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FIC: The Undiscovered Country (TDKR Jim/Bruce, 1/4)
Title: The Undiscovered Country (1/4)
Continuity: The Dark Knight Rises
Pairing/Characters: Jim Gordon/Bruce Wayne
Warnings: None
Summary: Bruce Wayne comes back to Gotham, and Jim Gordon needs to figure out why.
Rating: G this chapter, up to light PG-13 overall
Word Count: 1700
Death,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will...
Three months after disarming a nuclear bomb, Jim Gordon came home from work to find a dead man on his couch.
Jim stopped in the living room door, staring at the man draped across his furniture. His eyes were closed, his clean-shaven face oddly vulnerable, looking younger than its thirty-nine years. One hand was dangling off the hideous paisley cushions, almost brushing the floor; the other was clutching a throw pillow to his chest like a teddy bear.
For a dead man, he seemed distinctly alive.
Jim watched his chest rise and fall exactly one hundred times before tossing his coat to land with a thump on Bruce Wayne's chest.
Bruce woke with a start, jolting up as if under attack before taking in the man in the doorway and relaxing slightly. He met Jim's eyes and a complicated mix of emotions flitted across his handsome, mobile face: chagrin, embarrassment, and then a touch of real pleasure, a wry smile. "Hello," he said.
Something twisted in Jim's chest at the sound of that pleasant, light, normal voice; he looked away from Bruce's eyes and muttered, "Just couldn't stay away, could you?"
The smile flickered out. "It's not that," Bruce said. "The last three months have been...amazing." He shook his head slightly, not smiling, but close to it. "To wake up in the morning and not think 'Will this leg hold me up if I need to fight? Will someone die because I'm too slow now?' To be able to enjoy things, not just see them as tools or props. To enjoy myself. No, Gotham doesn't need me, not like that, not anymore. I'm...free." His voice was touched with a kind of wondering awe, a dawning joy.
"So then, why are you back?" Jim said, and was surprised to hear bitterness in his own voice. "Not for old times' sake. I've only talked to Bruce Wayne twice in the last thirty years. I don't know a damn thing about you."
"I'm not Bruce Wayne anymore," the man on his couch said. "Evan Macintosh does a little securities freelancing, enough to get by."
"Well, I know even less about Evan Macintosh."
"Evan Macintosh is from Dubuque, Iowa," Bruce said. "Home schooled by his former-hippie parents. He majored in computer engineering in college. His first car was a navy-blue Chevrolet. He likes Hitchcock movies, blue jeans, and raspberry jam. He doesn't like green tea, the Beatles, or small dogs."
"Well, now I feel like I know you so well," Jim said sourly. "I suppose you like long walks on the beach and pina coladas as well."
"Evan Macintosh is more of a mojitos guy."
"Sounds like you put a lot of work into Evan Macintosh."
"I did." Bruce's grin was proud and proprietary, and Jim had a sudden vision of him scribbling at a desk, hunched in concentration, the Eiffel Tower outside the window lit by a gray dawn. "That's just the beginning. I've got him all figured out."
"Oh? What's Evan Macintosh's favorite Olympic sport?"
"Diving."
"Favorite Doctor?"
"Is that a reference to that British scifi show?" Bruce waved a hand dismissively. "Evan Macintosh doesn't like British television."
"What was his favorite vacation ever?"
"His family went to Disneyworld when he was eight," Bruce said without hesitation. "His parents disapproved of such capitalist frippery, but they did it for him. He got his picture taken with Mickey. All lost when his parents' house got flooded fifteen years ago, sadly."
"Celebrities he'd like to have sex with?"
"Audrey Hepburn or Gregory Peck circa 1950."
Jim blinked at the idea Bruce had reinvented himself as bisexual. Or maybe he was always-- He cut that thought off brusquely. "You still haven't answered my question," he said. "Why did you come back to Gotham?"
"I didn't come back to Gotham."
Jim shook his head in annoyance, but the man on his couch didn't elaborate, just turning his head away from him slightly. After a moment, he said, "Barbara left you."
"Yes. Can you blame her? What of it?"
"You...must have some experience in rebuilding yourself."
Whatever emotion Jim had been feeling--confusion, pity--shattered into something sharp-edged. "Rebuilding myself?" There was a snarl at the edges of his voice. "Rebuilding? Do you know what's in my refrigerator?" Bruce didn't respond to the apparent non-sequitur; Jim stalked to the kitchen and yanked open the door. "Let's see...a jar of mayonnaise, a bottle of ketchup, two chocolate bars, some beer, a carton of milk that expired last week and...one, two, three, four half-empty cartons of Chinese takeout." He glared at the direction of the living room and the unseen figure on his couch. "Rebuild? All I've done since Barbara and the kids left is work--there isn't anything here in this apartment that's me, it's all...leftovers," he finished dispiritedly, the pointless anger draining out of him. "I mean, that was my choice, I guess," he muttered.
Silence from the living room.
Jim shrugged even though Bruce couldn't see him. "Well, since you're here for whatever reason, you want a drink? No champagne, I'm afraid, but I've got that beer."
"Playboy Bruce Wayne liked champagne." The pleasant voice sounded slightly hollow. "Evan Macintosh drinks Amstel Light."
Jim snorted, moving aside the jar of mayonnaise and two takeout boxes to rummage. "I've got Old Milwaukee or Pabst Blue Ribbon," he called.
He waited for Bruce to answer; when there was no reply he stuck his head into the living room, holding the refrigerator door open with one foot. "I said--"
Bruce Wayne was still lying on the couch. His arms were wrapped around Jim's coat and he was staring up at the ceiling, a sharp little line between his eyebrows. He seemed to be pondering a question for which there was no answer, some ineffable enigma.
After a moment Jim let the refrigerator door swing shut. He went over to the couch and extricated his phone from his coat, which was still wrapped in Bruce's arms.
"Hello, Bess? Sorry to bother you. Do I have any vacation time saved up? No, that's not a joke." He listened for a moment, then made an affirmative sound and hung up.
"Bess says the mayor said that if I ever happened to ask for vacation time, I was to be told I have as much as I want," he said. Actually, the precise phrasing was if "the big damn hero who saved Gotham" ever asked for vacation time, but that seemed a ridiculous thing to repeat. He wandered into the bedroom and threw some clothes into a duffel bag, emerging to find Bruce still lying on his couch.
"Where are you going?" Bruce said.
"'Evan Macintosh' and I are going up north. I've got a little lake camp there, used to be my grandparents'." He had promised Barbara years ago he'd spend more time there with the family. He'd been there once in the last decade. He nudged the man on his couch with his duffel bag. "You're welcome to come along too, though."
After a moment Bruce sat up. He nodded and stood--favoring one leg, Jim noticed, and with the deliberate movements of a man long-used to pain.
Jim tossed the car keys at him. "It's about a seven hour drive. You want to take the first leg?"
Bruce looked down at the car keys, then lobbed them back. "Evan Macintosh hates city driving," he said.
"Yeah, well, Bruce Wayne wasn't any great shakes either," Jim said as he pulled open the front door and headed down the steps. "Running red lights, crashing Lamborghinis."
"You remember." Bruce's voice was pleased; Jim turned around to look at him but his face was in shadow and Jim couldn't see his expression.
"He wasn't the most forgettable person."
The early March air was still chilly; it took Jim's rattletrap Ford a while to warm up. He could see his breath faint in the air above the dashboard as he made his way toward the bridge: they'd gotten a second bridge open recently, but traffic was still horrible getting off and on the island.
"You haven't asked about Blake," he said after a while. "He quit the force, you know."
A non-commital sound from the man in the passenger seat. "Have you...been in touch with him?"
"I see him now and then." An awkward pause; the lights of Gotham played across the windshield. "He says he's almost ready."
"That's good." Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bruce open his mouth, close it, open it again. Swallow. "He's a good man."
"Probably the second-best I've ever known."
Bruce turned away to look out at Robinson Park. "Me too," he said to the window.
"So what am I supposed to call you?" Jim asked as the traffic inched over the bridge, bumper-to-bumper in the dusk. "You going to be Evan from now on?"
"I don't mind if you call me Bruce." A soft sound, almost a chuckle. "You never have, you know."
"What?"
"Called me Bruce. It was all Mr. Wayne the one time we met as adults." And something else all the other times, the thought hung in the air between them like their breaths.
"Well then. Say goodbye to Gotham, Bruce," said Jim as they finally left the bridge for the mainland.
To his surprise, Bruce turned in his seat to look back at the city. "Goodbye, Gotham," he said. Then he turned back around and settled into his seat, his eyes on the road ahead of them. He was almost smiling, and it looked better on him than any smile Jim had ever seen Bruce Wayne give for the cameras.
Once out of the city, the traffic eased and soon the highway was mostly clear. The car was finally warming up; Jim set the cruise control as he merged onto the northbound lane.
A long way ahead of them still, and a lot of open road.
Continuity: The Dark Knight Rises
Pairing/Characters: Jim Gordon/Bruce Wayne
Warnings: None
Summary: Bruce Wayne comes back to Gotham, and Jim Gordon needs to figure out why.
Rating: G this chapter, up to light PG-13 overall
Word Count: 1700
Death,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will...
Three months after disarming a nuclear bomb, Jim Gordon came home from work to find a dead man on his couch.
Jim stopped in the living room door, staring at the man draped across his furniture. His eyes were closed, his clean-shaven face oddly vulnerable, looking younger than its thirty-nine years. One hand was dangling off the hideous paisley cushions, almost brushing the floor; the other was clutching a throw pillow to his chest like a teddy bear.
For a dead man, he seemed distinctly alive.
Jim watched his chest rise and fall exactly one hundred times before tossing his coat to land with a thump on Bruce Wayne's chest.
Bruce woke with a start, jolting up as if under attack before taking in the man in the doorway and relaxing slightly. He met Jim's eyes and a complicated mix of emotions flitted across his handsome, mobile face: chagrin, embarrassment, and then a touch of real pleasure, a wry smile. "Hello," he said.
Something twisted in Jim's chest at the sound of that pleasant, light, normal voice; he looked away from Bruce's eyes and muttered, "Just couldn't stay away, could you?"
The smile flickered out. "It's not that," Bruce said. "The last three months have been...amazing." He shook his head slightly, not smiling, but close to it. "To wake up in the morning and not think 'Will this leg hold me up if I need to fight? Will someone die because I'm too slow now?' To be able to enjoy things, not just see them as tools or props. To enjoy myself. No, Gotham doesn't need me, not like that, not anymore. I'm...free." His voice was touched with a kind of wondering awe, a dawning joy.
"So then, why are you back?" Jim said, and was surprised to hear bitterness in his own voice. "Not for old times' sake. I've only talked to Bruce Wayne twice in the last thirty years. I don't know a damn thing about you."
"I'm not Bruce Wayne anymore," the man on his couch said. "Evan Macintosh does a little securities freelancing, enough to get by."
"Well, I know even less about Evan Macintosh."
"Evan Macintosh is from Dubuque, Iowa," Bruce said. "Home schooled by his former-hippie parents. He majored in computer engineering in college. His first car was a navy-blue Chevrolet. He likes Hitchcock movies, blue jeans, and raspberry jam. He doesn't like green tea, the Beatles, or small dogs."
"Well, now I feel like I know you so well," Jim said sourly. "I suppose you like long walks on the beach and pina coladas as well."
"Evan Macintosh is more of a mojitos guy."
"Sounds like you put a lot of work into Evan Macintosh."
"I did." Bruce's grin was proud and proprietary, and Jim had a sudden vision of him scribbling at a desk, hunched in concentration, the Eiffel Tower outside the window lit by a gray dawn. "That's just the beginning. I've got him all figured out."
"Oh? What's Evan Macintosh's favorite Olympic sport?"
"Diving."
"Favorite Doctor?"
"Is that a reference to that British scifi show?" Bruce waved a hand dismissively. "Evan Macintosh doesn't like British television."
"What was his favorite vacation ever?"
"His family went to Disneyworld when he was eight," Bruce said without hesitation. "His parents disapproved of such capitalist frippery, but they did it for him. He got his picture taken with Mickey. All lost when his parents' house got flooded fifteen years ago, sadly."
"Celebrities he'd like to have sex with?"
"Audrey Hepburn or Gregory Peck circa 1950."
Jim blinked at the idea Bruce had reinvented himself as bisexual. Or maybe he was always-- He cut that thought off brusquely. "You still haven't answered my question," he said. "Why did you come back to Gotham?"
"I didn't come back to Gotham."
Jim shook his head in annoyance, but the man on his couch didn't elaborate, just turning his head away from him slightly. After a moment, he said, "Barbara left you."
"Yes. Can you blame her? What of it?"
"You...must have some experience in rebuilding yourself."
Whatever emotion Jim had been feeling--confusion, pity--shattered into something sharp-edged. "Rebuilding myself?" There was a snarl at the edges of his voice. "Rebuilding? Do you know what's in my refrigerator?" Bruce didn't respond to the apparent non-sequitur; Jim stalked to the kitchen and yanked open the door. "Let's see...a jar of mayonnaise, a bottle of ketchup, two chocolate bars, some beer, a carton of milk that expired last week and...one, two, three, four half-empty cartons of Chinese takeout." He glared at the direction of the living room and the unseen figure on his couch. "Rebuild? All I've done since Barbara and the kids left is work--there isn't anything here in this apartment that's me, it's all...leftovers," he finished dispiritedly, the pointless anger draining out of him. "I mean, that was my choice, I guess," he muttered.
Silence from the living room.
Jim shrugged even though Bruce couldn't see him. "Well, since you're here for whatever reason, you want a drink? No champagne, I'm afraid, but I've got that beer."
"Playboy Bruce Wayne liked champagne." The pleasant voice sounded slightly hollow. "Evan Macintosh drinks Amstel Light."
Jim snorted, moving aside the jar of mayonnaise and two takeout boxes to rummage. "I've got Old Milwaukee or Pabst Blue Ribbon," he called.
He waited for Bruce to answer; when there was no reply he stuck his head into the living room, holding the refrigerator door open with one foot. "I said--"
Bruce Wayne was still lying on the couch. His arms were wrapped around Jim's coat and he was staring up at the ceiling, a sharp little line between his eyebrows. He seemed to be pondering a question for which there was no answer, some ineffable enigma.
After a moment Jim let the refrigerator door swing shut. He went over to the couch and extricated his phone from his coat, which was still wrapped in Bruce's arms.
"Hello, Bess? Sorry to bother you. Do I have any vacation time saved up? No, that's not a joke." He listened for a moment, then made an affirmative sound and hung up.
"Bess says the mayor said that if I ever happened to ask for vacation time, I was to be told I have as much as I want," he said. Actually, the precise phrasing was if "the big damn hero who saved Gotham" ever asked for vacation time, but that seemed a ridiculous thing to repeat. He wandered into the bedroom and threw some clothes into a duffel bag, emerging to find Bruce still lying on his couch.
"Where are you going?" Bruce said.
"'Evan Macintosh' and I are going up north. I've got a little lake camp there, used to be my grandparents'." He had promised Barbara years ago he'd spend more time there with the family. He'd been there once in the last decade. He nudged the man on his couch with his duffel bag. "You're welcome to come along too, though."
After a moment Bruce sat up. He nodded and stood--favoring one leg, Jim noticed, and with the deliberate movements of a man long-used to pain.
Jim tossed the car keys at him. "It's about a seven hour drive. You want to take the first leg?"
Bruce looked down at the car keys, then lobbed them back. "Evan Macintosh hates city driving," he said.
"Yeah, well, Bruce Wayne wasn't any great shakes either," Jim said as he pulled open the front door and headed down the steps. "Running red lights, crashing Lamborghinis."
"You remember." Bruce's voice was pleased; Jim turned around to look at him but his face was in shadow and Jim couldn't see his expression.
"He wasn't the most forgettable person."
The early March air was still chilly; it took Jim's rattletrap Ford a while to warm up. He could see his breath faint in the air above the dashboard as he made his way toward the bridge: they'd gotten a second bridge open recently, but traffic was still horrible getting off and on the island.
"You haven't asked about Blake," he said after a while. "He quit the force, you know."
A non-commital sound from the man in the passenger seat. "Have you...been in touch with him?"
"I see him now and then." An awkward pause; the lights of Gotham played across the windshield. "He says he's almost ready."
"That's good." Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bruce open his mouth, close it, open it again. Swallow. "He's a good man."
"Probably the second-best I've ever known."
Bruce turned away to look out at Robinson Park. "Me too," he said to the window.
"So what am I supposed to call you?" Jim asked as the traffic inched over the bridge, bumper-to-bumper in the dusk. "You going to be Evan from now on?"
"I don't mind if you call me Bruce." A soft sound, almost a chuckle. "You never have, you know."
"What?"
"Called me Bruce. It was all Mr. Wayne the one time we met as adults." And something else all the other times, the thought hung in the air between them like their breaths.
"Well then. Say goodbye to Gotham, Bruce," said Jim as they finally left the bridge for the mainland.
To his surprise, Bruce turned in his seat to look back at the city. "Goodbye, Gotham," he said. Then he turned back around and settled into his seat, his eyes on the road ahead of them. He was almost smiling, and it looked better on him than any smile Jim had ever seen Bruce Wayne give for the cameras.
Once out of the city, the traffic eased and soon the highway was mostly clear. The car was finally warming up; Jim set the cruise control as he merged onto the northbound lane.
A long way ahead of them still, and a lot of open road.