Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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CLUE ONE: A Caucasian Male

Even before Jim Gordon ever meets the Bat in person, he has a few clues about the man’s identity. Caucasian male, approximately 6’3” and 250 pounds with an athletic build. Based on eye witness accounts, he’s likely in his mid twenties to early thirties. Deductive reasoning tells him that he either doesn’t work or has a job with flexible hours. Profiling tells him that he’s almost certainly a Gotham native and was likely a victim of violent crime in his formative years.

Instinct tells him that the Bat is a good man.

Delusional? Yes. Dangerous? Possibly.

But nobody goes and gets the shit kicked out of them night after night for selfish reasons.

So when the commissioner assigns Jim to the Bat’s case, he takes his instruction to “nab that son of a bitch” with a grain of salt.

~_~

Apparently, his daughter agrees with him.

“Batman isn’t even a bad guy,” Barbara tells him over microwave dinners that night. Her little nose is wrinkled up in righteous anger.

Jim can’t help but smile. Even at ten, his daughter has strong opinions on Jim’s cases and it looks like the Bat is no exception. “I’m not sure I would go that far, Babs.”

“He helps people,” she protests, angrily dunking a corn dog into her ketchup. “He shouldn’t go to jail for that.”

He sighs and clicks off the cartoons they’ve both been ignoring, shifting so that he can face her head on. “Barbara. Being a vigilante is dangerous. It undermines the authority of the police. Just because the Bat has good intentions doesn’t mean he can take on something like this without supervision or consequence,” he says slowly, unsure of how else to explain to an elementary schooler that beating up criminals in a furry costume shouldn’t be encouraged.

“That’s stupid,” she declares with all the confidence of a child.

Jim reaches out to run a hand over her hair. Her braids have grown out. He should probably learn how to do her hair on his own but he decides to just make another appointment for now instead of making a bigger mess of it.

Barbara leans into his touch. “What if you supervised him?”

“What?” Jim blinks. “What are you talking about?”

She rolls her eyes like he’s being purposefully difficult. “Batman. You said he can’t operate without supervision. So why don’t you supervise him?”

“That’s… Babs, I don’t even know who the guy is,” he points out.

Her eyes widen and a delighted gasp leaves her lips. “Oh! We should figure it out! Together! We can do, like, research and stuff! Can we make one of those little boards with strings like on Law and Order?” She claps her hands together in a begging motion.

“I told you to stop watching Law and Order,” he reminds her without heat. “And…”

Jim stops himself. He feels like he should say ‘no, absolutely not’. But he and Barbara have been struggling since her mom left. He’s not the world’s greatest father by any means but he’s trying. And if this is something that they can do together, something that interests them both? Why should he say no?

He hesitates for a single breath before nodding. “Okay, yeah. Let’s unmask the Bat, Babs.”

“Yes! Yes, yes, yes! Come on!” She jumps to her feet and bolts into her bedroom.

Following her at a more sedate pace, Jim leans against her bedroom door and watches in amusement as she digs out a sparkly pink notebook from under her bed. “What are you doing?”

“Starting our case file.” She rolls her eyes at him. “Duh. I thought you were a detective.”

Jim laughs, a sudden burst of affection swelling in his chest. “Well, good thing I’ve got you on the case with me. What do we do now?” He asks, pulling the chair from her desk over so he can sit down.

“Tell me everything you know about Batman.”

“You got it, kiddo.”

After Barbara has drifted off to sleep and Jim has tucked her in, he spares one final glance at the notebook still clutched in her little hand.

BATMAN

• Caucasian male
• 250 lbs, 6’3”, 25-35 y/o
• Gotham native?
• Unemployed? Job w/ flexible hours?
• Early childhood trauma?

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CLUE TWO: A Trust Fund Baby

Jim’s first real clue to the Bat’s identity is that the man must be absolutely filthy rich.

If the gear hadn’t given it away, the first glance at his tricked out muscle car would have. And if not that, then…

“It’s okay, you’re safe now.”

Then it’s the sight of him helping a pair of young girls step out of the back of a utility van, hand extended like a gentleman to a princess. The whole thing reeks of etiquette lessons.

“Thanks, Mister Bat,” says the younger of the two, voice lisping through her missing front teeth.

The Bat crouches so that he’s eye level and nods seriously. “It’s my duty. Are you alright?”

“Just a little hungry.” The older girl looks a little more wary of the masked stranger. She's maybe eight or nine, which is plenty old enough for a Gotham native to know about how dangerous strangers can be. “And thirsty. We’ve been in there since, like, breakfast.”

Jim is about to offer some of the granola bars and water bottles that he keeps in his cruiser when the Bat pulls out a money clip from one of the pouches on his belt. “Here. Why don’t you girls go with Officer Martinez and pick something out from the store?” He offers in his soft voice.

“That’s really nice of you,” the older girl sniffs and takes the offered cash. Then her eyes go wide. “This is a hundred dollars!”

The vigilante frowns and shifts his weight. “Do you… need more?” He pulls another bill free from the money clip. “Here.”

“What? No, it’s- It’s too much,” the girl corrects, looking over the Bat’s shoulder to Jim as if to say ‘what’s wrong with this guy?’.

Jim just shrugs. I have no idea.

“That’s fine. Keep the change and, uh, buy pizza for your parents or something.” The Bat stands and jerks his chin across the street. “Stay close to Officer Martinez.”

Jim nods at the other cop and, once they’ve disappeared into the little gas station, he side eyes the Bat. “That was very generous of you,” he comments as neutrally as he can.

“They’ve had a hard night,” the Bat murmurs in his usual low tone.

He squeezes his eyes shut to try and ward off a headache. “In the future, maybe keep in mind that giving two young kids in this type of neighborhood that much cash may put them in more danger than it will help them?”

Silence.

He opens his eyes to an empty alley.

“Right. Nice chat.”

Oh well. He supposes there are worse things the Bat could be doing with his obvious wealth than giving impoverished kids a couple hundred bucks at a time.

~_~

He doesn’t get home until it’s almost daylight and he’s not at all surprised to find Barbara seated at the kitchen table, already in her Gotham Prep uniform and munching on a bowl of cereal as she slowly taps at her laptop.

“Hey, kiddo,” he greats, dropping his stuff onto the counter and pressing a quick kiss to her forehead.

She wrinkles her nose. “You smell like cigarettes.”

“That’s because I smoke cigarettes,” Jim says. In an effort to avoid the incoming lecture, he pulls out his trump card. “I worked with the Bat last night.”

As expected, Barbara latches onto the topic immediately. “Wait, really?! Tell me everything!” She commands, running to get her still mostly empty notebook from her room. The unicorn on the cover has been doodled over so that it's wearing a Bat-style cowl, he notes.

So Jim relays the story of saving the two girls from human traffickers as he pulls out leftovers from the fridge. He watches her make note of all the new gear that Jim can remember seeing, even asking a few insightful questions about the fabric of his costume. It isn’t until Jim gets to the part about the Bat giving the girls cash for snacks that she even looks up.

“Wait, what?” She squints. “Two hundred dollars?”

Jim huffs a laugh. “Yeah. He was worried one hundred wasn't enough.”

“That’s… What? Has he never bought snacks before?” She laughs a little, tapping her glitter pen against her chin in thought.

He spoons the last bite of cold chow mein into his mouth and shrugs. “He’s a weird guy, Babs. We already figured he was rich,” he reminds her.

“Yeah, but there’s a difference between being rich and thinking you need two hundred bucks to buy snacks from a bodega.” Her eyes sharpen, making her look far older than her eleven years. “He must have grown up rich. Like, really rich. Rich enough to not notice how much things cost.”

Jim blinks. “You’re- yeah. You’re right. That explains a lot, actually. He’s not unemployed , he’s a trust fund baby.”

Barbara grins, wide and triumphant, and Jim grins back.

BATMAN

• Trust fund baby

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CLUE THREE: An Exceptional Athlete

After that, Jim doesn’t learn any more identifying details about the Bat for over a year. It doesn't seem to bother Barbara too much, though, because she is suddenly in possession of a new best friend.

Richard Grayson, for all intents and purposes, seems to be Barbara Gordon's soulmate. They certainly have a lot in common; they're both cut-throat gymnasts, have morally suspect computer skills, and show an abnormal amount of interest in local politics for twelve year olds. They're also the only two kids in their class at Gotham Prep that don't come from old Gotham bloodlines.

By contrast, Jim Gordon and Bruce Wayne have next to nothing in common. Or that’s what Jim would have said a year ago. It seems that they have quite a bit in common now. They’re both single fathers of wicked smart kids. They both have a job stressful enough to end up either in the morgue from a heart attack or an asylum from a mental break.

They’re both stuck in a middle school for the next twelve hours.

Their kids left them twenty minutes ago to warm up with the rest of their team and the two men have just been sitting there in the world’s most awkward silence since then, periodically checking their phones and sipping their respective coffees.

"So, this is your first gymnastics meet, huh?" Jim asks in some sick, twisted attempt at small talk.

Bruce Wayne looks around with wide, panic stricken eyes. "Um. Yes."

"They're usually pretty long," Jim warns, shifting on the bleachers. "What events is Richie competing in?“

Instead of answering, the man offers the crinkled program in his hands. Jim recognizes Barbara's handwriting denoting which events she and Richie are competing in, with the times and matt numbers circled in purple gel pen 

Jim smiles and hands it back. "Well, it looks like we'll both be here all day then. I'm going to hit the concession stand. Would you like anything, Mister Wayne?"

"I'll join you," he says. And then, just like has every time they've met, he adds, "and just Bruce is fine."

The thought of calling the Prince of Gotham 'just Bruce' makes him feel vaguely nauseous but he's not about to discourage anything that might make this interaction less awkward, so he nods politely and gestures towards the gym doors. "Of course, Bruce."

They weave through the crowd of kids in sparkly outfits and bleary eyed parents in silence, Jim a foot in front and leading the way. Everytime he looks over his shoulder, he's caught off guard by the disconnect between the look of discomfort on Bruce's face and the graceful way he moves.

Surprisingly, it's the billionaire who breaks the silence. "So you've… done these before?" He asks, looking over Jim's left shoulder.

"Dozens of times," Jim answers.

Bruce studies the posted menu with a look of confusion. "What's a… 'walking taco'?"

"A- what?" He blinks. "You've never had a walking taco?"

That's apparently the wrong thing to say because Bruce ducks his head and mumbles, "no," with a tone of defeat.

"It's a taco in a bag," Jim explains. "They're good. Want one? It's on me."

Bright blue eyes glance up through shaggy bangs with a slight sparkle of humor that makes him look both older and younger at the same time. "I can afford-" He glances over. "The four dollar taco in a bag."

"There's another tournament in February. I'll spot you this time and you cover me next time. Deal?" Jim waits a beat and, when Bruce nods, he places their order and then goes through the absolutely fascinating process of talking Bruce Wayne through eating a walking taco.

Once he's done, he sets an alarm on his phone to go off twenty minutes before Barbara's first event and shifts lower into his seat. He can feel the younger man side eyeing him and gives him a shrug.

"Rule number one of being a single working father- sleep when you can. The ten to twelves don't start competing for almost two hours and I still have a late night after this."

'Late night' is being generous. He's supposed to meet up with the Bat later which means he'll be lucky to be in bed by sunrise.

Bruce must find something about that funny because he gives a weird, under his breath sort of chuffing laugh. He also mimics Jim's posture. "Well, who am I to argue with the expert?"

Jim's last thought before drifting off is that Bruce Wayne is probably the second most awkward person he's ever met.

~_~

The Bat is the most awkward person that Jim has ever met.

Which makes sense because what well adjusted person dresses up like a bat and chases down psychopaths as a hobby? Still, Jim thought he was more well adjusted than this.

“You said he was only going to be patrolling,” Gordon hisses angrily, watching in dismay as the Bat presses a cold compress to the face of the insanely small child balanced on the edge of a stinking Park Row dumpster.

God, he’s even smaller than Barbara.

It’s only his third time meeting the Bat’s little shadow, the first being three months ago when the Bat introduced them so that Jim could keep an eye out for Robin in case of emergencies. The second was two weeks ago when Robin had happily handed over a bag of stolen jewels that he’d liberated from an air vent none of the adults on the force could reach.

This meeting, in a dark alley surrounded by armed (but by now unconscious and zip-tied) criminals, is much more distressing. Jim knows, logically, that all of the blood covering the front of Robin’s costume is from his nose. That doesn’t make the father in him feel any better about the sight of a blood covered child.

When Robin speaks, his voice is a little garbled through his broken nose but no less cheery for it. “We were patrolling, DG! Then we saw that guy robbing that lady! And I totally kicked his ass!”

“Language,” the Bat grunts a little absently, using one hand to hold the compress and another to pull out a bandage from his belt. “I told you to duck.”

The boy’s upper face is covered by his mask but Jim gets the distinct impression that he’s rolling his eyes. “How was I supposed to know you meant duck down and not duck up?” The boy whines, petulant and childish.

“There’s no such thing as ducking up,” the Bat sighs. Honest to God sighs. Like he caught his kid trying to sneak candy before dinner and not- whatever the hell this is.

Jim’s eye twitches. “What would that even mean?”

“You know, like jumping over the danger instead of dropping to the ground.” Robin’s little legs swing happily under him, booted heels clicking against the edge of the dumpster and sending echoes down the alley. “Wanna see?”

He wonders where he went wrong in life to end up in this alley on this night with these two batshit (haha) insane people. “Do I want to see you ‘duck up’ or do I want to see your broken nose?” He asks, feeling an odd mixture of defeated and curious.

“It’s not broken. Gees, you’re almost as dramatic as B,” Robin says with an unhinged giggle.

The Bat is done bandaging his nose, then, and the boy easily pushes to his feet. He makes a little ‘back up’ gesture to the two grown men in front of him which Jim and the Bat both acquiesce to like it’s totally normal. Which it’s not, Jim reminds himself. None of this is normal.

Robin grins, his bright smile not at all hampered by his bruised nose. He crouches low, swings his arms, and then leaps into the air with a boisterous, “alley oop!”

The thought hits Jim in slow motion.

Robin’s feet leave the dumpster lid. (Jim has only ever seen one other child move with such grace. Just today, he watched him effortlessly land a triple somersault.) Robin’s legs tuck into his chest with the type of training that has long become instinct. (A year ago, he held a sobbing circus boy in a red and green leotard.) Robin spins once, twice with dizzying speed. (That boy was adopted by a very awkward, very wealthy man.) Robin’s arms go up, for a single breath, into the ‘v’ of a gymnast salute. (Both that circus boy and that wealthy man were orphaned by violent crimes.) Robin’s arms come back in to rest on his hips in his signature pose just in time for his feet to hit the ground.

Jim blinks.

Well, that’s just stupid, he thinks to himself. Richard Grayson is the least aggressive child on the planet and Bruce Wayne couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag.

“Nice flip, kiddo,” he tells the pint sized vigilante. To the much larger vigilante, he adds, “keep a better eye on your partner, Bat.”

And then he spins on his heels and leaves, because he’s a very busy man and not at all because he’s tired of the Bat being the one who gets to make dramatic exits.

~_~

“I met Robin again last night,” Jim says before the front door has even shut behind him.

Barbara’s head snaps up from where she’s stirring something at the stove. “Really?!”

“What’re you making?” He asks, coming to lean over her shoulder. “It smells good.”

She elbows him away. “Miss Lafate brought over gumbo, I’m just heating it up. Because…?” She trails off and looks at him pointedly.

“Oh. Opps.”

Barbara keeps staring.

Jim sighs. “Because the microwave is broken.”

“Because the microwave is still broken,” she corrects. “And you forgot. Again.”

He’s the worst father on the planet. “Babs, I’m so sorry-”

“It’s fine,” she says, smiling a little. “Really. I’m twelve, I can use a stove. So, Robin?” She asks, redirecting the conversation.

He nods and starts pulling out bowls and spoons. “Robin. I don’t think he’s as young as we originally thought. He might be the size of an eight year old but I think he’s probably just small for his age. Maybe around ten or eleven?” He tries to remember anything distinct about the boy but it’s difficult to pinpoint something specific when the whole situation is so bizarre.

“Do you think he’s Batman’s son?” Barbara spoons the gumbo into the bowls. “How do they interact?”

Jim remembers the delicate way the Bat had dabbed at the blood on Robin’s chin and the rebuke of ‘language’ after Robin said a swear word. “That seems like the most likely option but… I don't know. There's definitely a familiarity between them but Robin doesn't really defer to him the way most kids do to their parents. Not that he doesn't respect him. He just seems to think that they're equals. Plus if the Bat is his father, he would have been pretty young when he was born. There can’t be more than a twenty year age gap at most.”

“Maybe he’s his older brother?” His daughter plucks up the now well worn notebook and starts scribbling.

He pulls the juice from the fridge and pours them both a glass and then drops the empty carton into the recycling bin. “Half sibling, maybe. They have very different skin tones. He’s an exceptional athlete. Olympic level. He must have started training at a very young age to be as good as he is now.”

“Any specifics?”

“Acrobatics. Hand eye coordination. High pain tolerance.”

“Speech?”

“Either he’s not from Gotham or he spent a lot of time as a kid watching television because he talks like a news anchor. Very generic.”

Barbara looks up from her notes, satisfied. “Anything else?”

“He broke his nose taking down a mugger.” Jim thinks of a bruised face and a bright smile. “He’s gonna have a hell of a shiner for a week or so.”

That pulls a laugh from his daughter. “Sucks for him.”

“Mhm. What about you? How was school?” That’s something normal dads do, right? Ask about school?

She scowls and stabs at her gumbo with her spoon. "Boring. Richie texted me saying that he's gonna be out all next week ‘cause him and Mister Wayne are going skiing or something,” she grumbles. “Which means I don’t have anyone to sit with at lunch.”

“I’m sorry, kiddo.” Jim frowns. He knows that Richard Grayson is Barbara’s only real friend at Gotham Prep but he didn’t realize how unhappy Barbara had been until the boy came into her life. “Guess that’s what you get for being friends with a rich kid,” he jokes, trying to lighten the mood.

Barbara rolls her eyes. “Yeah, whatever. Anyways, Robin broke his nose. He’ll have to explain the injury somehow. I’ll make note of the date to compare to in case we ever get a name.”

Jim nods and lets her take over the conversation. With the appearance of a second masked vigilante, her notebook is filling up much more quickly. He wonders how much longer they can play this game before it's not a game anymore.

ROBIN

• Adolescent male
• 9-12 y/o
• Hispanic? Greek? Arabic?
• Exceptional athlete, esp. acrobatics
• Batman's son? Brother?

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CLUE FOUR: A Nasty Bug

After that, Robin slowly but surely becomes a more common sight.

Jim tries to comfort himself with the knowledge that, since he’s most often seen trailing behind the Bat on Friday and Saturday nights, the kid is probably attending a regular school. He’s certainly a well educated kid, articulate and observant- if a tad hyperactive. Regardless, Jim can admit, at least in the privacy of his own thoughts, that he’s grown fond of the kid. 

He’s actually been looking forward to seeing the little ball of energy tonight, if only because he feels like absolute shit. Babs brought home a nasty cold from school earlier this week and Jim is already feeling it. His nose is stuffed, his head aches, and his throat feels like he’s gargled glass. Robin’s infectious cheer is exactly what he needs to get through the rest of the night before he has to go home and take care of his sick kid.

So, when the Bat touches down on the roof without his usual colorful shadow, he can’t help but frown. “Where’s Robin?”

“Nice to see you, too, Gordon,” the Bat says in a very uncharacteristic display of personality. “I’m fine, thanks for asking.”

He also sounds like shit, Jim notes immediately. He even looks like shit. He’s paler than normal and the tip of his nose poking out from under the cowl is an irritated red. Jim can’t help but laugh and winces when it turns into a short bout of coughing.

It takes him a moment to regain his composure. “Your kid got you sick, too, huh?” He asks once he can breathe. “I guess even crime fighting brats aren’t immune to germ infested middle schools.”

“Hn,” the Bat grunts, which is more in line with what Jim expects from him.

He offers the folder that they’re meeting to exchange. “It’s that time of year. Half of Barbara's class is out with this bug. But, hey, maybe this cough will finally help me kick smoking.”

The Bat just stares.

“Right…” Gordon wiggles the folder. “So is Robin a cuddler when he's sick? He seems like the type."

Taking the offered file slowly, the Bat doesn't let up on his intense eye contact. “He's… whiny," he finally says, tone hesitant and very, very exhausted.

"Yeah, I can picture it." Jim tries to imagine a costumed Bat in line at the pharmacy, arms full of electrolyte packets and popsicles, and he can't help but smirk. "Well, it’s been a pleasure as always but I really need to get home and give Babs some Tylenol before she turns into a demon. Good luck with your sick kid, Bat," he says in farewell, giving a tired wave as he turns away.

He's almost to the stairwell when he hears the Bat call back, "you, too "

It feels like a victory somehow.

~_~

"I've got popsicles," Jim yells as he lets himself into their apartment.

Barbara grunts from under her blanket nest. "It's too late. I'm already dead."

"I guess I'll eat them then." Jim drops the bag onto the coffee table and pulls out the Tylenol, measuring the dose carefully before handing it over. "Here, this'll help."

He takes her temperature as she chokes it down and then opens a grape popsicle for her. After taking it, she immediately wiggles back into her blanket nest. "How was work?" She asks through her stuffy nose. "You met up with Batman, right?" She checks, eyeing her notebook from across the room.

It's starting to look a little beat up after years of attention. All of the sparkles on the cover have worn off and the front pages are curled up from when Barbara spilt some tea on it a few months ago.

"Yes." Jim snags it for her. "He's sick, too. Robin gave him the same cold that you gave me," he tells her, teasing gently.

Barbara's eyes light up. "We must be right! He does go to Gotham Prep!"

"Possibly." Jim opens his own popsicle. "It'd make sense. That's where all the rich kids go."

She scribbles down a few lines, less enthusiastic than normal but still meticulous. "So he wasn't there tonight? Robin?"

Jim shakes his head but before he can say anything else, Barbara's phone chimes. She plucks it up and starts texting rapidly, a little smile on her face.

He tries not to stare too openly, but… "Who are you texting?" He asks as casually as he can.

His daughter doesn't really text. She definitely doesn't giggle or- or take selfies? He watches as she poses with her popsicle, tongue out and eyes crossed. Jim has to press a hand to his chest and it has nothing to do with the aching cough.

Who is this thirteen year old and where did my baby girl go?

"Just Richie." Barbara clicks her phone off and sets it aside. "His butler made him a pomegranate smoothie but I'm telling him freeze-pops are better."

Jim would be less surprised if she said she was texting the mayor (if only because Bella has openly expressed her fondness for Jim’s daughter). “What happened to Mister Wayne's ‘phones off at eight’ policy? He seems pretty strict about it.”

“He must get a pass while he's sick.”

“Hm.” Jim can’t help but think… 

No, he scolds himself. Stupid thoughts.

He still picks up Barbara’s notebook and flicks through the pages a little too slowly for idle curiosity.

ROBIN

• Gotham Prep student?

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Chapter Text

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CLUE FIVE: A Lighter

Jim stands at the edge of the balcony and just… breathes.

It's been a long night (it's been a long six years) and he really just needs a minute alone. A minute of silence.

He knows he still has donors to thank. Hands to shake and photographers to pose for. But his hands are jittering in a way that they haven't for years and, yeah, he promised Barbara that he'd quit but tonight is definitely not the night for going cold turkey.

He pulls his smokes out of one pocket and his lighter from another, hands coming up to go through the familiar motions of lighting up, when-

Click, click, click.

Jim slumps forward, letting his head thunk against the stone column he's hiding behind. "Fuck. Me," he grunts and contemplates the pros and cons of climbing down the balcony to make a break for the nearest bodega.

"I thought you were trying to quit, Commissioner," comes a quiet voice from right behind him.

Jim yelps and jumps, spinning around to find- "Mister Wayne?!"

"I distinctly remember asking you to call me Bruce," the billionaire whisper-talks in his odd way, lip quirked up in as close as the man ever gets to a smile. "You're missing your party."

Pressing a hand over his chest, Jim wills his heart to slow down. "I'm not sure being police commissioner of the GCPD is something I should be celebrating," he half jokes, wincing at the reminder that he has to actually go back inside at some point.

Bruce just stares.

Jim wonders why Bruce Wayne, Prince of Gotham, knows that Jim Gordon, recently elected police commissioner, is trying to quit his smoking habit. Maybe Barbara told Richie?

"You, uh, you seen Babs and Richie?" He asks, to break the silence if nothing else.

Bruce turns to look over his shoulder. "They were cornering Councilman Burrson last I knew. Something about…" He trails off and frowns.

"Something about his proposed budget cuts to the community center?" Jim guesses and shoves his cigarettes back into his pocket. "Right. I should probably go stop her before things get too heated."

The billionaire catches his elbow to stop him. The gesture feels too comfortable, more like something done between old friends than two adults who have met a few times through work and a few more times through their kids. In fact, he can’t remember the last time he even talked to Bruce. Maybe when they sat next to each other at that gymnastics tournament six months ago? They might have said hello at the science fair a few weeks ago but he can’t remember. Sometimes, it feels like the only people Jim talks to these days are cops, criminals, his daughter, and the Bat.

Before Jim has time to react, though, Bruce plucks something from his jacket pocket with his other hand and offers it in a smooth gesture. "I'll check on the kids. Finish your smoke break, Commissioner. You've earned it."

"Uh, thanks." He takes the offered lighter.

It isn't like any lighter Jim has ever owned. It's thick and silver and has the Wayne emblem engraved on the side. He gives it a quick shake and he can feel the lighter fluid inside sloshing around.

Bruce nods like he and Jim have just made some kind of blood oath. "You've done more for Gotham than any man or woman here tonight, Commissioner Gordon. It's an honor," he says, solemn and dead serious.

Then he's gone, the patio door latching silently behind him before Jim has time to react.

What a weird guy, Jim thinks.

He still uses the lighter, though. He really needs a cigarette.

~_~

Barbara falls asleep on the taxi ride home.

As he’s carrying her inside, it hits him that this is the first time he’s held her in months. She’s fourteen, after all, and getting far too big to be carried around. She’s still his baby, though, and he can’t help but press a kiss to her forehead as he tucks her in.

“Dad?” She mumbles, blinking awake.

He presses a hand to her cheek. “Sh. Go to sleep, baby.”

“No, I gotta take my makeup off,” she mumbles and swats at his hand. “And change out of my dress.”

Jim remembers her mom saying the same thing back when they were dating. ‘It’s bad for your skin,’ she’d say.

Instead of thinking about the past, he plucks up her ‘Batman and Robin’ notebook and pulls out a newspaper clipping she has shoved between the pages about Batman saving some hostages while Robin ran crowd control outside. He remembers the relief in Robin’s voice when Batman had shouted that the coast was clear.

For some reason, that thought is what makes Jim remember that he never returned Bruce Wayne’s lighter.

He pulls it from his pocket and stares at it, proof of the man's strange combination of wealth and compassion. “Hey, Babs?”

“Yeah?” She’s scrubbing at her face with a wipe but she makes brief eye contact with him in the mirror.

Jim opens his mouth but isn’t sure what to say. “I… Did you tell Richie I’m trying to quit smoking?” He finally asks.

“What?” Barbara turns to look at him, baffled. “No? You’ve been saying you’re going to quit for, like, ten years.”

He nods. 

He kind of figured.

He opens the notebook back to the current page and adds a single line in his much sloppier handwriting.

BATMAN

• Knows Jim Gordon is trying to quit smoking

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CLUE SIX: An Offensive Shade of Green

“It’s gonna blow. We have to evacuate.” Jim’s heart is thudding in a way it hasn’t in years. He hasn’t faced destruction on this scale since the flood.

The Bat seems equally as panicked, in his own quiet way. “Evacuation is pointless. It’s an airborne toxin. It will infect the whole city eventually.”

“We have to disarm it.” Robin stands between them, his head almost to Jim’s shoulder with his latest growth spurt. “There’s no other way.”

Jim wants to take the kid and run. He wants to grab him and Barbara, who is (for now) safe in her bed, and hightail it out of this god forsaken city. But he doesn’t move. Instead, the three of them just keep staring up, up, up at the bomb strapped to the highest point of the Gotham City suspension bridge. He’s called the squad and the helicopter but he knows in his gut that they won’t get here in time.

Jim drops a hand on the boy's shoulder. “Robin, there’s no time left,” he croaks out.

He should call Barbara. He should-

“I can do it.” Robin jerks out from under Jim’s hand and, inexplicably, crouches to start unlacing his boots.

Jim blinks. “What?”

“No.” The Bat’s eyes widen with real, true fear. “You can’t.”

Robin doesn’t look up from where he’s peeling off thick tactical socks. “B, don’t be stupid. If we do nothing, we're all going to be dead soon anyways. There's nothing to lose by trying.” His voice is shaking the slightest bit but he doesn’t sound any less sure for it.

“Then I’ll go.”

“Now you’re really being stupid. You know I can climb faster than you.”

“I’m not letting my fourteen year old climb a suspension bridge to defuse a bomb full of a deadly neurotoxin!” The Bat yells. 

Like, actually yells. If Jim wasn’t already looking imminent death in the face, he’d probably fall over from the shock of hearing the quietest man on the planet raising his voice.

Robin doesn’t seem phased. He just looks up and says with all of the solemnity that the situation calls for, “please don’t make me do this without your support.”

The Bat drops to his knees and pulls the kid in for a quick hug before pushing him away by the shoulders. Robin smiles, a soft thing, and then pulls off his gloves and presses his bare palm to the Bat’s cheek.

The image is burned into Jim’s mind. For a split second, it’s like the rest of the world ceases to exist. It's just here and now; the smell of sea salt and pollution coming from the bay, the way Robin’s normally gelled back hair is beginning to curl from the muggy summer humidity, the contrast between the Bat’s ashen pale face and the darker skin of Robin's tan hand, the too thick, puke green nail polish on the boy’s fingernails.

That’s the detail that his panicking brain decides to focus on.

His nails are painted a pea soup, sea sick, swamp water kind of green.

“Alright,” Robin mutters to himself. “Showtime.”

And then the boy takes off.

("Showtime."  What an odd phrase for a kid to use, Jim thinks.)

They watch him climb.

“He’ll be fine,” he tells the still kneeling Bat.

He doesn’t get a response.

The kid climbs, jumps, climbs-

He makes it to the peak-

He pulls something from his belt-

“Clear!” Comes the shout, barely audible over the sound of the wind.

Jim’s knees buckle. He collapses back against the guardrail. “Fuck. Christ. He did it.”

“He did it,” the Bat echoes, his voice so full of relief that it hurts.

Over them, Robin is hollering in ecstasy. Jim pulls out his phone and calls his daughter.

“Dad?” She croaks, voice weak with sleep. “Are you okay?”

He nods and lets out a shuddering breath. “I- I just needed to hear your voice. I love you, Barbara. I’ll be home soon,” he tells her.

~_~

Jim bursts into their house, front door banging wildly.

There are boxes everywhere, still half unpacked from when they moved out of their apartment a few months ago. He can see that the kitchen light is on, a warm glow reaching around the corner, and he stumbles forward.

“Babs?” He half yells.

A chair screeches. “Dad?”

“Yeah, it’s me.” He falls around the corner just as his daughter throws open the kitchen door. “Barbara.”

She collapses into his arms, face wet with tears. “Dad? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong now,” he promises, kissing the top of her head and holding her close.

Barbara doesn’t fight his tight hold. “Then what was wrong?” She demands, head tucked into his neck.

“Robin-” Jim’s voice breaks. “Robin saved the city. There was a bomb. It was filled with a toxin. Sort of like anthrax. He- God, it was so close, Babs.”

Her arms tighten around him briefly before she pulls away. “And he’s okay?”

“Everyone is okay,” Jim assures her, grabbing her hand and squeezing.

She squeezes back. He looks down at their interconnected hands and-

The breath leaves his lungs in a gasp. “Babs. Why did you paint your nails?”

His daughter never paints her nails. He doesn’t think she even owns any nail polish.

Especially not such an ugly puke green color.

“What?” She squints at the subject change but flashes him her nails. “I'm fifteen, I'm allowed to paint my nails."

He shakes his head. "No, it's fine. Just… why? When? Why that color?" He asks, feeling oddly desperate.

Barbara's face shifts to suspicion. "The gymnastics tournament Friday had a dress code. All female competitors had to wear nail polish. Me and Richie thought that was stupid so we found the ugliest color we could and painted our nails on the bus ride there. You know, like, in protest or whatever."

"Richie?" Jim repeats. "Babs, are you telling me that you painted Richard Grayson's nails this color?"

She nods slowly. "Is that… a problem?"

"No. No, that's-" Jim thinks he might be sick.

("Showtime."  It must be a common phrase in a circus, Jim thinks.)

He steps into the kitchen and gets a glass of water. Barbara follows him, sharp eyes tracking him the whole way.

(Barbara is always telling him about how much trouble Dick gets in for taking his shoes off at gymnastics practice. "He says his feet are so calloused that he gets better traction barefoot but I think he just likes bugging Coach.")

Once he's drained the glass, Jim tries to change the subject before his clever daughter can get anything else out of him. "Robin is fourteen."

"What?" As expected, the topic immediately snags her attention. "How do you know?"

Jim reaches over the counter for her notebook. "The Bat said so," he explains simply as he hands it to her.

The front cover has mostly fallen off and she's secured the binding with what looks like tie-dye duct tape. She takes it and flips it open to what is very nearly the last page.

"Wow, that's crazy." Barbara starts scribbling in her loopy writing. "Can you imagine? That's a year younger than me and Richie."

He blinks. Right. Earlier, the Bat had said Robin is fourteen but Richard Grayson is fifteen. He knows that for a fact because he was at his birthday party last month. He had talked about guns with Bruce Wayne's butler all night while the billionaire played laser tag with the kids.

Still, he can't help but contemplate the latest line in Barbara's journal long after the girl has gone back to sleep.

ROBIN

• Confirmed 14 y/o

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

CLUE SEVEN: A Field Trip

Over the next year, Jim tries to convince himself that Bruce Wayne and Richard Grayson are not the Bat and Robin.

It is… more difficult than it should be.

General descriptions and easily explained away bruises and- and nail polish shouldn't be enough to keep this stupid idea in Jim's brain. But what's much more telling is the lack of any contradicting evidence. There isn't a single fact, aside from the Bat saying that Robin is a year younger than Richard Grayson, to disprove Jim's theory.

So he digs.

He digs until he has proof that Richard Grayson's passport was forged; a grainy photo of a tiny Richie holding up a gold medal from a Boys Under Six gymnastics tournament when the date on the photo should mean that the boy is seven.

After that, he feels like he's living on the cusp of an existential crisis. He still doesn't know for sure but years as a detective have taught him to trust his gut and his gut is telling him that the richest man in the country likes to dress up as a bat and beat up criminals at night with his foster son, who just happens to be Jim's daughter's best friend.

…existential crisis say what?

To preserve his sanity, he pushes the information into the back of his mind and doesn't think about it. Bruce Wayne helps Gotham by day, the Bat helps Gotham by night, and Jim Gordon does what he can to assist both of them.

When he touches down on the roof just before sunrise, the Bat looks particularly well rested (as in he probably got four hours of sleep instead of two). "Commissioner."

"Looking sharp, Bat," he greets, noting that Robin is absent.

Not that he expected him. The gymnastics team has an away tournament in Boston this weekend. Barbara had even driven herself and Richie, which makes it the first time Jim's let her leave Gotham since she got her license on her sixteenth birthday a few months ago.

Getting straight to business as usual, the Bat offers him a flashdrive. "Everything I have on the homicide from Thursday. Have you examined the victim's car yet?”

"Yeah, forensics came up with some blood but it didn't match the victim." He pulls out his cigarettes and lighter on autopilot. "We're running it now but I'm not feeling optimistic."

He almost doesn't flinch when a large gloved hand enters his field of vision inches from his face, holding up…

"Is that nicotine gum?" Jim asks, incredulous.

The Bat wiggles the unopened package. "You're supposed to be quitting," he grunts, tone way too judgmental for someone dressed like an anime character.

"I am quitting," he defends weakly. "Just not while I'm working a homicide."

Another wiggle of the pack of gum, this time even closer to his face. "You're the police commissioner of Gotham City. You're always going to be working a homicide."

"Then I'll quit when I retire," Jim argues.

All he gets in response is a blank stare.

Jim sighs. "Fine. But if this ends with me addicted to cigarettes and nicotine gum, it's on your conscience," he accuses without heat.

"Heavy is the head that wears the cowl," the Bat intones seriously. 

It's only nearly a decade of their partnership that allows Jim to hear the joke in the man's voice. He rolls his eyes but puts his cigarettes away and takes the gum. "Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, big guy."

They go over the details of the case for a while longer, comparing details in their well worn pattern of dark humor and brisk professionalism. They're almost done when a light flickers on the Bat's gauntlet, flashing red. He jerks and his face is hit with a look of sudden distress. Jim is just about to ask what it means when his own phone rings

He pulls it out to decline the call and blinks when he sees who it is. "It's Babs, I've gotta take this," he tells the Bat.

He's just barely lifted the phone to his ear when his daughter's voice hits him. "Dad! They're trying to take him!” She screams, voice shrill and panicked.

"What?!" Jim looks up to see the Bat's face go ashen. "Baby, what's happening?"

Barbara's breathing sounds wet. "Me and Richie left the hotel to get some food and- and some guys with masks and guns ran in and started robbing the place. But one of them recognized Richie and they- they wanna hold him for ransom!"

"Calm down. Breathe. Where are you?“ He asks, slipping into work mode instinctively.

There's a bang and Barbara yelps. "They're shooting!"

"It's a scare tactic. Keep going."

"The- The Taco Bell on Route 20. I'm- I'm in the parking lot. There's just the manager and Richie left inside and- and two guys. They both have guns," she says all in a big rush.

"Did you already call the cops?" Jim isn't surprised when he hears the Bat's grappling gun engage behind him but he doesn't look back, already halfway to the stairwell.

"Yes, one of the other customers is calling now."

"How'd you guys get outside?"

"He-" Barbara's breathing kicks up again. "Richie told them he'd cooperate if they let the rest of us go!"

Jim fumbles with his keys as he skids to a stop by his car. "That's okay. It's going to be alright, baby. Richie can take care of himself."

"But he's all alone in there! I- I shouldn't have left him," she protests.

His tires screech as he peels out of the driveway. "No, Babs. You did good. Me and Mister Wayne are on our way and the cops will be there soon," he soothes.

"Dad! What if-?" There's another load bang and then Barbara screams. "RICHIE!"

Jim slams on the accelerator even though it's a solid two hours from Gotham to Boston. "Babs?! Baby, what's happening?!"

"He- the lights just went out and- Dad, I don't-"

He can hear the sirens through her end of the connection and sighs in relief. "Just wait for the cops. I'll be there as soon as I can. I love you, baby."

"I love you, Daddy."

"Be safe."

"Okay. I- I'm gonna hang up now."

He lets the line go dead and tunes his radio into the local police channel. What he hears is, while not surprising, mildly worrying.

"Officer 385 on scene. I have one civilian in my cruiser, a teenage female. She's reporting two hostages and two gunmen inside. Multiple shots were fired before the power went out."

"Officer 693 breaching perimeter. Everyone get down- Holy shit. I got one hostage, teenage male, handcuffed to the counter. Two unconscious adult males. Appear to be the gunmen. They're- Shit, man, they're beat to hell. Kid! Hey, kid, you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm okay. They locked the manager in the freezer though."

"We'll get him. What happened, kid?"

"I don't know! I think it was Batman!"

"What? This ain't Gotham, kid."

"The lights went out and then someone dressed in black with a cape beat up the bad guys! Who else could it be?"

"Alright, take it easy. Let's get you out of here first, okay?"

"Okay."

Jim's hands flex on the steering wheel. The fear in Richard Grayson's voice sounds heartbreakingly genuine. But Jim knows for a fact that the kid is lying. How good of an actor does a kid have to be to fake sounding that scared?

And more importantly, why?

~_~

Jim has to break every traffic law in existence to get to Boston in just under ninety minutes so he definitely doesn’t want to know how Bruce got here first.

Instead, he just screeches to a stop, throws himself out of his car, and runs to his daughter.

“Babs!”

“Dad!”

She leaps into his arms and he holds her so tightly, it must be painful. She doesn’t complain, though, just squeezes him back. “It’s okay. We’re both okay,” she says, voice just a little bit shaky.

“I know.” He squeezes her once more before leaning back just a little so that he can see her face. “I’m so sorry, baby girl.”

Barbara laughs wetly. “I’m not a baby, Dad.”

“You’ll always be my baby,” he says and looks over her shoulder.

Richie and Bruce are seated side by side on the hood of some ridiculous sports car, a bandage on the boy’s temple and his guardian’s arm over his shoulders. “What about Richie?” He asks, tugging his daughter gently towards the pair.

“He’s okay. Just a small head wound from when one of them pushed him down,” she explains and follows his lead.

Bruce sees them approaching and nods even though he doesn’t move himself from his kid’s side to offer a handshake like he normally does. “Jim.”

“Bruce,” he returns and then, softer, “Richie. How are you, kiddo?”

Richie blinks up at him with those ridiculously big eyes of his. “I’m fine. Just glad everyone is okay,” he says in an uncharacteristic mumble.

He looks so young. He definitely doesn’t look sixteen, Jim thinks and his mind flickers back to a supposedly seven year old Richard Grayson holding up his Boys Under Six medal.

Jim shakes the thought away. “So, what happened?”

Bruce and Richie both tense up just the littlest bit but it’s Barbara who answers, too fast and too loud. “Batman saved us!”

“The Bat?” Jim repeats and carefully doesn’t look at Bruce Wayne. “Odd. I thought he was in Gotham tonight.”

Barbara smiles a little too widely. "The lights went out and then someone dressed in black with a cape beat up the bad guys!"

That’s the exact phrasing that Richie had used when Jim was listening in to the police radio earlier. He knows that the most important part of a cover story is establishing a story that’s simple enough for all parties to remember but vague enough to give room for ‘misremembering’ details in the future. He also knows that Barbara is loyal and smart and braver than a father wants his daughter to be.

But, more importantly, tonight is not the night for this conversation.

So he smiles and tugs his daughter tighter into his side. “Well, if it means you two are okay, that’s good enough for me.” And then, because Jim Gordon is a detective and a father but also a little bit of a bastard, he adds, “you look good in eyeliner, Bruce.”

“Eyeliner?” Bruce repeats, shoulders stiffening.

Jim pokes at the underlid of his own eye in demonstration. “Eyeliner,” he repeats.

“Eyeliner.” The billionaire blinks and works his jaw for a minute before he nods. “Right. I was… clubbing.”

Dick winces. When Jim looks at him in question, he adopts an almost embarrassed sort of look. “Gees, Bruce, please don’t tell my friend’s dad how lame you are.”

“That’s not lame!” Barbara quickly defends.

Taking pity on the trio, Jim presses another kiss to Barbara’s forehead. “You ready to go home, baby?” He asks, already tugging her gently towards his car.

“Yeah,” she agrees, exhaustion in every line of her young face. She waves hesitantly at the other two. “Goodbye, Mister Wayne. See ya tomorrow, Dick.”

“See ya, Babs!”

“Goodnight, Barbara.”

Once they’re in the car and pulling out, Jim quirks an eyebrow at the teenage girl awkwardly fiddling with her phone. “So… Dick, huh?”

“What?” Barbara jumps a little and giggles nervously. “Oh. Yeah, he- He asked me to call him Dick. He said it’s what his parents used to call him, so…” She trails off and shrugs, shifting her gaze to look out the window at the early east coast sunrise.

Jim eyes her duffle bag from where they’d thrown it in the backseat. “I was thinking we should pick you up another Batman and Robin notebook. Your old one is pretty full, huh?” He asks as casually as he can.

“Actually, I think I’m getting a little too old for that.” Barbara doesn’t look at him, her face fully turned to take in the side of the rolling highway. “We’ve been trying to figure out who Batman is since I was like, ten. I’m kinda over it.”

He feels a little nauseous and he’s not sure if it’s the implications he’s reading in her words or the fact that she really is getting too old to play games with her father. Instead of letting the thoughts fester, he tries to focus on the relief that she’s here, whole and healthy and in his sight.

“Okay, baby. I… I love you. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, I know. I love you, too, Dad.”

They make the rest of the drive in silence and, when they get home, the exhausted teenager staggers off to bed. Once he’s sure she’s asleep, he carefully liberates the notebook from her bag and flips to the last page. He tries not to feel guilty as he adds another line.

BATMAN

• Did not save Babs and Richie in Boston

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Chapter Text

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CLUE EIGHT: A Bad Tumble

Jim is in his cruiser following the Bat, who is his stupidly tricked out muscle car following Robin, who is running across the rooftops of Gotham as he follows the villain of the week, who has a jetpack.

Because Jim’s life can never be easy, huh?

He just barely makes a quick turn and one of his rear tires clips the curb. “Shit! Come on, Bats, we gotta wrap this up!”

“Working on it,” the Bat growls, voice even lower than normal over the com that Jim has shoved in his ear.

Robin’s voice is winded but chipper when he adds, “we’re open to suggestions, CG.” There’s a thump sound as the boy hits the roof of the next building in a graceful roll, disappearing only briefly before he’s back on his feet again.

“This guy isn’t headed anywhere.” Jim tracks their path in his mind and he’s sure they’ve backtracked at least twice now. “He’s just running. And I don’t want to know how long that jetpack can go before he runs out of juice.”

The Bat takes another sharp turn. "My scanners indicate it runs on zynthium. If he started on a full tank, he could keep this up for days."

"We don't have days. I'm supposed to be taking my daughter and her best friend to their robotics competition in-” He checks the clock on the dash. “Six hours," he half remines, half tests.

Neither of the vigilantes take the bait but Robin does make a sound that might be a laugh if he wasn't so out of breath. "Alright, CG, just- Shit!"

"Robin!?" The Bat shouts at the same time that Jim slams on his brakes, yelling "kid?!"

There's a subsonic boom, a sudden bright flash, and when the spots in Jim’s vision clear, Robin is gone.

Jim’s heart stops.

Even over the ringing in his ears, he can hear the Bat. He’s screaming. Jim isn’t sure if his words are lost in the white noise of the explosion or if he’s not actually saying anything but it doesn’t matter because that’s his kid, that’s little Richie Grayson who’s a computer whiz and a world class gymnast and Barbara’s best friend and so achingly kind that it hurts Jim’s heart sometimes and he was right there, why isn’t he there-

“Ow.”

He sucks in a deep breath and wills his heart to kick back in gear. "Jesus fucking Christ, kid, you scared me."

"Sorry," Robin coughs weakly. "I won't do it again, pinkie swear."

The Bat doesn't sound amused- or even relieved. "Status," he barks roughly, Batmobile still slammed to a halt in the middle of the road.

"Perp is probably dead," the boy reports with an air of regret that Jim can't relate to.

Another growl from the Bat has Jim cutting in. "I think he meant your status, kiddo."

"Oh, right." Robin grunts and there's a rustle from his end of the com. "Uh, I mean, don't panic or anything, I'll be fine. But…"

If Jim didn't know any better, the anger in the Bat's snarled "but?!" Would have made him scared for the kid.

"But I'm definitely gonna need an evac."

Jim watches as the Bat all but throws himself from the car, grappling towards Robin's location before the door has even shut behind him. "Gordon, do you-?"

"I got it, Bats," Jim soothes, already trying to map Jetpack Guy's trajectory.

Robin, as always, is ahead of the two adults. "He went into the bay. About twenty feet to the left of the green cargo ship," he directs.

"Atta boy." Jim pages his office team to send the coast guard with one hand and shifts into drive with the other. "What about you? You going to live another day, kiddo?"

The Bat grunts and Robin laughs, low and tired. "Yeah, I'm okay, CG. Just a little banged up."

"Guess I won't be seeing you tomorrow, huh?" Jim asks, already mentally preparing to comfort Barbara when she finds out that she'll have to compete without Richie tomorrow.

Robin's pout is clear as day when he says, "no, I guess not. B's gonna bench me for forever after this. At least, like, three weeks-"

"Six weeks," the Bat cuts in. "Or longer, if Agent A says so. Gordon, page me if you retrieve the jetpack."

"Sure-"

Beep.

"-thing."

Jim sighs and plucks the com from his ear, tossing it out the window as he drives.

The first couple of times that the Bat gave him a com, he'd studied the tech for hours. It didn't take him long to realize that it was a pointless endeavor, however. As always, the Bat was a secretive and paranoid bastard and nothing he gave Jim would ever lead back to Bruce Wayne.

~_~

Despite his assumption that he'd get to lounge around the next morning, Jim finds himself being shaken awake by a scowling Barbara after no more than four hours of sleep.

He fumbles for his phone and blinks. "What's'it?"

"Dad, what are you doing?!" Barbara demands with that condescending judgment unique to seventeen year old girls. "We're supposed to be at Gotham Prep in an hour and we still need to pick up Dick!"

Jim remembers last night in a flash and groans. "Baby, I don't think Richie is coming," he says as gently as he can. 

"Don't be dumb, of course he's coming. He already texted me saying Alfred made strudels and they're better warm." Barbara flicks him on the forehead and then stomps off, muttering under her breath as she goes.

Jim fumbles to follow. “Richie texted you?”

“Yes!” His daughter yells from the living room. “Hurry up!”

He hurries.

~_~

The entire drive to Wayne Manor, all Jim can think is, ‘maybe I was wrong.’

‘Please God, let me have been wrong.’

If he’s wrong, he’ll finally be able to look at Richard Grayson without a huge wave of guilt trying to drown him. If he’s wrong, he’ll be able to make small talk with Brue Wayne without worrying about the next time the man goes toe to toe with the Joker or the Riddler or whatever psychopath comes after Gotham next.

If he’s wrong….

Jim beats Barbara to the massive front door, hand falling a little too frantically when he knocks.

“Gees, where’s the fire?” The girl jokes as she jogs up the front steps behind him.

He flashes her a tight smile. “Strudels are better warm, right?”

“Right,” she agrees, eyeing him warily. “Dad, is everything-?”

The door opens.

Jim looks over.

Christ.

Richard Grayson is standing in front of them, his usual bright smile on his lips and a bruise the size of a brick taking up the entire right side of his face. “Hey, guys! Come on in!”

“Holy shit, Dick!” Barbara reaches out and snags her friend by the arm that’s not in a brace. “What happened?!”

The boy rolls his eyes. “I just took a bad tumble off of the trapeze last night, I’m fine,” he dismisses, tipping his head to indicate them inside.

Jim can’t stop staring.

“That looks like more than a bad tumble.” With a shaking hand, Barbara presses her palm to Dick’s unscathed cheek. “Are you…?” She trails off, looking back at Jim as if for guidance.

He can hardly speak around the lump in his throat. “What’s the damage?”

“It’s just some bruises,” Richie says at the same time that Bruce rounds the corner.

The man looks rough and Jim wouldn’t doubt that he hasn’t slept in at least 48 hours. “Dislocated shoulder, fractured cheekbone, and a total of fifty six stitches in three different places,” he lists off, sounding defeated and beaten down.

Good, Jim thinks a little vindictively. Maybe this is the wake up call you need to realize that a sixteen year old shouldn’t be a crime fighting vigilante.

That’s not fair to Bruce, though. Jim knows that he tries his best.

Richie, apparently, doesn't agree with that sentiment. As soon as he sees Bruce, his normally cheerful face twists up into a scowl and he grabs Barbara with his good arm. "Come on, Babs. There’s coffee and pastries in the kitchen."

"Dick, wait!" Bruce calls but the boy doesn't look back.

Jim waits until he's sure they're alone and then waits a beat longer. He knows he should say something, but what? Does Bruce even suspect that Jim knows? Does he know that Barbara knows? Does Barbara know that Jim knows? Does Richie know that Jim knows that Barbara-

He sucks in a deep breath and looks over at Bruce. "He's gonna be okay, right?" He asks, tone soft.

"Eventually." Bruce's face is pinched tight and he's looking somewhere over Jim's shoulder. "I- I hate to see him hurt."

He can't help the small laugh that escapes him. "No father wants to see their kid hurt."

"I'm not his father. Not really," he protests, collapsing back against the wall like his own body weight is suddenly too much.

Jim steps a few feet closer. "Just because you’re not his father doesn’t mean he’s not your son. I know that you two have an unconventional relationship. But you’ve raised a fine young man. You should be proud of him," he says, placing a gentle hand on Bruce’s shoulder.

"I am." Bruce finally makes eye contact and the conviction in his gaze is the exact same as the Bat's, steely and determined. "I'm so god damned proud of him, Jim."

There's an echo of childish laughter from down the hall. They both tilt their heads towards the sound as if drawn to it.

"Have you told him that lately?"

Bruce looks caught off guard. "What?"

"Have you told Richie that you're proud of him?" Jim asks as genuinely as he can.

Whatever the billionaire is going to say is cut off by a British cough. They both turn to find a blank-faced Alfred observing them from the hallway.

"Coffee, sirs?"

The moment dissolves.

They get coffee.

~_~

The last thing that Jim does before he goes to bed that night is stare at Barbara's old Batman and Robin journal.

It holds a lot of information that, separately, is useless drivel. Together, though, it paints a disturbing and undeniable truth. He should- He should turn it in to evidence or confront Bruce Wayne or burn it-

Jim remembers the Bat's scream when Robin fell and adds two lines before locking it away in his gun safe.

Batman

• Scared for Robin
• Proud of Robin

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

CLUE NINE: A Family Dispute

After Robin’s encounter with an exploding jetpack (and Richie’s ‘bad tumble’), the teenage vigilante isn’t seen on the streets again.

For the first few months, it’s a relief. It means the kid is resting, recuperating. It means he’s focusing on school like a normal kid. He and Barbara are seniors, after all, and he deserves to enjoy his last year of childhood before he heads off to whatever college is lucky enough to have caught Richard Grayson’s attention. 

When Barbara stops mentioning her friend, that relief starts to sour into worry.

“How’s Richie?” He asks over dinner one night a few weeks before graduation. “I haven’t seen him in awhile.”

Barbara stabs at her chicken. “Fine, I guess.”

“Is… everything alright?” He asks hesitantly, worry spiking.

With a glare, Barbara stands from her chair. “Yeah. It’s great. Super even."

“Baby, what happened?” Jim asks as softly as he can. "Did you two have a fight?"

She swipes at her eyes, at the beginnings of the tears starting to well up. "No. He- Him and Bruce had a fight. About college."

"College? What about it?" 

Did Bruce not offer to pay Richie's tuition or something?

"He doesn't want to go college. He wants to be a cop," she spits, as if it's somehow his fault.

Jim thinks of Richie's perfect GPA and frowns. "Why?"

"Because of you."

Oh, I guess it is my fault, he thinks dumbly. Out loud, he says, "me? Why me?"

Barbara shrugs her shoulders in a faux casual motion. "He said- he wants to help people. The way you do. After graduation, he's moving to Bludhaven and joining the police academy. Bruce doesn't want him to go." She sniffles and looks away. "I don't want him to go," she adds a little softer.

She walks off, then, and Jim doesn't have the heart -or the words- to stop her.

He just sits there and stares at Barbara's empty chair for a long, long time.

~_~

Jim debates how to broach the topic until he runs out of time.

Staring at the Bat over a cold cup of coffee under the ever present, smog tainted Gotham rain, the words come out easier than he thought they would.

“They grow up, Bat. You can’t stop him.”

It’s the closest he’s ever gotten to hinting he knows their identities. The Bat must either already know he knows or be too defeated to care, because he doesn’t react much.

He just sighs and tilts his head back, letting the slow drizzle hit his face. 

“Barbara leaving for college is going to be hard.” Jim shifts his weight and looks towards the Bat Signal still shining in the sky. “But I have to trust that I’ve done the best I could these past eighteen years.”

The Bat’s voice is so quiet, Jim wouldn’t have heard him if he wasn’t already laser focused on the other man. “I just want him to be safe.”

“But where’s the line between safe and happy?” Jim asks, part leading the witness, part genuine question.

His response is a dark laugh and a muttered, “what does being happy matter if he’s dead?”

Jim doesn’t have a response for that. He sips his coffee and lets the silence reign.

“Robin… has the compulsive urge to do what he wants,” the Bat says when he finally breaks the quiet. “So much so that he’s learned to charm his way out of any consequences. He’s been with me for long enough that the charm doesn’t work on me anymore. And- We had a fight. A real fight. He… Shouted. Things. He said he’s leaving.”

“You weren’t going to be able to keep him safe forever.”

“I know. I just thought I had more time.”

“All parents want more time. Don’t waste the time you do have. It isn’t worth it.”

The Bat stares, intense and solemn in the way only he knows how to be.

Jim stares back. "Talk to him."

And suddenly it's a man in front of him, not a myth or a monster or Gotham's Dark Knight. Just a man, lost and looking for advice from a friend. "What if I say the wrong thing?"

Jim takes the last swig of his coffee and pops in a piece of nicotine gum.

“I'm not the greatest father on the planet but I'm pretty sure that saying the wrong thing is better than saying nothing at all."

When the Bat still doesn't look convinced, Jim sighs.

Time for my trump card, he thinks and, from his briefcase, pulls out what used to be a pink, sparkly unicorn notebook. It's beaten beyond recognition now, more duct tape and pasted newspaper clippings than anything else.

He offers it wordlessly.

The Bat stares. "What is it?"

"My daughter started a 'case file' on you and Robin eight years ago. She's apparently uninterested in continuing the project." Jim wiggles it, a mimic of the Bat trying to coax him into taking a pack of nicotine gum all those years ago. "I thought you and Robin might enjoy looking at it together. Think of it as…. A family scrapbook."

Hesitantly, a gloved hand reaches out. "A family scrapbook?" The Bat repeats a little incredulously.

"Sure. A family scrapbook made by an obsessive and shockingly intelligent little girl with a hyper fixation on unmasking violent vigilantes," Jim jokes, shoving his hands into his coat pockets.

Slowly but surely, an almost non-existent smile graces the Bat's lips. "Right. Tell Miss Gordon I appreciate her services."

Jim nods and then checks his phone so the Bat has an opportunity to disappear mysteriously like the man loves to do.

So what? The man needs a win.

As Jim watches the cape flutter away, he hopes the Bat sees the sticky note that Jim stuck inside the front cover.

Robin

• A good kid

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

CLUE TEN: A Rookie

Jim Gordon, if pressed, would admit that he misses the kids a tad bit more than he’d expected himself to.

Barbara doesn’t come home from college nearly as often as he’d hoped she would and it takes everything in him not to nag her about it. He’s proud of her for making friends that aren’t Richard Grayson and he’s even more proud of her for making the Dean’s List her first semester while also working her ass off at her (somehow legal) unpaid internship.

He hasn’t seen Richie since the graduation ceremony at Gotham Prep. He hasn’t seen Robin since the jetpack incident. He can’t even imagine how worried he’d be for the young vigilante if he didn’t know that boy’s true identity.

Jim is no longer in denial about knowing the true identities of Gotham's favorite heroes. He also knows that he's never going to do anything with that knowledge. So he just… keeps going.

He lies and tells Barbara that he’s not upset she wasn’t able to make it home for Thanksgiving. He writes Richie an unsolicited reference letter for the Bludhaven PD. He and the Bat stop the Joker from blowing up a children's hospital. He organizes security for Bruce Wayne’s annual Christmas gala.

Life goes on.

When the letter comes from the Bludhaven PD, inviting Commissioner Gordon to attend the swearing in of their newest class of graduated police officers, he doesn’t hesitate to accept. Because it’s part of his job, of course, and not because he misses a certain little carnie turned caped crusader turned cop.

“Thank you for coming,” Captain Rohrbach says as she leads him to his seat in the front row.

Jim waves her words away. “Nonsense. It’s important that we encourage camaraderie and respect between our two cities.”

“Agreed.” The woman gives him a look, then, and hesitates before adding, “I got your reference letter for Office Grayson.”

He straightens. “Yes, he’s going to make a good officer. I’ve known him since he was a kid. Is everything alright?” He asks, just barely stopping himself from scanning the crowd behind him for any sign of the young man.

“Yes, of course. Officer Grayson set several academy records and is on track to be one of the youngest detectives in the department.” Captain Rohrbach’s tone is warm, fond, and clearly concerned.

Jim is no stranger to being worried about Richard Grayson. “But?”

“But… He didn’t reserve any seats in the family section today. All of the inductees are permitted four tickets and Grayson gave all of his away,” she explains, stern face tilted into a frown. “Doesn’t he- Is he not close with his family?”

His heart aches in his chest. Jim feels the by now rare urge to light up a cigarette. “He comes from an… unconventional family background. It’s not my place to speak on his personal life but I’ll speak to him about it,” he promises.

Captain Rohrbach’s smiles, warm and relieved. “Thank you, Commissioner.”

“It’s my pleasure,” he says as he shakes her hand.

Jim sits through the ceremony and claps politely for each inductee. If he claps just a little louder for one of them, that’s his business.

He’s just so proud.

Afterwards, he waits until the banquet hall is mostly empty before approaching the lone officer left sitting in the inductee section. Jim isn’t sure if it’s the uniform or the fact that he hasn’t seen him in over six months but instead of seeing a boy, he sees a young man. He’s still just a little slip of a thing, one of the shortest officers sworn in today, but there’s a strength to him that someone would have to be blind not to see.

He’s staring down at his phone right now, uniform perfectly pressed and hair gelled in a familiar style that is messing Jim’s ability to differentiate between two separate personas.

Jim clears his throat. "Officer Grayson?"

Blue eyes flicker up to meet his, lighting up with a recognition that Jim is sure is fake because there's no way he didn't notice his approach. The asymmetrical smile that splits his face, however, looks totally genuine.

"Commissioner Gordon," he greets, standing gracefully to his feet. "It's good to see you. It's been a long time."

He can't help but smile back. "Too long. Would a hug be too forward, rookie?" He asks and holds his arms out.

He was mostly teasing but he's neither surprised nor disappointed when he finds himself with an armful of young man.

"I miss you guys," Richie mumbles, voice muffled where his face pressed into Jim's collar.

Jim tightens his hug. (Purely to comfort Richie, of course.) "If it's even half as much as we miss you, you must be a tough kid to not have cracked and come home by now."

"That's me. A tough kid." Richie pats him once on the back and then pulls away, face clear of any sign of the wet spots on Jim's shirt. "You must be needed back in Gotham, I'll let you go."

And he really should be leaving. They're holding a press conference tomorrow and he needs to prep with Internal Affairs. But…

"Why don't you let me buy you lunch?" Jim hears himself asking. "For old time's sake."

Richie grins and the relief on his face makes him look that much younger. "Lead the way, CG "

~_~

That night, Jim lights the Bat Signal and waits patiently.

When the Bat lands ten minutes later, he wordlessly extends the manila envelope.

"What is it?" The Bat asks in his usual grunts.

Jim shrugs. "Something for the family scrapbook, yeah?"

He pulls out his phone to 'check his emails' while the Bat opens it, partly because he's nervous about how he'll react to actual proof that Jim knows his identity and partly because he doesn't feel comfortable seeing whatever emotional reaction the Bat has to the picture of Richie posing in front of the Bludhaven Police Department.

It's a good picture. (Richie seems to only know how to take good pictures.) His uniform is rookie clean and perfectly pressed. His smile is well practiced and charming. His posture is proud and confident.

He also looks heartbreakingly lonely.

Jim doesn’t look up from his phone until he hears the sound of paper on paper indicating that the picture is safely tucked away. “I hope I’m not overstepping-”

“Thank you, Jim.” The Bat is looking over Jim’s left shoulder, a habit of Bruce’s that Jim isn’t used to seeing from under the cowl.

He shrugs and turns to examine the skyline. “Nothing to thank me for. I know things are… rough between you two right now,” he starts slowly, hesitant of saying the wrong thing.

“Still. You were there for him when I wasn’t.” The Bat’s large hands clench slightly before he loosens his grip on the envelope like he’s scared of crinkling it. “You were there for him when he didn’t want me to be there.”

Jim shakes his head. “No. I don’t believe that.”

“He didn’t invite me. I didn’t even know about it.”

“I noticed that he’s not on the Christmas gala guest list,” Jim points out.

The Bat scowls. “That’s different.”

“Not to him, it isn’t.” Jim stuffs his hands in his pockets to ward off the crisp winter breeze whipping off of the Atlantic. “Listen, just keep reaching out. He’ll come around.”

Instead of answering, the Bat just grunts and pulls out his grappling gun.

Jim rolls his eyes. “See you around, Bats.”

His response, as usual, is the hiss of the grappling hook engaging and the rustle of the Bat’s cape catching in the wind. He looks out over the city for a few minutes before the cold becomes too much and he trudges down to the stairwell and to his car.

When he plops into the driver's seat, he looks down and blinks.

Stuck to his steering wheel is a simple sticky note, with neat handwriting that reads:

Jim Gordon

• A good man

He smiles and tucks it into his wallet behind his picture of Barbara.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~