at this for long enough that I just can't see the forest from the trees! Hope you like!
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Summary: The confrontation: irresistible force meets immovable object.
Bruce mused that in another world, pawing illegally through the personal and professional records of any police officer might carry some feelings of guilt for him. But this was not another world, thankfully, and there was no need to feel guilt for accessing something that was readily available to the upper echelons of the GPD. And what they had access to, Bruce had access to. He’d just never taken advantage of that access in quite the same way.
Most of these records he’d already seen, but this time he wasn’t looking for commendations or reviews; he was more interested in the mans personnel file, with the attached memos about his family and marital status. The two children - Barb and Jimmy - were the only ones mentioned, and Barbara Gordon (Bruce thought that must get confusing sometimes) was listed as his current wife. There was no mention of separation, no divorce, at least on file, but Bruce had seen the evidence, written in the tight lines bracketing Jimmy’s mouth, his eyes. Bruce read loss in that boy, a loss he recognized. And anger. Always anger.
He suspected the boy and he shared a similar temperament; the comparisons were eerie. Though he’d already read the file twice today, twice yesterday and three times the day before that, Bruce looked it over once more, feeling vaguely disgusted with himself as he did. Wasn’t it enough that Gordon had managed to pull him from his everyday routines, his well-worn ruts in life, now the mans family was becoming similarly distracting? Ridiculous. That one man (and company) could occupy him so, without even being in the room, without even speaking to him, was endlessly frustrating. And he found he was frustrated at feeling frustrated, and then more frustrated at that, winding back and back, compounding like a loaded spring under pressure.
He pulled out the small photograph attached to the file, a single eight-by-eight snapshot. He took a moment to smooth out the folded edges, tapping it against his desk thoughtfully. Gordon aged well - he wasn’t old by any means, but this photo had been taken years ago, and the man looked much the same. Maybe a few more laugh lines, maybe not. No glasses; easier to see the bright hazel of his eyes, less to hide behind. Just as serious and sober then as he appeared now; he cut a very striking figure. Bruce stared at the picture, brow furrowed. If only a picture really did tell a thousand words, it could perhaps tell him something useful about this man, because so far he’d managed to come up with absolutely nothing he could work with. So very frustrating…
A commotion outside distracted him, pulling his attention away from the spread of files. He could hear raised voices, an occurrence Bruce usually managed to avoid at work, Aflred being a notable exception (before lines had been drawn, when the man was still willing to set foot in Wayne Tower). Bruce dropped the photograph, shuffled papers together and dropped them all into his desk at the first sound of footsteps heading in the direction of his office. Interesting. He was very curious to see which suicidal individual would brave him in his own domain. Bruce was not feeling in the mood to be charitable.
Although, he had to admit, probably the last thing he expected to see when the doors heaved open beneath one heavy push, was the pale, moustached countenance of Jim Gordon.
The man barged in as though he owned the office (Bruce knew for a certain fact that he didn’t), trailing power and grace behind him much as Bruce pushed it before him. An intriguing man, Gordon; the billionaire could not think of another person who so personified the complete opposite of everything Bruce was, down to the fine details about truth, justice, and the American way.
His secretary, a petite, unimaginative woman, chased after Gordon as though certain her life depended on that action. Her life, no, he thought, but her job maybe.
Gordon stomped right up to the desk, looking rumpled and red in the face, furious. Bruce guessed that his escapade yesterday had been discovered, and he was about to be well and truly cussed out for his presumption. He guessed correctly.
“So,” Gordon hissed, in a low, venomous voice, which reminded Bruce sharply of Batman’s rumbling growl. “Someone should alert the presses. Inform the media. ‘Billionaire slums in Gotham’s suburbia.’ News at 11.” Bruce watched him clench his hands into such tight fists his knuckles paled to white. “Was I supposed to be flattered?”
Bruce waved away his secretary, still pulling at Gordon, who neither looked in her direction nor budged an inch. She backed off, reluctantly, only turning to scurry out when Bruce made a sharp cutting motion with his hand, ending any possible questions. Gordon never once took his eyes away from Bruce, who stared back in turn, settling in for a battle.
“Flattered? No.” He tried on a smile, finding it ill-fitting in the face of Gordon’s rage. “You’re a mass of contradictions Gordon, but I admit the one thing I seem able to count on you for, is your disdain.”
“Disdain?” Gordon snarled. “That doesn’t even begin to cover it.” He slammed an open palm down on the desk hollowly and Bruce had to force himself not to react in kind, wondering if Gordon even realized the incredible danger he was putting himself in. “That barely scratches the surface. You flout the law as though it can’t be applied to you. You employ an enforcer who would, and has, made people disappear from their homes in the dead of the night. You’re treacherous, immoral, and can’t be trusted. I can think of a dozen words to describe what I’m thinking right now, but none of them is as simple as disdain!”
“Careful, detective,” Bruce warned, feeling his own temper begin to heat. It wasn’t as though he’d murdered the mans family after all, he’d only made a point of speaking to them. This was taking it a bit far.
“Careful? I tried being careful, Mr. Wayne, but apparently you missed that memo. You wanted to talk in that car, you wanted honesty? Well, here it is. I’ve been with the GPD for over fifteen years. I’ve seen people rise to power that should never have made it out of a jail cell. I watched Felconi flood Gotham with crime, running it down with drugs and fear. I looked the other way to save my own skin when my partner turned enforcer. And in all that time, I’ve never once thought I might be putting my family in danger just by getting through every day, to see the next one. Until today.”
Bruce tried to protest; as far as he was concerned, he hadn’t done anything to warrant this attack. In fact, he’d gone out of his way to put Gordon’s children at ease. It certainly wasn’t every person who could say that about Bruce Wayne. Gordon shook his head, holding up a hand for silence, a hand Bruce reluctantly acceded to as though compelled.
“I don’t know what I’ve done to warrant this kind of attention. I wish I hadn’t done it. But whatever it was, whatever you think I owe you, we settle it here and now. Today. And you will leave my family out of it.”
That last made Bruce straighten up in response, indignation beginning to settle at the base of his spine. He felt the tension pull rigid; leaned forward with ice firmly wrapped around him like a shield. “Or?”
But that seemed like the million-dollar question, because even as Bruce watched, Gordon's shoulders slumped at that simple word as though the wind had been knocked out of him. He sighed, running a world-weary hand down his face, displacing his glasses and bending in fatigue. “Well, I hadn’t gotten that far yet.”
He looked, Bruce thought in surprise, like a man on the verge of defeat. A pang of remorse echoed through the billionaire, to have brought someone like Gordon to this when all he’d intended was to satisfy his curiosity. From what he’d seen, Gordon might very well be one of the few people in Gotham completely undeserving of any such suspicion. Guilt did not sit well with Bruce, but it deepened as he sketched his eyes up and down the tall, lean frame, taking in the dull exhaustion weighing the man down. If Gordon had a truly gentle nature, and Bruce had no reason to doubt that he did, he couldn’t fathom the courage it had taken to come barreling into this office ready to do battle, for a family that was slowly falling apart in front of his eyes.
For the first time in many long years, Bruce felt the abject, sincere need to apologize.
He leaned forward, in a moment of fateful timing, intending maybe to reach out to the father in the same way he’d reached out to the son. But Gordon leaned into the desk tiredly at the same time, slumping over into Bruce’s personal space, all defiance and heat and hopelessness, and it struck Bruce right there, like lightening, burning away everything else that had come before it, exactly what it was he wanted from this man.
He almost laughed. Almost. Unbelievable. All his sly machinations, all his plans, all his investigating, failed attempts at being charming, outright spying, brought down to this, the lowest of levels. He wondered if he might have noticed it sooner, if not for - things that couldn’t be changed.
He stared at Gordon, trying to see it, trying to dissect the feeling, the mysterious, insidious want that suffused him. It coiled inside him like a snake, admiring the clean lines of the mans physique, so artfully displayed leaning toward him, the heated brush of his anger, the chill of his fear, reveling in the strength of feeling he could generate with such a simple intervention. What an outrageously humiliating thing to miss, he the master investigator. But how could he have anticipated that he would crave this man, desire this man? It went against everything he knew about himself. For countless days and months now, life had been dull, gray and washed out, until a certain brush from his past had sparked in him an unexpected connection, and buried in that connection, an undeniable lust. The voice of his childhood had echoed from the first, and followed him now to the present. He was, he knew, beyond the need for a father figure, but to want this…? He closed his eyes. Shame and greed warred within him, at odds with each other.
Well. There was only one way to deal with this.
Get it out of his system.
“Have dinner with me tomorrow night,” he said.
“Dinner?” Jim sputtered, coming alive again, astonished and aware that it showed. “You can’t seriously expect me to - to indulge this sick curiosity of yours after the way you accosted my family-“
“Accosted?” Bruce interrupted, sneering gently, his eyes sharp and calculating. “I hardly think a conversation constitutes kidnapping, detective Gordon.”
It sure as hell should, Jim thought, fuming. Technically, it had only been a conversation, but Bruce Wayne did not instigate innocent conversations. He orchestrated them for effect and personal gain. Though what he had to gain, Jim had no idea, but he certainly knew what he, himself, had to lose.
If Wayne thought harassing his family would endear him to Jim, he had another thing coming. It was possible (yeah, right) that Wayne had actually just been indulging a social need for conversation with his wife, conveniently caught with his trusting children at their elementary school. It was not possible that he’d only accidentally stopped at the school in such a way that it prevented them from leaving until he was ready to release them.
Calm down, Jim, he thought, you’re here, you managed that much, take a breath or you’ll kill yourself before you can even start in on him about this new crap he’s pulling. And he had to be pulling something. He was Bruce Wayne, after all.
It was so very hard to think of the billionaire as just another man, just as vulnerable and prone to stupidity or curiosity as any other. Bruce Wayne did not make choices based in anything but the most ruthless levels of logic. Or if he did, he had Batman to smooth the way again as quickly as possible.
That hadn’t always been true though. How unfortunate for Wayne; if only his enforcer had shown up just a decade or so earlier.
No one knew, or no one still alive knew, what had happened in that long-ago three-day holding cell. But there were some rumors, once started, that never ceased to circulate. Though the files were sealed and either locked away, or possibly destroyed altogether, Bruce Wayne’s medical release report was a matter of public record and gossip. The day Joe Chill was shot on the steps of the Gotham courthouse in front of a thousand eyewitnesses, Gotham’s prince was taken into custody and arrested on charges of first-degree murder. And as part of the standard procedure for dangerous and high profile cases, he’d been put in isolated holding. He’d gone in quietly, even peacefully, secure and subdued and healthy. But he hadn’t come out that way.
Preliminary examination reveals evidence of physical assault. Multiple blunt force injuries: compound fracturing of ribs two through five, right anterior shoulder dislocation, transverse fracture of the right wrist-joint, vertical displaced fracturing of the jaw. Irregular skin abrasions and lacerations, multiple contusions, extensive bruising to upper and lower extremities. Suspicion of sexual assault.
Jim could well remember his own reactions the first time he’d ever seen a copy of that report. He’d read it so many times he could have quoted it in his sleep. He had no doubt that the public release of that file had been a deliberate ploy on Felconi’s part to humiliate the broken man he’d sent his goons after in the holding cell. The then-mob-boss had ruled Gotham, much as Wayne ruled Gotham now. He hadn’t taken kindly to the young prince stepping on his toes in regards to Chill.
No one had ever pinned the rumored assault on Felconi. No one had ever pinned it on anyone, and it was only a testament to Felconi’s power that though the report floated through each department of law enforcement in Gotham, nothing at all was done about it. Even Bruce Wayne, it had seemed, could not make a move against Felconi’s wishes without suffering his displeasure.
Jim had watched from the sidelines, ever since Wayne’s return, and with each criminal that was hauled into the justice system, he began to watch for those that didn’t, for the ones that simply disappeared, as Felconi had disappeared not days after Wayne had reentered life in Gotham. He counted four enforcers, long-standing associates of Felconi’s, that were seen one day and simply gone the next, unaccounted for, unmourned. He had no doubt that Batman had had good reasons for sending them only he knew where.
Evidence of physical assault. Suspicion of sexual assault.
Those words had haunted him for years after Wayne had disappeared, and no one had wondered more than he if Felconi had made that happen too, if the billionaire had vanished from the face of the earth only because the mob boss wished it. It was still possible he had, though Jim thought Wayne might have come back a little more dead, if that were the case. No one knew for certain, or no one was talking, about the whereabouts of Bruce Wayne when he’d disappeared into exile, but his return had made global news. When he’d vanished, his money had managed to buy him a ‘Get out of Jail Free’ card, the case had been ruled as temporary insanity, and Wayne was essentially cleared of all charges. For someone other than a billionaire, it might not have been possible to bribe everyone necessary, but it seemed money could indeed buy everything. Since his return, Wayne hadn’t faced even one more day in a cell; for any other criminal, first-degree murder was a life-long sentence. At least.
And how was it that, even knowing the mans history as he did, Jim still couldn’t look beyond the past and the money to see the flawed, calculating human beneath. Wayne had made no overt threats to him. That much as least was true. What was that old police mandate about innocent until proven guilty? He’d almost forgotten, it had been so long since it could even be applied in Gotham.
Jim became aware he’d been asked a question, one he’d let linger in silence too long, and took a deep breath to steady his nerves. Have dinner with me… Not a chance, he thought. And assuming all Wayne’s protests about his innocence were true, Jim should be free to tell him so. He certainly did not feel free to tell him so, but he was about to do it anyway. He was about to reject the prince of Gotham, and that could never be good for ones health.
“Before you answer,” Bruce said, perhaps correctly assuming he knew what Jim was about to say, “try to think of it as a business meeting. A sharing of information. A - cease fire.”
“Cease fire?” Jim asked carefully, frowning. “Now, after you’ve already scared my family half to death-“
“Your wife, maybe, but I seem to recall making a decent impression on your son and daughter. They’re part of the business meeting, you might say. I’d be especially interested in speaking to you about your son Jimmy.”
“Jimmy!” The detective barked, a bit wildly. “What do you want with - leave my family alone-“
“I will,” Bruce said. “But first I need to speak to you about Jimmy.”
“You have nothing to say that I want to hear,” Jim said sharply. Something flickered over Wayne’s face, disappointment or something similar, but the man only shook his head and leaned back in his chair, away from the angry police officer. Jim would have followed him, stayed right up in his face, but short of climbing on the desk, there was no getting any closer.
“You strike me as an intelligent, if impulsive, man,” Wayne said. “I shouldn’t have to remind you to explore all avenues before dismissing an offer of help out of hand.”
“Help?” Jim echoed, blankly. “What help?”
“My help. The help your son needs.”
“My son doesn’t need any help you could possibly offer him!” Jim growled, somewhere between disbelief and horror. He couldn’t imagine a single positive thing, regardless of what money could buy, that Bruce Wayne might be able to give to his son.
“Doesn’t he?” Wayne asked, intently, catching his eye so that they were staring at one another from the same level. Jim couldn’t force himself to look away. “If you can honestly stand there and tell me you haven’t noticed the potential problems for Jimmy, you’re not as perceptive as I gave you credit for.”
Jim opened his mouth to say something undoubtedly stupid and with the potential to get him killed, but shut it after a moment. Was he really going to let his stung pride goad him into saying something ridiculous, like, that he hadn’t noticed? That was a lose-lose statement if ever there was one. Of course he’d noticed. How could he not notice his normally exuberant son crawling inside himself and learning to tune out the world as his parents destroyed their relationship and the relationship they had with their children? He’d noticed, he just didn’t know what to do about it. He loved his son, but Jimmy was pulling so far away from them they didn’t know what to do to bring him back. The fact that Wayne could see that grated in an extremely irritating way, but it did highlight something else too - that Wayne, for all his faults, was still human enough to see a child in pain and respond. Jim didn’t know how to feel, that it was his child Wayne was responding to.
“All right,” he said finally, stiffly. “You’ve made your point. I’d thank you for your insight if you hadn’t come by it so underhandedly.”
“Even in Gotham, a conversation between citizens isn’t yet a crime, Mr. Gordon.” Jim started, just slightly, though inwardly he reeled a bit. That had almost sounded like a joke. Surely not.
“Your son is headed down a dangerous path. I have some experience in that area, you could say. I’d like to offer you the wisdom of that experience. Say, tomorrow, over dinner?”
“What is this obsession with dinner?” Jim blurted out before he could stop himself. “If you have something to say, say it now. Or did the no-strings-attached clause have a time limit?”
“Not a time limit,” Wayne said. “Just - requirements. Dinner.”
“I’m not going to dinner with you,” Jim said in exasperation, flushing brightly when he realized how that had sounded. But he wasn’t. Not in that sense. Or in that other sense. Or any sense. Right. “Look, I didn’t come here to - to talk about my family with you, I-“
“Didn’t you?”
“No. I came here to warn you away from them actually, not to discuss them with you further.”
“Warn me?” Wayne asked very softly, coldly, lifting his chin just slightly. Jim froze, wavering between backing off and throwing caution to the wind. Which reaction was likely to get the best response? Well, he couldn’t get any less respectful than charging into the mans office and shouting in hi s face. Defiance as a preferred means of communication? Wayne hadn’t killed him yet, and that could only be a good sign.
“Warn you,” he said firmly, refusing to be afraid, though he knew he was walking the knife’s edge between daring and foolhardy.
Wayne stared at him for such a long moment of silence that Jim could almost feel his heart pounding in his chest as the tension mounted. In his eyes Jim read something horrible, something that made the butterflies in this stomach coalesce into a heavy ball of dread. The look was gone a second later, but that brief glimpse of it was burned into Jim’s retina’s. That was what death looked like, he thought. Walking and talking and sitting behind desks, but no less lethal for all that.
“Well,” Wayne said, finally, “I consider myself duly warned.”
“Good,” Jim muttered, lacking anything else remotely helpful to say.
“And now?”
“And now,” Jim said, breathing deeply because a wave of dizziness told him he hadn’t been, “I thank you for seeing me,” he gestured, “apologize for barging in here,” he nodded, “and then leave before I manage to fuck up anything else today.”
And so saying, he proceeded to do just that.
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.
A/N: There's a lot about this chapter I'm not sure I like, and I feel like if I had more time I'd realize what it was about it that I needed to fix. But it's four in the morning and I can't keep my eyes open any longer to edit this. I have to sleep, and because it's so late I'm really sorry for all the terrible grammar, poor continuity, and any other mistakes. I've stared at this for long enough that I just can't see the forest from the trees! Hope you like!
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Summary: The confrontation: irresistible force meets immovable object.
Bruce mused that in another world, pawing illegally through the personal and professional records of any police officer might carry some feelings of guilt for him. But this was not another world, thankfully, and there was no need to feel guilt for accessing something that was readily available to the upper echelons of the GPD. And what they had access to, Bruce had access to. He’d just never taken advantage of that access in quite the same way.
Most of these records he’d already seen, but this time he wasn’t looking for commendations or reviews; he was more interested in the mans personnel file, with the attached memos about his family and marital status. The two children - Barb and Jimmy - were the only ones mentioned, and Barbara Gordon (Bruce thought that must get confusing sometimes) was listed as his current wife. There was no mention of separation, no divorce, at least on file, but Bruce had seen the evidence, written in the tight lines bracketing Jimmy’s mouth, his eyes. Bruce read loss in that boy, a loss he recognized. And anger. Always anger.
He suspected the boy and he shared a similar temperament; the comparisons were eerie. Though he’d already read the file twice today, twice yesterday and three times the day before that, Bruce looked it over once more, feeling vaguely disgusted with himself as he did. Wasn’t it enough that Gordon had managed to pull him from his everyday routines, his well-worn ruts in life, now the mans family was becoming similarly distracting? Ridiculous. That one man (and company) could occupy him so, without even being in the room, without even speaking to him, was endlessly frustrating. And he found he was frustrated at feeling frustrated, and then more frustrated at that, winding back and back, compounding like a loaded spring under pressure.
He pulled out the small photograph attached to the file, a single eight-by-eight snapshot. He took a moment to smooth out the folded edges, tapping it against his desk thoughtfully. Gordon aged well - he wasn’t old by any means, but this photo had been taken years ago, and the man looked much the same. Maybe a few more laugh lines, maybe not. No glasses; easier to see the bright hazel of his eyes, less to hide behind. Just as serious and sober then as he appeared now; he cut a very striking figure. Bruce stared at the picture, brow furrowed. If only a picture really did tell a thousand words, it could perhaps tell him something useful about this man, because so far he’d managed to come up with absolutely nothing he could work with. So very frustrating…
A commotion outside distracted him, pulling his attention away from the spread of files. He could hear raised voices, an occurrence Bruce usually managed to avoid at work, Aflred being a notable exception (before lines had been drawn, when the man was still willing to set foot in Wayne Tower). Bruce dropped the photograph, shuffled papers together and dropped them all into his desk at the first sound of footsteps heading in the direction of his office. Interesting. He was very curious to see which suicidal individual would brave him in his own domain. Bruce was not feeling in the mood to be charitable.
Although, he had to admit, probably the last thing he expected to see when the doors heaved open beneath one heavy push, was the pale, moustached countenance of Jim Gordon.
The man barged in as though he owned the office (Bruce knew for a certain fact that he didn’t), trailing power and grace behind him much as Bruce pushed it before him. An intriguing man, Gordon; the billionaire could not think of another person who so personified the complete opposite of everything Bruce was, down to the fine details about truth, justice, and the American way.
His secretary, a petite, unimaginative woman, chased after Gordon as though certain her life depended on that action. Her life, no, he thought, but her job maybe.
Gordon stomped right up to the desk, looking rumpled and red in the face, furious. Bruce guessed that his escapade yesterday had been discovered, and he was about to be well and truly cussed out for his presumption. He guessed correctly.
“So,” Gordon hissed, in a low, venomous voice, which reminded Bruce sharply of Batman’s rumbling growl. “Someone should alert the presses. Inform the media. ‘Billionaire slums in Gotham’s suburbia.’ News at 11.” Bruce watched him clench his hands into such tight fists his knuckles paled to white. “Was I supposed to be flattered?”
Bruce waved away his secretary, still pulling at Gordon, who neither looked in her direction nor budged an inch. She backed off, reluctantly, only turning to scurry out when Bruce made a sharp cutting motion with his hand, ending any possible questions. Gordon never once took his eyes away from Bruce, who stared back in turn, settling in for a battle.
“Flattered? No.” He tried on a smile, finding it ill-fitting in the face of Gordon’s rage. “You’re a mass of contradictions Gordon, but I admit the one thing I seem able to count on you for, is your disdain.”
“Disdain?” Gordon snarled. “That doesn’t even begin to cover it.” He slammed an open palm down on the desk hollowly and Bruce had to force himself not to react in kind, wondering if Gordon even realized the incredible danger he was putting himself in. “That barely scratches the surface. You flout the law as though it can’t be applied to you. You employ an enforcer who would, and has, made people disappear from their homes in the dead of the night. You’re treacherous, immoral, and can’t be trusted. I can think of a dozen words to describe what I’m thinking right now, but none of them is as simple as disdain!”
“Careful, detective,” Bruce warned, feeling his own temper begin to heat. It wasn’t as though he’d murdered the mans family after all, he’d only made a point of speaking to them. This was taking it a bit far.
“Careful? I tried being careful, Mr. Wayne, but apparently you missed that memo. You wanted to talk in that car, you wanted honesty? Well, here it is. I’ve been with the GPD for over fifteen years. I’ve seen people rise to power that should never have made it out of a jail cell. I watched Felconi flood Gotham with crime, running it down with drugs and fear. I looked the other way to save my own skin when my partner turned enforcer. And in all that time, I’ve never once thought I might be putting my family in danger just by getting through every day, to see the next one. Until today.”
Bruce tried to protest; as far as he was concerned, he hadn’t done anything to warrant this attack. In fact, he’d gone out of his way to put Gordon’s children at ease. It certainly wasn’t every person who could say that about Bruce Wayne. Gordon shook his head, holding up a hand for silence, a hand Bruce reluctantly acceded to as though compelled.
“I don’t know what I’ve done to warrant this kind of attention. I wish I hadn’t done it. But whatever it was, whatever you think I owe you, we settle it here and now. Today. And you will leave my family out of it.”
That last made Bruce straighten up in response, indignation beginning to settle at the base of his spine. He felt the tension pull rigid; leaned forward with ice firmly wrapped around him like a shield. “Or?”
But that seemed like the million-dollar question, because even as Bruce watched, Gordon's shoulders slumped at that simple word as though the wind had been knocked out of him. He sighed, running a world-weary hand down his face, displacing his glasses and bending in fatigue. “Well, I hadn’t gotten that far yet.”
He looked, Bruce thought in surprise, like a man on the verge of defeat. A pang of remorse echoed through the billionaire, to have brought someone like Gordon to this when all he’d intended was to satisfy his curiosity. From what he’d seen, Gordon might very well be one of the few people in Gotham completely undeserving of any such suspicion. Guilt did not sit well with Bruce, but it deepened as he sketched his eyes up and down the tall, lean frame, taking in the dull exhaustion weighing the man down. If Gordon had a truly gentle nature, and Bruce had no reason to doubt that he did, he couldn’t fathom the courage it had taken to come barreling into this office ready to do battle, for a family that was slowly falling apart in front of his eyes.
For the first time in many long years, Bruce felt the abject, sincere need to apologize.
He leaned forward, in a moment of fateful timing, intending maybe to reach out to the father in the same way he’d reached out to the son. But Gordon leaned into the desk tiredly at the same time, slumping over into Bruce’s personal space, all defiance and heat and hopelessness, and it struck Bruce right there, like lightening, burning away everything else that had come before it, exactly what it was he wanted from this man.
He almost laughed. Almost. Unbelievable. All his sly machinations, all his plans, all his investigating, failed attempts at being charming, outright spying, brought down to this, the lowest of levels. He wondered if he might have noticed it sooner, if not for - things that couldn’t be changed.
He stared at Gordon, trying to see it, trying to dissect the feeling, the mysterious, insidious want that suffused him. It coiled inside him like a snake, admiring the clean lines of the mans physique, so artfully displayed leaning toward him, the heated brush of his anger, the chill of his fear, reveling in the strength of feeling he could generate with such a simple intervention. What an outrageously humiliating thing to miss, he the master investigator. But how could he have anticipated that he would crave this man, desire this man? It went against everything he knew about himself. For countless days and months now, life had been dull, gray and washed out, until a certain brush from his past had sparked in him an unexpected connection, and buried in that connection, an undeniable lust. The voice of his childhood had echoed from the first, and followed him now to the present. He was, he knew, beyond the need for a father figure, but to want this…? He closed his eyes. Shame and greed warred within him, at odds with each other.
Well. There was only one way to deal with this.
Get it out of his system.
“Have dinner with me tomorrow night,” he said.
“Dinner?” Jim sputtered, coming alive again, astonished and aware that it showed. “You can’t seriously expect me to - to indulge this sick curiosity of yours after the way you accosted my family-“
“Accosted?” Bruce interrupted, sneering gently, his eyes sharp and calculating. “I hardly think a conversation constitutes kidnapping, detective Gordon.”
It sure as hell should, Jim thought, fuming. Technically, it had only been a conversation, but Bruce Wayne did not instigate innocent conversations. He orchestrated them for effect and personal gain. Though what he had to gain, Jim had no idea, but he certainly knew what he, himself, had to lose.
If Wayne thought harassing his family would endear him to Jim, he had another thing coming. It was possible (yeah, right) that Wayne had actually just been indulging a social need for conversation with his wife, conveniently caught with his trusting children at their elementary school. It was not possible that he’d only accidentally stopped at the school in such a way that it prevented them from leaving until he was ready to release them.
Calm down, Jim, he thought, you’re here, you managed that much, take a breath or you’ll kill yourself before you can even start in on him about this new crap he’s pulling. And he had to be pulling something. He was Bruce Wayne, after all.
It was so very hard to think of the billionaire as just another man, just as vulnerable and prone to stupidity or curiosity as any other. Bruce Wayne did not make choices based in anything but the most ruthless levels of logic. Or if he did, he had Batman to smooth the way again as quickly as possible.
That hadn’t always been true though. How unfortunate for Wayne; if only his enforcer had shown up just a decade or so earlier.
No one knew, or no one still alive knew, what had happened in that long-ago three-day holding cell. But there were some rumors, once started, that never ceased to circulate. Though the files were sealed and either locked away, or possibly destroyed altogether, Bruce Wayne’s medical release report was a matter of public record and gossip. The day Joe Chill was shot on the steps of the Gotham courthouse in front of a thousand eyewitnesses, Gotham’s prince was taken into custody and arrested on charges of first-degree murder. And as part of the standard procedure for dangerous and high profile cases, he’d been put in isolated holding. He’d gone in quietly, even peacefully, secure and subdued and healthy. But he hadn’t come out that way.
Preliminary examination reveals evidence of physical assault. Multiple blunt force injuries: compound fracturing of ribs two through five, right anterior shoulder dislocation, transverse fracture of the right wrist-joint, vertical displaced fracturing of the jaw. Irregular skin abrasions and lacerations, multiple contusions, extensive bruising to upper and lower extremities. Suspicion of sexual assault.
Jim could well remember his own reactions the first time he’d ever seen a copy of that report. He’d read it so many times he could have quoted it in his sleep. He had no doubt that the public release of that file had been a deliberate ploy on Felconi’s part to humiliate the broken man he’d sent his goons after in the holding cell. The then-mob-boss had ruled Gotham, much as Wayne ruled Gotham now. He hadn’t taken kindly to the young prince stepping on his toes in regards to Chill.
No one had ever pinned the rumored assault on Felconi. No one had ever pinned it on anyone, and it was only a testament to Felconi’s power that though the report floated through each department of law enforcement in Gotham, nothing at all was done about it. Even Bruce Wayne, it had seemed, could not make a move against Felconi’s wishes without suffering his displeasure.
Jim had watched from the sidelines, ever since Wayne’s return, and with each criminal that was hauled into the justice system, he began to watch for those that didn’t, for the ones that simply disappeared, as Felconi had disappeared not days after Wayne had reentered life in Gotham. He counted four enforcers, long-standing associates of Felconi’s, that were seen one day and simply gone the next, unaccounted for, unmourned. He had no doubt that Batman had had good reasons for sending them only he knew where.
Evidence of physical assault. Suspicion of sexual assault.
Those words had haunted him for years after Wayne had disappeared, and no one had wondered more than he if Felconi had made that happen too, if the billionaire had vanished from the face of the earth only because the mob boss wished it. It was still possible he had, though Jim thought Wayne might have come back a little more dead, if that were the case. No one knew for certain, or no one was talking, about the whereabouts of Bruce Wayne when he’d disappeared into exile, but his return had made global news. When he’d vanished, his money had managed to buy him a ‘Get out of Jail Free’ card, the case had been ruled as temporary insanity, and Wayne was essentially cleared of all charges. For someone other than a billionaire, it might not have been possible to bribe everyone necessary, but it seemed money could indeed buy everything. Since his return, Wayne hadn’t faced even one more day in a cell; for any other criminal, first-degree murder was a life-long sentence. At least.
And how was it that, even knowing the mans history as he did, Jim still couldn’t look beyond the past and the money to see the flawed, calculating human beneath. Wayne had made no overt threats to him. That much as least was true. What was that old police mandate about innocent until proven guilty? He’d almost forgotten, it had been so long since it could even be applied in Gotham.
Jim became aware he’d been asked a question, one he’d let linger in silence too long, and took a deep breath to steady his nerves. Have dinner with me… Not a chance, he thought. And assuming all Wayne’s protests about his innocence were true, Jim should be free to tell him so. He certainly did not feel free to tell him so, but he was about to do it anyway. He was about to reject the prince of Gotham, and that could never be good for ones health.
“Before you answer,” Bruce said, perhaps correctly assuming he knew what Jim was about to say, “try to think of it as a business meeting. A sharing of information. A - cease fire.”
“Cease fire?” Jim asked carefully, frowning. “Now, after you’ve already scared my family half to death-“
“Your wife, maybe, but I seem to recall making a decent impression on your son and daughter. They’re part of the business meeting, you might say. I’d be especially interested in speaking to you about your son Jimmy.”
“Jimmy!” The detective barked, a bit wildly. “What do you want with - leave my family alone-“
“I will,” Bruce said. “But first I need to speak to you about Jimmy.”
“You have nothing to say that I want to hear,” Jim said sharply. Something flickered over Wayne’s face, disappointment or something similar, but the man only shook his head and leaned back in his chair, away from the angry police officer. Jim would have followed him, stayed right up in his face, but short of climbing on the desk, there was no getting any closer.
“You strike me as an intelligent, if impulsive, man,” Wayne said. “I shouldn’t have to remind you to explore all avenues before dismissing an offer of help out of hand.”
“Help?” Jim echoed, blankly. “What help?”
“My help. The help your son needs.”
“My son doesn’t need any help you could possibly offer him!” Jim growled, somewhere between disbelief and horror. He couldn’t imagine a single positive thing, regardless of what money could buy, that Bruce Wayne might be able to give to his son.
“Doesn’t he?” Wayne asked, intently, catching his eye so that they were staring at one another from the same level. Jim couldn’t force himself to look away. “If you can honestly stand there and tell me you haven’t noticed the potential problems for Jimmy, you’re not as perceptive as I gave you credit for.”
Jim opened his mouth to say something undoubtedly stupid and with the potential to get him killed, but shut it after a moment. Was he really going to let his stung pride goad him into saying something ridiculous, like, that he hadn’t noticed? That was a lose-lose statement if ever there was one. Of course he’d noticed. How could he not notice his normally exuberant son crawling inside himself and learning to tune out the world as his parents destroyed their relationship and the relationship they had with their children? He’d noticed, he just didn’t know what to do about it. He loved his son, but Jimmy was pulling so far away from them they didn’t know what to do to bring him back. The fact that Wayne could see that grated in an extremely irritating way, but it did highlight something else too - that Wayne, for all his faults, was still human enough to see a child in pain and respond. Jim didn’t know how to feel, that it was his child Wayne was responding to.
“All right,” he said finally, stiffly. “You’ve made your point. I’d thank you for your insight if you hadn’t come by it so underhandedly.”
“Even in Gotham, a conversation between citizens isn’t yet a crime, Mr. Gordon.” Jim started, just slightly, though inwardly he reeled a bit. That had almost sounded like a joke. Surely not.
“Your son is headed down a dangerous path. I have some experience in that area, you could say. I’d like to offer you the wisdom of that experience. Say, tomorrow, over dinner?”
“What is this obsession with dinner?” Jim blurted out before he could stop himself. “If you have something to say, say it now. Or did the no-strings-attached clause have a time limit?”
“Not a time limit,” Wayne said. “Just - requirements. Dinner.”
“I’m not going to dinner with you,” Jim said in exasperation, flushing brightly when he realized how that had sounded. But he wasn’t. Not in that sense. Or in that other sense. Or any sense. Right. “Look, I didn’t come here to - to talk about my family with you, I-“
“Didn’t you?”
“No. I came here to warn you away from them actually, not to discuss them with you further.”
“Warn me?” Wayne asked very softly, coldly, lifting his chin just slightly. Jim froze, wavering between backing off and throwing caution to the wind. Which reaction was likely to get the best response? Well, he couldn’t get any less respectful than charging into the mans office and shouting in hi s face. Defiance as a preferred means of communication? Wayne hadn’t killed him yet, and that could only be a good sign.
“Warn you,” he said firmly, refusing to be afraid, though he knew he was walking the knife’s edge between daring and foolhardy.
Wayne stared at him for such a long moment of silence that Jim could almost feel his heart pounding in his chest as the tension mounted. In his eyes Jim read something horrible, something that made the butterflies in this stomach coalesce into a heavy ball of dread. The look was gone a second later, but that brief glimpse of it was burned into Jim’s retina’s. That was what death looked like, he thought. Walking and talking and sitting behind desks, but no less lethal for all that.
“Well,” Wayne said, finally, “I consider myself duly warned.”
“Good,” Jim muttered, lacking anything else remotely helpful to say.
“And now?”
“And now,” Jim said, breathing deeply because a wave of dizziness told him he hadn’t been, “I thank you for seeing me,” he gestured, “apologize for barging in here,” he nodded, “and then leave before I manage to fuck up anything else today.”
And so saying, he proceeded to do just that.