Nothing ever stays the same in Gotham City.

Two years ago Jim Gordon was a sergeant and the mob set all the rules. A year ago he was a lieutenant caught up inside the mob's chaotic death throes. And now he's the commissioner and organized crime is being replaced, one block at a time, by people who wear masks and jump off rooftops.

And his marriage is foundering, and he's supposed to hunt down the one man who might still drag the city out of its darkness, the man who saved his life and – most importantly – his son's.

Jim rubs the bridge of his nose, glasses bumping up against his forehead. Being appointed commissioner was intended as a reward, but there are times it feels an awful lot like a punishment.

Ceramic clinks on wood in front of him, and he looks up to see Lieutenant Essen has set a cup of coffee on the edge of her desk. "Jim," she says, shutting the office door against the background clatter of the MCU.

"Thanks," he says. Picks it up and takes a drink to cover the sudden twist of unease. The twist of guilt from lying to one of his allies. "What's your feeling?"

Essen sits in her chair and blows out a heavy breath at the stack of case files on the desk between them. "I think she's good for it," she says. "I think she's a damn ghost who's good at getting lost in the shuffle, and I don't like it. Especially not the costume."

"Especially not the costume," Jim agrees.

"Bat men, cat women… I never thought I'd find a city crazier than New York."

He gives her an ironic salute with the coffee mug. "Welcome to Gotham."

She picks up a file and pages through it, not really interested in reading it. "You suspected this – a thief like this – already?"

That's what he told her earlier, justifying his precise knowledge of case numbers: That he started putting these pieces together when he was still with the MCU himself, not just slumming in the early-morning hours.

The truth is, of course, that the Batman handed him the information a few hours ago, after Jim left the crime scene, while Essen was still overseeing a search to capture the vigilante. How Batman got the numbers, Jim neither knows nor wants to know.

"More or less," Jim says.

Essen closes the file and tosses it back on top of the stack. "I still think we could have made an arrest," she says, referring to Batman, not the thief. They'd argued about it at the scene - although not where the news cameras could hear.

"A SWAT team couldn't do it," he says, superstitiously spooked at how her mind moves and trying not to show it. "Hell, half the department couldn't do it. You had three detectives and some patrolmen. It wasn't possible. Trust me."

She meets his eyes. Hers are very blue and very sharp. "I do."

Unspoken but still audible is: Except on this.

He holds her stare. Sarah Essen is tough and uncompromising and a damn good cop; that's why he handpicked her to be his successor, why he trusts her, why he's having this meeting down in the MCU instead of holding court in the commissioner's office.

He wonders how much she knows and how much she can prove.

"I'd like to ask a favor," he says, shifting slightly but not looking away. As commissioner he could simply order her. That's not his style, though, and he's determined not to fall into the trap of throwing his weight around just because he can.

She looks down, deliberately conceding, picking up her own coffee. "All right."

"Montoya. She's a good cop."

"Not tonight," Essen points out mildly, then waves away his protest before it can even form. "No, I know, she wasn't trying to screw up. And she admitted it, so she's all clear as far as I'm concerned. IA, on the other hand…" Essen shrugs.

Jim nods, pleased that they're in agreement on that, at least. "She'll be okay." He clears his throat. "I want you to put her in Major Crimes."

"Because our quota of rookie Latinas is too low?" she asks with warranted asperity. "Sorry, Jim, but no. I need a better reason than you, asking for a favor."

He thinks of Anna Ramirez, of the last time he saw her, how ground down and defeated she looked in the defendant's chair, with all the life snuffed out of her eyes. Too tired to fight against a guilty plea, against the ghost of Rachel Dawes, against justice moving sluggishly - but surely - to wash away the last traces of the mob's sticky fingers.

He'd sent flowers to her mother's funeral last month. It had seemed like the right thing to do.

"Montoya is not Ramirez," he says, irritated but trying not to show it. "Her background's clean, Sarah – I've had an eye on her for a while. She deserves better than patrol for the next twenty years."

Essen's eyebrows raise, and the sharpness returns to her expression. "I've been watching her, too. She's not popular. Makes some of her sympathies too obvious."

Meaning her Batman sympathies, which are what drew Jim's attention in the first place.

"That's not a crime." If it was he would've been tried and convicted long ago – by a judge, not simply his wife.

Essen sighs. "I'll consider it. Okay, sir?"

"Fair enough." He leans back in the chair and relaxes a small, small fraction. He feels better for having taken care of Montoya. It's one thing he wanted to do and didn't get the chance to, as a lieutenant. His time in that position hadn't lasted nearly as long as he –

Time.

He feels an inward lurch of panic and checks his watch – Oh shit – wincing when he sees the numbers. It's later than he thought – much later. But he can still make it.

"I need to get home," he says, abandoning the coffee mug to the desk, standing and heading for the door. He'll have to sign for a car – that shouldn't take longer than six minutes short of forever. "I told my wife… She'll kill me if I don't."

"Hold on," Essen says, "I'll get you a ride." She stands up, too, and he lets her go through the door first, holding it open for her.

"Allen!" she calls to one of the detectives, and a few seconds later the lucky fellow is going in search of his car keys while Jim remembers – belatedly – that his jacket is still in Essen's office. He retrieves it and remembers – belatedly – to thank her.

She rolls her shoulder, clearly uncomfortable, but he can't figure why. "It's nothing. I remember having someone waiting at home," she says. Wistful and bitter and wry all at once. "It's a hard life for them. A steep price. Too steep for some people," she adds, still with that mix of inflections.

"Thanks, Lieutenant," Jim says again, not wanting to hear about failed relationships. "Good work this morning," he says, louder, to all of the MCU personnel, and gets a light spattering of appreciative comments and applause. Then he leaves with Allen.

On the ride home he chafes at every red light, every delay. And he wonders more about their thief. Why a cat? What drew her out of the shadows where she's hidden, so successfully, for so long?

He thinks it has something to do with that missing kid case the Batman was investigating months ago. But if Batman has known about her for months… She should be in handcuffs by now.

A disquieting thought. As is this:

What else is already roaming Gotham City, waiting to be discovered?

"I can put on the siren," Allen offers at one red light, eyebrows raising over his glasses, one corner of his mouth curving up. Crispus Allen is another good cop, and a lucky one: He was on vacation when the Joker blew up half the MCU.

"No," Jim says automatically. He wants to play things clean. He pledged at the outset, in those first weeks after the Joker's vicious spree, that his time as commissioner was going to be transparent and honest, that he was going to complete the transformation of Gotham into a law-abiding city – and he's already having regular back-alley meetings with a wanted criminal. Any more abuses of power and he may be crushed under the hypocrisy altogether.

Allen has barely rolled to a stop at the curb in front of the house when Jim jumps out, calling his thanks over his shoulder, walking fast, half-jogging to his door. He straightens his tie and smoothes his hair automatically as he enters, as if he's going to meet a victim's family, or a crucial suspect.

The kids are up; he can tell by the background sounds from the TV. Some cartoon, no doubt, all flash and noise and hyperkinetic bright colors that'd give him a headache if he tried to watch it.

He goes into the kitchen, saying, "Good morning!" like it's Christmas.

His daughter squeals "Daddy!" and flings her arms around his knees, hugging him, nearly knocking him down. His son breaks into a wide grin over his cereal bowl and says, "Morning, Dad."

His wife looks at him without saying anything, but there's a sheen to her eyes and a tightness to her stance that tells him everything.

He says, "I'm not too late, am I?"

Barb gives him a smile.

A small one. A watery one.

But a real one.

"No," she says. "No, you... No. You're just in time."

And Jim Gordon starts to think that maybe things will be all right.

---end---