Part III. IV – "All's well that ends well"


Before it was nine o'clock in the evening, Gordon was climbing the massive staircase of the Wayne Manor, his insides in a stage of turmoil as much as his mind. He'd gotten the invitation via Lucius Fox before he had learned the truth, because of his other –now became clear—collaboration for the technological equipment. It wasn't odd, as the Commissioner of the Gotham PD he had become a figurehead of the city, but now he didn't know what to expect.

After the accident, and their chase of another Batman, Wayne hadn't said a word, not a single one, though he wasn't denying it, either. He had texted him about Lawton's accident, but there was no response. When he heard Lawton had given him a visit, this time he decided he should wait. Tonight, they would talk—at least a bit.

Though, he still didn't know what to expect.

In front of the heavy wooden entrance doors, he was greeted by his old butler, the same man he'd seen picking up a young Bruce Wayne from the police headquarters, years ago. He had been thinking of that night a lot since the accident, and when he did things were making sense a bit. The way the young child looked like that night, the look he had given Gordon when he'd draped his father's jacket over his shoulder, trying to assure him everything was going to be okay, the scare in his eyes…

Yes, it was all making sense.

"Commissioner," the butler greeted him with a smile at the threshold, "It's good to see you here, sir."

Gordon looked at the older man's twinkling eyes and warm smile, then understood he knew. "Let's hope he feels the same way," Gordon muttered before he crossed the door.

The butler smiled again, but there was no words back. Gordon followed the crowd entering into the ball room, and immediately was greeted with a Bruce Wayne, who was circled with three beautiful women —blonde, brunette, and red-haired— in the middle of the spacious room, who already had a drunken sway in his gestures, his hands holding a glass of something that looked like champagne, while circled around women's shoulders.

He didn't know what to think, even whether he should think a thing or not. The act –as he realized now—seemed so real, so much that even Gordon had bought it before—

Do you think I should go to a hospital-?

Why—who's there in the van?

The son of a bitch.

"Ugh, I hate long speeches-" He bellowed with a long, sly drawl, "So thanks for coming—another birthday of me—to help me with the booze—" He laughed, as a stir went along the lines that watched him, "I promise I won't kick your ass out this time!" Another loud laugh, as he took a big sip from the glass, "So have fun, and pleaaase—" he shot out another laughter, "try not to harm the house a lot—we've just rebuilt it!"

He laughed with a maniac satire at his own joke, as another stir went over the crowd, murmurs following. People had gotten used to his eccentricities, the way he made fun of burning his house down after kicking his guest out, but the whole mirage only put a scowl above Gordon's brows.

He hadn't burned his manor, Gordon didn't know what exactly happened, but he was damn sure Bruce Wayne didn't burn his house down, because he'd been busy with trying to save Gotham from a terrorist attack.

He heaved a sigh, and started circling the room to find a familiar face, he had a peculiar sense that he would come to him on his own time, when he was ready. The ball room was so crowded, but he saw almost every figureheads of the city wandering in, except the Mayor.

Rupert Elliot wasn't one to deal with that kind of stuff as long as he needed to, and since elections had already passed away, he had no reason to mingle with Wayne's crowd, as it was no secret that Wayne had supported his rival.

Another thing only made sense in retrospect.

He let out another silent sigh, and picked up a glass of drink, as the butler suddenly appeared beside him. "Sir, your presence is acquired in the study," the older man announced toward his ear, and gestured vaguely, "If you may."

Finally. Curtly, he nodded, and followed the butler, but when the other man opened a thick wooden door at the floor above, instead of Bruce Wayne, he was met with the CEO of Wayne Enterprises.

Wayne's butler's closed the door behind him, as Gordon looked at Lucius Fox hard. "You're in, too, huh?"

The Afro-American man gave him a smug smile. "Officially, Commissioner, I don't know what you're talking about."

"So he's still too much chickened?" Gordon asked after giving an overall look at the study. Now, this seemed more like his style. Still decorated with the colonial style like the rest of the house, the study room was based on more functionality, practicality, and simplicity than luxury. The sofas and chairs were comfortable for the long hours of sitting down, the interior washed up with a warm light. There was a library in walnut that went the wall's all length, which had heavy, thick books on a wide spectrum from crime scene inspection to body language.

This was the room where the real Bruce Wayne spent his time.

Fox traveled his eyes around the study with him, then turned to him again. "You must understand, Commissioner, it takes time for Mr. Wayne to adapt to new situations."

Gordon shook his head slightly, while muttering, "I've gathered that."

Fox gave one of those smiles again, reassuring but a bit smug. "So what do you want to talk about me?" he asked.

Fox walked to him, and handed him a USB stick. "This—he wanted me to give you this," he explained, "He recorded it in an abandoned building in the Narrows yesterday. It's about the Unheards. You need to listen it."

Ah. Always business. That seemed more like the man he knew, too. Nodding, Gordon slipped the thumb drive in his pocket. He knew that was the end of the conversation, or usually that was the end of the conversations with Batman, but the man stood before him didn't disappear in the shadows, not like him. Gordon thought—maybe—maybe that was the reason why he had sent another person to do this.

So Gordon asked, with a rough, thick voice, because the words suddenly became too heavy, "How is she? Is she well?"

Fox arched a surprised eyebrow. "Have you seen him chasing that DHS agent on a death wish these days?" he asked rhetorically, and sucked in a small breath, "She's well. Given the circumstances."

Gordon let out one himself too. "Are they—" he halted in his words, because what he tried to ask seemed so much impossible, but he could still remember how Batman reacted to Rachel Dawes' death. He wasn't a bionic man, at the end he was just a man, too, like them… "Does he—does he love her?" he found himself asking.

"Quite a lot, I presume," Fox admitted, giving out another breathy sigh, "I will admit. I don't quite understand it myself, either, but she's come good to him. That much I know."

He couldn't stop himself, the questions followed. "How did he found her?"

Fox looked at him, a slight grimace setting over his jaw, then pointed toward the table in the corner. "If we're gonna do this," he said, walking toward the table, "We might sit down. It's gonna take a while." Gordon followed the older man, and sat down. "It wasn't him. She found him. Five months after she escaped from the safe house, she called him."

Then he started recounting what had happened ten months ago, how they'd come to this point, where the Dark Knight had ended up falling for a con-artist.

Wordlessly, Gordon listened to the story, and when it ended, he looked at the man in front of him. "You must be a good friend to him, Mr. Fox," he said slowly, as the other man starting standing up, and walked to the door.

At his declaration, the CEO turned aside, and gave him one of those smug smirk-smiles. "I suppose, yes, I have. If it wasn't me," he said, with another smile, "none of us would be here now talking this." He opened the door. "Good night, Commissioner, and welcome."

Gordon smiled, as the door closed. It seemed appropriate. It felt he had just come abroad on the something, a different world, a better world.

He stood up, too, and decided to go to home, too. He was going to find it empty, but for the first time after long time, there was a different hope in his heart. In a world Batman fell for a con-artist, everything seemed possible. Perhaps one day Barbara would return, too, and everything would turn back to normal.

He opened the door, and started going out, but the sounds he heard stopped him dead in his tracks, his dreams for a happy ending falling into pieces.

Two gunshots echoed in the massive manor, then another followed—

Then screams.


She found herself back in front of the bar.

She had no idea how, but somehow her legs must have carried her to it. Lifting her head, she gazed at the liquor looking at her temptingly, her hands tingling.

God, she needed a drink. No, she needed lots of drink. Fuck being sober. What if she failed at something? She could fail at something. She should be allowed to fail at least one thing. She'd been a way too much of a good girl lately.

With a different kind of determination, she walked to it, but before she could open her mouth and ask for a scotch, Fox suddenly appeared next to her, and started dragging her toward the circle of the attention in the room.

God, no, not now. She wasn't ready for it now. "What are you doing?" she hissed at Fox, not bothering with civilities. At least not for Fox. Not now.

"He's waiting for you—" Fox said, without slowing down, "Let's get over it, shall we, Ms. West?"

She sent him a glare, as he stopped outside the circle. Fox cleared his throat, pulling her forward with him as a little gap opened, and he saw Bruce leaning against his girls, laughing, like he didn't have a single care in the world.

"Mr. Wayne," Fox said, walking with toward him, "Do you remember the new detective I mentioned to you before?" he asked, as Bruce turned toward them. Fox twisted toward him, "Detective, Mr. Wayne—" Then turned to Bruce again, "Mr. Wayne, Detective West."

There at least she was Detective West.

Bruce's attention turned to her, too, as if he was really seeing her the first time, and the look he gave her was something she'd never seen him directing at her before. Heated, and darkened, his eyes roamed all over her, as if she was a piece of desert that he could eat up whole, and ask more.

"Ah," he rolled the expression over this tongue silky, like savoring it, then untangled himself off the girls. "Fox-" His attention skipped to the older man for a second, "if I knew you've gotten this good with hiring our staff, I'd have surely dropped by the office more," he said, laughing, and held out his hand. "Detective," he rasped out in a husky whisper.

She took the offered hand in a firm shake. "Mr. Wayne."

His eyes took a leer. "Will you be grilling me, too?" he asked, the innuendo leaking out of his words. "I like to be grilled." The girls next to him giggled. He twisted toward them, "Though, sandwiches are still my favorite."

She tried a smile. "As you're still a board member, sir," she said, "yes, I'm afraid I'll be grilling you—with questions."

He shot out a loud laugh. "Be gentle with me, dec, you're gonna be my first."

"I'll keep it in mind, sir," she said stiffly, and shifted toward Fox to take her leave, but before she could leave, she heard Bruce's voice again.

"I've been always wondering, dec," he called after her, "You guys carry guns with you?"

She wasn't going to be lucky tonight. Suppressing a sigh, and an urge to send him a glare, she turned to Bruce again. "Usually."

"Oh." He breathed out, and leaned toward her, "Can I see it?"

"I don't go around showing off my gun to people, Mr. Wayne," she bit off through clenched teeth.

"Come on, dec," he drawled, "If you show me yours, I'll show you mine." Then he winked at her. He actually winked at her.

Cast off stone, she stood there, staring at him, her brain suddenly not functioning, no retorts coming to her tongue. Her hands balled into fists. He laughed even more, as one of the girls, the brunette, came closer to him, wrapping her arms around his neck from his left side, and licked the side of his neck. She saw the tip of the tongue that poked out of the woman's mouth, and it flickered under his ear, where usually made Bruce hiss through his nose sharp.

The noise he made this time wasn't a sharp hiss, but he pulled her closer to him, as the woman sucked his earlobe slightly before she turned her attention to his ear, "Show me your gun, Brucie."

She let out a silent hiss of breath, and turned aside and walked away. Thank god for all the things scared and good, he didn't stop her this time. Otherwise, she didn't know what she might do. Suck it up, suck it up, suck it up, she chanted herself over and over, she wasn't jealous, it was nothing. They were nothing.

However, her peep talk didn't work out well, she realized, as she found herself yet again in front of the bar.

The bottles of scotch stared at her again, almost smirking in her mind. She closed her eyes, evened out a breath. No—no—not because of him! She wasn't going to relapse because a damn woman sucked his earlobe! She was going to have at least that much of dignity. If she started drinking again, it was going to be because of her issues, not because of his shenanigans.

She turned away from the bar, and saw Gordon wandering in the ballroom. Quickly she walked toward the other side of the room, the last thing she needed now was a rather nosy Commissioner see her. She didn't look like Cameron, but she looked damn close.

Walking away, at the opposite corner, she saw Jason talking again with the blonde doctor. A catty sneer dropped off her mouth as she watched them from far, something inside her scratching, clawing to get out. She knew what it was. She'd repressed it a way too long, and it was laughing at her now, cracking up with laughter. She tsked another hiss, but this time she wasn't even sure to whom.

She decided it was enough shit for her tonight. God, she was never going to set up a foot in this damn ballroom again. Making her way through the crowd, she padded toward to the door, then suddenly a callous hand caught her at her wrist and pulled her toward—the dance floor.

With a deft move, she twisted aside, her body already in defense position, but the voice that whispered in her ear stopped her. "Easy," Bruce said, twirling her to his arm when they arrived the dance floor.

She looked at him with widened eyes. "What the hell are you doing?" she hissed, as he grabbed her waist, taking her hand with the other, "I just saw Gordon walking around."

"Alfred took him to the study," he said immediately, coming closer toward her in the dance, "Fox will give him the record we found last night."

She closed her eyes. "And—I repeat," she asked, craning her neck at him, "What are you doing?"

"The thing I've wanted to do since I stepped into this room," he answered, pulling back, a true playboy smile with boyish charms full at his lips, "I'm dancing with the most beautiful woman in the room." She frowned, straightening in his embrace, her eyes darting around to check her surrounding, "Now, you just keep frowning like this," Bruce drawled with the same smile, "I'll lead."

"This's ridiculous," she said, firing another breath, "You can't dance with me."

"Why not?" he asked back, "There is no one here knows both of us right now. No harm done."

"No harm done?" she scoffed back, "Tell that to the leech over there." She slighted pointed to left side with her head, where the brunette stood watching them. She smiled at him wickedly. "It looks like you won't see her gun tonight, Mr. Wayne."

"I wasn't planning to," he encountered, the boyish charms falling for a minute off his expression, his grimace peeking behind.

"You weren't?" she asked, arching an eyebrow at him, "You told me you might need to take them to bed sometimes." She stared at him. "Or were you just scaring me off?"

His eyes stared at her back, then he shook his head. "Jealousy isn't your style, Valerie," he said slowly, twirling them toward a secluded area of the dance floor, "Why don't you tell me what's wrong?"

She ran her eyes away, "Nothing." Another frown quickly appeared as he approached closer to the corner of the room. Then she understood what he was doing. He was driving them away from the coward, where a serving staircase was hidden behind the door. The next second, she heard a click, then he pulled them in the staircase hall, and to left, he opened the closet under the staircase, and pushed her inside.

Turning aside, he closed the door inside. She looked at the small space, full of with brooms, mats, vacuum cleaner, and detergents. "Bruce, darling," she called him slyly, "Are you going to show me your gun?"

He crossed his arms over his chest. "Valerie, we're not here for sex," he said, "I want you to tell me what's wrong."

She turned her eyes again, and shrugged. "It's-" she halted, "Jason. He asked Doctor Quinzel to a dinner," she lied.

"What?"

"Yeah, I saw them talking, laughing—" she spat the word, "He said he wanted to know more about the Joker."

He nodded curtly. "I'll talk to him," he said, then paused, looking at her eyes, his look once again probing, searching. "But it can't bother you this much." He took a step closer, his eyes suddenly softening, much like his voice, "Valerie, baby, you can talk to me." He came even closer. "What's wrong?"

And she snapped, she really did. "Everything!" she cried out, "Everything is wrong! Look around, Bruce, we're in a fucking utility closet to have a heart-to-heart. Does it sound to you right? Normal people fuck in the closets, don't talk." She shook her head, with frustration, words pouring out of her like a dam broken, and she couldn't stop the flood following, "You've turned me to yourself. I've become too much good. I've had almost another panic attack tonight just because I defended old money to Derrick Malkin! I defended old money!" she screamed with a laugh, "I—I hate rich—I—I-" She let out a deep breath, suddenly the fire inside her squelching, and she looked at him, for an answer, because he must have, he should have, because she sure didn't have a damn one, "I don't know what's happening to me." Tears threatened to break over, and she shook her head.

Bruce held her chin gently and turned her toward him. "You've had a panic attack?" he asked, "another one?"

Oh, fuck. "I—" she mumbled, sinking on one of a detergent boxes, and held her head between her heads. "I—I've had episodes," she confessed.

"Before the accident?" he asked to confirm, crouching between her knees.

Her head still bowed, she nodded. "It started when I first went to the exam. I flunked because an attack hit me. I ushered out, and threw out in a waste bin." She brought her hands up, and wiped the tears that slipped away from her eyes, swallowing down a sob. "Then here today—the second one. The third one." She heaved out a sob-sigh, "I'm a mess."

"No, you're not," Bruce told her, his voice soft but there was no pity inside. She lifted her head, and looked at him. "Valerie, you're not a mess," he continued with the same voice, "You're just—changing." He paused. "And it's okay. You can't—hinder it."

She shook her head, and shot at him an accusing look. "You do—you're still the same."

"Am I?" he asked, laughing back, and his hand raised to her cheek. The callous fingers caressed her skin. "Valerie, I just called you baby. If that isn't a change, I don't know what change is."

She—giggled, she giggled like a school girl, leaning into his touch. He pushed himself up toward her, and caught her lips. She quickly wound her arms around his neck, as he pulled her to the floor on her knees.

The kiss deepened, as his tongued gained access into her mouth. Well, it looked like they were going to have closet sex, after all, because the next he drew her closer, reaching out to the backside of the dress and tore the zip open with one single movement.

A tremble coursed over her body in response. She felt his smirk over her lips, then he tore them off, and they found her ear. "Do you wanna hear another change?" He breathed out just over her skin, "I imagined whole night doing this." His hands slid the dress off her, as he brushed his lips over her neckline. She drew her head back to give him a better access, her hands helping him in his mission to undress her.

"You were looking very beautiful in it, baby," he continued, unclasping her bra, "but I like you better when you're naked. In fact, I like you best when you're naked."

She took a deep breath before he took her lips a deep kiss. The rest was a Bruce Wayne she had never seen before, even in the backseat.

All things considered, perhaps, changing wasn't that bad. In fact, she was beginning to like it quite a lot, so much that Bruce had to silence her screams with a searing kiss while she was coming.


They dressed each other later with the clumsiness of teenagers and with the awkwardness of new love. Then dressed once again impeccable in his suit, albeit the undone bowtie, despite what kind of change he had passed through, Bruce proved himself once again being one of a kind.

He pulled to his feet, and drew her up too, and asked, "You talked to Derrick Malkin tonight?"

She let out a deep sigh, taking her panties from the floor, and slid them up under her dress. "Seriously? We've just had our first moment," she waved her hand around the cluttered closet, "And the first thing you ask me if I talked to Derrick Malkin—?" She shook her head, "Bruce, darling, your pillow talk manners still suck."

His lips pursed in a slight grimace. "I haven't changed that much," he paused, "Neither did you, for that matter," he continued, "You're still a hurricane. Valerie Hurricane."

"Now, you're flattering me," she shot back with a smirk.

"I'm being a good boyfriend," he deadpanned.

She laughed out. He walked to the door, and opened it. He checked out the hall first, then pulled her out too. "But, seriously, what's Derrick Malkin doing at my birthday party?"

"Are you asking me?" she asked, "It's your goddamn party."

He shrugged, as they walked in a corridor that would get them the main staircase in the hall, so that they would parted their ways in stealth. "Fox and my secretary prepared the invited list, and Alfred looked over it," he answered, and muttered under his breath, "I've got no idea who's invited at my birthday party."

She shook her head at him, laughing. "That's only because you've had no interest for your own birthday, darling."

His eyes skipped at her, a little grin appeared over his lips. "Well, this one didn't turn out that bad."

She grinned back. "No, it didn't."

All's well that ends well, she told herself. All was well. She could have panic attacks along the way, and Bruce could always be a breadth away from getting into trouble, and they could be this close to getting caught, but still all was well; they were well, and everything was going to be okay.

Bruce opened the door for her, checking out first, and she stepped out. Bruce followed her out. They gave each other a last smile before moving to opposite directions.

With a smile, she turned, and started walking toward the staircase, calling it a night.

Before she put her foot at the first step, a gunshot echoed in the hall, shaking the staircase. Another followed immediately, as she took a cover over the railings, cursing herself for leaving her gun at the hotel. There was a brief pause, strained and dark, then the third boomed across the walls.

When she heard following screams, she knew they would have never, never been that lucky.

Standing up, she threw her shoes off, and started running toward the screams.


If any of you wondered what Bruce was actually drinking during his welcoming speech it was ginger ale. Comic-canonly Bruce drinks that in parties.