Chapter Text
The Batsignal stood out starkly against the heavy grey clouds rolling in over the Gotham River, a cold bite in the air promising snow within the next couple of hours. On top of the MCU building Gordon waited by the new spotlight, his overcoat collar turned up against the winter wind, hands shoved deep in his pockets. A thermos of coffee and two mugs sat on the edge of the parapet next to him. It was a year to the day since Bane’s occupation of Gotham had ended – a year to the day since the Batman had saved them all – and life in the city was more or less back to normal, or whatever it was that passed for normality in Gotham.
To his left he caught a suggestion of movement in the periphery of his vision; a shadow shifting within the shadow of the stairwell. A smile curled at the edges of Gordon’s moustache.
“You’re getting better,” he said aloud. He turned to shut off the light and started unscrewing the thermos. “I didn’t hear you land that time.”
Batman stepped out into the open, crossing over to join Gordon at the edge of the roof.
“Practice makes perfect,” he grunted, taking the offered mug of coffee. Black, with two sugars; he’d never asked Gordon how he knew. “The Hinksy case?”
“Forensics have turned up nothing and we’re still waiting on the ballistics,” Gordon replied, feeling a little twinge of regret at the hint of gratitude betrayed in Batman’s eyes as he sipped at the coffee. The Batman, his Batman, would never have allowed such an unguarded show of emotion. Blake still had a lot to learn if he was going to survive in his new role. “We might have a new lead, though. There was a dealer down on Parkside, Johnny Franks, used to be an informant of Bullock’s when he was in Vice – he was found strangled in a dumpster this morning two blocks from his apartment.”
“Odds are he knew something,” Batman commented. Gordon shrugged.
“Looks that way. I’ve got Bullock and Montoya looking into it.”
They lapsed into a companionable silence, Gordon’s attention settling on the coffee steaming gently between his gloved hands. Following the funeral of Bruce Wayne the commissioner had resumed his nightly vigils on the roof, hoping the familiar setting and the memories associated with the place would help soothe some of the pain of the past year. It had been something of a comfort to discover the new Batsignal up here. He’d supposed the Batman had put it there shortly before he died – a parting gift from an old friend – and Gordon had therefore not expected anyone to answer when he’d started switching it on; so it was with no little surprise and very mixed feelings that he reacted to the almost-familiar cowled figure which had joined him on the roof a month later.
“Commissioner.”
Gordon had known instantly that it was Blake. There were tells – the way he moved, the way he held himself, the set of his mouth and the expression in his eyes – and though the overall impression was convincing, Blake was shorter than Wayne had been by a good five inches, so the armour seemed to sit somewhat awkwardly. Gordon hadn’t said anything, though; he’d just looked the new Batman slowly up and down, finishing by staring him squarely in the eyes. He saw a hint of fear in Batman’s expression, the realisation that Gordon knew, the worry that the older man was going to call him on it – and in that momentary exchange between them those eyes had held a silent plea:
Please, I need to do this. Please.
Gordon had sighed, shoving his hands deep into his pockets.
“You need to work on your entrances, son,” he’d said softly. “And the growling’s not obligatory.”
After that it had become a matter of routine. Gordon would switch on the signal every other night, a thermos of coffee resting on the ledge and a manila folder containing the details of their latest case by his side. It soon became known throughout the department that Batman and the commissioner were once again holding regular conferences, but none of the other cops even guessed that the Batman in question was a different one – they all simply assumed that he had somehow escaped the explosion. The Batman could do anything, right?
But Gordon knew different. They had not seen the look in the Batman’s eyes, as he had done, as he’d calmly strapped himself into that craft of his barely a minute before the detonation of the bomb. The Batman was resigning himself to death, and there would be no escape. Gordon had wanted to know then. For years they’d been partners, friends in the war against crime, and he’d never needed to know; now he should at least know the name of the man who had sacrificed everything to save Gotham.
And he had got his answer; Bruce. It had been Bruce Wayne all along.
That night as he’d sat in his old office at the MCU, chaos boiling around him as his surviving men set about the task of re-establishing order in Gotham, Gordon had just felt numb. All the combined agony of his being shot, the murder of Mayor Garcia and the other city officials, the myth of Harvey Dent shattered, the pressure of keeping the resistance going under Bane’s dictatorship, and the last desperate 48 hours; all that was nothing compared to the complete desolation he felt at this final revelation. The worst part was that it had made sense; every last tragic detail of the life of Bruce Wayne, when combined with what he knew of the Batman, made the worst possible sense ever.
“Commissioner?”
Gordon winced, bringing himself out of his reverie, raising his head to meet the question in Batman’s eyes. That was another thing that was wrong too; his Batman had called him ‘Jim’. Gordon shook his head, a self-depreciating smile curling at the corners of his moustache again.
“Sorry,” he said. “I was thinking. About Bruce.”
There was no change in Batman’s expression, nothing to betray the discomfort which Gordon knew he must be feeling, which was definitely an improvement. A year on and Blake was shaping up to being a very decent Batman, mentally as well as physically. He’d dropped the growl, thank God, in favour of a deeper version of his normal voice, and Lucius Fox was helping out again on the technical side; the re-appearance of the Bat-plane and a new, improved Tumbler (Jim privately called it the Bat-mobile) proved as much. The armour now fit perfectly too, which meant that either Blake had built up the necessary muscle or Lucius had altered the suit. Gordon suspected it must be a bit of both. Even taking all that into account, Blake had big shoes to fill, and Gordon felt guilty that he could not help making mental comparisons between the two men. It was a daunting enough task for anyone without him keeping score.
“Bruce did what was necessary,” Batman said levelly, after a pause. “He never shied away from that.”
“No,” Gordon said. He shook his head. “No, that he never did. Anything for Gotham. He earnt that damn title of his more than they could ever imagine.”
Batman’s frown deepened.
“More sightings?” he queried.
“Apparently this time picking out Patek-Philippes in Bergduffs,” Gordon said, unable to keep the weariness out of his voice. “When the assistant went to help him he’d gone.”
“It’s becoming endemic,” Batman said, his distaste at the idea clear. Gordon wholly agreed with the sentiment.
It had started shortly after Bruce’s death. Once the basic civil functions were operable again in Gotham it emerged that a significant percentage of the city’s elite resented Bruce Wayne’s funeral having been the simple, strictly private affair that it was; in their opinion the Prince of Gotham had deserved better. Lucius had commented darkly that the Establishment never liked being robbed of a good martyr. A couple of weeks later people began leaving floral tributes at the gates of Wayne Manor; the first simple bunches of flowers taken from gardens or what remained of the beds in Robinson’s Park, more elaborate bouquets arriving as soon as Gotham’s florists had reopened. Lucius and Gordon had taken it upon themselves to read the cards, there being no one else as Alfred had left for Europe some time ago. Most were the usual empty sentimental trash – one spectacular arrangement of black roses, crepe and satin ribbons had claimed to be from ‘The Women of Gotham’ (Gordon had traced the payment for that one back to the account of Veronica Vreeland) – but the most telling had been the first tributes; those torn up from the city’s parks and gardens. Those had been from workers at Wayne Enterprises and their families, from homeless shelters, missions, orphanages, restaurateurs, half-way houses, shop assistants, schools... ordinary Gothamites who had been helped by the Wayne Foundation and held some genuine affection for Bruce Wayne, for all his wastrel ways. Lucius had kept those cards.
It could have been left at that – it should have been – but it turned out the flowers were only the beginning. Five months down the line and the first of the sightings was reported; a janitor at the Gotham Museum of Art and Culture told the Gazette that whilst locking up for the night he had seen Bruce Wayne’s ghost walking down the main staircase, cross the foyer and vanish into thin air. It was an obvious hoax, Gordon himself regarding it as a sick joke, but Gotham Tonight caught hold of the story and from then on there were sightings of ‘The Prince’s Ghost’ every other week; City Hall, the Courthouse, the Gotham Ritz, the S&M clubs of the East End, Wayne Tower, the Monarch Theatre, Arkham – it seemed there wasn’t a place in Gotham the ghost hadn’t been spotted. A TV medium had visited Wayne Manor and conducted a séance live on air, proclaiming that the spirit of Bruce Wayne was restless due to the violent and untimely nature of his death. And then there was a growing minority who thought that Bruce Wayne was not dead, that he escaped Bane’s henchmen and fled to Europe, or Asia, or Africa; a theory given more credence as Bruce had already returned from the dead once before. Sightings of a living Bruce Wayne had to date been reported in as many places as Paris, London, Florence, Naples, Star City, Malibu, New York, Metropolis and, oddly, a small unpronounceable village in Bhutan. Rumour also had it that a publisher was preparing a “Where’s Bruce?” book for release at Christmas; some of the suggested locations were apparently very adult. Gordon’s stomach knotted painfully just thinking about it, as even in death it seemed the media wouldn’t let go of Bruce Wayne. The commissioner scuffed the sole of his shoe against the asphalt in irritation; he didn’t want to think about this anymore.
“This is nice,” he said sharply, raising his eyes to meet Batman’s puzzled gaze at the abrupt change in subject. Jim’s expression softened. “I miss him, I always will, but he never stayed around to talk. I wish he did. This –” He tapped his mug in illustration. “– It’s an improvement.”
“Seems I got that right at least,” Batman quipped dryly. Gordon smiled.
“Just don’t start walking out on me in the middle of conversations and I’ll be happy.”
Batman smirked, and Gordon raised his mug in an ironic salute. His Batman had never smirked.
“To Gotham’s Prince: May he Rest in Peace.”
Batman raised his own mug, replying with simple sincerity.
“To Gotham’s Prince.”
For another half hour they stood gazing out over their city, watching the patchwork of lights twinkling in the darkness as the snow began to fall.
Neither one noticed when another shadow silently detached itself from the shelter of the stairwell behind them, slid over the edge of the parapet and vanished into the night.