Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or any of it's related content.
AN: The first in what is shaping up into a series of oneshots between Batman Begins and the Dark Knight. Slight alterations have been made to some of the scenes and timeline of BB. The most prevalent being the scene when Ra's al Ghul and co. burn down Wayne Manor. Here, Bruce actually fought and lost to the League of Shadows before being left for dead, rather than simply have a staring contest followed by him being owned by a wooden beam. I've also pushed Bruce's age down to 26, rather than 30, to bring it a bit more in line with the plot of Year One, and to accentuate the uncertainty he feels about his actions. Unrelated to this oneshot, but important to later ones, Rachel was not let in on The Secret.

Confessions

Lieutenant James Gordon knew his day was going to be a bad one from the moment he got up that morning. There didn't seem to be anything special about it to tip him off, but he couldn't shake the feeling he was going to regret not calling off work. He might have even gotten away with it too. Jimmy was running a fever the doctors couldn't seem to find the source of, and Barbara was more than frustrated with his inability to take some time to spend with the family, but with his recent promotion and his precarious standing with Commissioner Loeb he couldn't give any excuse for a potential demotion.

Aside from Jimmy's mystery cold nothing seemed unusual or out of place. He arrived at work exactly when he meant to. There were two murders down by the docks and several suspected cocain OD's, but as much as Jim wished it weren't so that was just normal for Gotham. If anything, the work load was lighter than usual, with the National Guard having taken over the problem with the Narrows. There were still a few people coming out of the woodwork in the rest of the city, along the Sky Train route the terrorists had travelled with their stolen weaponry, but with the antidote to the fear toxin now widely available thanks to the Batman it was a simple matter to bring them to the hospital for treatment. The Narrows were another matter and no one was looking forward to the day the Guard released the aftermath back into the GCPD's hands.

All in all, it was a rather standard day, even down to Renee's standard burnt batch of coffee and Jim staying far beyond his official clock out time. By ten-fifteen he was starting to think his concerns about the day were unfounded and he might actually make it home before midnight when Gerard poked his head into his tiny office with a grimace.

"Hey, Jim," he started, his mouth half quirked into an apologetic smile and Jim felt his heart sink. This is what he'd been waiting all day for. "They just pulled in a bunch of trust fund kids from The Glitter doped up on drugs and the Commissioner wants you to handle it."

Jim wasn't one to curse, even mildly, but he had to resist the urge at his old friend's words. They had an entire department dedicated to drug crimes, a department Jim wasn't part of. This was either a test by the Commissioner to see how he'd hold up under new circumstances, or he was trying to trip him up by having him ruffle the feathers of the top of Gotham's food chain. Just what he needed.

He grabbed his suit coat off the back of his chair where he'd left it and put it on, trying to smooth out the wrinkles as he did. He'd need every bit of armor he could get if he wanted to make it out of this alive. He briefly considered calling Barbara to warn her he was going to be home later than normal but discarded the idea. She and the children would be in bed and hopefully asleep by now.

"An entire night interviewing drugged up rich kids was not what I had in mind for tonight," he muttered to himself. "Or ever."

Gerard huffed, his smile wan. "Don't worry about them too much. We're handling most of them. Loeb just wants you to deal with one."

This news should have comforted Jim, midnight might still be a possibility, but his friend's demeanor just made his sigh in resignation.

It was like a train wreck. In fact, it felt almost exactly like the moment of horror he felt just three nights ago when he used the Batman's tank-car to blow up the Sky Train. He could almost taste the name of his suspect on the tip of his tongue when he ask, quietly as if it would change the answer, "Who?"

"Bruce Wayne."

He didn't bother to resist the urge to curse this time.

He could still remember the days when the name Bruce Wayne invoked a sense of hope in people. Thomas and Martha Wayne had done so much to bring the city back from the brink, to save Gotham, and to have it all taken away so brutally in a single night had left Jim cold. Everything began to fall apart after that. Not at first, during the beginning. Everyone had been too shocked, even the criminal element seemed to have taken a step back in respect of the Waynes' passing. Then, slowly but surely, decay creeped into every corner of the city until, nearly twenty years later there was nothing left but rot and mildew. Gotham was so far gone it needed a vigilante dressed in kevlar and a tank to fight for it.

It didn't have to be this way, he thought to himself as he stared through the windows of one of the smaller conference rooms at the young, misguided Wayne. One day, he was their dream. A dream of a city of light, of people who had a sense of justice. That dream took a hit when it became apparent Bruce Wayne didn't intend on following in his father's footsteps, with rumors of angry outbursts at school and wild underage parties. It was, in a way, understandable. They'd had no right to lay all their burdens on the shoulders of a young boy, especially one too young to have fully grasped everything his parents had meant to the people of Gotham.

Looking at Wayne now it was hard to see the remnants of the little boy Jim remember so vividly from that terrible night so many years ago. So silent, and still, and introverted he had been, and now he sat anything but. Legs crossed at the ankle, one foot bouncing to the beat of fingers drummed on the solid wood table, his head leaned back against the back of his chair, eyes closed. His expression was still closed off, but not with fear and loss but with frustration and maybe a tiny hint of pain. As much as it had hurt to see the child's pain Jim found the sight of the man to be worse. Gotham's lost prince.

He turned and barked at Detective Montoya to join him. Much as he hated to use her that way, Wayne might be more forthcoming with a pretty female in the room during the interrogation. Renee took one glance at the man in the room and glared at the new Lieutenant. Clearly she could see the path Jim's thoughts had taken and didn't approve, even if she understood his reasoning. But she was a good cop, and wouldn't voice her complaints until after they were done.

Jim took a steadying breath before he entered the room, the file he'd picked up from the lab techs held firmly under one arm and Renee at his left shoulder.

"Good evening, Mr. Wayne," he greeted, tying to strike a slightly more friendly tone than he usually used with his suspects. Recreational drug use of the rich and famous wasn't exactly on the level with rapists and murderers, after all. From Renee's amused frown as they circled the table to face Wayne was any indication, his attempt fell a little flat. Wayne himself merely opened his eyes and gave a blinding smile, oblivious to or ignoring Jim's false cheer.

"It certainly was officers," came his response, with only a hint of bite to it. "What can I do for you? I hope it has nothing to do with the little problem Andrew and his friends got involved in." At this he tilted his chin towards the bullpen, where some of the other clubbers were waiting to be questioned, all of them in an uproar.

"Oh, not quite," Jim agreed, opening the file and browsing through it lazily as though he hadn't searched it thoroughly before entering the room. It had been a shock to find Wayne's tox screen came back clean of Hawaiian Ice, the current popular drug among the young and stupid for the past few months, but that didn't mean it came back clean, either. "It seems you have a different drug of choice, Mr. Wayne."

At this Wayne finally focused all of his attention on the two police officers in the room, first on Renee with a surprisingly uninterested assessment before settling on the Lieutenant. "That's a very serious charge, officer." There was more teeth in this statement and some of the billionaire playboy persona seemed to have slipped away, though the million watt smile never changed. The last five months since Wayne's return from the unknowns may have proved him to be relatively clueless, if not downright stupid, but he was still one of the social elite and that required he be a bit cunning on the types of trouble he could get in with his vices. It might work well for some actors, but it would do Wayne no favors to be outed to the tabloids as a druggie. Not after he'd already made a scandal with burning his own house, the beloved Wayne Manor to the ground just three nights ago. If not for the terrorist attack on Gotham that same night, Bruce Wayne would have made front page news and would likely already have been shunned by many of his peers. For a few months at least. "I hope you have some proof, or else the GCPD might wind up with some trouble of its own."

Once again, Jim resisted the temptation to curse. This was exactly why Loeb put him on this, he was sure. If Jim screwed this up and made an enemy of Wayne Loeb would throw him under the bus as appeasement, and then put the damn bus in reverse for good measure. He gets rid of an annoyance he'd wanted gone long ago and he gets to come out smelling like a rose with Gotham's Prince for being so willing to get rid of his "bad apples". A month ago, Jim may have backed down and played along, willing to take the lesser of two evils and try and continue on as best he could with his hands tied.

But a month ago was before Jim met the Batman and found his courage, before it was proven someone could, how had Rachel Dawes put it, with the air of a quote? Rattle the cages. If those two could rattle the cages, damn the consequences, so could he.

"Your tox screen shows elevated levels of Oxycodone, Mr. Wayne. That's a Schedule II controlled substance." Wayne mimics something vaguely resembling a pout, but still seemed to confident to be genuinely concerned. "Mind explaining that for us?"

"Um..." The brat, the best description Jim had heard for the man-child sitting before him, twisted his face in dramatic thought even scratched at his brow for effect. All in all, the interrogation wasn't going as badly as he had expected. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but more hysterics or offering to buy them off came a lot closer than what they were getting. The tabloids enjoyed complaining about Wayne's "unpredictability" and Jim was beginning to agree with them. "I think," Wayne drawled. "It's because I have a prescription."

With that, he pulled a small orange bottle from the inner pocket of his suit coat and placed it on the table in front of them.

Renee swiped it off the table, grabbing Wayne's attention, though it still lacked his usual sexualized flare. Another unpredictable response. "And just what happened to you to need medicating? Or should I ask how much you paid the doctor to ignore the fine details of your grievous 'injuries'?" She leaned across the table and grinned in the man's face, all teeth. Since the 'sexy cop' routine wasn't working, seems she'd decided to play the 'bad cop' to Jim's more reasonable one. For his part, Wayne had lost all sense of entertainment, his brow furrowed and his lips a thin line. Jim could almost see the synapses firing in his brain as he furiously thought up an answer that wouldn't dig him a deeper hole. Suddenly the Lieutenant wondered why Wayne hadn't called for a lawyer. Surely with all the shenanigans he gets up to he must have one on call.

Then the smile was back, dimmer than before with pain worn into its corners. "Polo accident a few days back. Brutal sport. Ever been stepped on by a nine hundred pound horse? It's not fun let me tell you. Two of my team mates, Brenda and Amy, though, they made every bit of it worth while. See they-"

Jim and Renee's gaze met as Wayne prattled on about the twins and how they bravely saved him from a terrifying death, adding more and more lewd detail as he picked up steam. Jim was willing to admit he was a bit too trusting and was a little too willing to give second chances. His partnership with the Batman was a perfect example, but he could recognize a baldfaced lie as well as any profiler and everything coming out of Wayne's mouth was a crock. Renee could see it too.

She prowled around the table and leaned in close at Wayne's shoulder getting right into his personal space and from the tensing of the man's muscles and the tightening of the skin around his eyes he didn't find it at all comfortable.

"Why do I not believe you?" she ground out. Wayne's expression had gone very blank and still, tension telegraphed in his posture. He shifted and half turned to face the Detective and for the first time Jim noticed how he was favoring his right side. He covered it well with his position in the chair and the movements he'd been making during the conversation had all been designed to draw attention away from the weakness, but it was there. "If this only happened a few days ago, I want to see proof."

Jim almost expected an innuendo to follow Renee's demand or a return demand for a warrant, but after a moment's thought Wayne carefully removed his coat and tie and began unbuttoning his shirt. Over the other man's shoulder, out of his sight, his detective gave him a smile and a wink. Jim shook his head in amused exasperation while Wayne was distracted with his shirt. Now that he was her superior he really needed to set time aside to talk to her about proper interrogation room decorum. She'd ignore everything he say, but that's what made her the sassy detective the department knew and loved.

All his entertaining thoughts melted away at the sight staring back at him from Bruce Wayne's blackened flesh. In his twenty-five years of service with the GCPD Jim had seen the results of many beatings and he had to admit a certain admiration for anyone who could receive such an injury and live, and here Wayne was, walking and laughing less than a week later. That must be a wonderfully high dose of meds he was prescribed.

The bruising started just over the man's heart and travelled across his collarbone to loop over his right shoulder and down his back judging by Renee's horrified gaping from her angle. From his shoulder it dropped down past his rib cage and tapered to about four inches wide where it disappeared under the waistline of his pants at his right hip. The entire area was dark purple, almost black, with no sign of yellow along the edges to indicate healing. There must have also been some broken ribs under all that, by the odd hitching in Wayne's breathing when he shifted position. Maybe he really had been stomped on by a horse.

But Jim didn't think so. The story didn't sound right. It had been rehearsed before, probably before he had even visited the doctor, but the ways his eyes shifted and the lilt in his tone didn't match up. His eyes had been far too serious for his light hearted story. Something more had happened, but what? All the evidence supported Wayne's story. He had nothing to dispute it aside from a hunch and a quarter century of experience, but Loeb certainly wouldn't back him up if he tried to push at it.

Renee caught his eye again. She'd lost the shock and horror and was now looking between a spot on Wayne's back and him with a look of borderline fury. Seeing she'd gotten his attention she looked back down at the man sitting stiffly in his chair.

"Sir, I think you should take a look at this."

"What?" Wayne demanded, trying, and failing to turn his head to see over his shoulder. Moving around the table, Jim could see why. The bruising on his back was more mottled than his chest, not quite solid purple, but far more widespread. There were large patches of vivid color spaced all across his flesh, including a rather nasty oblong bruise at the back of his neck that would have been barely hidden by the collar of his dress shirt.

Leaning in for a closer look, he couldn't quite see what Renee was so furious about until she ran her finger around the edge of one of the bruises, careful not to touch the sensitive skin. As it dawned on him what he was seeing she circled another bruise and then a third followed with a last round at the marking on Wayne's neck.

"Mr. Wayne?" He watched in morbid fascination as the muscles flexed and tensed under the damaged skin. "Is there anything you'd like to add to your statement about your polo accident?"

Wayne shrugs painfully and the two officers flinch in unison. Why wasn't Wayne in bed resting somewhere? Even without his manor there had to be a dozen places he could settle at for a few weeks. What made him think clubbing was a good idea? "I really don't think there's any more to tell."

Normally this was the point Jim would come down on a suspect hard, but he was starting to think Wayne was less a suspect of drug abuse and more the victim of a rather brutal crime.

He pulled out one of the other chairs and turned it so it was facing the younger man and took a seat next to him. He needed Wayne to feel he could confide in him. He couldn't let someone capable of this brutality run loose in his city. Renee, seeing the direction Jim was pushing for, quietly offered to grab some coffee and perhaps a snack, and made a break for the door. She was always uncomfortable with the part of the job where gentle coaxing was necessary. She much preferred the blunt force part.

"Mr. Wayne." He laid a hand on the man's left arm, trying to carefully avoid any tender spots. Up close he could see lighter bruises and scratches along Wayne's forearms. He recognized them instantly as classic defensive wounds. Had this been a beating that nearly resulted in murder, or a murder attempt falling short? Here the two of them were again, only this time Jim didn't have any comfort to offer yet. "Please," he pleaded softly once his companion's attention was focused wholly on him. "Please tell me who hurt you."

"I already told you what happened," Wayne grumbled, but with little effort. All the illusions had been stripped from him, leaving behind an exhausted and hurt young man. "I was kicked by a horse."

And before he'd said he was stepped on, but Jim wasn't going to remind him of that. "There are at least four separate boot impressions in those bruises," he corrects softly and Wayne dropped his gaze to Jim's hand still resting on his arm, avoiding meeting his eyes. "At least two of them from separate people. Please, let us help you."

They sat in silence for several long minutes, Wayne continuing to stare at his hand and fidgeting nervously, opening his mouth several times to speak before closing it again. Finally, just as Jim was about to break the silence himself with another line of questioning the younger man began speaking.

"It was at the party." He began slowly, his voice barely a whisper. "I didn't know who they were at first. They'd slipped in with the other guests and I didn't notice. I'd been late. I don't remember why. Their leader, the one with the goatee, he approached me. Told me his name was Ra's al Ghul. He had men with him and they were armed. He allowed me to send my guests away. I didn't want to alarm them, so I did what I could to get them to leave quickly. I think they're still angry with me about that." He chuckled weakly and Jim had to join him. In the aftermath of everything, Wayne's behavior was still popular gossip.

"Ra's al Ghul told me he was with the League of Shadows. I don't know exactly what that means, but he said they were going to destroy Gotham. They said I was a threat to that goal, that I might try and become like my parents and dig Gotham out of its despair on my own. Guess they weren't watching the society pages or they'd have known how unlikely that was, but they didn't. Seems to me, that Bat guy in the news would have made a better target. I mean, he has a tank. And he blew up part of my building and part of the rail system. Surely he was a bigger threat."

Jim still felt guilty over that, but now for different reasons than before. Wayne Tower and the Sky Train had been two of Thomas Wayne's life's work and his legacy to his son. To have that damaged so soon after the burning of the manor must have been a painful blow.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne," he comforted. "But it really was necessary to stop the train."

"Oh, I know. Alfred explained it all to me earlier." He flapped his right hand a bit, taking care not to move his shoulder at the same time, a bit of the playboy persona slipping through, just a bit before it was gone. "Their plot almost succeeded." He turned to Jim with haunted eyes. "Do you know what happened to Ra's al Ghul? If he finds out I'm telling you this-"

"Don't worry," Jim cut him off Batman had been very clear on his identification on the body they'd pulled from the wreckage, though sneaking him into the morgue had been annoyingly difficult, but he'd refused to identify the man from picture alone. Something about theatricality and deception, a phrase which left Jim wondering and confused. "We've confirmed the man known as Ra's al Ghul is dead."

Something flickered in Wayne's expression Jim couldn't catch before he nearly deflated in relief.

"Dead, dead, dead," Wayne repeated to himself. "I guess that's good." He leaned forward and rested his head on the table, turning his face towards Jim and closing his eyes. There was a long enough silence for Jim to fear his witness had fallen asleep on him but he needn't have worried. "They started destroying my home. At first I didn't understand what they were doing, but after one of them tried to punch me I got a pretty good idea. I'd like to think I did pretty well, but, but," he huffed a self depreciating laugh. "They wiped the floor with me. Seven on one odds isn't playing fair."

He fell into a sombre silence for a minute. He must have been terrified, Jim thought. To have a terrorist show up on his doorstep and try and kill him, and then to survive it and see the horror of the aftermath. No wonder he kept his silence on the real events that took place at his manor. Better to be alive and thought a fool.

"I don't remember a whole lot after that. I remember smelling gasoline, and then something burning fell on me. I think it may have been the massive exposed beam that stretched across the reception hall into the sitting room. Next thing I know, Alfred is half carrying me out of the manor as it burned." Wayne brought his right arm around, heedless of the agony it must be causing, and nestled his head on it, his eyes still closed. He seemed reluctant to move his left arm and disturb Jim's hand. "Everything is gone now. All the family pictures, all their personal effects. All gone. Ashes, floating away on the night's breeze, never to rest on this earth again, bringing comfort to none."

Once more, Jim found himself left trying to comfort young Bruce Wayne in the aftermath of a terrible tragedy and not knowing how. There may have been no lives claimed, but losing what little remained of those he'd already lost so violently, Jim couldn't even imagine. So, he did the only thing he could.

"It's okay, son." He rubbed the spot under his palm, where there was the least bruising. "It's okay."

They stayed like that for a long time, Jim repeating his quiet mantra, and Wayne grieving without tears.

Eighteen years and everything had changed, and everything stayed the same.

Jim left Bruce Wayne alone in the small little conference room they'd been using for an interrogation room after it had become obvious the young man had fallen asleep, head nestled in his arm and a more peaceful expression than Jim had ever seen him with. He couldn't bring himself to wake him, so he'd merely taken the discarded coat, nicer than Jim could ever afford for himself, and placed it gently over the sleeping form. If Wayne didn't wake up by the time Jim left for home, he'd get him up and on his way before he clocked out.

It was well past midnight and all but a few stragglers from the trust fund roundup had been packed up and sent home. The usual suspects of detectives were still hanging around, sans Renee who's desk was tidied and dark indicative of her having already left. Jim didn't blame her. He really wanted to be able to get some sleep before his next shift started, but he had a monster of a report he needed to write up.

He wandered over to the coffee machine and poured himself some of the disgusting sludge known as police house coffee and wandered back into his office. Much as he could have called out today, he really didn't need to do the report on Wayne tonight, but unlike that morning where he'd felt the need to do his duty, now it was a drive. There would be no justice for this crime; Ra's al Ghul was dead and from the sounds of things his men had all gone to ground but for a few the Batman had managed to secure. There was no rush, but the thought of letting it sit, even for a few hours was unbearable. Just because there would be no court battles fought over it, no prison sentences handed down, didn't mean the crime didn't deserve to be acknowledge. Bruce Wayne deserved that at least.

Around two he finished the last line and rolled his shoulders to work the knots out of them. He wandered back into the bullpen, leaving the file where it was. He'd need to interview Wayne again in detail, something he really didn't want to put the man through, but procedure must. Detective Gerard Stephens was still at his desk staring down at one of the files from the roundup earlier and chewing angrily on the inside of his cheek. Seeing Jim exiting his office he bounded from his seat and joined him in the break room.

"I see you survived the battle," Gerard commented with a grin. "But did you win the war?"

A joke he and Gerard had been making for over twenty-five years, ever since the academy. They usually reserved it for what they knew would be uphill fights against politics and corruption, rather than criminals. Jim felt too worn thin to play the game right then.

"Bruce Wayne's not going to be charged with anything," he said tiredly. His friend opened his mouth to make some statement about the obvious, Jim was sure but cut him off. "Honestly, Gerard, he's really not what everyone's expected him to be. I won't say the tabloids are entirely wrong, he is pretty airheaded, but he is capable of a lot more than people think. More than even he thinks, I believe." He and Gerard had been busy tinkering away at their drinks of choice, strong black coffee for his night owl friend and caffeine free tea for himself before he went home. Because of this, they didn't notice someone in the doorway until they heard someone quietly clearing their throat.

Wayne stood awkwardly in the door frame, suit coat over one arm and his dress shirt back on and buttoned up to hide the patchwork of horrors beneath. He stared at Jim in perplexed embarrassment. Jim felt his own cheeks heat up at how candid he'd been and how unkind it really was. With all the tabloids said about Wayne and what everyone thought of him, being capable of more was about as pathetic a compliment one could give. Damning with faint praise, indeed. Not to mention the direct insult. Had all the work he'd done getting the young man, hardly more than a boy at only twenty-six, to open up and trust him been undone with one thoughtless statement? Gerard watched on with false indifference.

Wayne shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again before speaking. "Alfred's come to pick me up." It's the third time he's mentioned 'Alfred' and Jim wondered at who he was. "I just wanted to thank you, before I left."

"Thank me?" Jim parroted.

"For being so patient with me," he said, quietly. A quick glance at Gerard makes it clear he doesn't appreciate the audience but continues on anyway. "For being a genuinely kind person." Then in hardly more than a whisper Jim can barely hear.

"For not thinking I'm an idiot."

And he said it with such embarrassed sincerity there's no doubt he believes it and suddenly Jim feels like the biggest heel in Gotham right then. Before he could formulate a response, Wayne was gone. Through the window of the break room he watched the young man slide around the obstacles in the bullpen with surprising dexterity for someone so injured to join an elderly man waiting serenely by the front desk. They greeted each other warmly and Jim determined this must be Alfred. He must care a lot for the young Wayne, enough to have run into a burning building to save him. Wayne glanced back quickly before ducking his head and disappearing out the door, Alfred following closely behind.

"Well, that last bit certainly wasn't polite," Gerard grumbled as he went back to his coffee. He didn't know everything Wayne had gone through and the trust, tiny though it was, that had begun between them. Without that, Wayne's parting remarks certainly took on a passive-aggressive nature.

Instead of responding, Jim growled with frustration and slammed his forehead against the cupboard door.

It had been a bad day after all.