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Jim Gordon sighed into his club soda.
He wasn’t a schmoozer. He didn’t like to schmooze. He was a cop, dammit, not some show pony to be trotted out by the city when they needed more funds or higher approval ratings. Yet here he was, at the seasonal GCPD/Wayne gala, shaking hands and kissing babies. Well, not literally the last part; there were no babies here. They cried through speeches and weren’t big into shrimp cocktail anyway.
He liked to think his job was one of action, not politics, but who was he kidding? His fate had been sealed the moment he decided it would be cheaper to buy a tux than to keep renting.
He scanned the room, looking for his Babs, who unlike her father was a delight at these events. Perhaps it was the young age she started attending, or perhaps it was the fancy education she was receiving at Gotham Academy. In any case, while Gordon hated to think he was using his daughter to advance his career, he had to admit that her presence smoothed his rough edges among the haut monde.
Ah--there she was over by the dessert table with the Grayson boy, who was in his own miniature penguin suit. Babs had been thrilled to find she was no longer the youngest person at these events, and she and Dick were close enough in age to get along. Gordon suspected that she enjoyed being a few years older than Dick: it permitted her to boss him around to some degree, and also allowed her to claim that she was far too mature to humor the boy’s obvious crush on her when Gordon teased her about it.
And if Gordon found it surprising that someone as allergic to responsibility as Bruce Wayne had taken in a young, troubled boy like Dick, he certainly never mentioned it to anyone; mainly because he was rooting for the pair. While Wayne played the carefree buffoon in public, Gordon remembered him as someone else entirely—a heartbroken child sitting blankly despondent in the GCPD station. Grayson himself appeared to vacillate wildly between a small ball of rage and a delightful ray of sunshine that thrived on any and all attention.
Here he came now—in sunshine mode, it seemed, with Babs trailing slightly behind. “Mr. Gordon, Mr. Gordon,” he said, “Can Babs come on Bruce’s boat with us next weekend?”
“It’s called a yacht, Dick, not a boat,” Babs sniffed. Thankfully Dick had not yet taken offense to Babs correcting his language. A few weeks ago the situation was made formal, and Babs was tutoring Dick in English for pocket money. It was an obscene amount to be giving a kid, so perhaps “pocket money” was not the best description. Dick’s vocabulary did seem to be improving under her influence. The Graysons apparently had been fluent but not native speakers of English, and Dick had an accent that Gordon could only describe as “ambiguous European.”
“Whatever it’s called, it’s big enough that you can dive off the side.” Dick then launched into an explanation of how he learned to dive from a woman at Haly’s Circus who performed a high dive. On a horse. From a running mount. He then began to demonstrate what moves he planned to perform midair. Babs, though clearly amused by his antics, did not join in as Gordon knew she could, rather standing with that perfect posture of hers, hands clasped. Gordon had previously drilled into her that what the elite’s children could get away with at galas did not apply to police commissioner’s daughters. In the moment, however, Gordon wished she could join in on the fun. Perhaps that’s what made him immediately agree to let her sail on a yacht with a notoriously devil-may-care bachelor and his young daredevil ward without any inquires into specifics or safety measures.
“Sure, son, I don’t see why not.” Babs beamed and Dick stopped his acrobatics long enough to pump his fist and yell “Sweet!” Hopping from foot to foot, Dick scanned the ballroom, probably looking for Bruce.
Gordon spotted him—he was off talking to a bevy of young, attractive women. Dick must have spotted him too, because he made a face, sticking out his tongue and rolling his eyes. He made exaggerated gagging noises and Babs started to giggle. Finally tired of being ignored, Dick shouted, “Hey B, watch this!” and executed a stunning multiple somersault the height of which was unreal given that he was launching from a standing position on a marble floor. It was as if he had springs hidden in his shiny dress shoes.
Bruce turned to watch. He called out “Nice, chum!” and grinned widely. The women crowded around Bruce cooed. The kid was a born showman—and knew it.
Gordon couldn’t help but grin himself. Bruce and Dick seemed to complement each other perfectly, and he was glad they had found one another.
—
Gordon felt ridiculous waiting for Batman on top of the GCPD in his tux; thankfully, it was covered with his overcoat. It was hard to believe that the gala he’d just attended, with its glittering chandeliers and champagne flutes, was in the same town as this rooftop. Gotham had a gray sort of grittiness you could inhale and taste on your tongue. Babs may say that smoking was an ugly habit, but sometimes cigarette smoke was more pleasant than the city air.
To outsiders, Gotham was a freakshow, a wasteland. If Gotham sunk into the ground never to be seen again, most people would say good riddance. Many Gothamites, on the other hand, would willingly sink right down with it, like millions of captains going down with their ship. A Metropolis newscaster had once compared the relationship between Gotham and its residents to an abusive affair; to Gordon, it was more of a symbiosis, however uneven. Perhaps if Gordon could go back 10 years and choose never to come to Gotham, he would. But once Gotham dug its claws in you, it was too late.
“Commissioner,” a voice growled behind him. Gordon did everything he could not to startle in surprise. He liked to think that he was only caught unawares because he had been deep in thought, but everyone present would know that was a face-saving fiction.
“Batman,” he replied, turning and nodding to the vigilante. “Robin,” he added, giving a small wave to the boy beside him. “We’ve got some trouble with the Riddler tonight. And…well…” Gordon heaved a sigh. “And Condiment King.” Robin burst into delighted cackles.
If Batman was a mystery to Gordon, Robin was even more so. When he first showed up, Gordon was baffled and concerned. Had Batman taken too many hits to the head? A guy dressed as a bat beating up criminals—sure, that made some semblance of sense, in a twisted Gothamite way—but having a boy who could at most be 10 or 11 years old accompany him? And dressed in garish hey-look-at-me, please-shoot-me colors? That was...well it was something not good, even by Gotham standards. Maybe, just maybe, Gordon had thought that first night with Robin, his alliance with a violent anonymous vigilante with a bat fetish had been premature, no matter how well he dealt with the mob.
But…how exactly do you report the Batman to DYFS*? And Gordon was reluctant to admit it, but damn if Robin wasn’t good at his job. Many of the rogues were flat out frightened of Robin in his own right, not just because he was the harbinger of the Bat. Where on earth had he even come from? Perhaps there was some sort of clearinghouse or secret training ground for vigilante children. Perhaps that’s where Batman came from too. (Though he had always imagined Batman sprung fully formed from the ground, cowl and batarangs all.)
Over time, Gordon’s uneasiness diminished some as he observed the relationship between Batman and Robin. Batman’s attitude towards Robin was surprisingly paternal. Gordon didn’t think someone like Batman had it in him, but there it was. Batman’s “hnnns” towards Robin were less grumbly and more indulgent, and Batman’s lips twitched up at the corners when the boy told one of his terrible jokes. One Tuesday, when Batman showed up alone, Gordon asked why Robin wasn’t there. Batman stared at him for a moment and growled, “It’s a school night.” Like Gordon was the one who needed lessons on the proper caring and keeping of children.
Sometimes Gorden even suspected Robin was actually Batman’s son, given the way they interacted. Take now, for example. Batman and Gordon were discussing the best way to get the drop on the Riddler, but Robin, presumably bored, was off to the side, doing a series of flips. Robin was trying to attract Batman’s attention, his flips getting flashier and flashier the more Batman ignored him. Gordon, currently raising a child of his own, was quite familiar with the lengths children would go to impress their fathers.
“Condiment King, on the other hand,” Gordon continued, only to be interrupted by Robin suddenly shouting, “Hey B, watch this!”
Gordon never found out what Robin wanted to show Batman, or if Batman turned to watch. His heart dropped to his stomach and both rose to his throat.
Dear God, it couldn’t be. But as much as Gordon wanted to deny it, everything he knew about Bruce Wayne and Batman, as well as Dick Grayson and Robin, confirmed it. It all made sense, in a twisted way. The grinning socialite and his sunshine ward were a lie. Fancy galas, mansions, and yachts couldn’t save them from Gotham or from their pasts. Maybe that snobby Metropolis newscaster had been right after all. Gordon wasn’t sure why, but knowing it was Wayne and Grayson behind the masks saddened him.
When Wayne had disappeared for several years after dropping out of college, the shallow, vapid young man who had seemingly returned was leagues away from the boy Gordon knew. Gordon had been confused and dismayed at the time. But now it appeared as if Wayne hadn’t changed at all. Perhaps it would have been better if he had.
Maybe Gordon could have done something, back when Wayne was a boy, to prevent this. Maybe he could still do something now, if not for Wayne but at least for Grayson. That DYFS call didn’t sound so absurd anymore.
“Something wrong, Commissioner?” Robin said. Robin, with his perfect Gothamite accent, who usually called him “Commish.” They were both just staring at him now. Well, shit. While Dick had been momentarily foolish enough to expose his identity, neither he nor the Bat were going to miss Gordon’s reaction and not piece together what had just happened. They knew he knew. And they stood there, waiting.
Gordon had simultaneous, conflicting desires. He saw the boy Bruce once was, and the boy Dick was now, and wanted to save them from the madness—beg them to give it up and live a normal life. At the same time, his amygdala was screaming get the hell out of there, because Gordon knew that either of them—yes, including the 10-year-old—could cause him great physical harm in an effort to convince him to keep their secret.
But the three of them just continued to stand there.
What good would it do separating them? Gordon had been right, in a way, when he speculated that Robin was Batman’s son. He had seen how devoted Bruce and Dick were to each other, and they understood each other in a way no one else could because of their tragic losses. What good would it do taking their shared crusade away? Gordon had seen the rage Dick had inside of him, and he now knew that the same rage was inside of Bruce as well. What would happen to them, if this outlet was taken away and they were separated on top of it?
“Oh, it's nothing, son,” Gordon answered. “That last trick of yours just scared the bejeezus out of me. I should know better by now, but I’m always afraid you’re going to hit your head.” Gordon looked back down at his notebook. “So, as I was saying, Condiment King was last spotted by the Kane Bridge…” Robin appeared to relax a fraction. Batman had stayed motionless through the entire exchange, and he continued to do so.
When the briefing was over, Robin used his grapple to swing off the roof with a “Yahoo!” Batman, however, remained. He looked down at his feet in an uncharacteristic fashion, and then looked back up at Gordon. Gordon yearned to say something, he wasn’t sure what, but something to acknowledge that they were both just humans trying to do their best in a universe that doled out tragedies like some cosmic vending machine. Something like, I don’t like any of this, but I see why it’s necessary, and I’ve got your back. But it would be selfish to indulge himself in such a way when so much more was at stake.
So Gordon just nodded. And with a flourish of his cape, Batman was gone.
Sighing, Gordon took some antacid tablets out of his pocket and chewed on them, switching off the batsignal.
Godspeed, Bruce.