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There’s so much blood, Jim doesn’t know where to look first. Rain is already beginning to fall in a drizzle, quietly making the dark red on the pavement turn murky and runny. It blurs together as if blood and the streets of Gotham are one, intertwined in a coppery and stone mess.
In the midst of it all is a cloaked figure all in black, sprawled out in the middle of the street with no one else around. The haze in the air makes it impossible to see anything more than that shadow from this distance, but Jim’s bad feeling grows stronger. He holds up a fist, telling the other policemen behind him to wait, and cautiously moves forward, his shoes sloshing through puddles.
When he crouches down beside the Batman, he finds breath still escaping through his lips in faint swirls of mist and quiet wheezes. His eyelids, covered in black paint, are fluttering. Jim’s gaze trails down to the man’s torso, where a hole has somehow been ripped forcefully in the armor, and a pool of blood drenches the area around his abdominals. From the looks of it, a very deep stab wound. He clenches his jaw.
“Jesus,” he mutters, unable to find any more eloquent words. Shrugging off his jacket, he balls it up and presses it against the wound, applying pressure. He wants to know how this happened, seeing how savagely the armor has been torn, but that can wait. The Bat needs to save his strength.
He opens his mouth to call out to his men, but a quiet, wheezy voice stops him in his tracks. “That you…Gordon…?”
Jim blinks and looks down, having not expected the other to still be conscious. He adjusts his position, taking his gaze away from the wound to move to the masked face. “Yeah, chief. You’re gonna be just fine. Stay awake for me now.”
Eyelids flutter open only halfway, pupils dilated and dazed. Jim is no doctor, but he can imagine that this obvious wound isn’t the only one. He swallows, then looks up at the men standing beside the cars, shifting nervously. “Martinez, get me an ambulance. Jones, take Gonzalez and sweep the area.”
“No.”
Jim stops, looking down in surprise. The Batman swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing, his eyes trying to steady themselves onto Jim.
“Can’t…hospital.”
“What? No, you need to be looked at by a professional, man. You’ll die.”
“Gordon.” He reaches up, grabbing his shoulder weakly. He speaks so quietly that it’s almost inaudible over the rain that’s picking up speed. “Take me to Wayne manor. Just you. No one else.”
Wayne manor? Jim’s brows furrow and he tries to push down the worry in his chest. “I…I can’t do that, you need to go to the hospital -”
The Batman’s grip on his shoulder tightens just a little. “I trust you,” he whispers, “so please. Please just take me there.”
He can let his better judgement win and lose the vigilante’s trust, but at least he’d definitely be alive. Gotham isn’t ready to lose the Bat, but something about the way the eyes beneath the mask are staring at him makes his heart lurch. Surely the Batman’s been injured before…perhaps Bruce Wayne has been his doctor this whole time.
“Martinez, cancel the ambulance.”
The cop blinks, lowering the phone from his ear just slightly. “But sir -”
“I said cancel it . I’ll handle this from here. Go help Jones and Gonzalez. That’s an order.”
Martinez still looks unsure, but he hangs up the phone, slips it in his pocket, and moves to find the others. Jim sighs softly.
Maybe he’s making a terrible mistake. He tells himself that if the Batman’s condition gets any worse, then he’ll call an ambulance. Maybe it’s stupid, but he just wants to be able to protect him the way that he protects Gotham. So he’ll follow his wishes for now.
“Thank you,” Batman whispers genuinely, a relieved sigh escaping his lips as his eyes flutter closed.
“Don’t fall asleep on me, now,” Jim replies, trying to keep the worry from his voice. He takes one of the Bat’s gloved hands and rests it over the coat, pushing down. “Apply pressure here. Can you do that?”
The man manages a weak nod. Jim lets go of his hand even though he isn’t sure how much pressure he’s actually capable of at the moment, and takes him by the shoulders. He isn’t sure how heavy the Bat actually is, but the armor certainly isn’t helping the weight. Still, he keeps pulling until they’re both upright, albeit unsteady, supporting him with one arm around his shoulders and the other holding up his chest.
The rain begins to come down harder, and Jim wonders how he got himself in this situation. He decides he needs to focus. Dwelling can wait once the Batman is in stable condition.
He’s practically dragging him to the car, and as he glances down at his jacket, now soaking wet with rain and a darker substance he knows is blood, he’s reminded that he’s simply human, just like the rest of them are. He’d gotten snippets of that realization many times, but now it was hitting him harder. If he doesn’t move fast enough, Gotham might lose the man who would do anything for this city.
By the time he sits the Bat down in his car, his wheezing has gotten more intense. Jim feels his panic rising. Maybe he really should have just sent him to the hospital. “Gordon,” he murmurs, his head lolling to the side to look at him. For a moment, the commissioner thinks he sees some fear in his eyes. “Thank you.”
Jim feels his chest tighten. This can’t be a good sign. He leans forward, buckling the vigilante into the seat, which at least provides added pressure to the wound. “Just do me a favor and keep your eyes open, chief.” He almost does a double take upon seeing the Bat’s mouth twitch, a small smile pulling at his lips.
Getting into the driver’s seat, he closes the door and flips on the sirens. Wayne manor, huh? He glances at the other out of the corner of his eye, then slams his foot on the gas. They can’t waste any more time.
He has about a thousand questions, but he doesn’t voice them. All he does is drive. The Batman’s breath begins coming faster and shallower. Jim murmurs a string of curses and speeds up.
The manor looms in the distance, but he doesn’t have much time to admire it. “Where should I go?” he asks, and the Bat whispers something. “What?”
“The butler…will let us in th-through the front door…”
Jim parks the car in the very long driveway, just outside of the gate. He rolls his window down, sweat beading on his brow. “Hello?”
“Who is this?” A British voice asks through the speaker, and Jim grips the steering wheel.
“Commissioner Jim Gordon with the GCPD. …The Batman is hurt. He asked me to bring him here. Please, it’s serious.”
The other line is silent for a moment, besides an almost inaudible sigh. The gate creaks open loudly, and the second there’s a large enough opening, Jim lurches the car forward. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices the Bat’s eyes are closed.
“Shit,” he mumbles, parking the car outside the manor and wasting no time reaching forward to slap the exposed part of his face. Luckily, the Bat’s eyes open, albeit only halfway. Jim tries to mask his worry with frustration. “What did I say? Keep your damn eyes open.”
He gets out of the car and walks to the passenger side, opening the door to unbuckle him.
“Thank you, sir, I can take it from here.” An older man appears beside the car, whom he recognizes as the young Wayne’s butler. Recently released from the hospital, from what he remembers. Jim doubts he’s in any condition to carry the semi-conscious Batman into the manor.
He takes in the expression on the older man’s face. Exhaustion, worry, frustration, all rolled into one. “Please, allow me to help. He’s most likely in critical condition. Surely I could be of some use to you.”
The butler sighs. “I appreciate your concern, Commissioner Gordon, but you really ought to -”
“Alfred.” The men pause in surprise, glancing down at the Batman, whose eyes are closed again. “I trust him.”
Silent for a moment, the butler’s lips part in surprise, glancing from him to Jim. And then he sighs, nodding quietly. Perhaps the Batman has talked about him before. “Very well. Help me get him inside.”
Jim reaches down to unbuckle the man, readying to pull him out of the car when he speaks again, his lips barely moving. “Take my armor off,” he mumbles. “It will make it easier on you.”
Alfred freezes in place. Jim hesitates. “Are you sure?”
“You’re a…you’re a smart man, Commissioner. It won’t be long before…before you put the pieces together.”
Somewhat perturbed by this, Jim reaches forward to pull off the cape and soaked armor. Alfred seems uneasy. “Sir, do you really think -”
“Alfred, it’s okay.” The Batman lifts his gaze with some difficulty. “He deserves to know.”
The armor falls in a clang on the wet pavement, leaving behind a simple gray sweater and dark pants, with only the mask left, covering half of the face. Jim’s breath swirls quickly in the air. “…Are you sure?”
The Batman exhales shakily. “It’s…getting harder…to breathe. Take it.”
Jim chances a glance at the butler, who seems to be holding his breath, but isn’t stopping him. So he swallows and reaches forward, gripping the top of the cowl, and pulls it off. In his shock, it falls in a heap on the pavement.
Sitting there, in dark eye makeup and a somewhat bloodied nose, is Bruce Wayne.
His eyes flutter open, his chest heaving, a somewhat satisfied smirk on his face. “Surprised?”
Jim stumbles over his words for a moment, unable to articulate a coherent thought. All this time it’s been Bruce Wayne. Frankly, he wonders why he isn’t more surprised. Somehow, it makes so much sense.
“You aren’t exactly slick telling me to come here,” he manages after a brief moment, gently taking Bruce’s shoulders, “I knew you had something to do with this.”
Thunder rumbles overhead as Bruce smiles again, somewhat dazedly. Alfred glances down at the dark splotch on the young man’s torso and steps forward impatiently. “Let’s go.”
“Right.” Jim pulls Bruce from the car gently, noticing how much lighter he feels without all the heavy armor - normally it protects him, but something had happened in that alley. It’s an answer he hopes to get later.
Bruce presses the jacket into his side again, and the three of them hobble inside. There’s a luxurious couch that Alfred directs them towards, but when they’re only a few inches away, Bruce moans. “I’m…sorry...” Suddenly, he goes limp, and Jim is left basically carrying him.
“Shit! Open your eyes, dammit!” he exclaims, almost dropping him down on the couch, shaking him. It’s no use.
Alfred doesn’t show any sign of distress other than tightly pressed lips, shooing Jim out of the way to rip open the shirt Bruce is wearing. They get a clear view of the stab wound; it’s deep, and dark purple bruising surrounds it. The butler has his work cut out for him.
Jim provides assistance where he can, but Alfred seems to have it mostly under control. The commissioner is just left to stand off to the side, contemplating the craziness of the last hour. He isn’t sure how much time passes, and it feels as though he’s been standing beside the bloodied couch for days on end, waiting. He’s seen plenty of blood in his time, and it always makes him uneasy, but this…
Bruce Wayne is the Batman. Bruce Wayne is the man protecting Gotham from the shadows. Bruce Wayne has been disguised as the vigilante that Jim is proud to call a friend, and…Bruce Wayne is seriously injured. He can barely wrap his head around it.
He blinks, turning his gaze back to Alfred, who, at some point, had finished up the bandaging but hadn’t moved. He still kneels by the couch, one hand resting over Bruce’s bruised one. He whispers something under his breath that Jim can’t make out and moves to retrieve a blanket, draping it over Bruce’s bare chest. At some point, he must’ve also wiped off the black makeup.
When the butler straightens up, he glances toward Jim, still, perhaps, somewhat uneasy. “…Would you like some tea, Commissioner? I believe we have much to discuss.”
“That would be great. Thank you.”
He takes one last look at Bruce before following Alfred to the expensive-looking kitchen. Alfred’s hands shake just slightly as he washes them, but Jim pretends not to notice, suddenly becoming very interested in the obscure decoration around the place instead.
The tap water stops, and Jim takes in Alfred properly now. He’s certainly on the older side, but he can imagine that the years haven’t been kind to him. The cane he holds is proof of it, and yet, he is still standing upright, still a butler, still around after all these years.
“If you would kindly stop staring, sir,” a British voice cuts through his thoughts curtly, and Jim swallows and looks away.
“My apologies.”
Alfred sighs, looking at the pot of water he’s beginning to boil. “He’s mentioned you, you know. Says you're the only competent cop in Gotham.”
After a brief moment of surprise, Jim smiles. “That so?”
“Yes, sir.” He pauses again. “Commissioner, if I may, I’d like to apologize for any shortness I might have had with you.”
“Don’t worry about it.” The words come out almost immediately. “You care about the kid. I get it. He keeps his identity secret for a reason.” He presses his lips together, watching the way Alfred’s shoulders release some tension. “His secret is safe with me. I promise.”
The butler looks up, meeting his eyes properly for the first time. His features soften. “Thank you.” The thanks is loaded, and Jim knows it isn’t just for the promise.
They chat idly for a little while over tea, almost as if nothing had happened. Jim will have to return to the precinct eventually, but he will find any reason to stay as long as possible. After the day he’s had, he has to stay.
“Blast it,” Alfred says, once the tea is drained from both of their cups, checking his pocket watch. “I’m afraid I will have to cancel Mr. Wayne’s meetings tomorrow before it gets too late.” He looks up at Jim, clearing his throat. “Would you mind staying beside him for a little while? I very much doubt he will be waking any time soon, but it might be nice for him to have some extra company before you leave.”
“Sure thing. Take your time, Mr. Pennyworth.”
There’s a hint of a smile on the butler’s face as he leaves, and Jim walks back into the living room, pulling over one of the chairs to sit beside Bruce, who seemingly hasn’t moved since Jim dropped him here. He sighs quietly to himself, his gaze trailing to the unfamiliar face.
There’s no doubt he’s young, especially like this. It’s almost impossible to imagine him in that bulky armor now, sprawled out on this couch beneath a blanket. He wonders how this happened; and even more so, he wonders how he had earned his trust when no one else besides his butler had been given the privilege. He’s seeing something he shouldn’t.
So Jim looks down. He checks his watch. He checks his phone. He busies himself so he doesn’t continue staring, until there’s a weak cough that grabs his attention.
“…Gordon.” He blinks, raising his gaze to meet the half-lidded eyes of Bruce Wayne.
“Mr. Wayne. How are you feeling?”
Bruce speaks in a croak. “The room is spinning.”
“I guess that’s to be expected.” It’s somewhat awkward, he thinks, but this was what it had been like at the beginning, too, when he first began working with the Batman. He hadn’t known how to speak to him. Now, he smiles slightly. “When you said to cancel the ambulance, I wasn’t expecting the butler to be your saving grace.”
The young man chuckles, a gurgling sound tickling his throat. “He always is.”
Jim nods. “Do you remember what happened to you?”
“Memories aren’t back yet,” he admits softly. He seems angry about it. Jim supposes he can’t blame him.
“I’m sure they’ll return once you get some more rest.” He pauses, his tone becoming more cautious. “But you remember…?”
Coughing weakly, Bruce lifts his chin a little, getting a better look at the other man. “Now you know who I am.”
“Yeah. I do.” He hesitates a moment, deciding now is as good a time as any. “But why?”
Bruce closes his eyes, his chest rattling as he breathes in, then opens them again. “Because,” he says, “you’re the only friend I have in Gotham.”
Jim’s blood runs cold. Out of everything he might have been expecting to hear, this isn’t it. Friends with the two most unapproachable men in Gotham; Batman and Bruce Wayne. His heart swells, and he lets himself smile, even if it might be embarrassing. “Of course I’m your friend, chief. And you are mine.”
For a moment, a small smile pulls at Bruce’s lips before he lets his face slowly relax. His eyes slip closed. “By the way,” he mumbles, “congrats on the promotion.”
Jim laughs. “Thanks.” He watches Bruce continue to struggle for consciousness, and leans forward carefully, pulling the blanket up further. “Get some more rest, man. I’ll handle Gotham until you recover.”
“You better. You’re the only competent cop the city’s got.” His body releases some more tension as Jim laughs again, reminded of his conversation with Alfred.
Finally, Bruce’s breathing evens out, and for once, the Batman rests. Jim Gordon, with all the trust given to him, will do his best to protect the city they both love.