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Of all the compromising things to end up in the press, visual proof of Bruce Wayne alive and well and wandering around Gordon’s poky apartment without a shirt on is the height of bad luck.
It’s not even as though Gordon was home at the time.
It’s not even as though Bruce was supposed to be alive at the time.
“Frankly, all this dying and coming back is getting ridiculous,” Gordon grumbles.
“But you’ve got to admit it’s a good conversation starter,” is Bruce’s response.
So there they are, with the Police Commissioner hiding a very-not-dead Bruce Wayne in his one bedroom apartment. A so-not-dead Bruce Wayne that it is, in fact, a shirtless Bruce Wayne. From the manner in which the press print carefully worded articles, it’s almost as though Bruce Wayne wandering around half-dressed is the result of a direct order on Gordon’s part.
Which it’s not.
He has never, and never plans to, ordered Bruce Wayne to wander around half dressed. Certainly not in his apartment, and he would suggest not anywhere else except locked, secured and preferably shuttered rooms in his residence of choice.
“At least you have company,” Stephens says.
Gordon gives him a baleful glare.
Montoya gleefully invites herself over.
Bruce, who is fully dressed and perfectly nice in an entertaining, shallow way, takes a huge shine to her warped sense of humour and foul mouth, and proceeds to play poker with her for tooth picks. He also matches her drink for drink.
Montoya, known for having the hardest head of her former squad in vice, doesn’t seem to realise Bruce’s sleight of hand with alcohol until she’s four drinks from oblivion, and even then she doesn’t realise it so much as throw in the towel.
When she isn’t looking, Bruce’s vacuous amusement gives way to a shrewd, quicksilver smirk that smoothes out as suddenly as it appears.
Gordon rolls his eyes and leaves the ‘children’ to finish their games. He goes to bed. Alone. And leaves the couch to Bruce. As usual.
There seems to be some discussion over whether the Commissioner is sharing his bed with his unexpected guest, and whether two men sharing a bed implies an automatic sexual relationship rather than a convenient sharing of space, and if not, whether Gordon’s a gentleman and gives up his bed to Bruce.
Since Bruce is not a woman, Gordon doesn’t understand what being a gentleman has to do with it.
“I don’t think anyone can imagine me sleeping on a couch,” Bruce laughs, “Definitely not on the kind of couch that goes with this apartment.”
“If you don’t like it, you can leave,” Gordon says bracingly.
The hint rolls off Bruce’s thick skin like water.
Gotham’s favourite playboy billionaire- no longer a billionaire, though still shockingly rich- seems far too content to stay on Gordon’s couch. To the extent that he’s ignored every subtle and unsubtle hint Gordon’s thrown at him.
Short of physically throwing Bruce out, Gordon’s faced with acceptance or an early coronary.
He chooses acceptance.
Especially since he doesn’t imagine he’ll get far with manhandling Bruce Wayne.
He knows a few secrets, and one of them is that Bruce Wayne has worn a far more serious mask on occasion. A far more familiar face for Jim that Bruce Wayne’s.
But things have changed. Now it’s Bruce Wayne clattering around his life and Gordon’s glad, if only because he can’t imagine the Batman eating cereal in his kitchen and shaving in his bathroom.
Bruce Wayne is a surprisingly considerate guest.
They’re not cooks, nor are they used to housework, but the blankets get folded and things get picked up and the dishes get done. And if there’s nothing to put between two slices of bread, Bruce gets takeout.
Gordon suspects Bruce has a list somewhere of every single takeout place in a ten mile radius. Every time they eat it’s from a different kitchen.
“Experimentation, Commissioner,” Bruce says, waving chopsticks at him, “It’s the spice of life.”
“Apparently you like your life very spicy,” Gordon observes.
“You have no idea.”
Gordon doesn’t deign to answer that leering tone.
By the time the news spreads far enough that the whole of the world is focusing camera lenses through Gordon’s apartment windows, Alfred turns up on his doorstep, and Gordon despairs of finding the space to put all these people.
It turns out to be a blessing, however, because Alfred takes Bruce away. Rather like dog sitting, and Gordon feels very ashamed of that uncharitable thought. But it is an odd feeling to hand over Bruce like some exasperating pet Labrador, promising that all proper care and feeding has been paid attention to while the owner was away.
Alfred sails off like an institution, with Bruce falling into easy step beside him. Gordon imagines all the cameras focused on his apartment window swerving to follow their journey down the street to the waiting Rolls.
And he thinks that’s going to be it. But it’s not.
Bruce drops by to say hello.
Gordon wonders if he should call Montoya over to cover the social interaction angles. But he assumes that it’s against regulations for a Commissioner to treat his subordinate officer like an on-call hostess, so he refrains and settles in to suffer through the conversation all by himself.
It’s not as bad as it could be. Bruce makes enough conversation for two.
It’s nice in a shallow, entertaining way, and Gordon finds himself arguing the dubious virtues of talk back radio.
He also finds himself arguing this at eleven at night, his second bottle of beer in hand, camped on the windowsill because he wants to smoke while Bruce Wayne sprawls on the damn couch and peels the label off the bottle he’s only sipped at.
The man is clearly a bad influence.
He shoos him firmly away by midnight and goes to bed. And then goes to work. And finds Bruce Wayne outside his office door at noon proposing to take him to lunch. With the Mayor, of course.
He says it like they need a chaperone.
Gordon doesn’t even want to think about that one.
Montoya’s all outward respect and barely concealed glee and Stephens is looking wild-eyed and a little afraid. Gordon tugs on his jacket and grumbles in the privacy of his own head all the way to the carpark.
Where he is stopped by Bruce’s large, strong, capable hand on his shoulder and the words, “Ride with me, Commissioner. Easier to park one car than two.”
Gordon doesn’t brush off the hand. It’s saved his son’s life and he’s owed that hand a lot over the course of ten years. It’s just that that hand is being a little familiar, and the Batman was never familiar.
It’s vaguely shocking.
He has the urge to protest his virtue.
Not that Bruce Wayne is making a play for his virtue. God knows Gordon’s got none left to protect. And even if he did, he’s hardly fair game for a no-longer-billionaire-but-still-ridiculously-rich playboy.
“What’s this about?” he asks, curious to see what answer he’s going to get.
“Just a friendly lunch, Commissioner.”
“You, me and the Mayor? It’s like a bad joke.”
“More like the punchline, I’d say.”
Gordon glares suspiciously at Bruce Wayne’s good-humoured profile. He suspects it’s smirking, but at least the man’s not running red lights, so he’s content to give him the benefit of the doubt.
A thousand cameras click at he gets out of the car.
“They’re still following you around?” Gordon asks.
“I’m learning their first names,” Bruce grins.
Bruce holds the door open for him.
Gordon pretends not to notice.
Bruce waits for him to sit down first.
Gordon pretends very hard not to notice.
Then he notices the restaurant. And he notices how expensive it is. Even the waiter is better dressed than he is. Bruce in bespoke suit and silk tie looks right at home, and the Mayor seems to manage a quiet dignity.
Gordon wants to stab himself with the butter knife. Or possibly that’s a fish knife. He doesn’t know. Doesn’t care. Figures he’ll stick to water and salad.
Bruce orders what sounds like everything on the menu. It’s in Italian. The man rattles it off like he’s spoken it all his life. Or at least every day for the last two years, and the waiter looks much too young and excited and bubbly at the way Bruce Wayne smiles at her.
Lunch with Gotham’s social elite turns out to last all afternoon. Lunch with the Mayor turns out to be mean work.
Gordon wishes he’d stayed behind and eaten a cheese sandwich while hunched over his quarterly budget review. It would have been more restful.
Bruce Wayne is lobbying for a contract for Wayne Technologies. He’ll provide City Hall with top notch technological upgrades at bargain basement prices, so long as he actually gets paid.
“Wayne Technologies’ version of bargain prices has always been out of our price range, I’m afraid,” the Mayor says drily.
Gordon sips his water.
Bruce orders wine and does his sleight of hand trick again.
Gordon wonders if that’s the secret. That Bruce Wayne secretly arranges for people to get drunk and then agree to anything he asks them to do. Two glasses in and the Mayor’s mellowed. Her eyes are brighter, her posture’s looser, and she gives a girlish giggle at one of Bruce Wayne’s jokes.
Gordon eyes the butter knife again but the food is far too good to desecrate with suicide.
And he’s not sure that Bruce Wayne won’t somehow whisk him off to the hospital against all the odds of time and space, endangering every unlucky commuter on the roads and causing thousands of dollars worth of damage to city infrastructure.
He wouldn’t put it past the man. He’s seen him drive.
Montoya is a lot less respectful and a lot more gleeful when he returns, rubbing his brow tiredly and feeling dazed. Her delight in the situation only increases when Bruce follows along like a puppy. Again.
“I’ve got work to do,” Gordon says severely.
“I wanted to talk to you about the proposal alone,” Bruce says.
And sounds quite reasonable for all of the fifteen minutes he takes to detail far more important points in his offer. Points like better communication devices, lab research equipment, computers, databases and cross-referencing facilities.
He somewhat ruins his argument with adding a coffee machine to the list.
But Gordon gives him the benefit of the doubt. No doubt coffee machines are important to Bruce Wayne. Though Bruce was perfectly happy to make instant in his tiny kitchen for the two weeks he lived on Gordon’s couch.
“I have a new place,” Bruce Wayne tells him, “You should visit.”
Gordon doesn’t know how or why he ends up getting roped into these harebrained schemes but he does visit. And not only does he visit, but he attends a supposedly informal social evening.
It’s a decent apartment, in a secure building. Half the size of the penthouse from what he overhears but some woman with a perpetually surprised look on her face and too much make-up flourishes a manicured hand at a very nondescript painting on the wall and says, “At least he’s kept the family treasures.”
Gordon’s seen prints that look more cheerful than that gloomy brown landscape but who is he to judge.
Bruce doesn’t seem to notice that his status in society has fallen several points. Or at least, it’s fairer to say that he takes it in his stride. He appears in a suit without a tie, collar open, and he looks a little bit rougher around the edges than he usually does.
And he wanders around with a glass of bourbon instead of champagne.
Not that he drinks it.
Gordon drains his. This seems to amuse Bruce, though Gordon’s not sure why.
“Have this one, Commissioner,” Bruce says, and hands him his own glass, “I haven’t touched it.”
Gordon takes it before he thinks, and senses a delicate frisson go through the lady in the tight red dress next to him.
Still, the damage is done, so he drinks it anyway and damns them all to hell.
Bruce wanders back and forth and there are, thank God, some sensible people at this party, including a very nice woman with a daring neckline who starts up a conversation out of kindness and continues it out of interest.
And she doesn’t want to talk about work.
They talk about growing up in Gotham and all the old places that have been torn down since they were kids.
Bruce turns up at his elbow and looks comically bemused at the conversation.
“Sounds like quite the trip down memory lane,” he comments.
“These young ones will never understand,” the woman laughs, throaty and sensual.
Gordon thinks he’s possibly a little attracted to her.
Bruce firmly disengages him from her side.
“You’re drunk,” Bruce says.
“I’m not really,” Gordon confesses, “Just resigned to my fate.” He pauses to take stock and adds, “You can let go of my arm now.”
Bruce lets go.
He isn’t drunk, and he isn’t even tipsy, but he is very, very concerned about what’s happening to him. He has somehow, god help him, acquired a friend. And not someone who jumps out of the shadows in a costume and a mask, but someone who brings him takeout and beer and orders him to switch the TV on, there’s a game showing.
Gordon hasn’t watched a football game in years.
Truthfully, he thinks Bruce probably hasn’t either. They don’t know any of the players, or the commentators, and they get bored halfway through and switch to the old World War II movie three channels up.
“Jimmy plays baseball,” he says, apropos to nothing.
“How is he?” Bruce asks.
“Fine. He’s busy with a new girlfriend.”
“That’s better than the alternative,” Bruce says vaguely.
"What, busy with a boyfriend?”
“I meant playing the field but I suppose you’re right.” There’s a beat of silence. “Is he?”
“No,” Gordon says quickly. “Not that I’d mind.”
He pretends not to notice that Bruce Wayne is silently laughing at him.
It’s a rabbit hole, and really, he’s outclassed and outplayed. All he can do is wait while Bruce Wayne takes his time to set the board up to his liking.
He’s checkmated at someone else’s theatre premier.
He’s arguably on his guard when Bruce picks him up, looking resplendent in a dark grey suit with a very white, very wide smile. Gordon feels faded by comparison but Bruce herds him effortlessly out to the convertible. Tosses him the keys.
“Can you drive stick?” he asks.
Gordon prays that the Porsche is not as twitchy as the Bat tank.
Bruce is incorrigible. Halfway through the drive he looks down at Gordon changing gears and says, “You’ve got good hands.”
And Gordon almost drives them into a lamp post.
Bruce’s profile is definitely smirking, even as he says, “Eyes on the road, Commissioner.”
They get to the theatre and Bruce gets out first, and waits patiently for Gordon to catch up. Looks back at him while the damn cameras are going off again.
Gordon suddenly sees the appeal of a good shadow or two to hide in.
Bruce puts his hand in the small of Gordon’s back. This time Gordon turns his head enough to stare.
“If you don’t move your hand,” he says quietly, “I’ll kick you in the balls.” And smiles.
Bruce removes his hand agreeably fast.
Which is great.
Except then Bruce curls his fingers around Gordon’s elbow.
A thousand cameras start clicking faster.
“I thought you said you were resigned,” Bruce says, smiling vacuously, damn him, and actually posing for the photos.
“Are you telling me to lie back and think of England?”
“Commissioner, I’m telling you if you lie back with me, you won’t be thinking of anything much.”
Gordon supposes he should have known that anything that started with photos of Bruce Wayne shirtless in his apartment would degenerate into this.
“Can you at least not call me ‘Commissioner’ when it happens?”
“If you wanted me to call you ‘Jim’, you only had to ask.”
Gordon ignores that. He’s half blinded by camera flashes. “Oh God,” he groans, suddenly remembering something, “I’ll have to explain this to my ex-wife.”
Bruce just laughs, the bastard.