Darkness I Became
"And in the dark, I can hear your heartbeat
I tried to find the sound.
But then it stopped, and I was in the darkness
So darkness I became."
Cosmic Love by Florence + the Machine
Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or any of the other characters, this is purely for fun and no money is being made. Copyright infringement is not intended. The fic title and opening lyrics are Florence + the Machine.
It was an unprecedented time in Gotham, Jim Gordon thought to himself. Nearly eight years of tranquility after such an expanse of violence was surreal, and for the first time the trees that lined the streets and filled the parks seemed to blossom. The faint aroma was carried through the city by the wind, through the parks, over the somber facades of buildings, and out to the ocean. The most the police force has had to deal with these days were minor civil disputes, a few cases of shoplifting here and there, the occasional vandal—nothing that required heavily armed SWAT teams or the assistance of a certain masked crusader.
Gordon was thankful of course that his office wasn't scrambling around in constant tension and fear to the extent that they all were during the days of the Joker, though at times he did wish there was more to keep them busy.
He'd sold the house after Barbara and the kids left for Cleveland for a surprisingly good price—the dramatic drop in crime did marvels for Gotham's housing market. His current residence was a non-descript brownstone about a twenty minute walk away from GCPD headquarters. It remained rather empty, save for the essential furniture and half unpacked moving boxes. It was definitely a place he endeavored to spend as little time in as possible.
It didn't take long before the divorce papers arrived in the mail. His faked death was the straw that broke the camel's back. She could never completely forgive him for putting their children in danger. It was in Barbara's eyes each time he looked at her, a thousand accusations and the years of her life she'd given to him. Countless times he tried to apologize in many different ways—a lingering touch on her shoulder, a meaningful glance. Words were never so useless when he trusted her to understand him. The moral implications of his complicity in the cover-up of Harvey Dent's crimes tormented him. Barb would tolerate none of it. She had every right to, he reflected with a heavy heart.
So when he discovered the papers in his mail with a request for sole custody of their son and daughter, it was akin to the twisting of a long-forgotten knife wedged between his ribs. Those damned papers came with a simple note, asking him to sign here and there, to release his wife from their toxic union. Their assets would be divided equally between them. He wouldn't fight her on that front, as his salary as a commissioner was more than enough to live on. He'd make sure his kids were provided for in every way. He couldn't remember anything else from that night. Only that he'd stood there, with the manila envelope in his hand in the darkness of his kitchen, for hours.
Was it possible to grieve for people who were alive? It must have been, since the feeling resurged anew every time he realized he was getting used to the silence, to being alone. He'd taken to working so late that he'd fall asleep in his office, and routinely kept a spare change of clothes in the meager closet so that everyone in the MCU would be none the wiser.
The days passed, slowly, painfully at first. He fell into a routine that was at once familiar and alien to him. Step one: wake up before the sun rose. Step two: get in some exercise whether it was boxing with the beat-up bag he kept in the spare room or a good old-fashioned run around his neighborhood. Step three: breakfast then off to work. Work occupied his time as he couldn't have allowed it to do when he had his family—actually, that wasn't quite right. He simply had no reason to feel guilty about spending so much time doing police work.
The notoriously backlogged departments of GCPD were able to get through their case loads with far less difficulty now. Major Crimes' work was practically a cakewalk after the arrests and convictions of roughly a thousand criminals courtesy of the Harvey Dent Act. Without the chance for parole, GCPD didn't have to play whack-a-mole with the mafia anymore so to speak. What was impossible before became feasible, what was feasible was accomplished, and Gotham almost instantaneously enjoyed lower crime rates all across the board.
There was a running joke that MCU's title should be changed to "Petty Crimes Unit."
What he hated most was the social scene he was expected to frequent. The annual commemoration of Harvey Dent's heroism always left a bitter taste in his mouth, every time he came so close to pulling out his speech to finally bring the truth to light and every time he decided that Gotham was not ready. He really meant it, on some level, but on his darker days he silently fumed at himself for his cowardice, his selfishness, his utter paralysis that halted the words that wanted to escape him.
"Boss! The Sforza case is escalating and you should—" A voice cut into Gordon's thoughts abruptly, "—definitely talk to the husband. It's getting out of hand, I mean talk about a mountain out of a molehill—"
It was Gordon's newest hire, a young cop called John Blake who'd burst into the Commissioner's quiet office. Although momentarily startled, Gordon was grateful for the interruption before his thoughts turned truly maudlin.
"Was anyone hurt?"
"No—"
"Was anything stolen?"
"Only some of the wife's jewelry."
"Then what's the problem?"
Blake looked slightly impatient but hid it well.
"The husband is accusing GCPD of conspiring with her to stage a break-in at their home. He's not here in Gotham, he's travelling abroad but the wife is here. You know these people," Blake's voice took on a slightly disdainful tone, "There's nothing like the circus for the high and mighty society hacks."
At this, Gordon finally sat up in his chair.
"We don't make personal judgments here, Blake. We investigate to the fullest extent of the law and bring those who've violated it to justice, nothing more, nothing less. Understood?" The commissioner asked sharply.
"Yes, sir."
"Now, I assume the appropriate task force has been assigned to this?"
"Yeah Crowe and Davies are in charge and forensics is analyzing the evidence that's been found. The place was smashed up pretty good, there's bound to be prints somewhere." The young officer replied somberly.
"Alright, then. In the meantime, I'm going to pay a visit to Mrs. Sforza to hopefully smooth things over. There's no sense in us angering Gotham's richest benefactress."
The trip to the Sforza townhouse allowed Gordon to mentally review the particulars of this case, as he preferred to take the subway and walk rather than a police car. His role as commissioner although earned through difficult circumstances, had been far easier than his duties as an officer as he found himself acting as a liaison between the city's political elite and the police force. He had become the MCU's organizational head and the mayor's confidante.
Giulia Sforza was the wife of enormously successful investment manager at Gotham General Bank & Trust, Alessandro Sforza. They were European emigrants who had lived in Gotham for the better part of a decade. Mrs. Sforza was a part-time lecturer at Gotham State University but before that was a principal dancer at the Gotham Conservatory of Dance though it was clear to all who knew her that she didn't need to work. Born into an aristocratic Milanese family, she inherited her family's wealth upon her father's death when she was twenty three years old. The Sforzas were therefore exorbitantly wealthy, their combined net worth reaching nearly fifteen billion dollars.
About a week ago there had been a break-in at her husband's penthouse apartment in the Gotham State Building. The police were called in by the alarm system that had been set off by the burglars. All of the important things were more or less accounted for, as most legal documents and other such valuables were kept in an airtight safe, but most of her fine jewelry that had been lying in a mahogany wood chest in her armoire was gone. The rest of the place had been demolished, broken glass covering the wood floors in a parody of spilled diamonds.
GCPD looked into it at her request and almost immediately received an irate phone call from Alessandro Sforza. The man somehow believed that his wife hired thugs to break in and smash the place up and was using the city's police force to cover her tracks. When asked why he believed it to be so, he angrily retorted that his wife's goal was to inflict revenge upon him for leaving her behind while he traveled to the Mediterranean for vacation. The couple did not reside together in Gotham; he stayed in the penthouse while she maintained a townhouse overlooking the river in the Upper Westside.
It was not a great mystery that for all his fair looks and impressive lineage, Mr. Sforza was a philandering pig. Gordon didn't indulge in such gossip but it didn't mean he was blind to it—Sforza had become to the newspapers and tabloids what Bruce Wayne once was. The couple remained together because they did not have a prenuptial agreement. Giulia had entered into the marriage naively, bringing half of their current wealth with her when the couple moved to America for Sforza's work. It was only too easy in the end for Alessandro. She couldn't divorce him without losing her fair share, along with her reputation among their particular circle of elite society.
She remained in her adopted homeland where she was among the first to dive into the reconstruction of Gotham after the Joker's demise and Batman's disappearance. Over the years, she'd overcome her humiliation and rebuilt her reputation—she was now well known for her devotion to Gotham's less fortunate, donating unreservedly to orphanages, senior homes, hospitals, public schools and homeless shelters. She'd become a volunteer ballet instructor at a rundown inner-city center for performing arts which catapulted her into practically sainthood. When she performed at the occasional benefit concert or the children's year-end show, they were almost always guaranteed to be sold out.
In short, she became a media darling through her good works, and her husband ridiculous tabloid fodder.
Looking up, Gordon noticed that the place was far humbler than he would have expected of someone of that social standing. It stood only two stories high with tangled vines of ivy climbing up the red brick walls. Her neighbors' residences matched hers almost completely save for the ivy, an unusual sight in a semi-urban part of the city. A few parked cars were scattered along the otherwise quiet street, and the majority of the people walking past were young families, dog-walkers, or businesspeople. All in all, it seemed like a normal upper-middle class neighborhood.
He did not know Mrs. Sforza that well. He'd only met her once, at the unveiling of the new city library after the many renovations done to it because of the damage it sustained from the Joker's chaos. She seemed so very young then. He wondered if her husband's bad behavior had aged her, as Gordon himself had aged but for a myriad of different reasons.
He rang the doorbell and stood back at a polite distance from the front doors. They were painted white and had sloping golden handles with opposite facing half circles of painted glass on each side. The hazy late afternoon light shimmered through the apertures and he could detect a faint shape through them as the left door was slowly pulled back.
"Commissioner Gordon! I did wonder when I'd see you," the woman said invitingly.
He was compelled to smile since she remembered his name and seemed amenable to receiving him.
"Hello, Mrs. Sforza. I am sorry that we should cross paths due to such an unfortunate situation."
She waved her hand dismissively and shook her head.
"Please, do come in."
Gordon ambled into the foyer and was immediately taken aback by the broad view she had of the Gotham River from her living room. The sight of the park and river more than made up for the humble size of the townhouse. He became suddenly aware of his slightly scuffed shoes and rumpled shirt as he stepped over the spotless wooden floor.
She eventually surpassed him as she led him into the living room, and he noticed she wore no shoes. In truth, Gordon had quite forgotten the impact of Mrs. Sforza's presence. His memory hadn't retained her wordless charisma at all; she had an uncanny way of making him feel like she was greeting him as she would an old friend. Her brown hair was arranged in a loose chignon at the base of her neck and her long bangs just brushed her eyelashes. She regarded him frankly with her peculiar grey eyes.
She asked him to sit and beckoned to adjacent armchairs nearest the windows, sensing that he was drawn to them as most who visited her were.
"How may I help you this afternoon, Commissioner Gordon? I trust you've heard from my dear marito." Her slight accent colored her words and underscored her sarcasm.
He observed her at length, seeing how her crossed arms gave away belligerence that was most likely aimed at a man thousands of miles across the world.
"We have concluded after an intensive investigation that the break-in at your penthouse was carried out by two men of significant criminal backgrounds. They are being tracked as we speak and I am happy to tell you that arrests will be made in at least twenty four hours. I can't promise you that we'll be able to return all of what was taken, but the men will be charged with breaking and entering and theft."
Mrs. Sforza's posture softened when she leaned back into the chair. She breathed in deeply then exhaled a sigh.
"Well, it was all as simple as that, anyway. You know it, I know it, and it's just Alessandro who doesn't want to believe it." She remarked flippantly, but he saw the pain veiled behind those eyes that looked ancient on her unlined face.
"Those jewels aren't mine anyway, they're probably gifts for his other women. Of course he'd think the vandalism and theft was my doing."
"Have you spoken with him at all since the burglary?"
"No. We communicate only through email these days. I wrote to him that I wasn't involved at all but what can one do against such stubbornness?" With a one shouldered shrug, the lady drew her right leg up to cross it over her left.
Her lips formed into a hesitant smile just then. The woman had a sort of appealing vulnerability about her that managed to draw people in, a rare and artless quality that one didn't encounter often.
"Enough about this nonsense. How is it around GCPD headquarters? They say peace breeds laziness but I have greater faith than most in you and your men."
She was unexpectedly forward in her inquiry. Gordon contemplated his response momentarily.
"Calm now, almost too calm sometimes. I can't guarantee that at least one of my men isn't wishing for the action of the old days."
"You care for them a great deal," She murmured with her head tilted slightly, "I always knew you were incorruptible."
He felt a stab of remorse, reminded of the lies he propagated to keep Gotham's morale intact, of Harvey Dent and Batman, and the debilitating injury done to the former and the blatant injustice to the latter. He swallowed down his regret, fearing Mrs. Sforza might detect something strange in his rather visceral reaction. In reality he hardly deserved her effusive praise and this was not the appropriate time to delve into his own brand of pathological guilt.
Thankfully, she looked away and he used the reprieve to compose himself.
"Has it been two years since the library opening?" She wondered aloud, "It seems like a lifetime, almost. And I still owe you a dance."
Gordon was taken aback by the lilt in her accented voice. He pictured them standing together by the windows, swaying slowly to a tune of no great importance to him but the proximity of her body, the faint scent of her perfume.
The scent of jasmine pervaded the garden pavilion. He'd been on his phone about an office matter when he almost walked into a woman turning the corner of the stone wall corridor that led back to the party.
Her gown seemed to whisper as it brushed the floor, just barely, while she walked. That's why he didn't hear her approaching until they nearly collided. It must have been the palest shade of chartreuse with flecks of gold woven into the bodice and the diaphanous skirts. He could never figure out why her clothes so thoroughly became her. She breathed life into what she wore, rather than letting the clothes adorn or embellish her.
He didn't speak at all but she looked him straight in the eye and apologized. The color of her dress amplified the effect of her eyes, wide and inquisitive. Her hair was arranged in a tousled bun, her rosy lips and cheeks only added to her image as a lovely nymph of old stories he'd read as a boy.
Slightly chagrined by the inanity of his rather florid thoughts, he'd started to introduce himself.
"I'm—"
"James Gordon, Gotham Police Department's Commissioner. I've seen you on the news rather frequently. My name is Giulia," The lady said.
"A name to match your loveliness." He'd blurted out, surprising both himself and her."I apologize for almost running you over."
She had a pleasant, faintly musical laugh.
"You are too kind, Commissioner, don't trouble yourself. I hope you've enjoyed the evening thus far. Tell me, what do you think of our petite soirée?"
The opening of the main branch of Gotham's Public Library was done completely under her direction. There were white cast iron tables and chairs scattered throughout the pavilion where investors and city officials mingled over dinner. The press took care not to trample the exotic species of flowers and shrubs while they snapped photos. The blossom trees were festooned with yellow lights that cast a cozy ambience over the open space. The gardens were meant for people to read in, after the party was over. The old library had once been a religious house and still retained an old Gothic feel reminiscent of English monasteries. The contrast between the building and the adjacent gardens was astonishingly beautiful.
Every detail had been meticulously planned, and she had outdone herself with the reception in the surrounding gardens. The soft jazz band played in intervals during the evening; the rhythmic strumming of a bass was audible from where they were standing. She looked quite at ease beneath the old stone arches of the library.
"I think you've done magnificently. No words of mine can do it justice."
In truth, he felt wrong-footed. This wasn't his territory; he didn't know how to talk to her. He'd not yet become used to working the social circuit, so to speak, since he'd been promoted only a few months ago. She didn't seem to mind his verbal clumsiness however and appeared to be genuinely pleased when he complimented the event.
"I wanted it to remind people of home. The library should be a sanctuary for all. That was my goal in the restoration."
"I'd expect no less from a university professor," He said in a gently teasing voice.
"Ah, so you've heard of me too apparently!"
"Since I handled the security measures for the event, it would be remiss if I hadn't."
"I suppose I must thank you for keeping us all safe." Her voice was sincere. He knew she was referring to more than just that particular evening's security.
"No need, Mrs. Sforza. I'm just doing my duty. I'd hate to see the books harmed after all."
This time she tilted her head upward as she laughed at his not-too-subtle conversational maneuvering.
"I've always been protective of books. My mother maintained a small but worthwhile collection of rare volumes in her house on Corsica. I'd guard those with my life."
"Corsica?"
She darted a look at him, wondering about his tone.
"I thought you and your husband were from Italy. My mistake." He clarified.
"Oh—my husband is Milanese through and through. I am half Corsican. I grew up half in my father's estate in Italy, the other half on my mother's island."
"I see." Images of sunny beaches flew through his mind, of untouched, rocky wilderness juxtaposed with the vast Mediterranean. He shook himself inwardly, conversing with her seemed to disrupt the orderliness of his thoughts.
"Actually, I'm glad to have met you tonight."
"Really, why?"
"When my daughter Babs was younger, my wife and I took her to see the winter production of Swan Lake at the Conservatory…You played Odette. I swear I'd never seen my little girl so still and silent. At least until we left the theater and took her home, then she wouldn't stop talking about the ballet for a week. She's still taking lessons and I try to catch her recitals when I can. I'm glad I can now thank you, for making her so happy."
A slow blush spread over her face and down past her neck. Her humility manifested itself in this way; no one could accuse her of pushing false modesty. He stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned against the stone wall.
"I'm glad she enjoyed it. I can't take so much of the credit, after all you and your wife thought to expose her to the ballet. Performing arts are so important for children; little else can stimulate the fancies of youthful imagination. But I must say that at my ripe old age of thirty two, wearing pointe shoes is getting a little more difficult," said the lady jokingly.
"Do you still teach?"
Her eyebrows rose up at his question. She must not have been expecting him to express any further interest in her dancing.
"Yes, I try to be constant presence at GYPAC," She meant Gotham Youth Performing Arts Center, a nonprofit that taught underprivileged children.
"The kids keep me on my toes. No pun intended."
They shared a laugh. Her beauty was reserved but warm, though she did everything she could not to intimidate. She easily could have, whether it was through her upbringing, her education, her wealth, or her philanthropy. This was no trite celebrity or debutante of the cliché "down-to-earth" variety. Hers was an understated grace, one that was to be savored in small amounts then remembered fondly. It should have been weird, how easy it was to talk to her, but it wasn't. Perhaps she was simply one of those people who could conjure instant rapport with anyone. The thought, however more realistic, was disheartening. He tried to put it aside.
There was a brief silence between them. The distant music and general din of the party-goers went ignored by both. He wondered if there was any truth to the rumors about her.
At last, she looked away from him. She crossed her arms as if she were suddenly remembering herself. Looking back at the party, she asked, "And where is Mrs. Gordon tonight? It is not too late for dancing."
His expression must have betrayed him, for a flash of shame stole across her features.
"I—uh…I'm afraid that my wife couldn't be here tonight but I'm sure she would've loved what you did with the library."
She remained quiet without groping for something to say to fill the silence. Unfortunately, it was something he himself couldn't do.
"Would you…like to dance Mrs. Sforza? I may not be a classically trained dancer but I assure you I've never stepped on a lady's toe in my life."
She tilted her head a little to the side, lowering her eyelids with a smile.
He looked her over, appraising her fine cheekbones and bright eyes, the way a stray lock of wavy hair had fallen to tickle her collarbone. He had a sudden impulse to tuck the wayward strand behind her ear when suddenly a man's voice barked out her name.
"Giulia!"
She jumped visibly, the harsh sound spoiling her inherent calmness.
"There you are, I've been looking for you everywhere. I need you at my side, the Mayor is asking for you—"
Tall, lithe, and blessed with handsome aquiline features, Alessandro Sforza gripped his wife's arm none too gently. She flinched ever so slightly but didn't shrink away. She replied in rolling Italian, and Gordon was effectively excluded from their dialogue. Mr. Sforza spoke in arctic, clipped tones. Gordon knew right away that this was definitely not a loving marriage, perhaps it had never been.
He watched Sforza's eyes travel languidly to notice him standing there. The man only deigned to nod in his direction, before releasing Giulia and exiting the stone cloister as aggressively as he entered.
A short moment later, she straightened her shoulders and held her head in her natural poised manner.
"Commissioner, I would love to dance with you but it seems I must return to playing hostess."
He wasn't sure if that was regret in her voice or shame at the way her husband talked to her in front of a guest. Gordon felt an ache in his chest that was strangely potent. Her sorrow moved him in ways he couldn't really comprehend.
"Good evening Madame Sforza."
She smiled as fully as she could manage, but he could tell how much it cost her to do so. He stepped closer even as his mind screamed at him to cease and desist, even as he felt the feather light brush of her fingers upon his cheek…
Abruptly he broke his line of thought and Gordon felt like a fool. The entire thing was a true memory except for the very last of it. She hadn't touched him but followed her retreating husband back into the party, not sparing a backward glance for him, Gordon. He certainly wouldn't have attempted to pursue her, not when it was still early days in his and Barbara's separation. He put it down to a detestable knee-jerk reflex he seemed to have developed ever since his wife left him. Companionship was what he missed more than anything but it was far more than he deserved considering his moral crime.
She was looking at him curiously, warily. It was a bit mortifying to be caught wool-gathering on what was meant to be an official visit. He felt his face flush.
Was it really so important that he impose upon her time to tell her what easily could have been transmitted through a single phone call? He glanced furtively around the room and noted the stillness; the only noises were the distant sound of the river current below and the boats travelling upon it. As if sensing his abrupt discomfort, Mrs. Sforza spoke.
"I shall not be offended if you decline, but…would you stay for dinner, Commissioner? I made a huge bowl of homemade arrabbiata that would put make any of the places on Restaurant Row ashamed to call themselves Italian."
Jim Gordon took a moment to respectfully consider her invitation. She sat before him, clad in a simple cashmere sweater and dark denims. He made his decision.
"I'm afraid there's more work to be done at the office, Mrs. Sforza. And tonight I'm meeting Mayor Garcia for a briefing on the security measures for Saturday's parade. I—I thank you for your kind hospitality."
He felt that she saw right through him.
"I just thought that since you're here and it's nearly seven…"
She trailed off when she saw the look on his face. He wondered what she saw at that precise moment, what cue spurred her invitation. Was it her pity for him? Surely she noticed he didn't wear his wedding ring anymore.
"Perhaps another time, then." She conceded graciously, much to his surprise.
He cleared his throat gently and stood, straightening the sleeves of his blazer. The sun had lowered, casting a burnished glow on everything in its path. It set her eyes alight, illuminating the subtle disappointment there, and making the slight coppery lowlights in her otherwise brown hair noticeable. He knew a pang of remorse at that. She had no other engagements, and in all honesty, neither did he. Even though she only meant dinner (it was what might happen after that had him uneasy) it felt wrong to accept when he remembered that his divorce papers were freshly signed, sealed and on their way to Barbara's attorney in Ohio. It was an unpleasant reminder of how off-kilter his world had become, and how far his equilibrium had been thrown.
She followed him out as he exited her home. The exquisite white door closed behind him and Gordon walked down the steps of the townhouse while he pictured her sitting alone by the highly arched windows watching as even the sun deserted her.
A/N: Giulia Sforza is my first attempt at an OC. I imagined her as being played by the French actress Sophie Marceau circa "The World is not Enough," with her signature je nais sais quoi. Please leave a review and let me know what you think, and if you'd like to read more than just a one-shot. :)