Title: Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained
Author: gaudy night
Rating: PG
Pairing: Pre-slash Jim Gordon/Bruce Wayne
Summary: Bruce Wayne discovers that occasionally one must take risks to achieve something. Immediately follows I’ve Got My Eye on You and To Each His Own. Cliché #22 in Jim Gordon’s Life As A Series of Clichés. See author's profile for chronological order.
Word Count: 6,646

Commissioner Jim Gordon’s Monday morning began with finding Detective Renee Montoya loitering innocently outside his office door. He groaned inwardly. Innocent? Montoya? Yeah, right. He silently cursed his misfortune. He knew exactly why she was there—to get the inside scoop about last Friday night. And straight from the horse’s mouth at that. Gordon had nothing to hide, but he was a fervent believer that a man had every right to his own privacy.

And also, he wasn’t stupid.

He knew the outrageous ways his beloved officers could turn the most innocent piece of gossip into something far from innocent. It was all part of a day’s work for Gotham’s finest. Gordon was no fool.

In retrospect, what happened Friday evening could be misconstrued into a host of different ways. He could begin by telling Montoya God’s honest truth. That his winning bidder at the bachelor auction hadn’t come forward to claim him—embarrassing though it may be to confess that. That he had met Bruce Wayne backstage by chance. That later in the evening Wayne had picked him up as he was walking home and invited him to have dessert at some fancy restaurant. And after that, the man had taken Gordon straight home in his limousine. All perfectly innocent, Gordon convinced himself. But knowing the brave men and women of the GCPD, after all was said and done, the talk at the water cooler by lunchtime would be that billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne had paid $10,000 for Gordon’s company that evening. As to what the two men did exactly to pass the time, that would be left up for the swing shift to decide. Then graveyard would take over from there and decide whether or not Bruce Wayne got his money’s worth.

Ridiculous.

Gordon eyed Montoya warily. He admired her, for lack of a better word, nerve, but surely the detective had more important things to do? Like, doing actual work. Solve a case or two, perhaps? Prevent crime somewhere, anywhere—I really don’t care at this point, he grumbled.

Gordon instinctively spun around and walked the other way to avoid her, but Montoya had already spotted him and the expression on her face turned to one of pure and wicked delight. Gordon groaned again. Even if he had escaped, Montoya would have tracked him down eventually. Damn her, he grumbled once more. This is not the ideal way to begin my day. Well, let’s get this done and over with.

“Good morning, detective,” he greeted her brusquely and tried to brush past her.

“Commish,” she responded with her patented mischievous smile, blocking the entrance to his office.

They stood there for several seconds at an impasse until Gordon sighed in defeat. Montoya courteously stepped to one side as Gordon unlocked his office door. He opened the door and stood to one side.

Gordon rolled his eyes in exasperation. “After you, detective.”

“Thank you, sir.” She strolled in, and Gordon followed after her. He left the door wide open in hopes of encouraging outside interruption. He hung up his coat and sat behind his desk. Montoya stood in front of him, waiting politely for an invitation to sit down as well.

“You might as well sit down,” he said ungraciously, but Montoya didn’t seem to mind. Her smile only grew wider as she took a chair. She waited for a moment, but her boss obviously wasn’t going to initiate the conversation. So she decided to begin the interrogation herself.

“So,” she prompted, “how’d it go?” All weekend long, she had been dying to know what had happened after the auction. Despite the whole bachelor auction scenario, she was hoping Gordon had had a good time. Truly. After the horrific year he’d been through, surely he deserved at least one night of fun and relaxation. Montoya wanted to know if he got it. If only so she could crow about it later that it was all her doing. After all, it was she who’d submitted his name to the mayor’s office as an ‘interested’ candidate. But Gordon didn’t need to know that, did he. Not if she wanted to keep her job, that is. “Sir?”

Gordon pretended to be busy with reading a memo in front of him. “Hmm? What are you talking about?” If he was hoping to discourage this line of questioning, he was sadly mistaken.

“Ten… thou… sand… dol… larssssss.” Montoya drew out every syllable. She wagged her eyebrows knowingly at Gordon, but he pointedly ignored her. She did it again, this time in a singsong voice. And annoyingly louder. “Ten… thou… sand… dol… larssssss. Everyone and their mother are talking about. Everyone, Commish. Even the cafeteria lady.” She opened her mouth once more, “Ten… thou—”

Gordon quickly cut her off. “Yeah, what about it?” he muttered under his breath as he kept his focus on the files littered all over his desk. He sneaked a glance at his watch. Eight fifteen. Apparently gossip traveled fast at the precinct. He rubbed his forehead in displeasure. Everyone knows? Already? Damn. He could tell today was going to be an extremely long day.

“You owe me,” Montoya said, leaning forward on his desk, “so now you gotta tell me.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything.” Gordon leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “What do you mean, I owe you?” he demanded, hoping to intimidate her.

Ha! his conscience interjected. That’ll be the first.

Oops. Thinking quickly, Montoya scrambled for a response. She mimicked his posture and said, “Yes, sir. I picked out your suit and tie, remember?”

She was right.

They glowered at each other across the desk. After an entire minute passed in complete silence, Gordon cursed. Damn woman. He decided to negotiate. He really did like the young detective and her playful wit—God knows I need that right now, he thought—but he could only take so much Montoya at such an early hour. “If I answer your question, will you get out of my office?”

“Yes, sir.” Montoya sat up straighter in her chair, and her eyes gleamed in anticipation. This is going to be good!

Gordon looked her straight in the eye. Montoya would know if he was lying to her, so he opted for the truth. “The evening turned out unlike anything I expected.” He smirked and congratulated himself on his vague response. It was a safe answer, but an answer nonetheless. “Satisfied, detective?” he asked, knowing full well she wasn’t.

Montoya glared at him, but she stood up from her chair and Gordon gave a silent cheer. Fair was fair. “I’ll find out sooner or later,” she vowed and turned to leave his office. It almost sounded like a threat.

“No, you won’t,” Gordon called out good-naturedly. It wasn’t very often he had the upper hand over his impish detective. It felt so good. “Shut the door on your way out.” Montoya gave him another glare, but she shut the door nonetheless.

Serves her right, he thought. And then he grinned.

He found himself doing that more and more often since Friday night. That was something else, he thought. The auction itself was a nightmare, but everything after it was anything but. He still wondered what had happened to the winning bidder, but he certainly wasn’t going to pursue that line of investigation. Ten thousand dollars is a lot of money, he’d figured, but who knew where that money could lead to? He shuddered at the thought. Perhaps the over-eager bidder had to retract it privately. It was unfortunate no one had bothered to tell him, but Gordon couldn’t care less. After all, he got to meet Bruce Wayne again and was thoroughly pleased to see that the young boy from that tragic night so long ago had turned out to be a most pleasant if slightly curious man. Gordon doubted Wayne even remembered the beat cop who had tried to comfort him the evening of his parents’ murders. But Gordon could clearly remember every detail. He remembered placing Thomas Wayne’s coat around the boy’s trembling shoulders. But he himself wasn’t looking to be remembered. He had not done it for anything other than the fact he had just wanted to make sure the boy would be all right. Guess he did after all, Gordon mused. He smiled again. It was encouraging and comforting to know that even in Gotham, things could turn out all right after all.

Well, some things, he thought. His smile disappeared. Friday night was all too surreal, but it was now Monday morning. He truly had enjoyed Wayne’s company if only for one night, but… back to reality, eh, Jim? His desk was already swamped with paperwork, and among them, the divorce papers that were still waiting for his signature. Barbara was getting impatient. They’d been apart for nearly a year now. He could hear the irritation in her voice whenever she called long distance, and he’d promised her he would. But that was weeks ago, and still Gordon couldn’t find it within himself to sign them. It wasn’t out of spite—he just wasn’t ready to say goodbye. Not yet. Not to the last semblance of normalcy in his tattered life. Letting go required more of him than he was willing to give.

And he’d already given almost everything he had. It was killing him. His heart ached at the thought. He knew he’d lost them already. One more casualty in this God-forsaken war for Gotham’s soul, he lamented. Funny, but he had always figured if there were to be any casualties, it would have been him. And it should have been. Not Barbara. Not his children. Not his family. He’d like to think he could still fight to regain his family, but he couldn’t do it alone. He’d tried, but he was too late. Barbara was no longer willing to try to understand him and what he was trying to do. Gordon couldn’t blame her. Sometimes he had no idea what he was doing, either. He wished he could throw in the towel and let some other schmuck have at it. But he couldn’t. Now that Batman had gone underground as well, it was just Gordon in the public eye protecting Gotham. That was part of the plan, but Gordon wished it didn’t feel so lonely. They had earned it several times over, this newfound peace. It was a new era for Gotham. Hope reigned on the streets once more.

But he felt utterly alone. So this is what it’s all come down to, huh? He swallowed hard, and a painful pang issued from his heart. It was a bittersweet victory, but a victory nevertheless. He only wished it hadn’t cost his family so much. He’d done all he could, and rather than feeling the absence of regret, a sharp, familiar feeling of sorrow and remorse filled him instead.

Gordon closed his eyes and pushed it toward the back of his mind. Not now. Later. He opened his eyes. I need work. I need something to distract me. I need to do something. Anything. He removed his suit coat and hung it behind his chair. He sat back down to begin his daily provision of mind-numbing paperwork when his secretary buzzed in.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Marge,” he answered absently as he opened the first file on his desk.

“Bruce Wayne is here to see you.”

Gordon looked up with a start. “What?”

Marge enunciated slowly as if he were hard of hearing. “Bruce. Wayne. Is. Here. To. See. You.” She added as an afterthought, “Sir.”

Gordon was dumbfounded. He truly never expected to see that man again. Bruce Wayne here? In the precinct? What in the world…?

Marge’s long-suffering voice spoke through the intercom. “Shall I send him in, Commissioner?”

“No, no, I’ll be right out.” Gordon slowly stood up and walked to the door. He opened it cautiously, and sure enough, Bruce Wayne stood on the other side. In the flesh.

“Commissioner!” Wayne greeted him with a dazzling smile. Behind Wayne, Gordon could see the entire bullpen was looking at them and the noise level in the large room was down to nonexistent. Montoya was looking at them funny, and Gordon could have sworn he could see the wheels in her head turning.

“Mr. Wayne, what a pleasant surprise,” Gordon responded carefully. What the hell is he doing here? He spied the old wall clock hanging across the room. Eight thirty. Gordon wanted to joke he didn’t think billionaire playboys would be up so early in the morning, but Wayne seemed to be full of surprises.

“I thought we’d agreed on ‘Bruce,’” Wayne teased loudly, apparently not caring who heard them.

No one should be so perky in the morning, Gordon thought. “Sorry. Bruce.” He hadn’t planned on getting accustomed to the use of the name. “Uh…” Gordon was at a total loss of words. “Um…” Finally he decided on “What can I do for you?” A hand automatically came up to scratch his head in nervousness, and he could sense everyone in the room straining to hear Wayne’s answer.

Wayne just smiled even wider. What an ideal way to start my day! “Ah, I was hoping you’d say that. What are you doing for lunch today?”

Gordon’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. Wayne was looking intensely at him, but Gordon didn’t want to sound presumptuous. Is this another invitation? Perhaps the man was just making conversation? It didn’t sound like it, but… in the bullpen, Montoya was frowning at him, and Detective Gerard Stephens was looking over suspiciously as well. Gordon saw him gesture over to Harvey Bullock and mouth, “What’s going on over there?”

Wonderful, just wonderful, Gordon thought sarcastically. His life was fast becoming a public spectacle. “Do you… would you… do you want to step into my office?” he asked, and he cursed his stammering. His detectives were now looking at him with mouths open. In their experience, Gordon’s invitations to his office usually consisted of a yelled command of “Get in here right now!” They looked at each other in disbelief. Their world had just been turned upside down.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Wayne replied cheerfully. Gordon allowed him access, and Wayne ambled in. Gordon scratched his head once more at this peculiar turn of events and then shut the door behind them.

Out in the bullpen, his detectives let out a collective groan of disappointment. They looked at each other once more in bewilderment. What is Bruce Wayne doing here? But to Gordon’s credit and his even greater misfortune, within seconds, Gotham’s finest shook themselves out of their stupor and were quickly back on track. They grinned at each other.

Let the speculating begin!

When Bruce Wayne woke up this morning, the first thought on his mind was that he absolutely had to see Jim Gordon again. But not as Batman—as Bruce Wayne. He’d tossed and turned all night until he reached the conclusion that today was the day to begin his earnest pursuit of the man.

Risky and probably not a very good idea at all… but Wayne could not resist the powerful urge to see more of this man. The Jim Gordon Show. It was a show he would pay to watch. Perhaps Batman could install surveillance cameras inside the commissioner’s office? A live twenty-four-hour feed would do just the trick, but that wouldn’t do. It wasn’t enough. Wayne wanted the real thing, and here it was tantalizingly close. Just a few more inches, and he could almost feel Gordon’s warm skin against his.

He watched as Gordon hesitated for a moment before shutting the door, placing them in the silence of his office. Wayne looked around in a pretense of seeing it for the first time. But really, he wasn’t faking. The office looked different in the daylight. The predictable stacks of paperwork were still there. No fancy decorations of any sort. But he noticed now the pictures of Jimmy and Babs scattered throughout the office. He saw a Little League trophy gathering dust on the shelf and what quite possibly could have been a child’s art project at one time. He saw drawings and coloring pages displayed proudly. He stole a glance at Gordon, and the man looked uneasy at his presence. Wayne had expected that. After all, he was in the man’s personal space. But then his eyes narrowed when he spotted a picture of Barbara Gordon prominently displayed on the man’s desk. He stole a glance at Gordon’s left hand. The man still wore his wedding ring.

No, that would not do. Not at all.

Finally Gordon spoke, interrupting Wayne’s musing. “Won’t you please sit down?”

“Thank you.” Wayne took a chair in front of the desk and waited for Gordon to join him.

Gordon took his own chair behind the desk. He looked incredibly tense, and Wayne wished the older man would realize he didn’t have to be uncomfortable in his presence. He was fine just the way he was. Wayne knew Gordon would figure this out sooner or later, but until then, Wayne would sit back and enjoy it.

Silence.

But on second thought, it wouldn’t do to have Gordon associate Bruce Wayne with tense, awkward silence. So Wayne decided to help dispel the tension. “Go ahead, Commissioner. Ask the question. You know you want to.”

Gordon didn’t have to be asked twice. “What are you doing here?” He belatedly realized how insulting that sounded, so he hurriedly amended it. “I apologize. I meant, what brings you here?”

“You did,” Wayne calmly replied. He had come prepared. “You said, ‘We should do it again sometime.’ Today seemed like a good day as any. I want to take you out to lunch.” He saw Gordon’s eyebrows rise in disbelief. The older man looked at his watch. Eight thirty-five. Wayne lied, “I had an early start today, and the precinct was on my way.”

Gordon didn’t look convinced, and rightly so. In fact, he only grew more suspicious.

Silence.

Wayne sighed in disappointment. “Relax, Commissioner. Feel free to say no. I’m sure a busy man like you…” He gestured toward Gordon’s chaotic desk.

Gordon silently cursed and promised himself to clean the mess up. It was not a good reflection on him or the office of police commissioner. But he truly didn’t know what his agenda was for today. He hadn’t checked in with his secretary, and he didn’t know if this… whatever this was… was something he should be indulging in. Catering to the whims of Gotham’s elite was not part of his job description. Actually, the more he thought about it, that’s exactly what he was paid to do. Shit. Still, Gordon didn’t think Wayne had even enjoyed his company last Friday night, and Gordon himself wasn’t eager to carry yet another awkward, one-sided conversation during his lunch break. He’d much rather grab a sandwich and catch up on work.

Ever polite, Gordon laughed self-deprecatingly. He said, “Maybe you should have checked with my secretary instead.” It was meant to be a joke, but it was actually the truth.

Wayne smiled at the attempt for humor. Progress! “I will,” he said, and it sounded ominously like a vow.

“Oh,” replied Gordon. He sat there waiting for more, but there was none forthcoming.

Silence.

Gordon berated himself. Why is this so awkward? Their conversation backstage Friday night had gone well enough. But that was because Wayne was asking you questions about yourself. And later at the restaurant, the awkwardness had crept in along with Wayne’s silence and stayed. Gordon chalked it up to his glaring social ineptitude. He didn’t know how to make small talk. He didn’t watch a lot of sports. He didn’t have any fancy cars. In fact, the coolant was leaking once again in his…

Finally he stood up from his chair. “Well, I’m sure you have plenty to attend to as well.”

But Wayne remained firmly seated. “No, I don’t.”

“I thought you said you had an early start today.” Gordon’s instincts took over. He peered at Wayne through his glasses as he would a suspect in interrogation.

Oops. Wayne laughed uproariously, “Oh, yes. How forgetful of me! Some board meeting over at Wayne Enterprises. I don’t even know why I bother going. But Alfred insists I do.”

Gordon reluctantly smiled. Stories of Bruce Wayne dozing off in the middle of multimillion-dollar mergers and negotiations were legendary. “Alfred?”

“My keeper,” he supplied. And at Gordon’s odd look, he added, “My butler.”

“Oh,” Gordon said again. The eccentricities of billionaire playboys. It was amazing Wayne was even up so early in the morning and even more amazing he was here in his office. But nonetheless Gordon cursed himself. Small talk had never been forte, but all Wayne offered him thus far was a board meeting at his multibillion-dollar company and the mention of a personal butler—two things Gordon knew nothing about or could remotely relate to. “That’s, er, nice.”

Silence.

Finally Wayne stood up as well, albeit reluctantly. “Well, it was nice to see you again, Commissioner.”

Gordon smirked, “I thought we’d agreed on ‘Jim,’” He congratulated himself on his cleverness.

But Wayne looked him directly in the eye, “Did we?”

Gordon was taken aback by the intensity in those eyes. Was he on a mutual first-name basis with Bruce Wayne? Or, was he presuming too much? Think, Gordon, think! His mind quickly reviewed all their conversations. Why are my palms sweaty? Damn. When did this all begin, anyway? Backstage, Gordon! Think! He thought furiously, and Wayne stood waiting. Finally Gordon found the answer:

“Call me Bruce,” Wayne corrected him.

“Er, okay, Bruce. And it’s Jim or Gordon, whatever you prefer,” he offered.

Gordon opened his mouth to speak, “Yes, Bruce. Yes, we did.”

Wayne playfully winked at him. “Gotcha.” Then he teased, “Jim.”

What the hell? If Gordon didn’t know any better, the man was flirting with… no way. Surely Bruce Wayne was not… no way. Couldn’t be! Not a chance. Not with his endless parade of supermodels, prima ballerinas, and movie stars. But even if he were, er… what’s he doing here of all places? Bruce Wayne pursuing… Jim Gordon? Ridiculous. A little full of yourself, aren’t you, Gordon? You’re off your rocker, old man. You’re losing it.

Preposterous—that’s exactly what Gordon was being, and so he merely added this new peculiarity to the ever-growing list of what he privately referred to as ‘The Eccentricities of Billionaire Playboys’—well, actually, there was just one billionaire playboy he knew. Bruce Wayne. Bruce.

They walked to the door, and Gordon opened it for him. “Have a good day, Bruce,” he said. He wanted to add, “We should do it again sometime,” but he decided that would have been too presumptuous. And he was half afraid the man would take him up on it.

“Thanks, Jim. Same to you.” Wayne sounded a little disappointed, and Gordon felt a little guilty. He stuck out his hand, and the two men shook hands. Wayne turned to leave, and Gordon closed his office door behind him.

And that was that.

From her desk, Detective Renee Montoya watched them. What could have probably been a boring week suddenly got very interesting. Bruce Wayne—the Prince of Gotham, he of the lurid tabloid covers—was here in the precinct. And in Jim Gordon’s office of all places. And with Jim Gordon of all people. Jim Gordon and Bruce Wayne. It was like night and day. Knowing the good commissioner, he was probably trying to figure out what the hell he’d done to deserve this torment. Poor man, Montoya murmured. First the bachelor auction. Now Bruce Wayne. Probably thinks he’s been cursed.

Montoya mused. It had only been three days ago when the commish was subjected to… wait a minute. Three days… three days… no, it couldn’t be. No way. She had spotted Wayne backstage that night. The billionaire was kind of hard to miss, but… Montoya’s eyes narrowed in concentration, pulling up every detail of the evening from memory. Come to think of it… Wayne had looked like a man very much in his element, smiling and laughing and chatting it up with the rest of Gotham’s elite. But he had kept looking over his shoulder at something or someone. If Montoya didn’t know better, she could have sworn he was waiting for something… or someone. He was simply biding his time. His body language all but screamed he was waiting for everyone to get out of there, so he could get down to business. The tension was there in his jaw and the set of his shoulders.

But Bruce Wayne? No way. Couldn’t be.

Montoya reviewed her earlier conversation with the commish. To his credit, the man had revealed nothing. She frowned. But perhaps he had, and she just wasn’t paying attention. He had told her the truth. She knew that. The man couldn’t lie to save his soul. He wasn’t lying when he’d said the evening turned out unlike anything he expected.

She could interpret that into two ways. One being the evening had exceeded or fell far below his expectations. But Gordon didn’t have a car that night. How in the world did he get home? He would have called Stephens or Bullock or even her if he were stuck someplace. Unless… unless he and the winning bidder actually…

Nah.

Montoya knew the commish had harbored no expectations going into the evening. Much like a man approaching the guillotine. Plus, the commish wasn’t the type to go looking for a fling. The man still considered himself married, and he wore his wedding ring religiously. But Montoya and the rest of the building knew there was a stack of papers on his desk waiting for his signature, and once signed, that marriage would be dissolved. They also knew the commish hadn’t signed them yet. Normally in the precinct, in an event like this, someone would have started a pool, but Stephens and Bullock had quickly put a stop to that notion before it even started. It was in poor taste, and no one dared cross the veteran detectives.

The second scenario in Montoya’s mind was highly improbable, but something in her gut told her it was close to the mark. And Detective Montoya always followed her gut instinct. It had kept her alive thus far, hadn’t it? She chewed her lip in contemplation. But three days later? As in the ‘three days rule’ for dates? A little clichéd, but… is that why Bruce Wayne was here? No way! her mind emphatically denied it. Yet her gut was saying the exact opposite.

“The evening turned out unlike anything I expected.”

Bruce Wayne was certainly unexpected. If Montoya were to look up the word unexpected in the dictionary, she’d not only find the definition of the word there but also a full-color picture of Bruce Wayne grinning smugly and Jim Gordon beside him looking completely dumbfounded.

No way.

But the commish had looked utterly flabbergasted at Wayne’s presence. It was highly uncharacteristic of her boss. The precinct was his domain. His usual body posture consisted of hands firmly on hips and shoulders thrown back. The man ran the entire department with confidence and integrity, and in Montoya’s humble opinion, there was no better man for the job. So… what was with the stammering?

“I thought we’d agreed on ‘Bruce,’” Wayne teased.

When did that happen? Friday night? Three days was the rule of the thumb.

Whoa.

No way!

But her gut insisted, Yes way!

Gut feeling or not, Montoya needed more to go on. She leaned back in her chair and reviewed the latest piece of evidence she’d gotten. When the office door had reopened and the two men stepped out, the bullpen suddenly simmered down and everyone quickly pretended to be working. Montoya just kept watching. She watched as the commish and Wayne shook hands. She thought Wayne held onto the commish’s hand a nanosecond longer than was necessary, and she could almost see her boss mentally scratching his head in puzzlement.

“Have a good day, Bruce.”

“Thanks, Jim. Same to you.”

And that was that.

Or, was it?

As soon as Jim Gordon closed his office door and went back to work, Wayne quickly backtracked and went directly to the commish’s secretary. A look of excitement and mischief flashed across the billionaire’s grinning face, and Montoya knew all too well what that look meant. Lord knew she wore it often enough herself.

He’s a sneaky one. I’d better keep an eye on him.

Jim Gordon was a good man. He was a good cop. But Montoya couldn’t help but think he was the product of a bygone era, an era when men were men and… she smirked. Never mind. But she couldn’t help but feel some concern for her boss in light of this new development. Gordon himself probably didn’t realize what Wayne was initiating, but Montoya did. The commish would probably take it all in stride, accepting Wayne’s overture of friendship at face value. Boy, is he in for a surprise… this is going to be very interesting. Montoya wasn’t sure what she thought about the whole thing, but she was willing to give Wayne the benefit of the doubt. But if he ever did anything to hurt or embarrass the commissioner, God help her, but she and the rest of the GCPD would make the notorious playboy’s life a living hell.

Consider yourself warned, Wayne, Montoya glared at him silently across the room. She watched as Wayne was now speaking to the commish’s secretary in earnest. Montoya and the rest of the bullpen strained to hear every word. But the old woman suddenly looked up at the group, and they all flinched in response—even Montoya. The old battleaxe raised an eyebrow in warning, and everyone quickly ducked and went back to work. For real, this time. They respected Jim Gordon, but they feared “No-nonsense Marge.”

Amid the hubbub of the bullpen, Montoya couldn’t hear what Marge and Wayne were talking about. He seemed to be consulting her about something and taking notes. Montoya was dying to find out what they were saying. She doubted the older woman would budge, but maybe Bullock could persuade her?

“Hey, Harvey,” she whispered over to her partner. “Do you think you could—”

“No,” Bullock hastily replied, deeply immersed in his paperwork.

Montoya rolled her eyes. She tried Gerard Stephens.

“Hey, Ger—” she began.

Stephens covered his ears so he wouldn’t hear her.

“That’s nice, Stephens. Very mature.”

She crumpled up a piece of paper to throw at him, but Marge was looking at her in disapproval. Montoya quickly lowered her arm, and threw it in the wastebasket instead.

“I’ll find out sooner or later,” she vowed once more and got back to work.

No-nonsense Marge.

The moniker was a well-deserved one—as Bruce Wayne quickly discovered. He had approached the elderly lady with his most beguiling smile, but one stern look from the lady was all it took for him to drop it. In a single look, she let him know no charades were necessary.

He now approached her desk with a touch of reverence. He quickly glanced at Gordon’s closed door before speaking in a low voice. “Excuse me, but I was wondering if you could help me with something.”

Marge paused what she was doing to give him a thorough assessment. She didn’t look impressed with what she saw. Wayne stifled a laugh. Seems Gordon has his own keeper as well. Honesty was definitely the best policy here.

He asked politely, “I was wondering if you could tell me what the commissioner’s lunch schedule is like for the next two weeks.” He tentatively pulled out his cell phone to take notes and held his breath.

The secretary still didn’t look impressed with him, but she promptly replied, “The commissioner is currently available for lunch on Wednesday and Thursday later this week.” She waited until he marked it down in his calendar. “And Monday, Thursday, and Friday of next.”

“I see,” Wayne replied as he quickly typed in those dates. “And what time does he usually take his lunch break?”

“Varies, but usually around one o’clock.” The she added in a neutral tone, revealing neither her approval nor disapproval, “Shall I let the commissioner know to expect you?”

Wayne grinned. “Not if he knows what’s good for him.”

Old Marge failed to crack a smile at the joke, and Wayne’s grin vanished. Oops. He wondered how to phrase his next question.

“Could you please tell me, um, let me know if the commissioner’s lunch schedule should change—”

She cut him off. “I’ll be sure to keep the commissioner’s schedule clear on those days.”

Wayne sighed in relief. “Okay. Thank you. Thank you very much, Miss… ?” he trailed off.

“Marge. Just call me Marge,” she said as if she were finally taking pity on him.

“Thank you, Marge.” Wayne made another attempt to charm her. “Dear lady, you are a treasure—”

She held up a hand to stop him. “Young man, save it for the commissioner. You’re gonna need it.” She went back to work.

Wayne was highly amused at being dismissed summarily. Ah, No-nonsense Marge. He found himself respecting the woman immensely. Gordon was lucky to have her. “Thanks, Marge.”

“Mmm-mmm,” she replied, concentrating on the screen in front of her.

He turned to leave, but Marge stopped him.

“Mr. Wayne.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

Marge lifted her hands from the keyboard and placed them in her lap. She looked him in the eye. “The next few weeks are going to be very difficult for him. Do you know about his family?”

Wayne nodded. “The divorce—”

Marge looked at him sternly, “You’d better know what you’re doing, young man.”

“Yes, ma’am, I do,” Wayne assured her. “Thank you.”

The old woman gave him a brief nod in dismissal, but not before extending her hand and Wayne took it gratefully. “Good luck,” she said as they shook hands.

“Thanks,” Wayne replied. “I’m gonna need it.” And he was ridiculously pleased when he received a sly wink in return.

No-nonsense Marge had Bruce Wayne pegged cold. He was the type of man who always got what he wanted. In some respects, Jim Gordon was a lucky man. But he had also better beware. But then again, Marge was pretty sure Wayne had never encountered anyone like Jim Gordon.

It wasn’t too many days before she found the commissioner rushing in after his lunch break in a total fluster. Old Marge just rolled her eyes. The man looked like he’d betrayed the whole of Gotham by reporting back on duty three minutes late. Wayne must be frustrated by now, but that was Jim Gordon for you. The man came in earlier than anyone else and stayed later than anyone else. He rarely took breaks. Three minutes late was something Marge and the entire department were willing to overlook. Perhaps one day the commissioner would as well.

Or, Wayne could help ease the transition. And speak of the devil… Wayne came sauntering in after Gordon. He made eye contact with Marge and gave a longsuffering shrug. Going that well, huh.

Gordon went straight into his office and then popped back out. “Marge? Where’s the—”

She already knew how this would play out. She’d already pushed all his after-lunch appointments a half-hour back. Marge was nothing if not efficient. “Sir, the city manager is coming in to meet with you at 2:30 instead of 2:00.”

Gordon looked greatly relieved. He mumbled some nonsense about “coincidence,” and Marge just rolled her eyes. The man obviously wasn’t thinking straight.

“Do you know where I put the—”

“Black file cabinet, third drawer.”

“Thanks, Marge. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You’re absolutely right. “Thank you, sir,” she replied and went back to work.

Gordon went back into his office, and Wayne trailed after him with a loud sigh.

Attaboy, sir! she cheered Gordon on. Make him work for it! But she wondered how much longer before she’d have to remind him to fix his tie and collar or comb his hair after one of these lunches with Wayne.

Old Marge didn’t mind having to do Gordon’s thinking for him, especially when it came to scheduling. That’s why she was here. The man had never had to do anything like that before, and this was all new to him. Marge knew that. His schedules and meetings were all arranged and approved by her.

The man worked too hard. He was a good man, but in her opinion, he took too much upon himself. But what were his other options? Marge could only admire the man and do her best to pick up the slack. She’d take care of his business for him.

Commissioner Jim Gordon.

Marge had been truly pleased to see the man was exactly as advertised. Hard working, full of integrity, dedicated, good, and kind—she appreciated all those qualities. It would have been difficult for her to work for a lesser man.

At first glance, Jim Gordon didn’t seem like the type of man fitted for a life of straddling the fine line between life and death—both literally and figuratively. But he was the right man. He was the only man who could hold together the very seams of Gotham. He could hold the line when no one else could. After all, he’d done it when no one else would.

But there is someone else…

Batman. Marge didn’t buy the “Batman is a murderer” story for one second, but she assumed the commissioner had his reasons. She’d already learned that one thing the man couldn’t do, aside from juggling a hectic schedule and accommodating everyone else’s needs but his own, was lie convincingly. His eyes always gave him away. At Dent’s funeral, at the countless news conferences that followed—his eyes revealed everything. And right now, they showed complete cluelessness toward Wayne’s subtle advances.

Heh, she smirked. Serves the ‘billionaire playboy’ right…

The sound of footsteps shook her out of her reverie. The city manager was walking in. She pressed the button on the intercom. “Sir? Mr. Crawford is here to see you.”

“Please send him in, Marge. Thank you.”

“Yes, sir.”

She looked up the city manager. “Please go right in.”

Crawford reached for the doorknob, but it opened to reveal Bruce Wayne standing on the other side instead. The city manager just gaped at him. Wayne looked at him for a moment and then turned to address Gordon. “Thanks for lunch, Jim. We should do it again sometime.” And it sounded like an inside joke.

Gordon quickly replied as if quoting from memory, “Yes, we should. Most definitely. God, yes.”

They laughed hysterically in unison. Crawford was still gaping.

“Well, it looks like you have an important meeting to attend to. I’ll talk to you, later.”

“Okay. See you, Bruce.”

Wayne gave the city manager a little push inside and shut the door. He stopped by Marge’s desk on his way out.

“Hello, Marge,” he said as he pulled out his cell phone.

Marge smirked at him. “Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday next week. Monday, Tuesday, and Friday the week after that.”

Wayne took careful notes.

Marge couldn’t help herself. She leaned back in her chair and asked, “How goes the pursuit, sir?”

Wayne shut his phone determinedly. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

“And are you gaining on him, sir?”

Wayne smiled secretively. “Ask me next Wednesday, Marge.”

He gave her a wink and left, and this time it was Marge who was left gaping.