Title: Until it Fades to Dust
Author: strangelittleswirl
Word Count: 5876 before the footnotes
Rating: PG-13 (minor swearing, mention of darker themes)
Disclaimer:I do not own Batman or any of the characters. They are the property of DC comics, and this story is based in the Nolan-verse of Batman Begins and The Dark Knight, which are movies from Warner Bros . The title of the fic comes from the song "Choke" by Hybrid.
Summary: Starting with the apparent death of James Gordon, his niece returns to Gotham City.

***

Blue eyes waver shut.

It's 6:45 PM.

There is a whole team of people working on the person in the bed, talking quickly and rushing the stretcher as quickly as possible to the operating room. Gloves are slick and red as the hair across the pillow and mouths are grim, slim lines.

They say it's never a good sign to see people running in hospitals.

These people are sprinting.

The flat, horrific tone of the heart monitor during a flat line echoes and ebbs away into time and space, reforming and changing to become much shriller than before, emitting from an alarm-clock radio on the night stand of one Barbara Gordon.

It's 6:45 AM, a year, 364 days, and twelve hours before.

Blue eyes flutter open. 1

***

Somewhere along the way, Barbara had developed a pattern. That being said, when her alarm went off, she rolled over and to the edge, tapping the alarm off blindly as she pushed up and off the bed. With her eyes closed, she staggered to the bathroom, already hearing the preset coffee maker gurgling to life in her kitchenette. Perfectly normal.

Until the phone rang.

6:45 AM phone calls are rare, for most people. ConfiTech knew to contact her on her cell phone, as did most of her friends; occasionally her morning jogs would take her longer than she expected, and the phone served as a way to keep track of the time as well.

As a child, this sort of phone call led to a police car outside and an escort to the hospital, where her uncle would pull her up into his lap and she'd see a new scar, a new injury or hole; she'd call him 'Swiss Cheese'. That orange Bentadine stain color still made her feel sick when she saw it.

So Barbara opened her eyes and grabbed the cordless, dread blooming in her stomach as she saw the number on the caller I.D.

"Frankie?"

"Barbara? Is that really you? Oh baby doll, you grew up." The voice was rough on the other side of the phone from years of tobacco. Frankie had been a great cop, a big fellow that had always reminded her of a bear, what with his massive size and head of unruly, curly brown hair. A sigh turned into a cough and the red haired woman waited patiently, leaning in the doorway of her living room, flexing her toes in the cheap carpet. When a few seconds passed, Barbara couldn't hold her tongue.

"How bad is it this time? Should I meet you at the hospital?"

"Wait a second, you weren't called? Dumb new ones, thinking that there was only one Barbara..." Her uncle's friend trailed off, sighing and coughing some more. This did nothing to assuage the young woman. Gritting her teeth and gripping the phone tightly, she made her way back down the narrow hallway.

"Frankie, tell me straight: how bad is it?" Barbara was now back in her room, grabbing her trousers from the day before because they still had a crease and starting to wriggle into them.

"Baby doll," he sighed and she waited. Frankie had never been good with those drives out to inform family members, knocking on doors with cap in hand. Uncle Jim had told him it would never get easier. Uncle Jim...

"He didn't make it this time, did he?"

Somewhere in the distance, she could hear her coffee maker beeping to signal her it had completed its cycle.2 Her efforts to speedily dress slowed and she sat down on the edge of the unmade bed as Frankie continued on, explaining what had happened.

Barbara pulled out that old numbness from its place in the back of her mind; musty and worn, it was a feeling she had wrapped herself in so many years before. It served its purpose now.

Methodically, she packed a weekend bag, folding everything carefully and neatly. With the taste of salt in her mouth, Barbara drove to Gotham City.

There were menial matters at hand; Barbara had offered to accompany her aunt to make plans for the funeral, but had found that some of the men from the unit had already taken care of them. She busied herself with little things: ironing pleats in her cousin's school skirt, sorting the mail, driving with talk radio on. There was quite a bit of work to do, since the evacuation of the Narrows, the family had moved into a slightly better condo in Gotham City proper.3 If she didn't have something to focus on, her thoughts would wander and start twisting downward.

Life would go on, it always did. Her cousins would not be the first children to be raised without a father, and they were lucky to still have their mother. And Barbara would try her best to keep an eye on the kids, to make sure that they didn't make the same mistakes she had in the past.

***

"Oh my God, Barbie, I just heard the news! I am so sorry!" Harleen gushed, turning her desk chair to face the small office window in an attempt for better reception. There was the sound of something wet and plunking in the background, and a hollow, plastic noise as she guessed the phone was cradled between a chin and a shoulder. She must have been doing the dishes.

"Hello, Harleen."

"Is there anything I can do? Are the kids okay? Is your aunt alright? I'll bring a casserole by later." It didn't matter how much time passed between their phone calls or lunch dates, Harleen and Barbara were childhood friends. Even if Barbara had disappeared for three years and refused to talk about it. Everyone had their secrets, after all. And casseroles were appropriate in this situation.

"That's very nice of you, Harleen. Oh-"

As Barbara put her on hold, apologetically, Harleen took a moment to look about her office. Yes, her office, she thought, with satisfaction. As she had accepted a cigarette from the New Arkham Asylum internship director, wrapped in the cheap sheets of his bed, she had been quite adamant about requiring her own office for her work. She had only had to have dinner with him three times afterward before he realized that she was bored with him. It hadn't taken much persuasion on her part to get the paid internship.

Harleen looked down to her desk and to the old photo located there of the Quinzels and the Gordons. It had been taken on the sidewalk between their homes, and they were all huddled around a small, smoking Webber grill. Mrs. Quinzel had a smile that did not quite meet her eyes and Mr. Quinzel had an arm around Harleen, low on her waist.

They had taken good care of Harleen, particularly Mr. Quinzel. He'd taught her a great deal.

She spent her paid time interviewing the patients at New Arkham Asylum. Too cold and sterile for Harleen's taste, the new mental asylum had eaten the area surrounding it in the Narrows. The harsh lights and the echo off of the new and sparkling white tile was a bit too much for the young woman who had spent much of her early life in social services. She couldn't actually count how many times she had been placed in hospitals or homes that had the same ambiance (or lack thereof) that this place seemed to suffer from.

Everyday she drove over the bridge and into the facility, showing her badge and driving with the windows down, as instructed. Some of the inmates would whistle or catcall but Harleen would look straight ahead and ignore them. She followed instructions when it came to her safety. To the letter. Rules were put in place for a reason, after all.

"Back," came Barbara's voice on the phone. "My aunt just called from her job and said there's something going on with one of the kids." She sighed. "I'm afraid Jimmy Jr.'s is picking fights. I've got to go pick him up, talk to him... Can we talk later?"

"Oh course, Barbie, doll. You have to tell me the details for the wake and the funeral service, anyway. Give the family my love."

It was only afterward, after she had hung up and come back from an interview with a great hulking mass of a man who was still suffering from Dr. Crane's fear toxin being injected into his blood stream, that she realized she had ended the conversation improperly. 4

Damn it, she thought as she sidestepped a group of security officers taking down an unruly patient, she always handled situations like that incorrectly. Sometimes it seemed that there was a little something off in how she responded to things like that.

***

Bruce Wayne's office was a beautiful, multiple room suite on one of the top floors of Wayne Enterprises' headquarters. It was accessed by the swipe of an authorized Wayne Enterprises photo I.D. in the elevator. The elevator would exit into a waiting area, where Mister Wayne's secretary sat, a perfectly gleaming smile (paid for by Wayne Enterprises) gracing her face the second the elevator doors opened. Two mahogany doors stood between the secretary and her employer.

The main room of the Wayne heir's was paneled in floor-to-ceiling mahogany. The carpeting was plush and hunter green. Half a century ago, this room would have smelled of cigars and heavy cologne, smells associated with Stuart Wayne, Bruce Wayne's great grandfather.

There was quite a bit of him in his grandson, who currently sat behind the sturdy heirloom desk on an almost daily basis. It was the turn of the mouth and the eyes that were quietly observant.

Bruce Wayne was usually seen about town, the inherited half smile playing on his lips and his eyes usually seeming to shine with some joke that he wasn't sharing with anyone else; there was an air of superiority about him that left people talking behind his back but vying for his attention and approval when he was present.

But Bruce Wayne was presently hunched over the familiar desk, eyes serious and mouth turned down, showing that he was very much Stuart's grandson and Thomas's son. There were worry lines forming on the 31 year old's face that should have been, but that came with the Wayne name. Stuart had tried to figure how he would keep Wayne Enterprises running and profitable while still being ethical; Thomas had thought long and hard before turning the company over to the board members, because his hands weren't meant to shake hands with politicians and businessmen, they were meant to heal and do no harm; Bruce now considered the bleak future for Batman and Gotham City without Lieutenant Jim Gordon in it.

Bruce Wayne turned his chair towards the wide screen, high definition television set into the mahogany paneling, but closed his eyes. Someone in attendance at the memorial had been videotaping, and had sold the footage to the local news station. It was now played on almost every news station.

There was Gordon, stepping in front of that bullet. There he was, falling. The only thing Bruce had gained in the past few days from the constant media coverage was the memory of the man's death from two angles: the one he had witnessed and the one plastered across television screens everywhere.

Alfred had been able to make several phone calls and find out that Gordon would be buried in St. Brigid's Cemetery, a popular choice for members of the police force. It was a private ceremony for close family and friends, only. A city-wide memorial service had still not been announced.

He shouldn't go.

Bruce Wayne had only minimal interaction with Lt. Jim Gordon: a few city functions and that one night, so long ago, when Gordon wrapped his father's coat around him. Bruce Wayne showing up at his intimate funeral might be seen as peculiar.

But a deep sense of guilt, more than the usual that came from his unique line of work, continued to stay with him as he went to board meetings and business lunches. Bruce remembered the little boy with his namesake's eyes, and a photo on Gordon's desk of a little girl. He'd been partially responsible for their loss of a parent. Batman had heard his wife scream it herself.

Bruce picked up the phone and tapped the first speed dial number. Alfred picked before even the first ring was completed.

"Yes, Master Bruce?"

Bruce clicked the television off and collected his suit jacket off of the chair where he had haphazardly thrown it. "Alfred, could you make sure the bike's ready when I get back to the hotel?"

***

"Afternoon, Alfred," said Bruce as he entered the penthouse. He was about to search for his padded motorcycle jacket when he noticed it had already been placed on the bed for him. Alfred shook his head but turned back to the weather report.

"Rain is predicted by the end of day, sir."

"Fitting," muttered the young man, glancing out the window to see the same grey and rolling clouds that Alfred had been eyeing warily all morning. An old friend of his, from the old days of BAF, had taken his motorbike out on a day like this and had been subsequently injured in a horrible car accident. Poor bloke couldn't sit still for long periods of time from the steel pins in his back. It was hell in weather like this.

"Might I suggest taking something a bit safer? Like the Rolls?" Alfred handed him a cup of espresso that Bruce knocked back quickly before changing jackets. The man was going to get killed one of these days, and not during any of his nightly activities.

"Thanks, Alfred, but I think the bike is a little more low-key." Just this morning, Alfred had thought he had been able to convince him to leave the Gordon family in peace to mourn the loss of the Lieutenant. There was something a little reckless about his employer this afternoon.

And an exemplary choice was being demonstrated momentarily.

"Of course, sir. When I think of typical funerals, the roaring sound of an attending mourner on a motorbike is the first thing that springs to mind."

But Bruce was already on his way to the private garage, and was apparently not in the mood to listen.

***

The day of Uncle Jim's funeral came, grey and foreshadowing rain. After looking up at the threatening skies, Jim's niece grabbed two umbrellas before they headed out the door.

"Fitting," noted Aunt Barbara, holding the children close to her on either side as the limousine traveled to the cemetery. Barbara nodded before turning to stare at the changed Gotham outside her window and continuing to worry at the tissue in her hand. By the time they reached St. Brigid's it had started to shred.

Frankie helped them out of the limo, and with one of his large arms around Barbara's shoulder, started to climb the hill and ushered them towards the grave site. Jimmy Jr. cried as the procession went past him; he had begged to be allowed to somehow assist with carrying the casket, but he was still too young.

Barbara's heels sank into the muddy ground as she and her aunt stood holding hands throughout the ceremony. They were flanked by members of the Major Crimes Unit, both new and retired, that had worked with Uncle Jim. These men were her uncles, her family.

Father Stuart read from the bible, as he always did at these. Barbara was surprised he did not have it memorized; she almost had it memorized after so many of these burials. This was not the first and would probably not be the last funeral that she went to for a police officer.

A distant cousin of hers-second and once removed? she could not remember-started to sing 'Amazing Grace' in a trembling tenor, and it was not the song, but the sound of the people surrounding her singing it that made her furiously blot at her eyes with a tissue.

A few people spoke, but the young woman was only half-following along. She looked over at Jimmy Jr, standing before Aunt Barbara, now watching stoically as they lowered the casket. His small fists were clenched at his side, and Barbara could see it was going to be hard in the months to come. She remembered standing in his place, just about the same age, watching as two caskets were buried. She had broken a finger that next week in school during the first of many fights in public school.

She didn't want to see either of her cousins start home schooling out of necessity, or learn from their 'uncles' how to punch properly in case they ran into their former classmates around the neighborhood. And she and Aunt Barbara would be up front and honest about how Uncle Jim died; if Uncle Jim had been honest with her from the start, than maybe she would not have-

"Barb?" came her aunt's soft voice at her side, shaking her out of her deep train of thought. She noticed that the ceremony was finished, for all intended purposes, and that it was time for people to share their condolences.

Wrapping that all-too-familiar numbness around her, she shook hands and accepted embraces from a long line of mourners. It was touching to see how many people had showed up. Yes, it had been kept quiet, but Lieutenant James Gordon had touched the lives of a great many people during his time in the GCPD.

When it was finally all over, they were supposed to go back to bar Frankie had opened since he had retired early. Barbara had no desire to go back yet; her family would be swapping stories and trying to find something good in all of this, and while all of that was fair and good, she wanted a little time to herself.

Harleen tottered over to her old friend, and embraced her with loud affections. "Barbara, I am so very sorry, sweets." Someone at some point had left the impression on the corn husk blonde that peppering her conversation with small endearments would get across the point that she cared. Barbara had never had the heart to tell her it spoke otherwise. "Are we meeting up with everyone at Frankie's?"

Barbara nodded and tugged at the collar of her raincoat. Behind Harleen the caretakers came out to finish burying the casket, and with their appearance Barbara found tears forming.

The younger woman tugged at her arm. "Come on, Barbie doll, you don't have to see this. The casserole is in the car. I think I should get that over to your place, too."

She shook her friend off and shook her head. "No, Harleen, I want to stay until this is done, if that's alright."

The student shrugged. "Yeah. You know what? I'll wait in my car. I need a smoke, anyway," she said before turning and starting her way to her little green car.

Barbara heard the singular transition of a fierce roar into the slowing purr of a motorcycle decelerating, and turned to see a cherry-red MV Agusta F4 park outside of the cemetery. The rider dismounted and started to amble in slowly.

"Barbara," called Father Stuart, who had just returned from a cell phone call. This was the same man who had given her communion for the first time, had confirmed her, had married her aunt and uncle, and had baptized her cousins. But for the past few years that had been the only time he'd seen her. "My condolences, child."

She knew she meant it, but the 'sorry's and the 'condolences' were getting old.

***

He arrived at the cemetery twenty minutes after he expected the funeral to be over. It was grey and the roads were slick, but Bruce Wayne isn't expected to have a motorcycle, so he sped through the streets, parking it just outside the entrance. The wind picked up and he zipped his jacket the rest of the way, the collar pressing into the underneath of his chin as he looked down, picking his way up the hill.

The cemetery was deserted, save for a few. The cemetery workers were finishing the burial and removing the chairs. A priest was speaking to a petite woman whose back was to Bruce, but he suspected it was Gordon's wife, if she had remained behind.

The others gradually left, but the woman stayed, arms crossed across her chest and an umbrella hanging from a strap about her wrist. She moved enough for Bruce to see her profile and it became quite clear that this was not Mrs. Barbara Gordon.

She turned suddenly, staring directly at Bruce where he stood, semi-concealed by a mausoleum. "Can I help you?" she asked, sharply.

Bruce sidled over, trying to keep his look of embarrassment to a minimum. "I came to pay my respects, but I noticed I was a little late."

She shrugged tiredly. Up close, he was could see that she was young and a Gordon family member; she was, at the latest, in her mid-twenties with the same nose, forehead, and lines around the mouth as the Lieutenant. But the eyes studying him were a particular light blue and the lower lip she worried was a full one. He chastised himself for noticing that latter feature as he stood before Gordon's grave. "Better late than never, I guess."

"I'm so very sorry." He said it without thinking, really.

"How did you find out about the burial, Mister Wayne?" Her blue eyes pinned him to the spot.

"I asked around. I knew security would be tight, so I waited," he admitted. "Lt. Gordon was one of the responding officers the night my parents were murdered," he explained, and the harsh line of woman's black-clad shoulders softened slightly. She nodded.

"Same here," she said, with a small, sad smile. "Uncle Jim was a good man."

"Gotham won't be the same without him; he was an honest cop."

This seemed to please the girl, and he knew then she a cop's kid. It was the best compliment he could give and she knew it.

"Thank you, Mister Wayne. That's very kind of you to say."

The wind picked up again, and here on the hill without the buildings of Gotham to block it, it whipped the woman's hair around. Standing next to him, Bruce could see that his first impression of her height was correct. She barely came to his chin.

"Well," she said suddenly, "I've got to get back to my family." She gave him a small wave and then started her retreat towards a battered little Neon and it's blonde female drive, who flicked a cigarette out the window and started the car.

He realized afterwards that she had never told him her name.

***

"Was that who I thought it was?" asked Harleen, leaning over to unlock the passenger seat-side door after throwing her cigarette out the window. Any one who had ever read Gotham Times knew what the billionaire looked like. Barbara nodded and slid in. Like the driver, she immediately started to shuck her rain coat off. The car had grown quite hot and stuffy while it had sat, and the humid weather did not help the situation.

"It appeared that way, yes. Bruce Wayne wanted to pay my uncle his respects."

Harleen struggled with the clutch but finally got the car to switch from park to drive, and the wheels barely protested until she remembered that the emergency brake was still on. Little things like that gave her trouble.

"Jim knew Bruce Wayne?"

"I don't know," Barbara leaned against the window. She looked nervous. Harleen chewed at a cuticle as she waited for the light to change and tapped at the wheel with the other. It was too grey out, too depressing. Her eyes found the reflection in the side view mirror of the lime green car door and that cheered her up. Made her think of appletinis.

"Hmmm, I'm feeling like an appletini, sweetie. Does Frankie know how to makes those?"

"Probably not."

Damn.

***

The city was quiet the night that Gordon was buried. The lull left Batman feeling anxious. Unsettled.

There were some minor break-ins already being handled by police, so he decided to call it an early night; Bruce Wayne had an early business meeting the next morning, and for once he would need to pay attention.

Bruce was half-way though shutting the storage unit for the suit shut when the alternate cell phone started to vibrate its way across the computer station. He jogged over to pick it up.

It was Gordon's number. Bruce had been certain that the man would not have left the phone with anyone else, or have notified anyone of his specific number. It rang a second time before he decided on actually answering it.

"Who is this?" he asked, lowering his voice into Batman's rasp.

"Batman? It's Gordon." The man on the other end of the phone exhaled. "I'm alive and safe. Only two other members at Central know about it; guys I've known for years."

"I'm impressed." A wave of relief washed over the vigilante, and he sat down heavily into the computer station chair. "Got a plan?"

"Waiting, for now," the lieutenant responded, regretfully. "The Joker will make another move and when he does we'll improvise."

"Sit tight, Gordon. We'll get him."

He settled back into the chair and stared at the paused television. He had paused it on a frame of the video from the memorial for the Commissioner, and it was of Jim Gordon, mid-fall. He turned off the screen with a growing sense of ease. Batman was calculating, trying to figure out how to best handle the situation. The phrase 'ace in the hole' came to mind, but he quickly moved on. No use of card metaphors. Too touchy right now.

This changed everything.

***

"Don't go," whined the young girl on Barbara's air mattress before throwing herself back dramatically. "Mom can't do my hair right when she does them. And I like it when you're here. I feel better." She stared at the ceiling petulantly-two years ago Barbara had helped her cousin put glow-in-the-dark stars up as an apology for missing so much 'girl bonding time'-and bounced her Sketchers on the edge of the bed, her foot occasionally hitting her bed. The room was a tight squeeze for the two of them, and had been for the past few days. "And Jimmy is just acting so stupid in school."

"It's a week, kid, and then I'll be back here to stay. How much trouble can you two get into?" Barbara paused from packing her laptop up and gave her cousin a stern look "That was rhetorical, not a challenge." Zipping the bag shut, Barbara dropped to sit next to her cousin, crawling behind her in an unpolished manner. It was easy to braid the red hair-much brighter than her's, which was so dark that it seemed almost brown-and wrap the stretch bands around the ends.

The two girls walked out to the kitchen, where her aunt was setting breakfast on the table. Jimmy was already seated, having set the table and poured the juice. They were all functioning as best they could, and so far, things were working as best as could be expected.

"Barbara, are you sure you don't want to wait for tomorrow? Maybe traveling on Saturday would be better?" Her aunt was worried. Of course she was.

"I've just got to settle my affairs, and finalize my job move. Then I'll be here so much you'll get sick of me."

After a long drive back to her Metropolis apartment, Barbara wearily unlocked the several locks on her apartment door.

The towel that she had left near the door was gone. Fear dissolved quickly into anger. After this past week she was tired, she wanted to sleep, and she had hours of email from her long trip back from Gotham City with a Blackberry that had a dead battery in her purse.

Damn it.

She took the mace out of her purse. The door showed no signs of forced entry as she quietly closed it behind her. Barbara toed off her shoes; she padded around the corner and pocketed the cordless phone. The windows were all still shut.

There was an old baseball bat in her bedroom, underneath the bed, too far away to even think of getting to. The petite woman started her search of the apartment.

"Barbara?"

Jim Gordon came around the corner, bowl of cereal in his hand. Barbara dropped the mace.

***

"Uncle Jimmy?"

The look of shock was clear on his niece's face. She leaned against the kitchenette counter and continued to stare at her uncle.

The choice to stay with his niece while he was hiding had been an easy one. His surrogate daughter's place of residence kept changing, and he knew with complete certainty that the address they had for her as an emergency contact in his file was two years old. For once her need to continuously move came in handy.

Of course, he had never given thought to the fact that the girl would obviously go stay with her aunt; his wife would need the help, and the young woman would be nothing but accommodating.

He had spent the last few days waiting. It left him nervous and agitated, particularly when he watched the news. He had tried to keep up with the news on the computer, but it had remained stubbornly locked and requesting his niece's password.

Jim put down the cereal bowl and embraced the disbelieving woman. "I thought you would be here," he explained, "I didn't expect you to go to Gotham."

"Does Aunt Barbara know you're alive?" she asked, sniffing loudly. Jim grabbed at the tissue box and she dabbed at her eyes.

"No, it's just you, me, a few guys at Central, and...someone else." Barbara gave him a horrified look, but he continued. "No, no, someone we can trust."

"Batman?"

He nodded. His niece had always loved his stories about his cases since she was a kid, but as an adult it was the ones involving Batman that really got her interest. He couldn't blame her; usually they were a lot easier to explain and shorter if he was involved. "I can't let your aunt know, honey. This is the only way to keep her safe. The Joker won't come after her and the kids if he thinks I am dead."

Barbara hugged him tightly. "I can't believe you're alive. This is a miracle."

Gordon pressed a kiss to her temple, and patted her back. "Now I have to apologize, but I just ate the last cereal in this place and finished off the milk. Don't you eat anything, girl?"

She quickly ordered Chinese takeout for the two of them and the Gotham lieutenant tried to tidy up the place.

Hours later, they had nodded off in front of the television, Chinese food still sitting on the glass coffee table and her email untouched. They used to do something similar when she was younger, with the old classic movies she couldn't get enough of. Gordon woke up suddenly when the phone in his breast pocket started to vibrate.

"Gordon," rasped the voice on the other end. "I take it you're safe?"

"Yes, I'm here in-"

"Don't tell me," Batman cut him off. "This is going too far, Gordon. I'm turning myself in."

Jim scrambled to sit up in the recliner. "What? No, Batman, don't!" The noise woke his niece, who look on, concerned.

"He's trying to target Rachel. He'll be going after Dent. It has to end. This is for the best."

"I'm driving back, Batman. I'll be there. We can do something else." It dawned on Gordon that he was pleading.

"Dent's calling a press conference, and I'll be turning myself in there. They'll be moving me from MCU to Central that night. Joker will make his move then. Be ready."

Gordon stared helplessly at the ended phone call blinking on his screen, feeling control slip steadily from his fingers.

"What's wrong?" asked Barbara. "What's happening to Batman?"

Gordon dropped the cell phone on the table, where it landed loudly. He ran a hand through his hair. The city needed Batman. Yes, he had lost two officers, but how many had been saved by his presence in the last year? The mortality rate of Gotham City Police Department for the prior year was still being calculated for reports, but they all knew it was significantly down from past years.

"He's turning himself in."

"No," the red head said forcefully. "No, he can't."

"It appears he is, Barbara, tomorrow in the morning at the press conference. I've got to get back tomorrow morning, start preparing. Batman is setting up a trap for the Joker with all of this."

"There has got to be something that we can do to stop him." The girl pulled the knit throw off of her lap and stalked over to her computer station. She keyed in the password, but then sat there, staring at it. "There isn't anything we can do, is there?"

"No, honey. There's not."

She sighed, and flexed her fingers on the armrests of the chair. "And you hate this as much as I do."

"I do," he replied. "Go get a few hours of sleep in your bed. I'll tell you before I leave."

The worry was clear on her face as she swivelled around in her chair. "I'm going back with you," she argued, firmly.

"But I need you here. I'm going to have Barb and the kids come here, if you don't mind." His plan was to get his family out of Gotham. Without them there as a concern, he could focus on finishing this.

She did mind, and he could tell, but she nodded. "Of course," she agreed with a sigh.

Gordon napped on the sofa, and in the morning when he woke up Barbara was in that yellow armchair of hers that smelled of cigarette smoke, cross-legged and eating eggs. The kitchen had been restocked, and he saw a box of Lucky Charms on the counter. She must have gotten up early to shop for her cousins and aunt.

"Press conference is about to start," she said, quietly.

About fifteen minutes later Gordon was grabbing up his clothing and stuffing into his duffel bag with one hand and desperately trying the number Batman had given him. Finally, he picked it up.

"That didn't go as planned, did it?" he asked, feeling jittery. Barbara's coffee had not been the decaffeinated sort he was used to, apparently. That, combined with adrenaline, was not helping the nervous man.

"Dent didn't give me a chance," growled the voice on the other end of the line. "They've got him at MCU, but otherwise this will go as planned. Good luck, Gordon."

Gordon clattered down the stairs to the parking lot and the confiscated car he had taken from Gotham's compound. The engine revved, and he was off.

***

1. This was the first thing I wrote after I scrapped my original story idea; I was feeling very visual and perhaps had been reading a bit too much Harris, but I still like it. It's a bit more trippy than I usually get. Look for another reference to his work a bit later on. (Yeah, the Bentadine. I love that word and the color is very specific.)

2. I honestly didn't write the whole coffee pot thing with that horrific amount of symbolism in it purposely. Gordon's existence on this spiritual plane as seen by the alarm on a coffee pot? No, thank you! I just wanted that sound in the background.

3. The Narrows being taken to create a larger space for Arkham is shown in Batman: Gotham Knight, which supposedly takes place between the Nolan movies. This means that anyone living in the Narrows has had to move.

4. Again, another reference to Batman: Gotham Knight. It's Killer Croc.