"Bruce Wayne," Gordon deadpanned. The adrenaline had since worn off in the past minute or two and was replaced by disbelief and awe. "Bruce Wayne . . . is Batman."
The man had lost consciousness again. Gordon kept his hand rested on the other man's shoulder, knowing he was absolutely useless here. His head was reeling. The emergency response vehicles would pull up any moment now and all he'd be able to mutter was, Bruce Wayne? No. No way. Anyone but Bruce Wayne.
Very rarely had Gordon ever felt unsuited for his job. But at this moment he was so unsure and wavering that he thought he must be made of Jell-O. Would anyone even believe this stunt? Bruce Wayne, Gotham's playboy, Gotham's ultimate let-down. Didn't live up to his altruistic parents, but at least he was charming, right? The public spent most of their time following the eligible young bachelor around, secretly taking pleasure in all of his drunken follies and escapades with scantily clad women. For God's sake, Bruce Wayne was the anti-Batman. Nobody was going to believe this nonsense.
Maybe this wasn't the real Batman. There was always that concept to entertain—maybe he wasn't just being ironic with the whole, Tell them Bruce Wayne dressed up like a bat or whatever the crap was that Wayne was feeding him. Maybe Bruce Wayne really was stupid enough to go out and play Batman for kicks.
But God, Gordon doubted it. As hard as it was to wrap around his brain, he'd been around Batman enough times to peg the legitimate vigilante against all of his posers.
He tried to focus. Focus. His fingers were sticky, red with the other man's blood. Whether or not Bruce Wayne was the real Batman, he was dying. Gordon had to find some way to keep this under wraps. But between his millionaire and masquerading identities, Gordon feared that secrecy would be impossible. It was like trying to shield an elephant with nothing but a feather.
The last time he'd spoken to Bruce Wayne there had been two half-naked Italian supermodels on either side of him. He had seemed somewhat too tipsy for his own good, and was winking at the girls carrying trays of expensive foods and champagne. In fact, he'd barely even acknowledged Gordon as he introduced himself. Gordon remembered feeling a bit miffed. They had met before, after all. Several times. Gordon had been the one officer who had kept tabs on little Bruce after his parents had died . . .
But of course Bruce wouldn't remember him. He was eight years old at the time. And honestly, it was a time that anyone would rather forget.
Now Gordon realized that Bruce hadn't forgotten at all. If it was true—if this man, lying here and barely rasping out breaths, was the same man who had practically ignored him only months ago—then Bruce had remembered for twenty long years and come back for his help. That night Batman had sought him out individually, before he was an infamous household name. Not because of anything in particular that Gordon had done. But because he must have remembered somewhere in his consciousness the one man who had comforted him that horrible night.
Lightning flashed, followed by a crashing, deafening roll of thunder. It started to rain. Gordon cursed under his breath and looked up at the sky desperately.
"What am I going to do?" he asked, feeling helpless.
He turned his eyes back to Bruce Wayne. Without his mask on he looked so . . . breakable. Expendable. Human. Gordon had seen plenty of men die in his line of work. He had seen just how fragile a human life was. But until now he had never thought of Batman as an actual person—he was an entity, untouchable, intangible. Irrationally Gordon thought of him as immortal. He should have known better, of course. Last year after the fiasco with the Joker, Batman had been so beaten that Gordon didn't hear from him for a full week and a half. Even Batman needed time to recover.
But he'd never actually seen Batman bleed before, let alone Bruce Wayne. In fact, Gordon had purposefully never even imagined Batman as having a face. He didn't want to imagine the pain and the agony contorted on the man's features when he'd lost Rachel Dawes, when Dent had shot him. The rawness in his usually husky voice was enough to rip at Gordon's heart. To imagine a face enduring such anguish would be too much for his conscience.
Gordon was torn out of his thoughts by the sounds of sirens in the distance. They were coming, and he still didn't have a clue what he was going to do about the whole ordeal. He looked at the unconscious Wayne again, hoping that he might supply some solution, but his eyes were still closed and unmoving.
He bit his lip. "If they find out who you are . . ." He shuddered, looking over his shoulder. The vehicles hadn't approached yet. He had time—time to do what, though? Hide Bruce Wayne in a dumpster until they left? Jam the mask back on the man and possibly cause him more injuries than the ones already inflicted on him?
What was he supposed to do? For the love of God—what?
A car pulled up to the curb. Numbly Gordon heard the sound of slamming, skidding brakes. But the sirens hadn't stopped.
He looked up and saw a face he recognized. An older gentleman with laugh lines and a kind demeanor—but none of his usual pleasantry was evident on his expression now. Lucius Fox, head of Wayne Enterprises in the flesh, was kneeling over Bruce Wayne beside Gordon.
As if the night could not have gotten anymore bizarre.
But then again, Gordon should have figured this out for himself by now. Who else would be supplying the Batman? Surely no man could accomplish the whole feat of creating and buying all those resources alone.
"Commissioner," Fox acknowledged him, barely looking up from Bruce. His face was ashen, stone-like in concentration. He flinched when he first saw the state of the injuries, but quickly began to assess the situation with an adeptness that rivaled Gordon's. "You called for the ambulances?"
"I couldn't think of any other solution. He's going to die if—"
"Help me lift him."
Without missing a beat Gordon grabbed the unconscious man's shoulders and helped Fox lug him toward what looked like an enormous Range Rover. "Where are we taking him?" Gordon asked, concerned.
"Gotham Memorial Hospital," said Fox resolutely.
Gordon scowled. "How is that any different from--?"
"I know someone there I can trust," Fox said pointedly.
"But how do you know?" Gordon burst out of frustration. He didn't mean to be difficult, but Fox seemed too calm and deliberate given the circumstances. They set Wayne down securely in the back and Gordon flew into the passenger's seat before Fox could object.
Fox raised an impatient eyebrow at him. "Believe me when I say I have Mr. Wayne's best interests in mind." He took the wheel, never minding to ask why Gordon was along for the ride. He must have figured that if Gordon hadn't tried to rat him out by now that he, too, had Wayne's best interests in mind. But Gordon doubted they could trust anyone in the city. What made this Lucius Fox so sure?
"How did you know to find him?"
For a long while Fox didn't answer him, occupied with maneuvering around the streets near a hundred miles an hour. Gordon had the feeling that this wasn't information he was all too willing to part with. He added, "It's alright if you can't say."
Fox nodded, but returned, "I set up the suit so that an alarm in my cell phone is triggered if the Kevlar in his suit is pierced." He sighed wearily. "I didn't tell him about it, of course. He thinks he's invincible."
Gordon swallowed. Well, then, so did everyone else.
"I had a feeling this would happen, though."
"You've planned this for awhile, then?" Gordon realized. "You knew where you would take him."
"If it was serious enough to risk compromising everyone, then yes, I knew where I was going to take him." He whipped the bulky car around another corner, and Gordon had to brace himself. "My sister's a surgeon down at Gotham Memorial."
"She doesn't know about . . . this?"
Fox shook his head.
"You think she'll be able to handle it?" Gordon was shaken enough as it was. He could barely manage to think straight, let alone perform a complicated surgery with someone's life constantly hanging in the balance. And he knew for a fact that he was of sound mind, or else he wouldn't have been given such a high-intensity job.
"I hope."
The pain became so excruciating that it numbed and dulled. Bruce couldn't figure out what exactly hurt, except that it seemed to have dissolved into him, absorbing itself. It was harder to breathe. Something was pressing on his chest, preventing it from rising and falling, but it was an ache now more than a persistent piercing.
The faint colors dimmed around him, blackness creeping at the edges of his eyes. The darkness swam around him. He struggled to stay conscious—he'd endured plenty worse than this, hadn't he? He thought back on those years with Raz Al Ghul and his often perilous training, but all that he could find was snippets and breaks of halfway-written memories. Nothing was certain or concrete enough to grab a hold on. He kept flying past illogical scenes, most of them unrelated, trying to fish his way to something that was relevant to what was happening to him.
There had been pain worse than this in his lifetime. Losing his parents. Losing Rachel. But that was the sort of pain that slowly took its told, ebbing at his conscience and his heart over the years. This pain was immediate and fierce. Nothing like any other pain he'd dealt with before.
He was so stupid. He bit his lip, trying to stay awake, furious with his own idiocy. Batman was supposed to know better than anyone to never let his guard down, and here he was letting some misguided punk shoot him down? Damn it, he'd taken on so much worse than this. Scarecrow, Penguin, The Joker, Raz himself—but it was some pinch-faced brat who got the edge on him after all he'd been through.
His hearing was starting to fog, as if someone had stuffed cotton balls in his ears. Everything felt so thick around him. In the midst of it all Gordon's panicked, urgent voice was the only sound that broke through the haze. He was calling an ambulance.
There was nothing to be done. His cowl was clearly doing no good, and even if Alfred had heard his calls, he'd be too late. Bruce often liked to think of himself as untouchable, but he was never under the illusion that he was invincible. He knew that at times Alfred and Rachel (Rachel . . . oh, God) had thought he was out of touch with reality, but Bruce knew his limits with more rational than most men. And this was a limit even he could not bear.
He bit the inside of his cheek, tasting metallic blood. Despite all his attempts he was succumbing . . . he wouldn't be able to take this much longer. Gordon's hand was firm on his shoulder, and for that he was thankful, however distantly. It gave him some direction at least. As long as he could feel that hand, he knew he was within some realm of the living.
Vaguely he wondered what it would feel like to die. It hadn't been the first time he'd considered this, of course. He'd have been a fool if he hadn't. He'd always wondered, ever since he was a little boy and watched his parents die. Where did they go? What happened to them after they left? Questions he kept to himself. He knew better than to ask, because of course no one would have the answers. Even at eight years old he knew that much.
Their deaths had been so quick. So instantaneous. They were dead before Bruce could even process that the man had a gun. How slow, how incapable and helpless he had been as a child. Whereas now he would have easily wrestled or tricked a weapon out of a man's hands, he had only stood there and watched, mouth agape with horror and disbelief. Dead before they hit the ground . . .
But Bruce would not be that fortunate. Even if he lived, would it be worth one more second of this unendurable agony?
Yes. Rachel. Her face emerged from the madness cluttering his head, so clear and pristine that he thought she might be right in front of him. He'd do anything to just reach out and touch her cheek . . . to know for certain that she was real. Had he hallucinated the entire evening? Could Rachel Dawes have really come back from the dead, or was Bruce slowly letting his mind slip away?
It felt like he was drowning. It was too difficult to breathe, or even think about calming himself. Usually in these circumstances he could muster enough focus to shut himself down. Conserve his energy so that it wasn't wasted on gasping breaths and uncontrollable shaking. But he was too muddled, too distracted. Lost. Illogical.
Gordon's form swam in front of his eyes, blurring out of recognition. Bruce couldn't fight this. It was the end of him, and the end of Batman. He had lost the control he had so savored in these past few years and put himself in the hands of Gordon.
He trusted Gordon more than he trusted himself. He only hoped that Gordon would trust himself, too.
The hand was still on his shoulder, but he felt its weight fading away. Bruce wheezed, the pain suddenly sharper than ever before. Rachel . . . God, this can't happen now, not with Rachel so close . . .
If he hadn't been so stupid he might have had everything he'd ever wanted. For once, Bruce Wayne might have been happy. Free to be himself, free to pursue something he actually desired.
Now it was slipping through his fingers.
These were his last bitter thoughts before the pain finally dulled completely, and Bruce was swallowed whole by the darkness claiming him.
Rachel cocked an eyebrow at him, barely noticeable over her chunky bangs. Not the first of a series of bad high-school haircuts, and by no means the last. But she was just as bossy and clever as always, even at fifteen. Bruce shrank under her gaze.
"Again, Bruce?" she asked playfully. There was an edge to her voice, though. She was mad.
Bruce shrugged. "Again."
"What for this time?" she sighed, sitting him down at her kitchen table. He couldn't go back to the Manor in this state or Alfred would worry and ask stupid questions about what happened. Besides, he'd gotten off well enough this time. The stuck-up brats had shoved him to the ground and split part of his forehead open, but at the first sight of blood they'd all bolted like the cowards they were.
"I gave someone a 'look,'" Bruce explained mildly. A drop of blood hit the table.
"Watch it," Rachel hissed, throwing a napkin at him. She fished through the cabinets and found the antiseptic. "My mom will freak if there's blood."
The bleeding was superficial, but even Bruce had to admit it looked pretty nasty. It hadn't stopped gushing in the mile long walk to Rachel's and was still showing no signs of stopping. As Rachel liked to say, if his skull weren't so thick then he wouldn't be getting off so lucky whenever "this happened."
"So let me get this straight." She dabbed the liquid on the tear in his forehead.
"Owwww," he moaned sarcastically, "that huuuurts."
Rachel smacked his arm. "Big baby. So let me get this straight," she continued. "You gave them a 'look,' and they all pounced you? Just like that?"
She was teasing him. As usual he took the bait. "Yup." After a brief pause he admitted, "Well. I may have accidentally gotten his crew detention that day. But I swear I didn't mean to." He smirked. "I just thoroughly enjoyed it."
Rachel knew better now than to ask for details. She rolled her eyes, giving him the classic you're-so-lucky-I-put-up-with-you glare. "You can't exactly hide this from Alfred."
"You're right. I'll tell him you did it."
"Keep that up and I'll do worse," she threatened, squirting more antiseptic than necessary.
He flinched. "Play fair," he laughed.
She finished cleaning and sat back to inspect her work. The bleeding had stopped, and it really didn't look all that bad. There was still a noticeable gash on his forehead, but not enough to attract too much attention. "There," she said contentedly.
"Thanks, Rach." He hopped to his feet, headed immediately for the pantry. Before he could so much as take three steps Rachel had a hand on his shoulder, halting him. She looked pensive. Concerned.
"What I don't understand . . ." She bit her lip. "Bruce, why don't you ever fight back?"
Bruce snorted. "You, miss holier-than-thou, miss goody-two-shoes honor roll student—" She swatted him again, but he continued—"you're telling me to fight someone?"
"Well, not fight, perse. Just . . . I don't know. Defend yourself instead of just standing there."
"I thought peer counselors were supposed to promote nonviolent solutions."
"Bruce, you know just as well as I do that you're only provoking them more by not reacting. You really want this to stop?" She stared at him directly in the eye. "Then fight back."
The three words reverberated through his skull. The scene, the kitchen was slipping out from underneath him. "Rachel," he pleaded as she faded with the countertops and floors. "Rachel, Rachel, don't go."
She looked down at her shoes as if she hadn't heard him and he was still in the kitchen with her. She muttered self-consciously, "Just . . . fight back for once."