Jim Gordon has danced with his fair share of devils. He's well accustomed to making deals when he must; practiced at spreading his soul thin by tucking little pieces into the shadowy hands that demand it, in exchange for (the promise of) another day's peace in his city.
Hard to remember he'd been young and idealistic, once. Before he'd come home to Gotham.
He had entered the scene shaky, on colt's legs, and lucked out in having the likes of Mooney and Falcone show him the moves. It felt like no time at all before he was stepping confidently out onto the floor with Cobblepot, although in hindsight he initiated that dance more times than he'd care to recollect. His waltz with Galavan was a whole different story-hard to retain your poise when you've been blindfolded before the music even starts.
In Gordon's mind, Loeb had been one of those devils. Aubrey James played the fiddle. These were people who had made him stick a dime's worth of conscience into the jukebox to keep the discs spinning. Sometimes it feels like his dance card has been punched by anybody he's ever known professionally.
(Devil or no, Harvey has a way of stepping on Gordon's feet. Jim forgives him.
Most of the time.)
Not everyone, though, no, not everyone he knows leans underworldly. There have been those to whom Jim felt he could safely show his back and not expect to get a knife in it. People who wouldn't be swayed by Gotham's murky edges. Lee, obviously. Sarah Essen, eventually. Alfred Pennyworth, of all people. The young Bruce Wayne.
So when rumors start trickling through the grapevine that a man dressed as a literal nightmare demon has shown up in his town and and is knocking thugs' heads together, Gordon has no idea what he's expected to do with him.
"Captain," Harvey Bullock sticks his head through the door and fans himself with his hat, "I get it that you think it's half past lunchtime on account of it being as hot as the surface of the mother-loving sun in here, but quitting time was ages ago and, if memory serves, you have a date with a pretty little lady to keep."
Jim Gordon rubs his brow, glancing up at the detective in his doorway and then back down to his paperwork. "Can't be quitting time yet," he says dryly, "you're still here."
"Ha," Bullock says, pulling a face. When Jim doesn't look back up from his work to see it, he inserts himself fully into the office. "Seriously though, Barbara's waiting."
Jim turns his wrist over by rote, eyes still glued to the reports on his desk, and holds it there unseen for a dozen seconds before he finally becomes capable of checking the time. When he does: "Shit."
"That's a nickel for the swear jar, mister. Can't have you going and corrupting your poor, sweet, darling, young Barbara, now can we?"
Gordon pushes his chair away from the desk, his shirt sticking damply to his back. He flips the folders he'd been working on closed, tosses them carelessly onto the leaning tower of papers in his inbox. "How am I going to do that when she's not even here, Harve," he complains.
"Yeah, that's my whole point," Bullock says, hands wide. He then blocks out his next words carefully in the air with them: "You need to go get her."
Gordon screws up his mouth and gives Bullock a sidelong glance. He sweeps around the side of the desk. "You're keeping track of my appointments, now? What are you, my secretary?"
"I ain't your lousy fairy godmother," Bullock drawls.
"That's a relief. Can't imagine you in a tutu." He reaches the office door, where Bullock shoves his own suit jacket onto him from off the rack. Why he even bothered to bring the thing, on a day like this, is beyond him.
Gordon grins, folding the coat over his arm, and they go out onto the lower mezzanine together. Down below, the bullpen simmers languidly in the heat. Even the perps in the holding pens are too sapped to make even half their normal ruckus.
Gordon swears under his breath.
"You kiss your daughter with that mouth?" Bullock asks him cheerfully, throwing his hat onto his desk.
"I forgot I have to let the big man out of the cage," Gordon says, sullen. Like his day couldn't get any worse. "His 24 hours are up. Grab me the keys, will ya?"
"Roger that, Cap. Better you than me," Bullock winces, brushing his sweaty palms on the seat of his pants. He bends sideways to dig into his desk drawer for the ring of keys stashed there.
Meanwhile, Gordon's grimace becomes somehow even more pronounced. He waves a pleading hand at his partner as he accepts the key ring. "Hey, Harvey, please. It's too weird having you call me that. I only moved desks, what, not even six feet." He holds his arms out as if to measure the distance between the detective desks on the mezzanine and the door to the captain's office, the one with his name hanging over the lintel.
Harvey narrows his eyes at him. "What? I see a captain and I call him captain. What's weird about that, Captain?"
"Stop it," Gordon says through his teeth.
Bullock just grins, "Oh, come on, it bothers you that I call you captain, Captain?" His leer grows as Gordon shoves past him towards the stairs.
"It's 'Jim' to you," he says while he jogs down the half dozen steps. At the bottom he points back up at Bullock. "That's an order."
Bullock musters a sloppy parade salute from the mezzanine railing. "Aye-aye, Cap'n!"
Gordon pretends not to hear him, instead turns on his heel to face the big man in lock up.
Calling him a big man is an understatement. He's slouched in one of the cells by himself, shoulders tipped back against the wall and his legs stretched out in front of him, his shiny wingtips nearly brushing the front bars. His crisp black fedora is tilted down over his eyes and he's down to his rumpled shirtsleeves with his arms crossed, as though he wouldn't have any room for them if he let them hang free.
Gordon sets his jaw and rattles the keys into the lock, hoping to wake him up and be done with this little routine. It's starting to become familiar and he's heard that familiarity breeds contempt.
(But that's not the problem here at all, if he's being honest. This is a classic case of failure to meet expectations.)
"Time's up, go home. Your Rolls is downstairs in the garage." He bangs the door open and stands aside, not looking at the man for fear of his disappointment showing too strongly.
The fedora tips to the side, a bold green eye gleaming up.
"Aren't you a little young to be going gray, Captain?"
Gordon's smile is a tight line. "It's what happens when you're a single dad with a teething six-month-old. In this heat. Come on. Out. We can call someone for you if you prefer."
He makes a show of checking his watch, hoping to hurry this along. All he gets from it is a gnawing guilt that Jim Gordon, policeman, is shamefully behind in passing the baton to Jim Gordon, father.
The big man stretches lazily, and for a moment he's all limbs all over the place (and this is why they have to lock him up alone), before he rolls easily to his feet, folds his wrinkled jacket over his arm, and strides the one and one half steps forward to the door of the cell like he's just stepping out to the opera.
But, much to Gordon's frustration, he stops there and wraps a large hand around a bar in the cell door, holding it. He looks down at Gordon and Gordon finds himself uncomfortably surprised, as always, lately, to be looking back up.
"No charges this time?"
"Or anytime," Gordon growls. He takes a step back and sweeps a hand in front of him, urging Bruce to move along. "No cop in his right mind would dream of charging Bruce Wayne."
Bruce rolls his eyes. "But I was drinking," he scowls with a shake of his head. "Also, driving." After a night and most of a day in the drunk tank, whatever spit-shine he uses in his hair has all but vaporized, leaving a mess of boyish curls under that hat that match his attitude.
Maybe it's the new parent side to him speaking out of turn here, but Gordon would very much like to grab Bruce by the back of the neck and rattle some sense into him. Good thing he knows those days when he might have been able to get away with it are long gone. Besides, for a man whose diet allegedly subsists of top shelf booze and bachelorettes, Bruce cuts a surprisingly fit figure under his tailored suit. Gordon probably wouldn't even be able to budge him.
Instead, Gordon risks a gruff, "Yeah, well, you're old enough to do those things. Though I thought you knew better than to do both at once," which somehow still comes out personal enough that Bruce sucks in his cheek and drops his eyes.
Gordon works his jaw, an unpleasant twisting in his gut. He's not the boy's father. Never was. No point getting all paternal now.
He's about to state again, in his policeman's voice this time, that Bruce is free to go, but Bruce surprises him with an arm dropped across his shoulders; in an instant Gordon's being propelled bodily across the bullpen floor towards the entryway and the parking lot stairs. He remembers why he ought to stop thinking of Bruce as a boy.
Bruce, meanwhile, changes the subject with an airy: "If you don't mind my asking, how'd a guy like you end up with a rugrat, anyway?"
Gordon bristles at the phrasing, that old knee-jerk at the implication of "guys" like him. Like it's some sort of novelty for people in his position to be fathers. But a side-eye glance up to Bruce doesn't reveal any hidden malice, no taunt. He shouldn't have suspected it, really, but these days it's hard to pin Bruce down. He's come back a much different man from the boy he'd been when he left.
Gordon grunts. "You've been gone a while. You missed some things."
Bruce hums an agreement, taking the hint that he's not going to get a more substantial answer than that. The overly-companionable arm falls from Gordon's shoulders.
They turn down the entry hall and soon enough Bruce stops with his hand on the handle of the door leading down to the garage. Gordon carries on a few steps past him, onwards in the direction of the main street entrance.
Gordon nods a polite farewell, eying the front door and the promise of release from this moment of social hell. "Be seeing you, Bruce."
Bruce tilts his head. "I thought you were going home to Jim Jr., Captain?"
Gordon shrugs his suit jacket over one shoulder, brow raising at the question. "Hm? Oh, uh-Errands," he explains quickly, figuring out that Bruce is asking why he's not taking the stairs, "The bodega around the corner likes me better when I don't bring a screaming infant."
"Ah." Bruce nods in understanding. He adjusts his fedora and looks down to where the door handle is half turned in his huge paw. "Well. I'd best be getting back. Alfred must be terribly worried."
"Terribly," Gordon smiles.
Here it is at last. The natural break in the conversation where they're both free to carry on with their separate lives. Gordon feels an itch that tells him to run for the door while he can, but at the same time he feels inexorably and perversely compelled to stay until he can figure out what it is that hasn't been said between them.
It's maddening because he's not even sure if there's anything left that needs to be said.
Bruce's huge shoulders hitch slightly, like he's taken in a breath unexpectedly. At the same time, Gordon takes a step back in his direction, his mind making itself up on his behalf.
"Hey," Gordon says, his feelings utterly mixed as he reopens the dialogue. Bruce looks up sharply, and if he had dredged up something to say himself, the thought remains silenced.
"Um. It's not 'Jim Jr.,' it's-her name's Barbara." He swallows hard and his jaw clenches shut. There he's gone and made it personal again. Despite their shared history, he knows they're no longer that close, and maybe never will be again. Maybe he needs to accept the fact that Bruce Wayne is just another wasted trust-fund kid that used to be someone he knew.
There's a moment where Bruce's mouth hangs open. Then he meets Gordon halfway with a heavy hand clapped to his shoulder, which grips tight. There's a taut, earnest expression worn on that face that Gordon hasn't seen in nearly a decade.
Maybe there's hope for them, yet.
"Jim," Bruce says, solemn, "you'll invite me to her sweet sixteen, won't you?"
Bruce follows up with a slap on the back that practically sends Gordon off his feet.
And like that, Gordon finally understands how it's going to be from now on.
Stumbling politely out of Bruce's reach, Gordon shakes his head. "A bad influence like you? Not a chance."
Bruce returns an agreeable shrug of his massive shoulders, unfazed. "Worth a shot."
"Hell, Bruce," Gordon says, dropping his jacket over his arm to rub at his shoulder. His wince is exaggerated. "Howcome a guy your size can't handle his liquor? Didn't they teach you anything at that fancy Swedish school of yours?"
Bruce's smile, framed by those curls and accented by the rakish slant of his loosened tie, makes him look downright impish. Like a 6-foot, 220 pound imp. Yeah, Barbara's not getting anywhere near this one.
"Swiss. And yes, I learned a lot while I was away," he says mischievously.
"That's what I was afraid of," Gordon says warily, but there's no heat to it. Just a kind of perfunctory levity that carries no real emotion. Jim Gordon can carry on his end of meaningless watercooler banter if that's all that Bruce wants. He waves his hat at the stairwell door. "Now go on, scram. Get out of my station."
Bruce brushes the brim of his fedora with one finger. "See you again soon, Captain."
"Not too soon," Gordon warns.
Bruce doesn't object, but laughter rings up from the stairwell until the door swings shut behind him.
Gordon checks his watch, scowls, and turns for the door. As he pushes out into the swelter and noise of the city streets, he wonders.
In all the years he's spent trying to save Gotham, Gordon doesn't know when it was, exactly, that he failed Bruce Wayne.
Gordon dumps his armful of groceries onto the peeling laminate counter and reaches for his wallet. "Holding up alright in this heat, I hope, Ms. Nanovic?"
The wrinkled old biddy at the register just inspects his collection of baby food jars before looking at him over her pince-nez, beads rattling. "You really think you're ready for peas?"
Gordon rolls back on his heels, showing his teeth. He had not been aware, until that very moment, that peas ought to daunt him. "You know me. Love a good challenge."
She clucks her tongue at him in a solid counter-argument, and the offending jar is scuttled out of reach by an ancient claw before he can protest. "What you need is more formula."
"Ah, yes. Thank you. Doesn't have to be name brand," he calls after her sweater vest-draped hunch as she goes to unlock the cabinet. If there's one thing he's learned so far in his short stint as a working single father, it's that it was going to take a village whether he wanted it to or not.
"Peas next week," she intones, returning with a plastic tub of powdered formula. "You'll be ready for peas next week. Trust these old bones, yes."
"Next week, it is. I can't wait." He tugs a finger at his sweaty collar as she rings up the formula and the price flashes on the blocky green readout. He starts counting out bills, feeling strangled.
She hands him his change and he muddles through a smile. "What would I do without you, Ms. Nanovic."
Brown paper bag loaded up in one arm, Gordon exits the shop and takes to the steaming streets once more. He checks his watch, again, like a masochist, just to confirm what he already knows. Darting off the main road, he heads down an alley that will spit him out closer to the precinct's underground parking garage, his shoes slapping through mystery puddles that simmer on the blistering concrete.
The puddle-slap that comes from behind him, out of sync with his own footfalls, is his first and final warning before a solid object, bearing the suspicious resemblance to the wrong end of a handgun, is jammed between his shoulder blades.
Gordon freezes, mostly out of disbelief. "Not today," he mutters under his breath.
"Stick 'em up," a voice behind him barks. It's a commendable attempt at sounding vicious, but it's too forced. Too practiced. The delivery lacks either the casual authority of a seasoned hold-up artist or the lead weight menace of a common meathead crook.
Gangsters and thugs, Gordon can handle. Amateurs with undisciplined trigger fingers, on the other hand, are unknowable forces that inspire concern.
"You gotta be either dumber than dumb or braver than brave to pull a stunt like this half a block from a police station," he growls. "Didn't you figure that the odds of sticking up a cop had to be through the roof?"
"Just give me your wallet," the voice demands. Things aren't going to plan. The voice is starting to crack. "N-no funny business."
"Listen, buddy," Gordon says, struggling to muster enough calm for the both of them, "How about you and me take a stroll around the corner and the nice desk sergeant will let you off with a citation. Don't do anything we'll both regret."
He moves slowly, eyes first and then his head, trying to get a look over his shoulder, but he gets another nervous jab in the back for his trouble.
"Come on, man," the voice wheedles, sick and high, suddenly and alarmingly too far past the breaking point. "I just need the cash. You gotta understand. I-I got a kid."
So not dumb, not brave. Just desperate. Add to that the endless heat, weeks and weeks of it with no relief, enough to bake the sanest mind. The worst kind of loose cannon. Gordon wets his lips and adjusts his stance ever so slightly.
"So do I," he says, grim.
"Don't move!" the voice screeches.
Gordon moves.
The next second passes in hi-def slow-motion. Gordon drops the bag of groceries and twists to his right. He sees the barrel of the revolver with crystal clarity; sees the exact instant the hammer slams home; in the same instant, a black blur collides with the gun, throwing sparks, and the muzzle swings wide as it kicks; he hears the point-blank thunder of the report and the supersonic whine of the bullet cutting the air.
The paper bag slams to the alley floor and glass shatters. As he pivots into the shooter's personal space, Gordon's left hand whips out to secure the gun arm by the wrist, twisting hard until the weapon clatters to the ground. With the next breath, he reaches the zenith of his turn, foot connecting solidly with the fallen mass of his groceries as he braces his stance to reverse his momentum, and delivers a tidy haymaker to the guy's face.
The wannabe crook wibbles, wobbles, and goes down.
"You're under arrest for assaulting a police officer with a deadly weapon, for aggravated robbery, and for being one hell of an idiot." Gordon sways a step backwards and leans a bit to swipe the gun carefully from the pavement. He cracks open the cylinder and drops the remaining bullets into his palm. "You have the right to remain silent, et cetera, et cetera."
The guy just sits on the ground amid gooey shards of glass and a powdery swath of baby formula, holding his face together. He won't be saying anything anytime soon.
The confiscated bullets go into Gordon's pants pocket, the revolver tucked into his waistband. He shakes his head and slaps his ear a few times, trying to get the ringing to quiet down, trying to get his heart rate under control.
He turns and surveys the mess, a hand drawn down over his mouth, and the sight of his recent purchase splattered all over Gotham only gets his blood up even more. He throws his arms wide.
"What the hell were you thinking?" he shouts, voice gravel, "How do you intend to look after your family from behind bars? What's going to happen to your kid now, huh?"
The guy looks up at him with big watery eyes and then down at the overturned tub of formula sitting in milky puddle. He whimpers.
Gordon bares his teeth and grits out a sound that's half growl and half sigh.
"Come on," he says, going to grab the guy by the scruff, hoisting him to his feet. "You just dumped a shitton of paperwork on my head and I don't have time for this."
One hand holding the guy's collar choking-tight, the other pinning his arms behind his back, Jim Gordon frogmarches the perp furiously through the sweltering evening back towards the precinct.
"Do my lying eyes deceive?," Bullock chides, standing wide with his hands on his hips. "You just can't stay away, can you, Jim?"
"Would if I could," Gordon grunts, pushing his charge off onto a booking sergeant. He has a faint notion to ask what Bullock's still doing at work, as well, but truth be told he doesn't exactly care at the moment.
Instead, he pulls the revolver from his pants and hefts it angrily for Bullock to inspect. "Can you believe this? Guy tries to mug a cop, in broad daylight, practically on the GCPD's front doorstep."
"Nice piece of work," Bullock comments, eyeing the gun in Gordon's hand.
Gordon flashes a tight, humorless grin that stays miles away from his eyes. "Right? What's the world coming to?"
Bullock shakes his head. "No, no, no. I mean the work you did on his piece." He points out a detail Gordon has failed to observe (which serves as a reminder that Harvey Bullock, for all his faults, is still one of the best detectives the city's got): the deep gouge carved into the side of the barrel. "What did you do, go at him with an axe or something?"
"That . . . wasn't me," Gordon answers slowly. The flashbang memory of the near miss strobes before his eyes. But it incites a fresh wave of ire and it's difficult sorting through the red haze for useful information. "Something . . . hit the gun as it fired, sent the bullet wide. Came out of nowhere. Metal, though. Didn't see where it went."
He scans back and forth through the single heartbeat moment, hoping for a clearer picture that's never going to come, but Bullock's already barking at a passing officer.
"Hey, you. Listen up. Get on the search for anything metal that could pass as a projectile weapon. And don't waste your time looking for anything remotely like a throwing knife. I'm talking full on ninja stars, here. Extra points if what you find sort of looks like a bat."
That last bit snaps Gordon out of his reverie real fast.
The uni looks between them and the gun in Gordon's hand. "Where exactly am I searching, sir?"
Bullock passes a hand across his eyes. "Yeah, that's right. And where exactly is she searching, sir?" He flicks his hand out at Gordon for the answer.
"The alley straight out back," he tells her. "Facing the garage. I left the scene a bit of a mess. You can't miss it."
"Pronto on the double, sweetheart," Bullock adds.
The officer salutes straight past Bullock to Gordon and hustles off. Gordon sets the revolver down on Alvarez' vacant desk and gets Bullock by the elbow after she's gone.
He leans in close and says under his breath: "We talked about calling the female officers pet names, right?"
Bullock doesn't bat an eye. "Right. We talked." Another reminder that, for being one of the best detectives on the force, Harvey Bullock still has his faults.
As captain, Gordon knows he can't turn a blind eye to his former partner's breaks from regulation as often as maybe he used to. But as a detective, he can choose to focus on other matters for the time being. "And what's with the bat-shaped ninja star angle? Don't tell me you believe everything you hear on the street, Harve."
Here Bullock's expression changes. He looks downright offended. "People have seen him, Jim. There have been verified eye witness accounts."
Gordon crosses his arms. He flicks his head towards the lockup cages. "Yeah, drunks and nutjobs too hopped up on street drugs to see straight, thinking their own shadow's out to get them."
"Yes, my point exactly. Scumbags and whackadoodles who get hand-delivered to us by a very capable vigilante-"
"Who runs around Gotham wearing a bad Halloween costume," Gordon butts in with a shake of his head. "It's an urban legend, Harvey."
He grabs the gun back off the desk and starts towards the sergeant's station, thinking to at least get a bare minimum start on the booking paperwork before he can finally quit for the day. Bullock follows, rattling off his thoughts.
"As long as this urban legend is willing to do my job for me, you won't see me complaining. Actually, I'm not sure why you're not all aboard this bandwagon, Jim. You of all people get that a little vigilante justice goes a long way in this town. And you're no spring chicken anymore; I mean, it sure as hell ain't you jumping off rooftops in black tights out there."
They reach the desk and Gordon pulls a blank form and a pen towards him, giving Bullock a look over his shoulder, saying nothing. Bullock blinks.
"Wait, it's not you, is it?"
Something in the vicinity of rueful wistfulness crosses Gordon's face, and he's glad he has his back turned. "It's not me, Harvey. But I don't like the idea of some unregulated entity roaming the streets on our behalf. If he is real, he's not a cop, he doesn't wear a badge. He's just some self-righteous brawler operating way too far outside his jurisdiction."
"Funny," Bullock says, squinting, "last time I heard a police captain talking like that, they were talking about you, my friend."
Gordon pauses, pen held over the paper. His grin is wry. "Yeah well maybe I've just wised up in my old age. You should try it."
"The hell I will." Bullock scratches at his beard, which is looking whiter by the day. "I've survived on these ol' Irish wiles so far, I ain't about to get smart now."
The uni they sent down to the crime scene comes back empty-handed.
Well, not entirely. Her shakedown of of the alley turns up one single unbroken jar of baby food.
Gordon turns it over in his hand, nonplussed.
It is, against all odds, unrealistically and yet stubbornly, a jar of peas.
"Not quite the incriminating evidence you were expecting, was it?" he asks Bullock. "So much for your Bat-Man theory."
"I wouldn't put it to bed just yet," Bullock replies. "Somebody was out there. Something hit that gun at just the right second. Textbook definition of a close shave, by the way, partner." He swipes at Gordon's right ear with a thumb and finger.
Gordon brushes him off, but the point is made: both their hands come away smudged with gunpowder.
He looks at the jar of peas in one hand and at the gray smear on the other and suddenly feels a thousand years older.
"Go home, Harvey," Gordon says, wearily. He pockets the peas.
"That's my line and you know it," Bullock returns. He claps Gordon on the shoulder and they trudge with one mind towards the garage. "Make it home in one piece this time, Jimbo?"
Gordon's jaw is tight. "I'll try."
When he gets into his car, his hands are shaking.
There's no consolation in the fact that it's still light out when he screeches to a halt-leaving the car double parked and the motor running-outside the modest walkup. The Gotham sun just doesn't know when to quit.
The lady on the third floor who watches Barbara during the day isn't very happy to see him. She has a life, too, she reminds him. She thrusts rather than hands over his daughter.
Beautiful pudgy baby face as red as her hair, the young Miss Gordon informs him of her own dissatisfaction via a ear-splitting shriek.
"Sorry, I'm so sorry," he says to them both, "I was held up at work."
Trying to explain himself doesn't raise either of their opinions of him.
Even after they get home, Barbara doesn't stop screaming. Seems that neither of them are ready for peas.
It's after midnight, but the night still boils under a lid of heavy clouds that compress the humid air, smothering the city in a stale swill of damp and hot.
They're both down to their skivvies, Gordon in his military-reg white shirt and shorts, Barbara in her diaper. He's got her nocked against his hip and they're standing in the nearly nonexistent breeze provided by the open fire escape window while the rusty old box fan cranks and whirs uselessly behind them. Before them, the city shines and smokes and sweats as far as the eye can see.
He'd been able to get her down for all of twenty minutes, before she awoke refreshed for what appears to be a never ending round two. At this late hour, though, she's traded in screaming for a fussy whine and these huge, hiccupping sobs that never quite wind up into a proper wail.
He finds some residual pea paste crusted behind her ear, even though he'd sprayed them both down after that debacle. He gently picks it off her skin, idly hoping that it came from the jar and not out of Barbara.
She blusters unhappily at him. He tries, in vain, to distract her with the soggy remains of a once-frozen washcloth.
Down in the street below, a police siren rises, urgent and shrill as the patrol car races past. In the distance, an echo. Maybe police, maybe another first responder.
Gordon listens to the familiar nightly serenade. It just about drowns out the deafening blast of the revolver going off next to his face that's been playing on repeat all evening.
He can't help but think about all the kids in the city whose parents-on either side of the law-may not be coming home tonight.
"I love you and I'll support every decision you make," he coos quietly into Barbara's hair, rocking her gently from side to side, "but you have to promise me not to take after your old man."
Upon hearing this, Barbara trills a tired little scream and flings the washcloth (with unexpected accuracy) clear out the window, clocking Gordon square on the chin in the process.
"Objection noted," he sighs, rubbing his jaw.
He looks out the window, sleepily thinking whether retrieving the cloth can wait for morning, and while he's processing the decision, he's treated to one of the most surreal experiences of his life.
A whisper of an object dropping through the air; the feather-light rustle of impact and the gentle groan of the fire escape struts accepting the new weight; a black boot stepping into sight from the far end of the platform; an armored glove reaching for the flung cloth.
"Holy shit," Gordon breathes, forgetting for a second his infant's innocent ears, "Bat-Man."
The urban legends are vivid enough to suggest at some of what he sees framed in his open window sash, but they fall short of doing the real deal justice. The so-called Bat-Man is monstrously tall and built like a tank—some of that image surely attributed to the black tactical gear and charcoal body armor he's covered head to toe in. Some kind of mask is molded over the upper half of his face, the eye panels shining with what must be one-way glass. Though it's not just a mask, more like a helmet, complete with the oft-described points at the top that some liken to bat ears while others swear are demon horns.
Speaking of tall tales, Gordon is, at this point, not at all surprised to see that the man does indeed wear a cape.
The Bat-Man is real. The Bat-Man is real and is standing on Jim Gordon's fire escape.
"I think you dropped this," the Bat-Man says. A perfect deadpan. He holds the washcloth out for Gordon to take, like he's some friendly neighbor who just happened to be passing by (seven stories up in the dead of the night).
This is Gotham City, after all. Why shouldn't this be normal, considering what he's seen in all his years of service? Gordon will admit that his skepticism was never actually informed by reality.
Gordon swallows hard, finally noticing that his mouth is too dry to speak. Barbara is staring at their visitor with wide eyes, but she's quiet, taking it all in stride. Still, he finds himself turning slightly, instinctively putting more of himself between his daughter and the masked vigilante perched outside their window like some kind of huge hellish dove.
"So you're real." His voice does an excellent job of almost not cracking.
"I am. Last I checked." Still deadpan. He hasn't moved a muscle, either, just standing there with a hand held out. Gordon wishes he could see his eyes.
"And that was you today? In the alley?"
There's a pause before the Bat-Man replies. "I happened to be in the area at the time."
Great. Not only was Bullock right for once, but instead of having a guardian angel following him around, Gordon has . . . this.
Gordon reaches out and snags the washcloth away from the Bat-Man. "I don't need the likes of you tailing me all over the place, but for Barbara's sake, I'll thank you for your help today."
Barbara gurgles fitfully and hits her head against his chest, little arm flailing for the cloth. Gordon bounces her and turns to cross the stretch of his sparse living space, thinking to grab a fresh one from the freezer. "Why don't we invite you in, Mister-?"
He glances over his shoulder to see the huge shadow fold himself through the lower half of the window. Gordon has to blink hard, watching it happen. It's like a cat squeezing into a hole that it has no business fitting through. Graceful but unsettling.
And then the Bat-Man unfolds and the sensation is multiplied. Hemmed by the cracked and stained walls of Gordon's studio loft, he looks even bigger than before, even more fantastical.
"I hope you'll believe me when I say that keeping my identity to myself is in both our best interests." Indoors, the man's voice comes across like a growl, reverberating around the room.
Gordon recognizes the affectation, the attempt at disguising its natural tone. He thinks that it'll be a while yet before speaking in that forced register becomes second nature. Hell if he didn't practice his own lungs out just to get it right, searching for something that finally sounded like his own.
But the words themselves have him shaking his head, reminding himself that, urban legend or no, he's still dealing with a regular human. A regular human with motives and ambitions, with a life story and just as many tells as anybody else, provided you know what you're looking for.
He flings the old cloth into the sink and pries open the freezer door. In the bare bulb refrigerator light, the image of the Bat-Man lurking in the space between Barbara's crib and the sagging armchair Gordon uses as a bed is almost comical. Like a storybook spook who has leapt from the pages into real life and now doesn't quite know how he's expected to fit into three dimensions.
"I just want to know who I'm dealing with, here," Gordon says. He fishes out an icy folded square of cloth and nudges it gently against Barbara's achy gums. She latches onto it right away and gets started on turning it into a slobbery mess. "You stop muggings and drop off gift wrapped criminals for the GCPD, and I can appreciate the effort. But I've stopped taking it for granted that somebody who works with me is always on my side. So I need to know. Under that mask—who are you?"
In answer, the Bat-Man moves to unclip a pocket on the utility belt he's wearing. Gordon goes taut, instantly on high alert.
"Hey," he barks, "What are you doing?"
The Bat-Man dutifully freezes for a second. He holds one hand up, a concession to Gordon's concern, but the hand at the pocket continues to fish inside for something. Slowly, he draws out a smallish glass vial and holds it up in the meager light for Gordon to see. Then he places it carefully onto the armchair's side table and steps back.
Gordon nudges the freezer door shut with his shoulder and walks cautiously around the kitchen counter to the table, tugging on the chain to light the single lamp standing alongside the chair. He squints at the vial, guessing that it contains some amount of a pale liquid.
"Just what is that supposed to be?" he growls.
The broad jaw of the Bat-Man remains stoic, giving away nothing. "Just chamomile, Captain. I've heard it's a natural treatment for soothing teething pains."
Gordon glances down at Barbara. She looks up at him with those big watery doe eyes and hiccups around the corner of the cloth she's gumming.
Smoothing down her fine hair, damp with sweat, Gordon's best evil eye returns to the Bat-Man.
"Chamomile, huh? No hard feelings but I think we'll pass." He shifts Barbara in his arms and leans over to place her into her crib. She gurgles and flails her little legs, bunching up the pink-and-blue blanket. He tugs it away from her before turning back to the Bat-Man. "Does your butler fix it for you before or after he presses your cape?"
The Bat-Man says nothing, not at first, and for a second Gordon feels that same sort of shivery fear of the unknown that he had felt in the alley; fear of this potentially chaotic entity who could tear the life from him in the space of a heartbeat should he so choose. Here in his own home, in front of Barbara-
But finally a flicker of white shows amongst that face's shadows. The Bat-Man is smiling. Gordon wishes he wouldn't.
The vial is gone from the side table. He hadn't even seen him move. "A man is entitled to his secrets."
Instantly, fear is replaced by indignation.
"The hell you are," Gordon snaps, "Not in my town, you're not. I need to know, right now, exactly who you are."
The smile winks out.
"I'm a friend."
Gordon swears under his breath. "Doesn't mean a damn thing. I've been hung out to dry by friends before."
"Language, Captain."
There's something overly familiar about the way the Bat-Man calmly dismisses his outburst, and it riles Gordon more than a little because this spectre has the nerve to meddle in his business, to enter his home unannounced, to presume to dole out prescriptions to his child . . . he acts like he's entitled to know Gordon's life inside and out, yet refuses to give up even a shred of a detail about his own. It knots Gordon's stomach, like having to deal with somebody else's spoiled kid who was never taught to share.
But if he's going to think of kids, he'll inevitably think of Barbara. And if he's thinking about Barbara, he jumps to all the ways he knows he can fail her as a parent, and some of those ways are well beyond his control. He licks his lips and tastes the memory of gunpowder.
"All I want is to make sure kids in Gotham don't grow up worried that their parents could get gunned down in a back alley any night of the week." He puts his hands on the edge of Barbara's crib and leans heavily over it. He watches his hands start to shake.
"At the end of the day, can I trust you to keep helping me do that?" Jaw tight, he forces himself to look past his hands to his Barbara, who yawns and finally starts off towards an innocent slumber.
The Bat-Man's answer is a quiet, "That's what I'm here to do. Whenever you need my help, just ask."
Gordon laughs, a dry husk of a thing. "Sure, sure. Do you have a direct line I could call? Or maybe I'll just shoot up a flare, shine a searchlight into the sky . . . ."
As he's saying this, he looks over to the Bat-Man. Who no longer appears to be in his living room. Gordon blinks.
"How the hell . . . ."
He scans the deeper shadows of the room, finding nothing. He goes to the window, disbelieving, but there, too, he turns up no trace of the Bat-Man. The shadow has vanished back into whatever brooding corner of the night he came from.
Gordon swears at the sky. The sky answers with a low rumble of thunder, and shortly after that big fat raindrops start pinging off the fire escape.
He pulls his head and shoulders back in and wanders over to the crib. Glancing in, he finds that Barbara has toddled off to sleep after all. He briefly wonders if maybe he's sleeping too, that maybe the whole thing has been some kind of heat-induced fever dream.
"Sorry about that," he says to her, removing the damp cloth from her lax hands, "Maybe Daddy should start a swear jar. I could put you through college with it."
He scrubs his face with his hands and then turns wearily to sink into his chair for as much sleep as he can get before either the sun or Barbara wakes him in a few hours' time.
By some miracle, he manages to not dream about alleys or crying babies or bats or anything at all.
In the morning, he nearly trips over a package left outside his door. He crouches to see what it is, and experiences a moment of giddy confusion as he conflates the events of the previous day.
He's looking at two flats of shrink-wrapped baby food jars, assorted; a four-pack of formula tubs, name brand; a new-in-the-box electric fan of Wayne Enterprise design.
Laid on top, there's a little printed card that reads: "From a friend."
Taking a moment to unpack all of the things that happened yesterday, Gordon puzzles it out.
Either Bruce Wayne or the Bat-Man is trying to bribe his way into Gordon's good graces, which is step one in that time-honored waltz that he knows so well. I do something for you, so you do something for me. Bow to your partner and do-si-do.
But for a second there, trying to jump start his heat-stricken, sleep-deprived brain, Gordon had grappled with the brief fantasy that Bruce Wayne and the Bat-Man could possible be one and the same.
"We need you out here a minute, Captain."
Bullock again, creeping into his office in an entirely strange way for a man of his paunch, carefully keeping the door as closed as possible. The window shades have been down most of the day to prevent distractions, so it's just the two of them cloistered in the dim light of the one desk lamp. Gordon's suspicions are roused, certainly, but the stack of paperwork on his desk, as always, commands most of his attention.
He looks up with a civil expression tight on his face, willing only to spare a few seconds in humoring his former partner. "What is it, Harvey?"
Bullock pulls his arms back, awkwardly hooking his thumbs into the holster straps. "Can't say, really need your eyes on this one."
Gordon drops said eyes back to the documents in front of him. "I'm kind of busy here," he says, maybe a little bit more dismissively than he intends. The babysitter promised to jack up the rates for every minute he's late picking up Barbara, and it's his personal mission to get out of here on time today for once.
Standing at the door, Bullock gives a whiny little sigh under his breath and waggles side to side like an impatient toddler. "Come on, Jim, just come out for a sec. It's really important."
Gordon's eyebrows raise and his lips purse, skeptically. He waves his hands at his unfinished work. "More important than this?"
"Completely," Bullock assures. "You know I wouldn't waste your time over nothing."
"Remember that time you forced me into a stakeout for seven hours and it turned out you just wanted me around to warn you when her boyfriend showed up?"
"Jim, that was like a hundred years ago!" Bullock shouts. "And you were a rookie blowhard who deserved a little time out to think about-no, you know what, never mind, that's not important right now. What is important is that you trust me for once in your goddamn life and take two seconds to come out here." He takes a breath. "Please."
Gordon puts down his pen a little too forcefully and smiles, the kind of smile that says he's going to put up with whatever this is for as long as he has to and not a moment longer. "Well then. Since you asked so nicely."
Bullock bows his head with an exasperated look in his eye as Gordon gets up from the desk. "Thank you."
"Can we make this quick-" Gordon is saying when Bullock opens the door. He doesn't get much more than that out because he's met with a startlingly uproarious shout of "SURPRISE" delivered by what appears to be the full complement of Gotham's police force.
Bullock gets him with a hearty slap on the back, saying, "You sure know how to make simple things tough, partner. Welcome to your surprise baby shower."
"What . . . ." Gordon doesn't have any words available to string together after that. He looks around at the crowd assembled on the mezzanine, spots folks crowding the railing on the level above, and what he can see of the bullpen below is also packed. There are party hats and banners and pink and blue and white balloons and coming up the steps now is-unbelievably-Alfred Pennyworth carrying a huge sheet cake bearing the words "Welcome Home, Barbara!" in an icing script.
The cake slides onto one of the detective desks and before he knows it, Gordon is accepting hearty handshakes from Pennyworth, from Bullock, from a whole stream of officers and staff and detectives and technicians who keep flooding past. He accepts their congratulations and well-wishes as best he can, completely floored by this turn of events.
The second the flow stops and he has a moment to catch is breath, Bullock turns up out of nowhere with Barbara herself in his arms. She's all dressed up in a cute little plaid number that Gordon is certain he's never seen before, and she lets go of Bullock's beard and makes grabby hands at Gordon when she sees him.
"How . . . ?" Gordon says, still not quite sure of his relationship with language. He takes Barbara because this is something he is sure of, this is something that makes a modicum of sense, and she immediately starts in on his tie.
Bullock looks absolutely beside himself with glee. "A godfather's got to throw his weight around once in a while, doesn't he? Now, I know it's a little strange to have a baby shower six months along, but with everything that was going down at the time, I figured it was better late than never. But damn if it isn't impossible to plan something behind your back when James 'Single-Handed-Savior-Of-Humanity' Gordon never leaves the office."
"You didn't need to go through all the trouble," Gordon says, chest tight. He feels like an ass now for fighting Bullock on coming to his own party, when clearly so much effort was put into throwing it.
Bullock, being Bullock, up and agrees. "Damn straight I didn't. Now you owe me one, Captain."
Gordon grins hesitantly until Bullock claps in on the arm. "Nah, I'm only kidding," he says, "You know I'll take any excuse for cake, right?"
"Right," Gordon says with a half laugh. Turning to show Barbara the cake, he remembers that Pennyworth is in attendance. The butler looks spry as ever, although he's thinned out a bit on top since the last time Gordon's seen him.
"Alfred," he says warmly, shifting Barbara to extend his hand for a second handshake now that he's got his wits properly about him. "Good to see you."
"And you, Captain Gordon. I regret not having the chance to congratulate you in more of a timely manner. But you'll know I was very pleased to be informed of your recent accomplishments."
"No regrets necessary," Gordon says, meaning it. "I know you've had your hands full. Speaking of the devil-"
"Ah," Pennyworth puts his hands behind his back and very briefly drops a chagrined glance to his shoes, "Master Bruce sends his regards. He would have loved to attend in person, but I'm afraid he became indisposed last minute."
Gordon exchanges a look with Bullock, who's helping himself to "me," corner of the cake, "Let me guess, too many mimosas at brunch?"
Pennyworth clears his throat. "I heard it was the shrimp cocktail that didn't agree with him."
"Not even Friday night and the little scamp's already partied out, is he?" Bullock comments around a forkful of cake, "I'll say this for him, your boy knows how to commit."
"Yes . . . His dedication to his hobbies is above reproach." Pennyworth's eyes go a little guarded as he says it, a detail that does not go unnoticed by Gordon. For some reason, his mind goes back to the anonymous delivery left on his doorstep and those few seconds of disbelief. Call him crazy, but a hunch is a hunch . . . .
"Better stuck at home with a steaming cup of chamomile than out in town behind the wheel in his condition. Isn't that right, Alfred?" Gordon needles the butler, curious to see what sort of reaction he might get.
But if Pennyworth scents the bait, he doesn't show it. The only thing he gives him is a long-suffering, "I couldn't agree more. I do wish Master Bruce would consider the consequences of his actions on occasion."
There's still something veiled in those words, and Gordon's sleuthing instincts are raring to bite into what he feels must be a Freudian morsel, but Bullock chimes in before he can follow up on his lead.
"Hey, when do you plan on dropping the whole 'Master' thing? Isn't he a little old for that?" Not even slightly self-aware, the aging detective licks a bit of frosting off his paper plate.
Pennyworth puffs out his chest, pulling himself up to full regimental attention. "Mr. Bullock, I will desist at the point that the Wayne household no longer requires my caretaking services."
Bullock snorts. "Not until the day you die, huh?"
"Don't sell Mr. Pennyworth short, Harve. I'm sure he'll manage it even after that." Gordon bumps Bullock with his elbow. He turns back to the butler to continue his off-the-cuff investigation and says, "By the way, Barbara here wanted to thank Bruce for the delivery we got this morning, didn't you, Barbara?"
Barbara looks him square in the eye and blows spit bubbles onto his tie.
"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean," Pennyworth says politely. "Did you receive something from Master Bruce?"
Gordon furrows his brow, doing his best to look innocently confused. "Oh, after yesterday I thought-somebody left some baby supplies outside my door. One of the boxes was stamped with the Wayne brand, I thought it might have been Bruce's way of, I don't know, mending the fences."
"Oh, of course," Pennyworth says, relieved, like he's just remembered something, "Bruce was just telling me that one of the Wayne foundations received an anonymous donation recently, quite a large one, with the stipulation to ship several hundred parcels of infant-related necessities to all the shelters and soup kitchens in the city. One of them must have found its way to you by happy accident, it seems."
He smiles at Gordon, the proud butler of a man who, being as much philanthropist as he is philanderer, dedicates a good portion of his endless wealth to the betterment of his city.
Anonymous donation, indeed. Somebody's sending a clear message to Jim Gordon as to what being a friend really means. And Alfred Pennyworth of stately Wayne Manor is in on it.
Bruce Wayne, the Bat-Man? For a working theory, Gordon finds he likes it. Better to dance with the devil you know . . . .
"A very happy accident," Gordon agrees. He smoothes a hand over Barbara's wispy hair. "So we had an exciting time yesterday when we found out that Barbara hates peas. How about we get her thoughts on cake?"
"Hey," Bullock frowns, "I thought you said you were going to leave spoiling her to me."
Gordon's about to refute that he's said nothing of the sort, when an officer flags his attention from down in the bullpen.
"Captain Gordon," the man shouts, holding a phone handset to his shoulder, "bank robbery in progress downtown, but get this, that's not even the hot news. Phone's ringing off the hook-people reporting they're seeing that Bat-Man guy on the scene."
"Holy fu-ntimes, Jim," Bullock stutters, eyes clapping onto Barbara when he turns to look at his partner. "This is it. We gotta go." He trips over himself to get to his desk, fumbling for his hat and checking that his gun is holstered properly.
Gordon watches him, and shrugs when Bullock looks at him like he's crazy for not leaping into action. "I don't know, there's a pretty swell party going on here, if you haven't noticed."
Bullock jams his hat onto his head and steps up to Gordon, putting his fists on his hips. "You're telling me that you're happy to stand around eating cake when you could be getting your hands on the Bat-Man for interfering with a crime scene?"
"What's the rush? I'm sure he's got everything under control."
Bullock scrunches up his face for a good five seconds, like hearing this physically pains him. "What's the deal, Jim? Did you get bodysnatched or something? Yesterday you were telling me the Bat-Man's not real, and now you're playing devil's advocate?"
Gordon's grin is wicked. "Well. That was before I met the guy."
Bullock explodes. "What the hell, Jim! You don't just casually drop that on a person: 'Here, try this cake, oh, by the way, did I mention that I met the Bat-Man?' I thought I knew you."
"You," Gordon says calmly, "owe Barbara a nickel."
Bullock's beady eyes go so narrow as to nearly disappear from his face and his jaw works furiously. Then he turns on the spot and trots off down the stairs saying, "Screw you. There's no way I'm gonna let you be the only one that's seen him."
"Wait, Harvey. Wait for me, I'm coming," Gordon calls. Bullock doesn't, so he turns to Pennyworth with a sheepish grin. "Duty calls. Would you mind, Alfred?"
"Pleasure's all mine, Captain," Pennyworth replies, carefully lifting Barbara out of Gordon's arms. "I'll admit I haven't changed a nappy in nearly twenty years, but I'm sure it will come back to me."
Barbara chirps up at her new warden and kicks her heels happily into his gut.
"Thanks, Alfred." Gordon squeezes his daughter's hand and turns to chase after Bullock, but at the top of the steps he stops with his hand on the banister. Looking back to Pennyworth, he says, "But if she turns out anything like Bruce-" He leaves the threat unspoken.
Pennyworth, for his part, looks appropriately scandalized. "Heaven forbid, sir. Heaven forbid."