Gordon didn't make a habit of taking coffee breaks, but it would figure that the instant he would finally break down and opt to take one he would be radioed about a disturbance down the street. He sighed, setting down the scorching hot mug and standing up gingerly. These late nights were starting to rub off on him wrong. His wife . . . well, she was not at all particularly pleased at the extra responsibilities his job as Commissioner had brought on, and it seemed the friction between them only grew more intense with all the time he had to spend away.
"Could I get this to go?" he asked.
The waitress glared up at him from her notepad.
He looked down at his feet so he could roll his eyes. "I guess not," he muttered, leaving the hot coffee where it sat.
It was a well-known fact in most of the squads Gordon led that he was not a big fan of the radios. Moments after the initial message was sent his cell rang. "What kind of disturbance?" he asked edgily, knowing it was Carter on the other line.
"Um." The rookie stammered a moment, then recollected himself. "Someone called 911 a couple minutes ago reporting shots in the neighborhood, somewhere near sixty-third and Chrome. That—that was it."
"Alright, I'll check it out."
"Sh-should I call in any—"
"No, I can handle it on my own. I'll radio in if I need back-up." If there had been shots as long as minutes ago, chances were any potential threats had either escaped or been apprehended by the Batman by now. There was probably nothing safer than the scene of a crime in Gotham. This city's criminals were smart enough to get gone and stay gone, if they had the chance.
He sauntered quietly through the early morning. It was uncomfortably humid considering it was nearing four in the morning; he felt himself sweating through the Kevlar vest he now sported. An anonymous donation had been made earlier that year, outfitting every member of the force with their own. At least there was good in someone in Gotham, anonymous or not.
Gordon continued surveying the area, trying to look inconspicuous. He didn't want anyone in the area thinking something had gone wrong. In his previous experience with the citizens of Gotham, situations tended to worsen exponentially when people were aware of potential dangers. When he reached the intersection of sixty-third and Chrome his hand rested unconsciously on his gun holster. The night air was still and heavy around him, and he sensed something unnerving in the silence. Not enough of a feeling that he was fearful, but certainly enough that he reminded himself to be cautious when he stepped forward.
It seemed that there was nothing amiss in the intersection itself, but of course nothing would happen out in the open. For a moment he deliberated whether he should start scouring sixty-third or Chrome first, and he decided on the former, as the street was narrower and seemed more prone to trouble.
The first alleyway was clean. The entire street was, it seemed. Thanks to Batman the streets were unusually safe at night now. What a shame that the mayor still wanted him arrested on the spot, if anyone was able. Which, of course, Gordon had made impossible by however subtly hinting his disapproval of the mayor's orders to his units.
It was the fourth alley that he thought he heard a shallow breath. It was so quiet and sudden that he thought he might have imagined it, anxious of hearing bumps in the night. He found his flashlight and shined it into the filth.
"Oh, God." Immediately he shut the light off in favor of a dimmer setting. He didn't want to attract any attention.
Batman himself lay limp and deadly still against the brick wall. Gordon took a deep breath, trying to analyze the situation. There was blood trickling from the man's mouth. That could only mean internal bleeding of some sort. He took another step forward, squinting to try and assess what damage had been done without touching him. He didn't think the man would appreciate being moved, especially since he seemed so distrusting of others.
What he surmised was that there were multiple bullet wounds to his chest and stomach. He hissed in a breath of remorse. This was how Gotham treated its only true hero? Leaving him to die on the streets?
His mind was reeling, but this was no time to be distracted by the petty details of the crime itself. He needed to think clearly, because now a man's life hung in the balance. This needed to be handed delicately, if it could be handled at all. There were too many factors to consider—first off, Batman was a wanted man. If he chose to admit him into a hospital, Gotham would be finished. All hell would break loose without a Batman to defend them. Not only that, but Batman was a symbol, a man who chose to keep his identity so tight-lipped that Gordon sometimes had had doubts of him being an actual man. But he had to be, in "real life," whatever that was. It would be wrong to fork him over to emergency personnel because he had no doubt that the first thing they would rip off was the mask.
But if he didn't act fast, get any help of some sort, Batman would die.
Gordon pressed himself. Who could he trust? No one, really, except his own family, who would be of no help. He couldn't think of a doctor in this city who could keep this sort of secret safe. And Gordon himself certainly wasn't trained for anything more than CPR, which clearly wasn't going to magic any bullet wounds away.
Slowly he kneeled down to the height of the masked vigilante and listened intently. Yes, he was still breathing, however strained. Gordon raised a tentative hand and placed it on the man's shoulder, gently nudging him.
Immediately his eyes flared open. Disoriented, he tried to scramble back up to his feet, frowning at Gordon—within a second he sank back down, his face contorted in agony.
"Don't move," Gordon warned him, feeling useless. "It's only me."
A nod of understanding. Batman said nothing, set on trying to regulate his gasping breaths.
"Where can I take you? Is there anyone you can trust?" Gordon asked, trying to keep his voice calm and even.
Batman closed his eyes in thought. Gordon was afraid he might be slipping back into unconsciousness and kept a firm hand on the man's shoulders, keeping sure he stayed awake.
"Alfred Pennyworth," the wounded man rasped.
Gordon blinked uncomprehendingly.
"Wayne Manor."
The man must have been delusional. "That's too far," Gordon tried to reason. "You'd never make it in time."
To Gordon's alarm Batman seemed to sink even further against the wall, his eyes closing again, his chest deflating. "Stay with me," Gordon demanded, shaking him again. He scrambled for his police radio but he hadn't the faintest clue what he was going to do with it. There was no one to call. What a shame, that even as Commissioner he couldn't truly trust anyone in the force. Not after what Ramirez had done.
"Listen." Gordon swallowed. "If I don't get you to a hospital, you're going to die. What do you want me to do?"
When the Batman didn't answer at first Gordon thought he might have lost him again. But his lips parted again and he croaked bluntly, "Take off my mask."
"What?"
"There's no time." Batman placed a shaking hand against the mask that had thus far concealed him from a universe of prying eyes.
"I can't . . ." Gordon shook his head. It would be wrong. Nobody could take off Batman's mask because that would make Batman . . . a person.
Batman couldn't do it alone. His hands were shaking too hard. Gordon resigned himself, knowing that if he didn't act fast he would regret it.
"Tell them . . ." Batman paused to gulp in another gasp of air. The mask slid off easily, like pulling the wrapper off of a candy bar. The Batman was smirking through his rasps. "Tell them Bruce Wayne thought it would be funny . . . to dress up and play Batman for the night."
Staring into the face of Gotham's own prince, Gordon sat speechless, but only for a moment. Without missing another beat he dialed 911. "Commissioner Gordon," he said faintly into the phone. "Yes, there's been a shooting near sixty-third and Chrome . . ."
An hour and a half later and Rachel had spilled all her guts out to poor, patient Alfred. She was on her third cup of tea, but had a sneaking suspicion it might be decaf, because it certainly hadn't helped at all. She was about ready to nod off, but Alfred knew better than to offer her a room right now. The both of them were staring at the clock, waiting.
"Isn't he usually back by now?" Rachel fidgeted.
Alfred sighed wearily. "He comes home later and later. Sometimes he doesn't arrive until six-thirty."
She twisted a strand of hair in her fingers—a blonde one. That was the first thing on her list: dye her hair brunette again. Then start dressing for her D.A. job again, and not a frumpy teacher. And get rid of these stupid contacts . . .
Rachel paused a moment. When had she decided she wasn't going to be Fisher anymore? She knew that the decision was entirely hers, whether or not she wanted to remain this alternate identity. If she badgered Ramirez enough, the woman would undoubtedly find some way to make it permanent, out of guilt for what happened last year. It was certainly a concept she'd entertained, but a part of her had known she'd always return to Rachel Dawes's life.
She just hadn't known when. Thinking back, though, over the events of the past day, she knew when the decision had been made. The instant her gaze had met Bruce in the school. That was the second she had ceased being Fisher, when she had so thoughtlessly fled the building, ignoring all responsibilities with parents or students or staff.
"Bruce has . . . changed," she said noncommittally, hoping Alfred would provide some explanation.
"How could he not?" Alfred shook his head. "He took the news of your death very hard, Miss Dawes."
Not for the first time that night, she felt the sting of new tears prickling her eyes. "I feel so stupid."
"You did what you had to do," Alfred said understandingly.
"No, no I didn't." She shuddered again, holding back the new stream of tears, successfully regaining control. About an hour ago Alfred had thought to place a tissue box beside her, but she was afraid she might run out if she continued this any longer. "I could have come out of hiding months ago, Alfred. But I . . ."
He didn't pressure her to continue, but she felt she must. Alfred was the only one who understood. The letter—the unsealed letter she'd handed to him that night, before all the chaos had mounted and she and Bruce had both lost someone dear to them. "I was a coward. I was afraid to face Bruce, after I left that letter. I just didn't see how anything could ever be the same."
For a long while Alfred only stared into the fire in the hearth. The light danced off of him, the shadows accentuating the little wrinkles on his forehead and his eyes. Worry lines, laugh lines. Alfred had seen more than Rachel could imagine, yet he'd always humored her little whims and patiently endured all of Bruce's crazy antics. He was wiser than anyone she knew.
His next words shouldn't have surprised her so much.
"I never gave him the letter."
"What?"
He wasn't looking at her, his gaze still fixed on the fire. His eyes flinched with emotion.
"You . . . never gave him . . . the letter."
"No, Miss Dawes, I did not."
"How did you . . . ?"
"The timing wasn't right." Alfred cleared his throat. "Of course neither of us knew that you were still alive. But Bruce . . . he was so distraught over your death as it was. I did not want to worsen the blow, if you will."
She thought she might kiss him. All at once there she found new inspiration, new hope that maybe her chances weren't absolutely dashed. If he hadn't read the letter then he'd never known her true decision. Maybe all this time he had gone on believing
that Rachel had chosen him over Harvey. She'd thought he'd been bitter and angry with her for that letter, so much that they could never share anything, but if Alfred had kept her secret safe then maybe this didn't have to be as hard as she imagined it would be.
Another thought occurred to her. "Where did you put it?"
"I burned it. Trust me, he never saw." Alfred raised his eyebrows pensively. "He was a bit too preoccupied with the rest of Gotham directly after the explosions."
Alfred knew everything, then. Bruce never kept him in the dark. Rachel was sure that of all the people in his life, he trusted the old butler more than anyone. So Alfred had the answers to the burning question—could she ask it? Would Alfred judge her for wanting to know what truly happened?
"The newspapers said that Harvey Dent fell off a building in a struggle with Batman."
"Is that what the papers said?" Alfred said innocuously.
Rachel nodded. "That's not what happened." She directed her gaze at him curiously.
"Well," Alfred said gruffly. "Not quite."
She twiddled with her hands, waiting a moment to see if he'd say anything more. She wondered what could possibly be worth keeping from her. Surely Alfred didn't think she was too squeamish to hear what had really happened. For awhile she'd suspected there'd been another encounter with the Joker or some fluke on someone's else's part, but whatever it was she was certainly old and mature enough to handle it.
"So. What really happened?"
Alfred shook his head, looking uncomfortable with the topic. "I can't say I'm quite certain of the details myself. But I do believe, to some degree, that the papers were correct in their assumption."
Rachel flew to her feet. "Bruce wouldn't—he's not that sort of—throwing Harvey off a building—"
"Miss Dawes," Alfred interrupted, his voice more clipped than usual. "I believe you know better than to jump to such a conclusion. You and Master Wayne have been close since you were children."
A thick coat of shame seemed to suffocate her for a moment. "Yes," she said softly. She knew Bruce better than that. He may have acted petty and jealous around Harvey, but he would never take it that far.
She sat back down, sheepish and chagrined. "I didn't mean . . ." Well, yes she had. That didn't she didn't regret it the instant Alfred had brought her to her senses.
"Master Wayne was rather guarded about what happened. Perhaps if you ask him he could better explain," Alfred said, changing his tone mercifully.
Rachel gave him a wry smile. "So basically you're not sure whether or not Bruce wants me to know?"
Alfred smiled back. "Precisely. Sharp as ever, Miss Dawes."
The phone rang. Alfred frowned, muttering something to himself and rising from the chair to answer.
"Yes," Rachel heard him say from the next room. She nestled further into the armchair, feeling more exhausted than ever. More than anything she wanted to sink into the soft throw pillow and fall asleep. But she had to wait for Bruce. She had to let him know that she was not giving up on him.
"Speaking."
She shouldn't be eavesdropping, but Alfred was making no move to lower his voice so she figured he wouldn't mind. What else was there to do?
"Excuse me?" Alfred sounded taken aback. "Bruce Wayne. Yes, yes. I . . . No, I was unaware of these antics of his, but remain assured that I will send someone along to collect him."
He paused. Rachel stiffened, poised to hear more.
"It's that serious?" Alfred's voice was softer now. He didn't want her to hear, which of course meant she strained even more to hear anyway. A moment later he said gravely, "I understand. Gotham Central Hospital."
"Alfred," Rachel started, feeling her heart leap into her throat. Her words came out in an unintelligable rush. "Alfred what happened."
He wasn't off the phone yet. "Thank you . . . for . . . keeping this discrete, Commissioner. I'll be right there."
"Alfred?" Rachel demanded wildly, at her feet again. "Alfred, what's going on? Where's Bruce?"
The man's face was significantly paler when he reentered the room, his face drawn sharply. "It seems there's been an accident." He was already headed toward the foyer, grabbing his coat.
Rachel blanched, at once indignant and afraid. "What do you mean?"
He was leaving.
"Alfred!" Rachel cried, following him out.
"Stay here." Alfred's eyes looked misty. His gaze shifted away from her. "Everything's going to be alright. Just stay here."
The door slammed. For a moment she only stood there, too taken aback by the scene to react. Something . . . an accident? There's been an accident? But Batman didn't make mistakes. Bruce freaking Wayne didn't make mistakes!
Every instinct screamed at her to move, but she was incapable. Of course she'd imagined something might happen to Bruce one day. But she hadn't actually considered it—she'd never pictured a life without Bruce, not since he'd returned from that seven-year-stint of his. Gotham seemed too empty a place to live without him there. She'd never be able to adjust to losing him the way she had back then, not now that she was so wrapped up in him, not now that Gotham depended on him for everything.
Alfred couldn't just do this to her. Block her out, when she had every right to know what was happening.
Rachel stood up and headed for the door. "Gotham Memorial," she muttered decisively. Bruce wasn't going to be alone anymore. Not if she could help it.