Title: Until it Fades to Dust
Author: strangelittleswirl
Word Count: 7783 before footnotes
Rating: PG-13 (minor swearing, mention of darker themes)
Disclaimer:I do not own Batman or any of the characters. They are the property of DC comics, and this story is based in the Nolan-verse of Batman Begins and The Dark Knight, which are movies from Warner Bros . The title of the fic comes from the song "Choke" by Hybrid.
Summary: Starting with the apparent death of James Gordon, his niece returns to Gotham City.

In the hours of painful waiting before James Gordon had high-tailed it back to Gotham, while he and his niece loudly ate Chinese food out of take-out boxes in her tidy little apartment, she had given him a small gem to mull over.

"Bruce Wayne came to your funeral," she suddenly stated, stealing a Chinese egg roll from the container on the glass coffee table-it was the sort of furniture that a parent of two young children would look at wearily, imagining the myriad of injuries that could arise from having it around children who continue to run about a house even after being admonished for it repeatedly-before shaking her head. "I don't think that I will ever get used to saying that-"

"I do feel a bit like Tom Sawyer," he chuckled while fiddling with the chopsticks. While James Gordon was not much of a reader, he did remember that particular book, and most specifically that image; it had struck him as peculiar enough for him to remember it for all these years.

"-So he said he felt obligated to come to your funeral. Said you were one of the detectives that responded to his parents' murder. He even called you an 'honest cop'."

James Gordon raised his eyebrows in surprise, because Bruce Wayne did not seem the sort of person who would remember something little like that. But there were those random instances of his thoughtfulness: Gordon remembered taking his wife to their favorite Italian restaurant to celebrate his promotion, only to find that the owner of Pasquale's Bistro now had a restaurant twice its original size simply because the billionaire liked the risotto; the solar panels on top of Wayne Enterprises were helping to power the city's Security cameras; several schools throughout Gotham had received new computers.

"Kind of strange, huh? I mean, the guy comes to that celebration banquet for the Major Crimes Unit's inception and doesn't even say a word to you-well, we know it's because he was too busy planning to crash Harvey Dent's fundraiser with all of those Miss Earth contestants-but he finds time and comes to your funeral."

He chewed thoughtfully on his food and the news. James could easily remember looking down in the precinct on Bruce Wayne as a youth, pale beneath his freckles, eyes wide with sadness and fear beyond his few years. He remembered the same look on Barbara's face.

"Life's been hard for him, Barbara, I've got a feeling he's not that 'Prince of Gotham' that the media labels him. He lost his parents, he went missing for years." At this he could not help but cast a meaningful glance over at his niece, who suddenly was too busy picking at a stir-fried pepper evading her chopsticks to look up at him, a look of studied blase crossing her face.. "I'm not saying that the boy is without fault, but you have to realize where he is coming from. I bet you two would have more in common then you would first think."

Barbara raised an eyebrow. "You mean a large collection of women's underwear in our homes? I wear mine, they weren't left here and I never found them on my nonexistent chandelier, thank you very much" she said in a surly tone before snorting and returning to the food.

James shook his head and pointed a bamboo utensil in her direction. "You're just being a smartass now, so I will leave it alone. Are you going to finish those dumplings off or not?"

His niece offered him the tin foil container.

Barbara bit her lip and pecked idly at the keyboard; the program she was working on was barely receiving any of the attention it should. It had been twenty minutes since her aunt and cousins should have arrived and the whole situation reeked of 'wrong'. Barbara rolled her neck, trying to keep the building tension in her muscles from becoming painful. Back in the day, she'd have gone out, though it usually resulted in bruises and bleeding. These days she had her therapist-given yoga tapes, and candles that were, in her opinion, exceedingly overpriced for something that smelled a bit like a psychedelic rock band concert.

Finally a call from her aunt came, telling her that they were sitting tight in Gotham, and no, under no uncertain circumstances was Barbara to come to Gotham; they were safe and so was she, and that was all that they could hope for.

Barbara looked at the paperwork sitting on her desk and tapped her fingers on the glass surface of her desk. She had already put in the paperwork for the location change request, and the carbon copy sat before her. She might as well start packing up some of the little trivial things so that she could speed things along. It was time to go back to Gotham City, anyway. Her life in Metropolis-as well as New York- was over, and she had finally come to terms with that somewhere in the past few years.

But on her way to the closet something on the television caught her attention, so the petite woman turned to face the television. Mike Engel was interviewing an accountant, someone who thought he knew who Batman was, so she had tuned him out before; Engel occasionally pulled tabloid tripe like that. But at the first words from the caller's voice, she had stilled.

"I have a vision," started the caller, in a sing-song voice. It was the sort of voice that left a feeling of unease in the pit of Barbara's stomach. She had cultivated that intuitive judgement as a way of survival long ago, and it stilled kept her safe. She turned the volume up.

"If Coleman Reese isn't dead in 60 minutes, I will blow up a hospital." Barbara felt icy-cold fear gnaw at her stomach. The chaos that would erupt would be unfathomable.

Her Blackberry beeped, in the little tone that notified her of an incoming text, and Barbara grabbed at it.

Sit tight. All OK. STAY where u r!!! said the letters on the lit-up screen.

If her aunt and cousins did come to Metropolis, they would need her here. Driving to Gotham would cause her uncle more worry. Barbara would simply have to sit and wait, even if she hated it.

Harleen Quinzel kicked her heels off underneath her desk and stretched back in her office chair. It was one of those cheap ones that squeaked and protested when anyone sat in them.

"Hmm," she said. Maybe she would go out on another date with the Director. Make him buy her a new chair. There was that nice Italian place.

Harleen looked down at her shoes, patented black leather with red leather soles. Red and black. She liked that. She remembered the first time she had warn them. Almost fell over. Ha ha, she was a big girl, now.

Her first interview of the day had been with recently arrested Doctor Crane-well he had earned that title, so she might as well call him by it-and it had been first thing in the morning. His schedule was a strict one, because most of his time was spent in solitary, heavily sedated. He was nice in the mornings. Still sort of sleepy, but not drugged. Sometimes he even made jokes.

There was sudden noise out in the hallway, and she was almost sure she heard screaming. Not that she didn't normally hear screaming-there were lots of crazies-but usually it was not on any of the actual units. Her office was right next to the Directors in the administrative wing of New Arkham, and it sounded close.

The Director was knocking on her door. Oh, she hoped that he did not think he was getting another date. Wait, she wanted that new chair. Nevermind.

"Open, toots," she called out. Toots. She hadn't used that one in a while. One of her first foster parents had used that term. She'd been a neat lady; apartment in Queens. Cabaret singing had been her hobby, if she remembered correctly. Penchant for feather boas.

His usual pasty pallor was even more so as he came crashing into her office, his balding forehead already sweating.

"We've got to evacuate. The police department just called and said they are faxing a list of inmates that are to be ferried over first. Harleen," he started, but paused and swallowed audibly. "I want you on that ferry. You have to be safe."

That was sort of sweet. The man cared about her. She would go out with him again.

The college student pulled out her briefcase and starting throwing everything she could in, trying to ensure that every last piece of paper from her interviews was packed. Didn't want to have to do this somewhere else, like one of the hospitals. Gross. Several of the papers were classified documents that she had forgotten to return to the Medical Records department. Oops. They went into the briefcase as well.

The Director ushered Harleen and several other office workers out the door and into the cop car outside. They passed the employee parking lot and Harleen waved goodbye to her little green car.

The streets were complete chaos as the car made its way to the ferry. Someone tried contacting Harleen on her cell phone, but an administrator sitting next to her was too hysterical next to her to actually answer it and hear the caller. So this was what it was like in the back of a cop car. Fun.

Several school buses carrying the inmates pulled up behind and a slew of armed officers started herding the mass of orange towards the ferries. The crowd of Gothamites protested as Harleen and the group boarded, but she ignored them and hurried on.

Harleen was escorted to the top floor of the ferry, and there she finally pulled out her cell phone. The missed call was from Barbara Gordon. She could wait.

Barbara started to try any of her contacts in Gotham by cell and online. About an hour later, the report of the evacuated Gotham Central Hospital came in. Then another breaking news report came in: Mike Engel was hanging upside down, but so was the camera. The camera was shaky, as if it was handheld.

"I'm Mike Engel, for Gotham Tonight. What does it take to get you people want to join in? You failed to kill the lawyer. I've got to get you off the bench and into the game. Come nightfall, this city is mine, and anyone left here plays by my rules." Over Engel, Barbara could make out another voice, the nasal one from the call before, saying some of the lines at the same time. "If you don't want to be in the game, get out now. But the bridge and tunnel crowd are in for a surprise. Ha ha ha ha."

Screw that, she thought savagely. Barbara kicked the box she was packing out of the way and dialed her phone as she grabbed her car keys up. It was times like this, as she started to speed to the parkway, that she missed the speed of her bike and its ability to maneuver through the traffic so well.

"Come on, somebody, pick up. Pick up!" Barbara hissed into her phone. Harleen had always answered her phone, no matter what. Even the one time that had left Barbara just as embarrassed as whomever had been Harleen's unlucky beau that evening, since Harleen had seen no reason to stop their activities while she answered. The lack of an answer now did not bode well.

She made it in record time to the Gotham City Tunnel, but a police barricade prevented her from going any farther, even after explaining who she was related to. Now she had to do exactly as her uncle said, and waiting was not something she was adept at.

Her only comfort was that her aunt and cousins were being protected by a surveillance team that her uncle trusted, and that Batman was hopefully in the city as well.

"Help me, Alfred," called Bruce, jumping down from the platform before it reached the lower level completely. The billionaire starting to shuck his clothing off on his way over to the suit that Alfred had already taken out.

"Lucius is over in the R&D Department with the sonar set up. You've got a live mic over on the desk that will link you two together. He'll be able to keep you updated. I have the communication in the helmet set up wired between him and me, though." Alfred had always marveled out how easily Bruce Wayne slipped into his role as Batman; his sentences became terse and tense, edging effortlessly into that rasp that differed so greatly from the smooth voice that the public recognized as Bruce Wayne's.

"I'm going to need you here, however. This computer has the satellite control for the Batpod. If anything happens, enter the self-donate command." Batman stood before him now, tugging on the thick gloves. Alfred would answer with short 'yes, sir's, because that was all he could do when he was in this mood.

The tension that was building was one that Alfred had known before. In the past he had spent time like this preparing his rifle, cleaning and polishing the parts, ensuring that it would not fail him in the hours to come. Now he made sure that bat-shaped throwing stars were sharpened and at the ready, and that a small military tank-like vehicle had enough fuel in it for the night of tearing around Gotham.

The black costume-clad man strode over to his transportation and wheeled it back to the lift, stopping only to finish putting on the cowl. Alfred watched him click the tiny button that set the small electric current through the cowl that kept anyone from removing it. That had been a recent addition, after he had realized that he could be knocked unconscious, and that people would try to discover his identity. After all, he was only a man beneath that neoprene and Kevlar.

"Sir," called Alfred. "Please try to recall that you are not bullet proof."

The retreating figure did not answer. Alfred had raised Bruce Wayne better than that.

Harleen had started the ferry ride on the top floor with the other administrators, but after the engines and power had cut out and that person had talked to them, things had erupted into chaos.

A short while later Harleen was sitting huddled on the stairs on the ferry, biting at her thumbnail ferociously as people argued. An administrator suggested voting amongst themselves.

She wanted to live, she wanted to breathe. She didn't want to be in the ground. The cold, hard ground with the worms and the dirt and Larry Quinzel. Oh, yes she was a bad girl. Bad girls would go to hell and he would be there but she wanted to live.

"Harleen!" came a harsh voice at her side. It was one of the prison nurses, a look of concern on her weathered face. "Child, breathe."

The blonde did as she was instructed to do and found that the tightness she had not really been aware of in her chest lessened with it. The nurse gave her an chastising look.

"We are all in this, Harleen. But I know the Lord will pull us through."

Harleen could not help but look at the cross the nurse was wearing with contempt. She couldn't remember the woman's name, but she remembered the night her prayers weren't answered. God didn't help her. Maybe she wasn't good enough. God wasn't going to come through for a boat full of prisoners, the fucked up people who kept them in line, and one lone Christian lady.

Pushing herself up and clinging to the railing, she picked her way through the crowd to make sure she was close by the man doling out the voting cards. She didn't have a pen in her purse, but she had her lipstick. Her vote for 'yes' was a bright, garish red. It was called 'Cherry Bomb' red. Ha ha. Like that man on TV, papers flying up into the air and his tie defying gravity. Ha ha.

A prisoner who had snuck upstairs and was standing next to her looked down at the paper, just as she was folding it. He gave her an approving look.

"Good sense of self-preservation," he said, with some admiration. "You take care of yourself, don't you?"

She nodded, unsure of what else to say. She'd never seen this particular prisoner before, so he may have been housed in another part of Arkham, the part where they kept the less interesting ones.

"You and me kid, we're alike. Gotta take care of your self. Screw 'em all, huh?"

"Yeah," Harleen parroted. "'Screw 'em all'."

The votes got thrown out by someone who started screaming to blow the other ferry up. After a side-long glance at the prisoner next to her, Harleen started screaming as well.

The car had been turned off for hours to ensure that the battery didn't die or she ran out of gasoline. She left a message for her boss to tell him she would not be into work the next day, and if he needed to know why then he could watch the news.

No one was answering her phone calls, and she was not close enough to the actual road blockade to hear any of the conversation on the officers' walkie talkies. Barbara bit her lip and tapped at the wheel. Desperate times, she thought as she pulled out her laptop and some headphones, call for morally gray measures.

Barbara was quite happy to see that it was a lot harder to access Gotham's communication mainframe than it had been in previous years. The ConfiTech symbol was embedded discreetly in the corner of the page, a sign that the company-and ultimately, Barbara-had been employed to secure their software.

Luckily, she still had her external TV-tuner in her laptop duffle. Soon enough she had figured out the new communications program for the police department and had tapped into the frequency. It took some time to figure out the internal audio settings in her laptop to make up for the high-pitched cues of the audio messages about to be played.

She had not been involved with the actual development of this part of the software, but she would be looking into suggesting an update to the sound quality of the program; there was no way her voice recognition software would be able to use the low-quality sound for what she had planned. She sat back and listened to the audio feed for hours, following along with the drama playing out on the other side of the tunnel.

.

Lucius was standing attentively before the bank of LCD screens, scanning the screens quickly.

"What do you think, Alfred?" he asked suddenly. He turned to look at the intercom with an expression of exhaustion and stress, knowing it was carrying over into his voice as well. "Are we going to make it?"

"Lucius, old friend, I honestly don't know."

"How's the suit holding up?" There was silence on the other side. "There should be some biofeedback readings from the suit on one of the screens, Alfred, tell me what you see."

There was the sound of scuffling on the other end. "Astounding; his heart rate is only slightly elevated. His oxygen levels are fine. It's showing that there is a great deal of heat radiating from one section of the suit. I'm assuming that it's a sign of an injury. I suppose I should prepare everything for sutures now, then."

Lucius had always known that Bruce was not completely gentle with his body, but from the tone of Alfred's voice it seemed that this was a fairly normal occurrence.

He'd have to work on some sort of padding, a shock system, maybe. After all, he was going to have plenty of time on his hands.

And while Lucius hoped there would be no reason for the suit after this, he did hope that there would someone to wear it.

Hours later, James Gordon returned thankfully to his house, happy to see it's small and orderly little porch, the garbage cans not at the curb because he had not been there to take care of them. It took a lot of effort to get up the front stairs; he could feel it in his knees and his back. James Gordon was an old man, and a tired one.

He looked behind him, half-hopeful for a black-clad figure in the shadows outside his house. At least then he'd know that his ally was safe. Whatever his new suit was made of, the material was most definitely not bullet-proof at a point-blank range.

His wife was holding open the door for him by the time he turned around. Her mouth was drawn in a tight line, and instinctively, he reached a hand out to trace the curve of her cheek.

"How many of those wrinkles were caused by me?" he mused out loud. She grabbed at his hand and pressed a kiss to it.

"I'll keep all of them and I'll keep gaining them if it means you're still alive...Going around, thinking you were dead...I don't think I can go through it again."

He pulled her into his arms and kissed her a little more fiercely, just the way he'd imagined doing as he paced his nieces apartment. He unlaced and removed his shoes before following Barbara through their tiny foyer and into their living room. Two small blonde and red heads poked over the back of their love seat.

"The kids wanted to wait up for you." His wife squatted next to the children and tried to rouse them.

His youngest opened her eyes first, and propelled herself off of the couch and into her father's arms.

"Daddy!" she shrieked. Jimmy woke up at the sound, and wrapped his arms around his father's waist.

All that was missing was his niece, and he'd be content for the time being.

Lucius allowed himself into the penthouse with the key and fingerprint identification system. He ensured that the door was closed before continuing down the hall.

"Boys?" he called. There was some movement upstairs, so he climbed to the second floor.

Bruce was sitting up in his bed, hair wet from the shower. Alfred was squatting next to the edge of the bed and taping gauze down on his abdomen. The billionaire looked up as his friend entered the room.

"Lucius," he greeted him, and the usual finishing-school crispness was missing from the pronunciation. The man was surely exhausted, but he gave him a wry smile and chuckled. "You missed the show."

Alfred shook his head with a snort. "You missed me prying a bullet out of his abdomen and after cleaning the area, he tried to burn it shut with one of those little pod-things you gave him. Nearly knocked him out just so I could stitch it up. Now honestly, Mister Bruce, sit still."

The younger man chuckled softly, but the sound turned into a hiss. Lucius could feel a migraine coming on; he massaged the bridge of his nose.

"I'm just going to head out to check up on Gordon" Bruce started, and Alfred looked up at his employer dubiously. "His family shouldn't have been involved. I am obligated to make sure they're all fine. So will you need help with boxes for Monday?"

The newcomer to this madness shook his head. "No, Bruce. Don't expect my resignation...just yet. I'm quite proud of what you did."

"Go home, Lucius." Bruce pivoted, swinging his legs over the side, and Alfred helped him out of bed. "The next few days will be quiet ones, anyway. I'm thinking of handing the R&D Department over to someone more qualified, like my CEO. Running things past him might be a better idea than undermining him in the future."

Lucius left and started the drive to his home. At one point he heard the identifiable sound of the Batpod revving down the street, but he did not look back or try to follow out of curiosity.

He needed sleep, and he needed to prepare for Monday.

Somewhere ahead of her in the patch of traffic, Barbara heard the sound of car motors rev up just before an officer with a megaphone came by, swaggering his way down her row. She slipped a headphone off of one of her ears so that she could hear.

"The bridge has been scanned for bombs. It came up clean and is now open. Proceed carefully." The terse commands echoed as he continued to walk away.

The young woman removed her headphones completely and placed the laptop on the seat next to her before she started the ignition, sitting up from her slumped position to see over the dashboard.

She was happy to see the street lights on the other side of the tunnel, an hour later. It had been a steady crawl through, with several instances where she had turned off the engine to conserve and to help with the choking air outside the car.

The city was deadly quiet as she drove out to South Hinkley, taking the quickest route possible but finding it to be just as long as going the other way because of traffic. In the distance she could make out the lights of the ferries at the docks. Harleen was down there, she mused. Poor girl, she'd have to set up a lunch date with her soon. Her blonde, gangly friend always responded well to the invitation of caffeine and a sympathetic ear.

Finally she reached the ramp for South Hinkley and eventually made her way off. Relief and exhaustion washed over her as she shut the car door and locked the vehicle before she bound up the porch steps.

Aunt Barb came cautiously to the door, but gave her niece a tired smile before unlocking he door and pushing the screen door open for her. "We're all okay," she reassured her. "Everything is just fine, honey."

"Like hell it is," Barbara fiercely responded. "I heard what happened; you guys were in that warehouse. What was going on?"

Her aunt opened her mouth, but then decided to change her mind and instead ushered her niece into the house. Her other family members were sitting crammed onto the love seat, both of her cousins half-sitting on her exhausted uncle. She swooped down to give him a kiss on the cheek, and did the same to her cousins. The sight of everyone together and safe was enough to reaffirm her desire to return to Gotham; she needed to be here. Even if she could not do a single thing to help the situation, at least she would not be left unable to reach her family. Barbara Gordon was not meant to watch and wait like that.

Frankie showed up a short time after that, dispensing mozzarella sticks and chicken fingers to the younger Gordons, who followed their cousin into the kitchen. Their happiness over the treat evoked a laugh from the girl, who ushered the other two children into the kitchen for plates.

Frankie lumbered over to James and pulled him into a mighty one-armed hug; the commissioner patted him on the back.

"Thanks for keeping an eye on the everyone, Frankie."

His friend shrugged and mumbled quietly under his breath, tearing a hand through his greying hair as he did so. Their line of work was a harsh one, but Frankie had gotten out as early as he could, and there was the occasional moment or two in which James Gordon envied him. But then a sense of purpose and commitment would cause him to turn his attention towards working on whatever problem was before him, and he'd dismiss the idea of retirement. If the city was going to get better, it needed clean cops. He might not be the best, but he was one of those. And if the city needed its Batman, Batman needed someone on the inside. As long as he could keep it up, he'd be that cop.

"Heard that Sal Moroni survived that car crash. Oh, and some of the other guys may stop by," Frankie said, settling himself onto the now vacated love seat. His bulky shoulders and wide body took up so much space that James' children would not have been able to sit with their uncle. "They said they want to talk to you, find out what went down earlier."

James took his glasses off and carefully cleaned them on the edge of his shirt, instead of showing any response to what his friend had said. Frankie laughed, a deep, raspy noise.

"I told them that you probably weren't going to be all that open; but you know the guys. So, now there's a hunt for Batman, huh?"

"Looks like it, Frankie," he answered with a sigh. "But I really-I don't want to talk about all of that right now."

The others shuffled in; they were a large group of brothers, in some sense of the word at least. At some point they had all worked together on the force, and these men could all be seen in photographs scattered about the room. There was another member of their group, a stocky man with a shock of red hair who was usually seen with a good-natured grin and an arm around James' shoulder: Detective Roger Gordon.

His older brother had been a promising member of the police force, and had been a major proponent of the creation of the Technology Crimes Unit. Roger and James had been exceedingly close throughout their childhood and adult years; when Roger said he was going to marry Thelma, an ex-girlfriend of James', the younger brother was nothing but thrilled. And how could he ever hold that against his older brother? His niece had been the product of that marriage, and she had been the light in then-single James Gordon's life.

He still missed his brother and sister-in-law. He missed their candor and brightness. He missed the family that they had created. Prior to their deaths, the three had been talking about purchasing a house in a nicer neighborhood, maybe in Jerold if they played they were able to save enough.

His brother's daughter came back out from the kitchen and the men all greeted her.

"Hey, Squirt!"

She smiled and leaned against the door. "How are my favorite uncles?"

"Old," responded one of her uncles, petulantly. James wasn't sure which one of the men it was, because they all seemed to respond to that question in the same manner. They were all getting old; there were wrinkles and streaks of grey and coughs and creaking bones. Old men with no new young men to take their places.

"Still the uncles I love," she said, trying to console them as she unfolded herself from her spot. There was movement in the kitchen, and then all four of Gordon's family members started to climb the stairs. "Night, boys," she called over her shoulder. James' children waved on their way to bed. His wife looked at him, the clock, and back at him pointedly before following the other three. He'd herd them out soon, anyway.

"Jimmy," admonished on of the guys. "Ain't ya gonna offer us beers?"

"Of course," he said before scrambling out of the recliner. Where was his brain? In about a billion different places right then.

Barbara closed the door to her cousin's room and leaned against the railing for a moment. She considered some sort of security system for her uncle's new home, perhaps cameras on a wireless feed, motion detectors maybe, the sort of things. Granted, her aunt and cousins had left the home willingly, but it couldn't hurt. Of course, suggesting something meant admitting she had some sort of knowledge in the area, and all that her uncle knew was that she was very good with programming, that all of those funny ones and zeros made sense to his niece.

She could rig something without his knowledge, but the idea left a prickly hot feeling of guilt in her gut. She would just suggest a security company; but would do research first.

The red-haired woman decided that leaning against the railing, well within earshot of the living room, was not entirely polite, so she started to move from the landing to the stairs. She had taken a few steps before she processed what she heard downstairs.

"-gotta be without Gordon knowing. He still considers Batman to be some kind of hero. The psycho killed Harvey Dent, for God's sake."

"There's that signal on the roof of MCU. Lighting malfunction my ass, we turn that on at night, the guy will come flapping down."

The door to the garage opened as one of her uncles was in the middle of a sentence agreeing, and the conversation suddenly changed to the Gotham Knights season.

The Gordon girl had seated herself at the top of the stairs, but now used her grip upon the rungs to push herself up. Her blood was pounding loudly in her ears, and she could feel her hands shake with indignation. As soon as they were gone, she'd tell her uncle, she decided. Before then, and her uncles might find out that her Uncle Jimmy knew about their plan.

Barbara worried at her lip as she went in to check on her two cousins, both of whom had opted to sleep in the bunk beds in Jimmy's room. For a few minutes she simply stood in the doorway and listened to their even breathing. Poor kids were exhausted.

It was only for an instant, but she saw it. There was movement on the fire escape, something dark moving across the window, and Barbara moved over to the window as quietly as possibly to see what it was. Jimmy's baseball bat was leaning against the dresser, so she picked that up.

Seeing who it was, Barbara dropped the baseball bat and pushed the window up, happy to see that it was quiet enough not to disturb her slumbering cousins. She crouched and used mostly her arm strength to ascend as quicky as possible onto the roof.

"Wait!" she panted, realizing that she was much too out of breath. Barbara had gotten out of shape; that was going to change. "Stop, please!"

He did, perched on the edge of house. He eyed her, and she found herself approaching him cautiously. There was something animalistic about the way he moved, something slow but powerful in his movement, and she had the feeling-and the knowledge, really-that he could lash out if he needed to.

"My uncle-he's downstairs. Doesn't know," she said, trying to catch her breath. "The next time that light goes on, it's not going to be him. Some of the others in MCU, they're setting a trap."

"Why are you telling me this?" he rasped. From where she stood now, she could make out the hazel-brown color of his eyes.

"Because I'm with my uncle on this; Gotham needs you. And you behind bars and outed would be like exposing the truth about Santa Clause to a little kid." She licked her lips. "So please, please don't come to MCU tomorrow."

Down below she heard the sound of the screen porch door slap against its frame, and could hear the rumbling of her uncle's friends as they made their ways out to their cars and homes. She leaned over the edge out of curiosity. There was the small sound of gravel in a boot scratching the ledge, and by the time Barbara turned around, she was standing by herself on the roof.

After the ferries had returned, Harleen and the inmates were transferred back to the Narrows by school bus and squad car. There, the Director had sequestered the young woman in her office, imploring her to stay, just stay, until everything was sorted out. He'd see to her getting home safely.

Harleen knew what he wanted, after how stressful the day had been. She was happy that she had just put fresh sheets on before leaving for work that morning. Good to always be prepared.

There was a great deal of noise at the end of the hall-more than usual-and Harleen could stand it no longer. She pushed herself out of her old chair and teetered down the hallway to see what was going on.

She went over to the receptionist Betty. Betty was a lovely old woman who smelled of cat food and always had a paperback in her top drawer, usually something with a pink or purple cover that had a bare-chested man ravishing a protesting woman. Silly women, they wanted it. Harleen knew this because she had gone through Betty's drawers and she used to be one of those women. Silly, silly things.

"What's going on, Betty?" Cat food smell. Meow. The novel went back into the drawer. Bare-chested hunk. Rawr. Betty cleared her throat nervously.

"They said they caught that Joker, the girls all want to see him. See that," she gestured with a pudgy finger to her chin area, "you know."

Oh, the smile. The creepy smile that made Harleen's stomach go all squishy like when she was watching the patients get injections or when they showed her their scars. Kinda gross. Kinda cool. Maybe a little scary.

"Oh," she said slowly, and shifted back on her heels. "I think I'll go, too."

There was quite a crowd. Officers were bringing men in various medical clothing, and there were more security guards with guns beside them. It was like a parade. Where were the balloons?

It was easy to tell when they started to bring in the Joker. There was a crowd of police and SWAT team members surrounding him, like some sort of bee-hive. And at the center of it, at the heart of it all, like the queen bee, was the Joker.

He seemed to be slumped, like if they weren't holding his hands behind his back, he'd pool into a puddle on the floor. But although his head was down, he seemed to be watching everyone , eyes constantly moving, roving over the crowd present.

His eyes continued their sweep and landed on her where she stood next to Betty Cat Food and Nurse Lady. He stood a little straighter but cocked his head as he stopped walking.

"Well," he said, slowly, sounding each letter nice and slow. "The decor is sure nice around here."

There was a little bit of a chill that passed through her as those dark eyes swept over her, appraising as they did. She looked at his face, at the cheeks. There was the squishy feeling. Gross. Cool. Scary.

"Come on, you," said the bulky SWAT team member handling him. He jerked the criminal to keep moving.

The eyes continued their search around. The Joker shook his head, and smacked his lips as if preparing for a meal, and continued down the hall to the reception room.

The squishy feeling remained with her, and all through dinner with the director she could still feel those eyes on her.

James Gordon, beer in hand, decided to go check upon his children. There was the sound of something on the fire escape, and before he could pull his gun, his niece was scrambling through the window.

"It's me!" she whispered as she nimbly slipped back into the room. Seeing the ease with which she snuck back in only confirmed James' old suspicions. She seemed to know what he was thinking, because as she tugged at her blouse down, she smiled. "Yes, I used to in the Narrows. I don't think your eyebrow has ever been any higher than it is right now."

The two adults slipped back out into the hallway, and he waited for his niece to give him an explanation.

"Has everyone gone home?" she asked, peaking over the banister. He responded that they had. "Good. Good. Okay." Barbara was still nervous, it seemed. "They were talking while you were out in the garage, Uncle Jim. The guys still on the force are setting up a trap to get Batman. It's not even that good of a plan, really; Batman knows now that you're all chasing after him, so why he would show up when that light is turned back on, I wouldn't know."

James could hear it as he ground his teeth, and could feel his temples starting to throb. "Those bastards. What that man does for this city, I mean-for Christ's sake, he was shot earlier."

His niece cursed under her breath. "Uncle Jim, he was here."

No, this was not good, not good at all. James started down the stairs, grabbing his coat off the banister as he went. His wife may be waiting for him upstairs, but sleep and everything else had to wait.

"I told him already," she called after him. "I told him that you'd contact him another way. Go get some sleep, you deserve it."

Panic momentarily abated, Gotham's commissioner made his way back up the stairs. It was good to sleep at home again, under his sheets that smelled like his detergent and his wife's perfume. She sighed and turned towards him, and her wedding ring gleamed in the low light.

How had he gotten so lucky? He'd been an aging detective raising a teenager, and she was a young widow. The two Barbaras had gotten along immediately and his life was richer for it.

Gordon looked over to his bedside table to see the time, and cursed quietly; his cell phone was missing from its usual spot which meant that it was in the pocket of his jacket downstairs. Carefully, he extricated himself from the bed and padded down the stairs.

The phone buzzed to life soon after he removed it from the jacket. It was timing like this, he thought as he saw the number on the screen, that left him wondering if his caped friend was some sort of psychic.

"You took a bullet for my family tonight," he said. That was something he liked about these conversations. They were terse and to the point, and there were no unnecessary formalities on either side. No bullshit, he would have said, if he was younger.

"Your son. How is he?"

"Just fine, a little shaken, but everyone is fine. My niece said she spoke to you."

"Meeting at MCU is out of the question if what she said is true. Is she trustworthy?"

Gordon looked over at his niece, asleep on the couch in the living room. Twenty-four, and three of her years spent God knew where...but she came back, and she always did when the family needed her. He remembered her at twelve with her arm in a cast explaining to him why she had to punch her classmate. "They called daddy a 'dumb cop' and then I started the fight," she had said, not trying even to hide that she had started the fight.

"To a fault," he responded with a tired sigh. "She would never lie about something like that. Be happy she's taken your side; Barbara's a loyal girl."

"Keep the cell phone on, Gordon."

Gordon nodded, not sure if Batman could see him. "Always do. You need to rest, Batman." Somewhere along the way, he'd guessed the man was probably a bit younger than him; he'd started to take up a bit of a paternal concern for the man.

"Crime doesn't," was the response, and the line went dead.

In a lovely beachfront home with all of its lights off at the end of Dunn Street a phone rang. It was not the house's main line; there were several cordless phones connected to that line, and they all would have started up in their shrill little tones at the same time, waking everyone in the house, if that had been the case. No, there was only one phone connected to this particular line that started to ring in the picturesque house, and it was next to Sheela Meroni's bed.

The middle-aged wife fumbled for the phone blindly with one hand while she removed the green gel face mask from her face with the other. In the dark, the wrinkles of her hands were greatly exaggerated, and she made a mental note to figure out a regimen for that in the morning.

"Hello?" she asked, finally answering the phone. It was an old Princess phone, with one of those horrifically annoying curling cords. There was no ID on it, but she knew the few people who had the number, so it made no difference.

"Half of the family got to the resort. I just checked; they got there safely."

"I thought that there was an accident." She sat up and examined her engagement and wedding rings as she listened to the heavily breathing person on the other side. "Isn't that why things are the way they are?"

"Your husband was smart and made sure that your family members didn't all travel on the same plane. Didn't tell you or anyone else."

Sheela rolled her eyes and tried to keep herself from scowling, since it caused wrinkles. This wire-tap was a bitch, honestly. So half of the money was in the Carribean bank account. That was good.

Sal had thought he had married a good Italian girl who would shut up and look pretty and sleep with him when he wanted it. That was not Sheela, much to his delight and discontent. Her mom had been a shrewd business woman, and had taught her daughter that the best investments a girl could make were in, first and foremost, a good pair of stilettos, and second, good stock paper for the wedding invitations. People gave good gifts if they thought it was a good wedding. With these two tools, a girl could set herself up quite nicely, and as long as she kept an eye on her husband's business, she'd be just fine.

"Thanks for giving me an update; keep me posted on how they're doing down there," she said before hanging up and rolling back over to sleep.

Stupid Gotham Police fuck, messing with her sleep. She needed those nine hours interrupted, thank you very much. Moles could wait for the morning.

The dial pad light when out as she hung up, and the Cape Carmine beachfront home was dark once more.

Sorry about the tardiness of this chapter; I'm into my finals here at college and as I am in four writing intensive courses, I've had mountains of work to get through. That and the ever present family drama llama made an appearance in the front yard, morosely chewing on the grass.

Also, this chapter started out a great deal shorter than the first one, and I was afraid I'd have to combine two chapters. Sheela and James' boys came to the rescue, as did Lucius and Alfred. I expect that sort of thing from the latter two, though.

Thank you for all of the reviews! Over the next few weeks I am planning on responding to each of them.

1. The coffee table bit was inspired by Thanksgiving with my aunt and uncle. The little cousins nearly went careening through a plate glass coffee table, and those of us with prior child-rearing experience of any sort have all tried to persuade them to get rid of it.

2. Pasquale's Bistro is taken from some of the RPG stuff for Dark Knight, and the expansion of the restaurant was mentioned in one of the news pieces.

3. Barbara's past in New York is something different than what's covered in any of the comics. She's not the Barbara Gordon of the comic-verse or any of the series or movies, she's here for the Nolan world, and I've thought very hard about motivation for her and her decisions and personality. There will be more about it in the future.

4. Harley is becoming the most entertaining of the perspectives as far as writing is concerned. The choppy, abrupt style with no real attention to grammar is intentional, I promise.

5. 'Cherry Bomb' red is a color of lipstick put out through CoverGirl. It's quite loud and appropriate for Harleen.

6. Alfred mentions a 'little pod-thing', and this is taken from Gotham Knight.

7. Gordon's home's location and names for places around Gotham are taken from several maps. Links for my sources will be over at my livejournal community for this fic, which can be located through my profile here on Fanfiction-dot-net.

8. Sal Moroni's car flipped in the Dark Knight, but it was never specifically said that he died. I need him alive for this story, so he lived, miraculously.

9. Barbara's 'prickly hot feeling of guilt' is supposed to be a foil to Harleen's squishies. There's a lot of mirroring and foils in this story, and for the most part, they are intentional.

10. While Barbara has not been in Gotham, her uncle has been keeping her up-to-date. She admires his work in the city, but like any sane person, finds him a bit intimidating when she first meets him. She's not perfect, she's entirely human, and having her sass Batman at the start? Not entirely realistic, my dears. I'm really trying to think 'Nolan', here.

11. Betty is not Catwoman, and never will be.

12. Sheela Moroni sprung up when I needed someone to answer that phone, and she appeared at the other end of a hand with a huge ring on it. I think I'm starting to love to hate her a little.