Disclaimer: I don't own nor have any claim on any recognizable characters or settings. This story is written mainly because I had an idea that would not let go and shared because I hope my effort would at least be readable. With that being said, any mistake is mine alone. No money is being made off this story.

Catching the Light

Chapter 1: Night

They say that there is light at the end of the tunnel.

Is that what I'm seeing, Rachel? While I'm thinking and discarding plans to prevent a disaster in the making, it seems like I am barreling down a tunnel, and the police van in the far distance is my prize, the light I seek.

3... 2... 1...

The actual crash is a blur. It's sudden, boom, just there. Even though I've been bracing myself for the impact, in the end, I only manage to rearrange my posture enough to protect my body.

The next thing I know, I am sitting right in the intersection, my back almost but not quite touching what is left of my car. I don't remember getting out of the Lamb nor which of its many(?) anti-crash mechanisms have been engaged (welllll, the airbag, of course. One of these days I should start reading the (I'm sure is) fine instruction manual). I only know I'm not seeing the inside of this car again, ever.

Goodbye, Bat. Nice knowing you while it lasted.

If my predictable accident managed to go on TV (and it would be just my luck if it's GCN reporting) while the town is in an uproar over the Joker, Alfred would surely lecture me again on the thrill seeking.

You know what? I almost look forward to that lecture. All this craziness is starting to get to me.

So, against all my obsessive needs for order among chaos, I wouldn't try to wheedle my way out of being in the news. Although, as Bruce Wayne was driving, it's gonna be just 'moderately good television' this time.

I'm dreaming. Must be a side effect from the crash. The world where keeping track of Bruce Wayne, even though he's dubbed 'the Prince of Gotham', is more important than keeping track of a dangerous, unpredictable criminal is the world I do not want to live in.

"...Mr. Wayne, isn't it? That was a very brave thing you did."

Rubbing my eyes, I paste a stupidly dazed look on my face. And it isn't entirely an act. The stupidly dazed look, that is. A madman threatens to blow up a hospital filled with several hundred lives in exchange for one life that threatens my very existence and all I can now focus on is the fact that my hero threatens to make Bruce Wayne into some sort of a hero.

But the praise is reluctant - there seems to be some faint trace of disapproval. Perhaps my hero thought I shouldn't be too reckless with my vulnerable life? All the better for me, then, since it wouldn't be too hard to convince him that I didn't do whatever brave thing he claimed I did.

'Hello, Lieutenant. How do you like your partner off shadowy rooftops and into the sunlight?'

'It's Commissioner now. And not very much, Mr. Wayne. A plastic personality isn't really my cup of coffee.'

Ouch! No, double ouch! My hero becomes the police commissioner only because Mr. Mayor wants to keep his own political hide in one piece. And Gordon? If the monster with a rasping voice from your worst nightmare is your cup of coffee, I very much fear for your sanity. That is, if you still have any left.

You know how it is. You call some ordinary man the world's greatest detective, and next he starts believing he can actually read minds.

Worse, I almost blurted all that out, although we'd still be fine if I stopped at 'Hello, Lieutenant.' In some semblance of an effort to keep on my so-called clueless act, I'm not calling him Commissioner until he corrects me. And perhaps when he does, I will still continue to forget that occasionally.

Where were we in the real world? Oh, I was brave, or something? Let's see - there is this not too terrible line I managed to scramble up during my drive (oh, the part where I wasn't dodging between other cars and where I wasn't taking notes for my faithful butler, that is).

"Trying to catch the light?" I demand, pinning my hero with a suitably incredulous glare. He must be mad to equate any kind of bravery with a man who publicly admitted to wanting to abolish a speeding ticket. And a running a red light ticket, not that I'm supposed to know the proper name for it.

His thick mustache seems to quiver. Huh? I haven't one bit of alcohol in my system. I'm not sick, either. But that up and down, up and down motion on both ends of his mustache seems almost nauseatingly hypnotic, lulling me to a heavenly place where worries don't exist.

My mind's eyes snap open. Get a hold of yourself, Wayne. A place like that does not exist! If it feels real, somebody must have messed with your mind.

He swiped a finger back and forth over his mustache, effectively breaking my strange spell of getting drunk on it. But his being flustered only serves to make me inwardly cringe instead. This empty head act is doing too good a job of cementing my reputation. Not that I ever had an untarnished reputation to begin with, but willfully destroying it might be going a bit too far, don't you think?

Rachel would agree. Alfred would agree, but would say I have to endure anyway, like I have to endure other destructions my nocturnal career brings. (Although calling Batman a career is pushing it. Since Batman doesn't receive monetary compensations (legitimately, that is. A few unsavory citizens actually thought Batman could be bribed to ignore, or worse, to help them with their crimes. Yes, I know: how unbelievably, sickeningly naïve), it's more like a volunteer work. Then again, not quite that either. I can't think of any volunteer work that would put a private citizen at odds with the police. Then then again, according to them and pretty much most of Gotham general public, I'm a bubbleheaded billionaire, so what do I know?) It's a safe bet to say all my loved ones and then some would believe that making no effort to repair my reputation is better than tearing it down on purpose.

But this isn't about me. This is about my...our beloved city. We all do what we have to do to save her. I don't hold a grudge against Gordon for the stunt he pulled, scaring his friends and family half to death.

Alright, for a minute or two after his non-miraculous resurrection, I did have an uncharitable thought of sending him back to the land of the non-livings. But, at the same time, I have to admit that playing his card close to the chest (literally, I'm diverted enough to note), as our intrepid DA says, is effective. It's necessary to fool your friends before fooling your enemies or some such thing. Therefore, I've decided to be magnanimous and forgive him.

So, if I could be the adult in that situation, surely my hero could take my non-heroic facade. If I'm fated to stay an airhead in his eyes forever, so be it.

I wonder, however, whether that might be the reason I never approached him as Bruce Wayne. My facade can only endure so far.

As if he is afraid I wouldn't know what we are talking about, Gordon points at the vehicle in question. "You weren't protecting the van?"

Of course, I was. Why would I destroy my expensive car otherwise? Do I look like I have money to burn?

Oh, of course, I do. Time for another answer. Too bad I don't have a whole ride to think this time and now have to come up with something plausible on the spot.

I inwardly hiss. Stop trying to make me into a goddamn hero already, Gordon! With at least half of your force corrupted, we would be lucky if your almost outward praise didn't jeopardize anything.

Attempting to salvage the situation, I make my eyes wide like Barbie's, hopefully complete with a lack of intelligence to match. "Why? Who's in it?"

He doesn't respond. Not that I really expect him to. It seems like I either succeed in sinking myself in his eyes or succeed in making him realize that playing along with me for now is the best thing he could do. And I'm not sure which possibility is worse. If it's the latter, I hope he doesn't press me for answers. After all, he wouldn't be able to deny or confirm what I don't tell him. As I recall the rest of that conversation with Lucius, a smile threatens to break out, but I ruthlessly squash it.

But, either way, having manipulated him, I cannot meet my hero's eyes, so I turn my attention to the person who got us into this sticky situation. What grudge does he have against me, or more accurately, against my CEO, since my dear blackmailer never approached me with his dangerous epiphany? I don't have time to figure it out, and I'm not sure I want to try even if I have the time.

Mr. Reese's eyes widen. Now what kind of look did I give him? I wish it could be otherwise, but bubbleheaded playboys and intimidation don't mix well together. Or perhaps I haven't given him any because I don't feel any particular emotion toward him? He is a Gotham citizen, thus, I'm sworn to protect him, as I would have done for everyone in this beloved city. Batman cannot afford to have a favorite. Because if he ever does things for personal reasons, he would be no different from the other vigilantes who excuse their monstrous doings in the name of evil.

Alfred would slowly kill me in ten thousand different ways for twisting his words. But what he doesn't know can't hurt him, can it? Scratch that, Alfred knows everything. I swear, my dear exasperating butler has an unreal, supernatural ability to suss out whatever it is that you are fooling yourself into thinking that you can hide so well.

My blackmailer is being escorted off. To a safer place in no company of cops with families in hospitals, I presume. I don't have the time to get another Lamborghini (or if I had to, I could use the Tumbler, subtlety be damned, since it got us into this situation, but, unlike with my personal cars, my CEO would have my head if I crashed it indiscriminately. But hold it, I don't have a Tumbler - at least, not any I could immediately access, so back to the Lamb or nothing), and no one with any intelligence would have swallowed my inane excuse of "catching the light" the second time around.

If the last slightly shaky look he gave me is any indication, I probably succeed in silently begging Mr. Reese to hold off from exposing me on a live television until the Joker is safely locked up in his padded cell with no hope of escape. I'm not asking too much of them, am I?

For everyone's peace of mind, I'd better keep Mr. Reese in my employ. Easier to protect him if I can actually keep track of his whereabouts. And there is that saying about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer. Not that I think of him as an enemy, but he's still a wild card. And he's distressingly good at his work. It would be a shame to lose that talent. Besides, it would be a bother if I hired someone else and that person managed to duplicate what Mr. Reese did to land us in this hot water all over again.

And, if I dare materialize the garish purple elephant in the room, my blackmailer could simply provide me with a much better umbrella reason so no one else would ever be tempted to suspect that anything was not above board with R&D land in Wayne Enterprises.

But in the meantime, Mr. Reese is definitely not safe. Perhaps Gordon might have some idea about how to protect my blackmailer. Must remember to ask when I go give my statement regarding this accident.

I put a hand to the back of my neck. There is no injury there, but I am wound up so tightly I have to rub it. That may or may not account for my randomly going with the first thing that comes to mind.

"Don't you think I should go to the hospital?"

He doesn't roll his eyes in response, but my conscience hears it just the same. That's a bit too much, a bit too fake, even for a bubbleheaded playboy. But what's done is done. I could only offer an indifferent shrug. If it's damned if I do, damned if I don't, I might as well play my exaggerated role to the hilt.

"You don't watch a whole lot of news, do you, Mr. Wayne?"

No. I have my butler to do that for me. One of the many perks of being a rich, idle, spoiled prince. You don't ever do anything yourself.

Um... "not watching a whole lot of news" is also applicable to my not knowing about the occupant of the van. It's more effective here, however. Why I think that I don't even know. The news in question is intertwined, after all: you know about the Joker's threat, you know about the non-choice between the people in the hospital and Mr. Reese.

Thank you, Gordon, for not patronizing me. And I mean every word of that.

"It can get a little intense," I repay his kindness in an inane voice.

Poor Gordon. The look he shoots me seems to say, 'A little intense, huh? I don't want to know what you consider intense, Mr. Wayne.'

The emphasis on 'Mr. Wayne' sounds so high-pitched that I continue this imaginary one-sided conversation and tell him to call me Bruce. Then proceed to confess all my sins, where I failed the important people in my life, including Rachel and Harvey.

Naturally, this exercise in futility does not lighten my burden. Not one bit.

Shrugging, I struggle to keep the vacuous look on my face. How long can I keep doing this? I was tempted to add, 'what's happening at the hospital?' but that would be deliberately admitting that I'm more than the image I take pains to project. And we couldn't have that, could we? Being careless with my own life is one thing, being careless with the lives of others is not the line I am willing to cross. There are far too many people (read: more than one person) in the know as it is.

Not that I don't trust Gordon; in fact, that is probably the farthest thing from the truth. But giving him the burden he never asks for? Not too sporting, my butler would say.

Or would he? Alfred probably would wash his hands of me long before I was even tempted to confess on my own. Seriously, doing that is just asking for trouble I don't want to deal with. I mean, the Joker already managed to track down my loved ones fine without my giving in to his demands (that he changed anyway, that psychotic unpredictable clown). (And if you're gonna tell me that his change of heart means the Joker already knows who I am, he would not be able to resist coming to me and striking where I'm most vulnerable.) Serving up my identity on a platter, like I was going to do at the press conference, would help no one but my conscience. Perhaps not even that.

But, in any case, I might as well not bother with any kind of cover-up. Gordon no longer pays any attention to me. Story of my life: I am always left behind by the people I love.

I mentally kick myself. Enough of the pity party my dead loved ones wouldn't want me to hold. I have to focus on the living. Leave the brooding for when this city is no longer puppeteered by a white-faced clown.

At that moment, the ground shakes from the strength of a blast. So the Joker's fulfilled his twisted promise. I have to trust that the police managed to get everyone out of the hospital.

And I wish I could remain that naïve. To completely evacuate a building of that size in under an hour is an impossibility.

For what seems like forever, but probably only a minute or two in reality, a numbness spreads over my body. It is unreal. The Joker said that he would blow up a hospital, but until that moment, I don't think I have truly believed him.

Almost instinctively, my hands tense up. While it is nowhere near Batman level (that persona requires a costume to summon it up), my body language is far from fitting the bubblehead persona. Before you all scold me for not trying to hide my secret, I no longer care if Gordon notices that I'm not entirely without proper sensibility. Or perhaps, in my selfishness, I want him to notice. I'm too weak to keep up a facade.

My eyes take in all. Even when they want to close, I force them open.

I am sorry. Forgive me. I dare ask for absolution, knowing I would never get it, my voice can no longer reach the casualties I blithely sacrificed. In all my childish desire to meet with my hero, I've neglected to hurry to the hospital.

What could you have done, even if you had reached the hospital in time? You are only one person, and not a superhuman. No one could ask you to do the impossible.

I already know that. The fact that I am here instead of there is proof enough that I've already unconsciously decided that I could do no good at the hospital (the one perk of being a high society is you don't ever go anywhere and hope to blend into the crowd) but might be able to save one life here. Not to mention it's entirely possible that the Joker might target some other hospital besides Gotham General. I couldn't afford to guess wrong and become useful nowhere.

But that is all beside the point. I didn't even try. In the most horrible way possible, I have failed them, all the good people who had their faith in the Batman.

But perhaps people can still have their faith in the police. Even with half of the force not to be trusted, the officers all seem to set aside their personal agendas for a moment and work together to pull through the current crisis. It says a lot about Gordon's leadership ability.

Amidst his many responsibilities, Gordon proved me wrong and found the time to return to my side. He looks at me with kind eyes, the same eyes that reassured me that the world was far from ending in that dark night many years ago.

What am I to do? My indifference, my shield, crumbles. I am tired, woozy, drained.

If my hero sees my weakening, he makes no outward indication. Reaching out, he gives my stiff shoulder a gentle squeeze.

Go home. You have done all you can. We will take care of the rest.

Oh, he didn't actually say that out loud, but that's what I hear just the same. And I don't take it amiss. A civilian has no place among the police convoy, especially since they are busy trying to save the city.

But is that true? Have I done all I can here? Is it enough? Can the police be trusted to do their job properly?

As if he sensed my inner struggles (and he probably could, with me broadcasting them), Gordon squeezes my shoulder again. I would love to say that my world is put to right by his kind gesture, but the world (alright, the Joker, whom I have, in my misguided superiority, severely underestimated) is not that simple. Still, I very much appreciate the comfort as a little bit of tension lifts from my shoulder.

Gordon turns his attention toward the poor defeated Bat destroyed in the line of duty. And I mentally blink, my confusion genuine. The unsalvageable Lamborghini Murcielago is still here, its very presence seems to mock me for failing it also.

"I'll need you to sign some paperwork. Stop by the station when you're free."

Oh, I see. While I've been unproductively ruminating, Gordon is already taking steps to dispose of what is left of my car.

So I put on my best reassuring 'everything is okay' face and say brightly, "Sure thing, Lieutenant."

He looks as if he wants to say something, but then just shakes his head. "On another thought, perhaps I could bring those papers to you." His raised eyebrow seems a challenge, as if to say 'can you take five minutes out of your busy partying schedule to meet me?'

Are we back at this facading again? Where have all the sympathies gone? Was I reading too much into his earlier gestures?

There is a time when one has to take things on faith. Perhaps my hope for salvation is not entirely lost if I can still blindly trust someone. But, to be fair, it isn't difficult to trust my hero - Gordon is and will always be the one person incapable of being poisoned with darkness.

So I smile my million dollar smile, but with enough seriousness to show that I am sincere and not whatever fake thing the commissioner believes me to be.

"No, it's fine. I can go down to the station whenever you wish."

He sighs. "The station isn't in the best shape at the moment."

It is an explanation. The truth, tinged with regret, but the airheaded playboy wouldn't...couldn't understand that. He would think Gordon was indulging in a reverse snobbery, that the station is too good for the likes of Bruce Wayne.

And perhaps Gordon has the right idea in keeping me from the station. The airhead would whine and whine and whine. All the dust. All the papers. All the chaos.

If it is more convenient for Gordon to bring those papers to me, let him. Whatever our relationship may be (and trust me when I say I'm not sure what that is), I have no wish to add to my hero's burden. He is the light of Gotham that I could never be.

So, instead of prolonging this awkward encounter (when it's clear the last thing my hero wants to do is to babysit a phony playboy) with flippant remarks I don't feel like making, I only bow. "As you wish, Lieutenant. I'll be happy to comply with any arrangement you make."

He looks at my face, stripped free of facade, for a long time, but in reality, it must have lasted only a few seconds. Whatever he found there must have satisfied him, for he nods. "I'll contact you." He gives me a light clap on the arm, then goes off to be a hero and save our city.

At the last moment, he stops. "Oh, Mr. Wayne?" he says over his shoulder.

"Yes?"

"I'm not giving you a ticket this time, but, in the future, leave running the red light to the professionals, will you?"

Even though his face is stern, I could hear a smile in his voice. The professionals, huh? Public servants, criminal masterminds, or something else?

I almost snort. It's Jim Gordon, of course, it's "something else". That should worry me, but somehow, with the head of Gotham's finest reassuring me on matters I'm sure he doesn't have a full picture of (and it's my fault for not explaining, I know), I feel like I'm not alone, not at this moment. My smile is completely genuine this time.

In lieu of an answer, I give him a little salute and turn to leave. Not before I catch a not entirely pleased expression on my hero's face, however. But I continue walking and pretend to not feel his gaze burning amiss on my back.

But why? Did I underdo the salute? Too flippant? I thought he doesn't mind that. He might want to roll his eyes, but he hasn't yelled nor expressed a real annoyance at my so-called playboy-ish behaviors the entire time I've been in his company, so I'm left with a blank I'm not sure I want to try to fill in.

One thing at a time. The fiendish clown is still at large, busily whipping the townspeople into a chaotic frenzy. But Gotham's finest is working hard to change that, to give faith back to this city. I'll have to lend them a hand, doing whatever it takes (one of which, I'm sure, involves making my CEO mad at me) to bring the Joker to justice.

For a city in the clutches of a psychotic clown, the streets are curiously peaceful. Perhaps people think it's safer to stay at home and give the Joker no ammunition to use. Sure, they are most likely just looking out for themselves, but as long as they don't care to eat one another yet, the weight lifts a little from my heart.

The light is still out there, waiting for me at the end of the tunnel. Right, Rachel? Dawn may be years away, but I'll just have to forge ahead and reach for that light.

A/N: Thank you for reading my story. Hope you enjoyed it.

Next Chapter: Gordon's version of the same event.