A/N: This popped into my head one day, was written in an hour, and gathered dust for a few years. Hope you enjoy!

As far as fundraisers went, Gordon wasn't sure if this one was going well, or going badly. He simply didn't go to enough of them to be able to judge, or even care. Sure, the canapés were nice enough; the waiters came around regularly; the live classical music wasn't too loud; the guests seemed to be enjoying themselves. Yet for the life of him, Gordon was physically unable to join in. He'd been nursing the same glass of some unpalatable concoction for the entire time, and the collar of his recently purchased dressy suit was beginning to itch something terrible.

One hour in, and he was ready for any kind of excitement to break the monotony. Not that he expected it to emerge; the Annual Syndicated Media Benefit for Children, as delightful as that sounded, was merely an opportunity to rub shoulders with the biggest in the newspaper and broadcasting business and make contacts with rival syndicates. They hardly bothered to listen to the speeches anymore. Gordon found it intolerable that not a single person in the room was genuinely there to help the people of Gotham with their presence. Gordon was only there himself because he had promised the DA he would come out from behind his desk, no more than four times a year, and actually socialise with the elite who were giving him their money and their column inches. The argument was heated, to say the least, but the end result was in Gordon's presence at the Benefit. The DA wasted no time in winking at him from across the room in an entirely juvenile manner.

Realising how much of a curmudgeon he was sounding in his own head, Jim Gordon tried to engage with the nearest conversation he could overhear, but was distracted by the thought of how much the guest's vulgar dress would have cost. In fact, he couldn't find anything that seemed remotely discreet in the entire hall.

The Regal Function Room itself was in a state of elegant disrepair, which no doubt added to its charm as a venue for Gotham's rich and famous. Ironically, despite the marble and the velvet, it was built cheaply at some point in the last few decades during the population boom- the very picture of urban decay.

What better way to demonstrate the flimsiness of the construction than to have somebody fall through the roof?

He had long ago tuned out the chatter around him, and so it was that he missed the beginning of coming events. Gordon wasn't looking in the band's direction, but he certainly heard it when they stopped playing, the screech of the violin ending abruptly and echoing through the hall like a strangled cat. Spinning around, he saw the reason for their sudden end.

They were covered in chunks of plaster and dust, sending them into fits of coughing and choking as they stumbled away from the podium. Looking up, Gordon saw something that made his pulse race and his battle-honed senses pump into action.

Batman was hanging from the ruined roof, cape almost grey from all the dust, by barely a finger of his black leather gloves. He was fumbling for some device on his utility belt (presumably something to get him out of his predicament), but his fingers were slipping from the edge of the gaping hole in the roof...

By now, the whole crowd was staring in silent astonishment at the spectacle- until some enterprising journalist snapped a picture with his portable camera, causing every cameraman in the room to whip out their own (being journalists of the highest calibre, they never went anywhere without their equipment, which was rather unfortunate for Batman in his present predicament).

Gordon dimly heard the DA shouting, and remembered with a shock that he was meant to be apprehending the vigilante. Pushing his way through the dignitaries without an apology, (wishing that he hadn't brought his weapon to the party, in the event that he would be forced to actually shoot at Batman) he shouted, "Gotham Police, don't move! You're under-"

In Batman's twist to see who was shouting, he lost his last desperate grip- and plunged the two stories to the ground, collapsing in a heap on the stage. As he hit the wood with a massive crash, some guests started screaming, some started fleeing, and some (rather foolishly) started moving closer to the famous crusader.

"Get the civilians out of here!" Gordon snapped to the only uniformed men in the room, the private security guards; unfortunately, that was easier to order than to carry out. You couldn't hear their attempts to bring order over the many shouted questions that the journalists were directing to Batman, as though they expected him to get up and start calmly taking questions from the lectern.

Instead, Batman took one look at the chaos and staggered to his feet, looking for the exits.

Gordon was extremely conscious in that moment how close Batman was to being caught, once and for all. That must be avoided at all costs, undoubtedly, but he had to at least look like he was trying.

"Call for back-up," He snapped to the DA on his way through, hoping that the bureaucrat's channels were not as efficient as his own, and would therefore take a little longer to arrive.

Before Gordon could get too close, the vigilante had whipped out the grappling hook he had been fumbling for before, and instead of aiming it at the roof, went for the balconies that lined the second floor of the building (a wise move, to Gordon's mind; that roof was already proving unreliable).

Gordon continued to bark orders to the few men around him, crisp and clear, and ran for the stairs to the next floor with a vitality that belied his years. He'd drawn his gun, but he hadn't cocked it.

"Let no one up the stairs, hear? This man is dangerous." He barked, and the security guard nodded.

Calling up the schematics of the building in his mind (his men had performed security checks on the venue for various events in recent history) Gordon vaulted up the stairs two at a time. The balconies that ran around the centre ballroom on three sides were only two metres wide with round 'marble' pillars every so often along their length. Behind the podium end, it led to the backrooms and offices and a few private rooms- where Batman would run, if he was clever. However, Gordon seriously doubted that Batman knew the layout of the rooms. It was likely that he would get trapped in the ones without a second way out, and then he'd be in serious trouble.

Details, Gordon. There's got to be another way out. He admonished himself, and suddenly he had it.

When he reached the balconies, they were deserted, with only the scratches on the marble floor and the banisters to tell of the grappling hook and the man that had landed there. Taking cover every so often and checking his line of sight, he moved along the space, silently cursing the still-babbling crowd below him. He couldn't hear a damn thing with all their inane chatter.

So it was that, once he checked the first room, he merely saw two guests getting rather... intimate, who righted themselves quickly when he burst in on them, demanding why he was there. The woman in the blue dress blushed profusely.

"Did a masked man- never mind." He aborted the question wearily, knowing that they wouldn't have noticed anything.

The pair connected the dots. "Batman? Here? Cool!" The short man said enthusiastically. "That'd be quite a scoop for the reputation!" Gordon wasted no time in getting out of the room and moving down to the next room; one that he knew was a recently refurbished office- without any windows big enough to get through.

Shouldering the door open, he was flung into the room with some force, a blur of matte black armour flashing in front of his eyes. He was already pressed up against the wall with a fist an inch from his face before the Batman recognised him. Gordon winced at the thought of the black eye that Batman could give him- and the cost of replacing shattered glasses.

"Gordon," Batman growled, the tension evident in his voice. "You can't be seen."

You can't be seen helping me, Gordon finished the sentence.

They both froze when they heard the squeal of a woman outside, probably from the interrupted couple. The clack of her heels and the man's loafers came closer.

"Fire escape. Two rooms down. Leap onto the next building." Gordon managed to gasp out. "I'll distract them."

Before Batman could reply, he wrenched himself out of his grip and barrelled into the corridor, banging his shoulder painfully against the wall. The woman in the blue dress saw him first, and skittered away from him.

"Where'd he go, Chief?" The man yelled, excitement mounting at the opportunity before him.

"Last door on the le-" Gordon began misdirecting, but the man was already running with his camera in hand and the blonde following close behind. Gordon suddenly realised that he recognised her from GCN News in the mornings, but shoved the recollection down in favour of constructive thought. It would take them a minute to figure out that Batman wasn't there, and until then...

"Quickly," He breathed into the darkened room, and Batman emerged from the shadows to join him in the corridor. With a lurch, Gordon saw that his side was spattered with blood around a hole in the armour, which would account for his slip of judgement. Sparing a quick glance for Gordon, he ran silently to the right room, and presumably onto the fire escape, and freedom.

He heard the back-up squad thundering up the stairs, and paused to catch his breath and get his story straight for the report he would inevitably have to make (several times over). By the time the scene was secured, Batman was long gone.

Due to the disturbance, the party wasn't running so smoothly anymore. It was a shambles trying to get everyone's details down, as they were all witnesses to the Batman's abrupt entrance and flight. Gordon had handed that job over the Stephens as soon as was prudent, leaning against the vacated bar with a migraine building in his temples.

Bruce Wayne had come moseying over, trying to see if any bartenders were bothering to attend to the alcohol anymore. Gordon rolled his eyes at the injured look on the billionaire's face as he saw that it was closed.

"What kind of party is this?" He muttered under his breath, sitting himself down near Gordon with a forlorn sigh.

One that just went through a manhunt. Gordon thought acidly.

Gordon noted with a jolt that there was a spot of blood on his otherwise immaculate suit, staining the cuff with its crimson hue. The hand itself had a thin pink scar running the length of it, presumably from a botched drunken fencing fight or some such.

The blood spot got him thinking. Was it possible... could Batman's blood have gotten anywhere while he was hanging there, or running in retreat? The wound had seemed pretty serious...

He decided to ask Wayne, and if need be, rip the cuff off the sleeve if he had to. It was crucial that no evidence was left.

"Good evening, Mr. Wayne."

"Commissioner Gordon! Always a pleasure." He smiled, all white teeth and crinkled eyes.

"What's that blood on your arm, Mr. Wayne?" He asked pointedly.

The man looked confused for a moment, before noting the stain himself with a flick of his wrist. "Oh, that. From a nosebleed I had earlier. Have you ever tried to brake a Lamborghini to a dead stop when you're going-"

To prevent his confession of speeding, Gordon interrupted. "I get the idea, Mr. Wayne."

Wayne shrugged, and sighed mightily, as though he had the world on his shoulders. "I always miss the exciting parts, Gordon. I wasn't even here when the Bat swooped on by, and now I want the party I was promised." If he wasn't an adult, Gordon swore that he would have been pouting right about now. As it was, his expression was sulky enough.

Gordon felt relief wash over him that the blood on Wayne's sleeve couldn't possibly be from the Batman, if he wasn't there for the event. Case investigated, hypothesis reputed, case closed.

"Hey, um—Commissioner!" Bruce Wayne said cheerfully. "Could you get one of the waiters that are being questioned? They can't know more than anyone else, and I seriously need a drink."

Gordon blinked in utter astonishment. "I think that a Batman sighting is more important than your plans for tonight, Mr. Wayne. Maybe it will be prudent to get that drink elsewhere." He said firmly.

Wayne saluted him happily, and Gordon left him to his shallow world, glad that he was a thoroughly grounded man.

Before he left, though, there was something else that he had to check on upstairs...

Stephens was getting through the last of the guests when Bruce Wayne came up to put his name on the witness list, complaining to anyone who would listen that he'd better not be summoned to Court. He'd seen the whole thing, certainly, but he was an innocent man with a tight schedule.

No one noticed the awkward way he bent over, as though his side was tender. Or perhaps they noticed, and presumed him drunk. It would be an easy assumption to make.

Driving back to his penthouse, he smiled at a job well done. With his name on a witness list, who would suspect him of being Batman? The incident with the sharp-eyed Gordon was handled well enough; if the older cop had suspected the blood of being Batman's, Wayne wouldn't have been able to escape without arousing suspicion. The airheaded playboy persona had worked well, and he was off the hook—for now. Now, he had another costume change before he could retire for the night...

It was a late night—or, rather, an early morning—that saw Commissioner Gordon stumbling up the steps of his recent purchased townhouse on the edge of a row of them, the refuge of many a bachelor (or, in Gordon's case, a recent divorcee). His unlocking motion was less than graceful, but he still managed to get himself inside without serious incident. Already thinking wistfully of his bed, he trudged through the front hall and prepared to take off his coat.

Something caught the corner of his eye, and he jerked his head up to confirm his suspicions. Sure enough, lurking outside the back door that connected to the kitchen, a distinctive silhouette could be made out against the streetlight that shined into his back garden.

Moving through quickly, he unlocked the bolts on his door and swung it open. The silent sentinel moved a little further into the garden, so Gordon followed him out into the colder night air.

He was once again struck by how imposing the suit made Batman look to him, and how strange it seemed that a simple man was inside that potent symbol. Even though the official denunciation story had been grabbed by the journalists and politicians of Gotham, there were still a large number of civilians who would never forget what Batman had done, and was still doing, for them. It was important to remember that sometimes, to reassure himself that it was still worth it. The trouble was it was becoming slowly harder to send Batman into the heat of the fight. As their friendship grew, so did Gordon's awareness of his humanity. It was an uncomfortable concept, and possibly why Batman had chosen to remain aloof from Gordon in the past few months, besides a few clandestine meetings here and there. How Batman had located his new residence within two days of moving in, Gordon felt he was better off not knowing.

"Close escape," He remarked, realising how long the silence had stretched.

"An error," Batman growled. "I forgot how weak those damn rooves were."

"I'm guessing that you were travelling from the armed robbery on East Side. The shopkeeper was very grateful, you know." Gordon informed him.

Batman didn't reply, but his silence implied that Gordon was correct in his assumption.

"Did you get your wound stitched up?"

Batman turned his head sharply, like a hawk that had just heard the sound of his prey. "Another error. I didn't see the knife until it was too late. I took it with me, in case you were wondering."

Gordon shrugged. It was standard practice with Batman-interventions these days; some evidence was often missing from the crime scene. He didn't begrudge the more difficult legal procedures that this brought, because Batman usually had a very good reason to take it. Preserving his identity was paramount.

"Lucky you were there tonight," Batman said in a quieter tone. "I don't like relying on luck."

"It was about time we had some, don't you think?" Gordon said dryly. "And you're welcome."

It was an unspoken rule that trying to thank each other directly was useless; they both had so much to be thankful for that it seemed strange to be repeating it all the time for every transaction that passed between them. It was their duty, their honour, the only way that they could live with themselves. Nonetheless, it was good to be reminded of their mutual dependence every now and again.

"One more thing," Gordon said, somewhat uncomfortably. He dug in his pocket for a handkerchief, and held it out to the masked crusader. If he could look puzzled, Gordon was sure that he would be.

"You left a drop at the fire escape..."

Batman grabbed the piece of cloth with lightning fast reflexes, the handkerchief disappearing before Gordon could even blink.

"There's nothing else, I made sure it was clean," He snorted. "You have Bruce Wayne to thank for that."

Batman froze, and Gordon wishes he could see the man's face. It would be easier to talk without offending, for one.

"Wayne? What did he do?" He seemed to spit out the name.

"He reminded me indirectly that you could have left some behind... I call it another lucky break." Gordon's mouth twitched.

"Saved by a shadow of a man," Batman muttered after a considerable pause. "He could have been more."

Gordon couldn't agree with him more, but his hands were starting to go numb with the cold. Glancing back at the house, he said, "I think we might wrap this up."

When he turned back to his garden, he was alone.

"It's in every paper," Gordon muttered sourly, disposing of the large stack into the waste paper bin with a heave. The top headline, Bat Crash at Media Bash, only made his mood fouler.

"There are plenty of pictures and more than enough people ready to write an eye-witness account. I expect that it'll last a week at least," Stephens said, looking at his tired superior closely. "Don't take it too hard, sir. He would have got away no matter who was on his tail."

"Do bats even have tails?" Gordon sighed, waving Stephens away. "There's nothing else we can do here. Bring all the evidence together, put it in a file, give it to me, and then we'll stick it in a drawer."

"Yes, sir," Stephens said, closing the door behind him as he left.

Throughout all the things that occupied his mind and time that day, Gordon was still feeling that he was missing something important. Something about the events of last night lingered in his mind, niggling and insisting to be examined.

Before that could happen, however, they were called by an informant to a drug deal about to go down in the Narrows at sundown. Gordon gave Templeton the command of this one, remaining closely watched so that he didn't make massive errors of judgement. It was about time that he gave his underlings some understanding of responsibility in real-life situations- at least, the ones he actually trusted.

Driving there in the patrol car, reports began coming in from a bystander on the line to 911; apparently, the Batman had intervened and was proceeding to beat up and restrain every man on the scene. Gordon gritted his teeth; he couldn't have waited five minutes? It was better to have backup close than to be swamped by the rival gangs, after all.

It was a warehouse, empty of all cover- not that the police officers entering the scene needed it; every single man was either lying on the ground groaning or senseless, with no exceptions.

Of course, it would be marked down as a drug bust gone wrong; maybe Batman wanted a slice for himself. Maybe he didn't like other people dealing on his territory. Or maybe he was willing to murder and steal but drugs were of no interest to him. Whatever ridiculous hypothesis they came up with, Gordon knew that Batman had done a good job that day.

Going back outside and standing in the glare of the headlights of a patrol car, Gordon called the station to bring a few things in to help the forensics and the clean-up. If he wasn't watching the neighbouring alley with the help of their beam, he might not have seen the Batman.

"Shit," He groaned. He was meant to be far away by now...

Checking that no one was watching him, he moved calmly into the alleyway, pretending that he was getting bad reception on his phone and he was looking for a signal. Batman was now out of the eyesight of the police, but he was still too close for comfort.

"What are you waiting for?" Gordon hissed.

"Wanted to let you know; the head man on this deal was Fenwick, but they're letting Randall take the fall. Fenwick's the dangerous one, so watch him." Batman was leaning against the wall, but only with his weight slightly on the damp bricks.

"You have our radio. You should have waited just a-"

"I'm fine," Batman ground out. "Broken finger, nothing major."

"You serious?" Gordon exclaimed, suddenly horrified. "I mean, I know you take worse all the time, but..."

It was then that he realised why Batman was keeping his hand behind his back; the glove was sitting in his waist-belt, so he had taken it off to inspect the damage. Gordon suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable, as though he'd caught the Batman wearing nothing at all.

A commotion behind him caused Gordon to whip around, to the shouts of some police officers. "Stop, or we will shoot!"

Glancing around the corner, Gordon saw that someone must have slipped their cuffs and was making a run for it—straight at where Batman was hiding. The man grabbed a large chunk of wood from the litter-covered ground as he ran, and Gordon could hear his panicked breaths.

He had his gun cocked and level with the legs of the fugitive when he became conscious of Batman pulling himself up. God dammit, we're dealing with this, Batman! You don't have to swoop in and-

A kick to the gut from the masked crusader sent the man sprawling to the ground, giving Gordon all the leverage he needed to get rid of the wooden club and pin the man securely to the ground.

He caught one last glimpse of Batman propelling himself to the roof of the next apartment block opposite the warehouse, the bare skin of his hand glinting in the gloom with an overload of detail before Gordon could look away.

The profusely apologising arresting officer led the offender away again, this time with tighter hand cuffs secured around the drug dealer's wrists.

In a daze, Gordon waved off Stephen's questions and assured him that nothing was wrong. He was on automatic for the rest of the operation, which finished obscenely late (as he did most nights).

He didn't go home this time, though; he stayed at the office, the single green desk lamp casting a pall across his weary face. Only the sound of occasional traffic and the clunking of his wall clock intruded upon his self-imposed solitude.

A single image took over his vision for the majority of the time, an image that seemed so momentously wrong that he began second-guessing himself constantly. After all, how likely was it that Batman and Bruce Wayne had a similar scar on the hands?

No, not similar. Identical. He was sure that he wasn't hallucinating, and he was damn sure that his mind wasn't so far gone into old age that he could have mistaken the marks. He was reluctant to admit what his subconscious had already accepted and gone into shock about, lest it take away the rest of his sanity altogether.

Noticing the file that Stephens had prepared on his desk, Gordon scanned through it, looking for one name. Sure enough, he found it in a loose, loopy script; Bruce Wayne, witness. He'd lied to Gordon about the blood, and to Stephens about his presence at the fundraiser. So what did this actually add up to?

Gordon sat back in his chair, lifting up his glasses and putting the heels of his hands to his eyes. Before the Batman, he had been determined to serve his time in the Gotham Police Department to his full capacity, retire to his family with a decent pension, and feel that he had contributed in his own little way. But now... now, he saw no end in sight. He was tied to his job now, till death do you part. And, by some twist of fate, that same bond had brought him to Batman.

He wasn't lying when he had said that he believed in the Batman. At that point, the vigilante was a demigod, the savour of Gotham worthy of a folk ballad. And now that everyone else saw him as the villain, he found that his own attitude had changed. He actually cared about how the Batman was faring from day to day, and that was scaring him.

He wouldn't deny that he had seriously considered keeping the blood sample; it seemed that it would be so much easier with all the secrecy over and done with... but would it really? Did the Batman really know best in keeping the barriers in place?

Knowing what he knew now, perhaps it was justified. Perhaps he had destroyed their delicate balance beyond repair, and they would both go down in a burst of fire and brimstone. Who knew what would come for them on the morrow? Who knew what fresh delights and horrors Gotham would throw at them?

As Gordon watched the sun rise blood red and bloated, he wished he didn't have to ask those questions of himself.

"Were you here all night, Commissioner?" Mavis the secretary asked incredulously, coming in with the first coffee of the day.

"Depends how you define 'all night'." He said evasively. "Never mind; I need you to set up an appointment for me."

She took out her notepad expectantly, and Gordon smirked to himself as he dictated the message.

Wayne wouldn't know what hit him.

"...and sir, the District Attorney asked for a visit this afternoon." The crisp tones of Wayne's personal assistant floated through the air, and something about it registered in Bruce's brain.

"Really? When?" He frowned. "Do they need more money or something?"

"Not as far as I'm aware, sir. The message mentioned your name on a witness list, sir."

Bruce groaned. No doubt the DA was hiding behind that flimsy excuse to grill Bruce about the Teflon experiments his laboratories were conducting for the Force, and to create a greater personal bond between them to use in the future. Well, if he thought Bruce Wayne was going to be easily manipulated, he had another think coming.

"Confirm it, Stacey." First, to more important things... he picked up his bundle of darts and swivelled his chair towards the board, pitted around the edges by the darts that flew wide. All he had to do was imagine the Joker's face in the middle...

"Very good, sir."

A fashionable 30 minutes late, Gordon turned up at the front desk of the Department, painfully aware of the covert stares sent his way. Flashing the occasional grin and leaning casually on the counter, he waited to be lavished with the attention that his persona always provided.

"Right this way, Mr. Wayne," A flustered employee directed him within 15 seconds of his arrival, despite the backlog of visitors.

Bingo.

Except that they were going a circulatory route.

"I believe it's that way, officer." Wayne pointed to the right corridor with a disdainful flick.

The man looked at his shoes uncomfortably. "Commissioner Gordon wished to borrow a minute first, sir, if that's alright with you."

Wayne wouldn't be affected by that information, he had to remind himself. With a half-smile, he began following his guide again, who was showing obvious signs of relief. He was shown into Gordon's office immediately, his mask firmly in place. The first thing he noticed that Gordon wasn't looking at his best; there was also an expression on his face that Wayne found hard to identify.

"Commissioner! Great to see you," He tried keeping it light, but Gordon was having none of it.

"I apologise for the deception, Mr. Wayne; but there are some inconsistencies regarding your involvement in the Media Benefit."

Bruce said nothing, keeping the look of light concern on his face even as he fiddled with the button of his suit.

"Were you, or were you not, there when the Batman came through the roof?" Gordon leant forward in his chair, his eyes piercing Wayne in a manner he usually reserved for interrogations.

I was there in body, but not in mind. Batman's mind was controlling my body. So... to answer the question... both yes and no.

"To be honest, I can't remember a thing before eight o'clock that night." He replied with a jovial twitch of his facial muscles. "Tequila will do that to a man."

"Mr. Wayne." Gordon snarled, before letting his eyelids flutter closed briefly. Bruce almost felt sorry for his compatriot, but not sorry enough to change his story.

"I'll just be going, then," Wayne offered tentatively, with no response from Gordon. He was already out the door and in plain sight of the working people when Gordon did the unexpected.

"Where do you think you're going? I'm not finished with you yet!" He threatened from within the office, striding out in a second and grabbing Bruce by the lapels with an iron grip. The room went deathly silent as the two men stood, almost nose to nose, with Gordon looking decidedly murderous and intent on keeping Bruce exactly where he wanted him.

"Ooookay," Bruce said in a nervous tone, but with a perfectly serious gaze at Gordon. "We'll talk. Just put me down, this is Armani."

To the stunned looks of the office, they both returned to Gordon's office, with the door slamming behind them. The gossip started at once.

"What was that about?"

"I've never seen Gordon like that!"

"What could Wayne have done this time?"

There was a distinctive pulse of tension throbbing through the room, mostly generated by Gordon's frustration at the situation. He hadn't meant to drag Wayne back in, but he'd just needed some confirmation that he wasn't mad, just something to reassure Gordon that he was right. This entire conversation might be a gamble, a waste of time, but he had to try.

"Mr. Wayne, you know why you're here." Gordon said in a low voice.

Wayne looked straight at him, and it seemed that everything about him was suddenly cast into a shadow. His confident stance slumped, his quirked eyebrows furrowed, his jaw was set. There was no trace of the playboy here; he was more like the Batman than Gordon had ever seen him, and it was a miraculous transformation.

"Indeed I do, Gordon. I knew that it would only be a matter of time. I chose you for your brains, so it's no surprise that you used them- even though he would have preferred you didn't."

Gordon frowned. Wayne talking about Batman in the third person was unsettling, to say the least. He was reminded of Batman's comment about Wayne; a shadow of a man; he could have been more. It was obvious in that statement that he was ashamed of his public face, but kept it out of pure necessity. It would be a tricky duality to maintain.

"You never have to say it out loud, if you prefer." Gordon said, distinctly ill at ease. "No one else will know."

"One is enough, Gordon. All it takes is a slip, and I could-"

Gordon shook his head. "That's not why you've kept it a secret, and you know it. You keep it secret because you want to be independent, you don't want anyone to see the human you. It's easier to injure a comic-book legend than a flesh and blood man."

Wayne snorted. "Can you really blame me? Anyone who's ever cared has ended up dead, or insane. Do you think I want that for anyone, least of all you?" He paused. "You're important to the city, you're not expendable. If a connection with me brings you down..."

"Then so be it. I'm not running away from this, Ba—Wayne." He winced. This wasn't exactly inspiring confidence in himself; he needed to step it up a notch.

"What do you want from me, Gordon?" Wayne asked quietly, advancing. "So you have the truth. Where does this leave us?"

Gordon swallowed; this was the exact question that had been keeping him up all night, and he had tried very hard to verbalise what he wanted.

"It might be better if... we just leave it as it was." Wayne supplied.

Gordon jerked his head up and stated incredulously at Wayne. "Oh, sure. That's easy."

"I'm serious. There's nothing you can do for me. I'm still the same billionaire I always was, and he's still the same lunatic. You can't change that, Gordon. There's no need to change that."

The problem was that Gordon now wanted the change the status quo. There must be something he could do with this information, something that's shifted in the way they deal with each other. Yet, for the life of him, he couldn't think of anything.

"Keeping this under the table... It'll come back to haunt us one day, you do realise that," Gordon said finally. "This decision- it's not the best one I've ever made. I'm not proud of it."

Wayne shrugged. "In our line of work, Gordon, very few decisions come easily, and even fewer stay uncomplicated. We just have to live with that."

He began to walk out again, this time stopped by Gordon's hand on his shoulder. The Commissioner felt him flinch slightly under the contact. He was suddenly reminded of the day that Bruce was brought in as a child, shivering with shock and trying to come to terms with being an orphan. Gordon has been there for him, then... and he felt that he had to say something supportive now, as he may never get the chance again.

"It's a lonely life, Wayne, but now you've got me." Gordon said softly.

Bruce Wayne didn't look him in the eye as he replied, "It's the life I deserve, and the support I don't deserve."

Gordon watched him leave, not even noticing the questions that his secretary was directing at him, or the strange looks from all the other policemen. It was all he could do to suppress the profound stabs of empathy that he felt for this admirable man; for how he coped with what he faced every second of every day—an isolated existence for a greater cause.

The very same existence that Gordon was now facing.