***Disclaimer: Gotham City, Commissioner James Gordon, and anything else from the Batman universe is not owned by me and I make no money from the writings that contain them. Everything else is mine. Enjoy.***

Jane sat there in Commissioner Gordon's home office, wondering how he could think that she knew anything. As far as she and everyone else knew, Bruce had died when the bomb went off. No tricks, no last second ejection, nothing. Bruce Wayne died, and was buried next to his parents. He left Wayne Manor and all of his remaining assets to his wife, Jane.

James looked at Bruce Wayne's young, beautiful widow and couldn't help but think he might rise from the dead, as he had before. But by the still, numbness in Mrs. Wayne's eyes and the dark circles under her eyes, he couldn't help but think it was real this time.

"Bruce really admired you," she said suddenly. "He always said that if Gotham had a real hero, it was you. Not him, not the Batman, not even Harvey Dent."

"That's very kind of you Mrs. Wayne," he said.

"I wish I could tell you he was alive, he was safely hiding somewhere, but I can't," she said. He looked at her, wondering how someone so young and beautiful had gotten mixed up in this mess. "You think I'm a spoiled bitch don't you?" He looked at her, then looked away.


"I saw the way you were looking at me, Commissioner, you think I'm a spoiled princess who couldn't care less that her rich husband was dead." She said.

"I don't think anything like that Mrs. Wayne," he said. The truth was, he didn't think like that. Some cops may, but he knew Bruce Wayne. And he could see this wasn't some spoiled, cold-hearted woman. She looked hurt and tired.

She stood there by the mantle, looking up at the police commissioner and saw in his eyes what she had been feeling herself. He'd lost his wife too, not to death, but he'd lost her just the same after one too many close calls. He was lonely, empty, not knowing quite what to fight for anymore. She looked up at him with her exquisite violet-blue eyes and he saw the same staring back at him.

"Then what are you thinking?" she asked.

"I'm wondering how such a lovely young woman got mixed up into this mess and still looks so naive," he said. It stung a bit, he could tell.

"I'm not naive," she murmured. "Although this has become quite the mess. Do you want to know what I think, Commissioner? I think that you're hoping he's alive and that I could tell you he's working to save us, save Gotham. Well, I can't, because even if he did push an eject button, even if he somehow survived, he hasn't contacted me." That was what hurt. She had her doubts too, but if Bruce lived, he'd left her behind with the violent and solemn Batman legacy. She bit her lip, closing her eyes, breathing deeply.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Wayne," he said. "I never meant to imply you were withholding anything from the police."

"Oh please, all of you cops look at me the same," she turned to leave. He grabbed her wrist. "Let go of me." He took her by her shoulders and pulled her to him, and his mouth was suddenly upon hers. She gasped, stiffening at first. But she didn't stop him. He held her, feeling the expensive clothes covering her lush body, smelling her sweet perfume. He was over a decade older than she, but the feeling and smell and beauty of her nearly overwhelmed him to the point of not caring. Her hands came up to his face, feeling his scruff against her palms and face as he kissed her. And suddenly, she pulled away, leaning back against the side of the mantle, breathing heavily.

"I'm sorry Mrs. Wayne," he said, stepping back from her. He was flushed, embarrassed by his actions. She touched her lips with her fingers, closing her eyes. He saw the color rising in her cheeks as well and thought she would lash out at him.

"What did you see?" she asked.


"When you looked at me?" she looked up at him, hesitant.

"I'm not sure what you-"

"Yes you do. Look at me. There's a reason you called me here, there's a reason why you've been so kind to me and there's a reason why you kissed me." She paused. "You're lonely since your wife left. You're empty and cold and lost." He listened, his eyes never leaving hers. "So am I."

"Mrs. Wayne, I-"

"When Bruce died, hell, even before, long before, he barely touched me. He never had time for me." Her voice was trembling. "I'm lost and frozen and all alone. All the money in the world can't fix those things. Just like getting back Batman and making Gotham safe again, it wouldn't fix you either, does it?" It was as if she had strung an arrow to a bow, aimed it and hit him dead center of his heart.

She reached out for the front of his button down and pulled him back to her, her mouth upon his again. Jane, Princess of Gotham, that was what the tabloids had called her. And she looked the part. But this quiet, shy, blushing young woman was far from the spoiled wife of a billionaire masked hero. And she saw right through him just as he saw into her.

"Mrs. Wayne-"

"My name is Jane," she said.

"Jane, wait, wait," he braced her by her shoulders again. "You can't be interested in me, I'm old enough to be your father." It wasn't exactly true; she was 29 and he'd just turned 40.

"With all due respect, I suppose I am young enough to be your daughter. But you kissed me, Commissioner Gordon," she said. She leaned in, her lips brushing his as she spoke. "Please don't stop now. I haven't been kissed like that in so long." He shook his head even as she slid back into his arms.

"Please call me James." She smiled, and he gathered her against his chest again, his mouth moving passionately over hers. She wove her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, tighter against her, the other arm pulling his body flush with hers.

"Put your arms around me, James," she said. He obeyed, holding her close, for the first time not feeling so empty, so lost and alone. His mouth slid down the side of her throat. He gently pulled the elastic from her hair and it fell, soft and fragrant. They came to their knees in front of the fire, hands working at each other's clothes. He pushed the blazer from her shoulders, exposing the silk shell top she wore underneath. She pulled his shirt from its tucked position and began unbuttoning it. She undid the last button and pushed the shirt off him, his body lean muscle and trim, his chest lightly cover with hair graying like the rest of his hair. He slipped the silk camisole off her and saw the black lace bra beneath. He pulled her back against him, kissing her. She began undoing his pants, wanting him. He stood then, picking her up and caring her to the bedroom. He sat her down on the edge of his bed, kneeling before her. He unzipped her skirt and slid it off. The more clothing he removed, the more beautiful she seemed. He slid her sheer, dark stockings off, revealing fair, perfect legs. "Take your clothes off, I want to make love." she said. He took the rest of his clothes off, barely noticing that she removed her bra and panties and slid onto his bed naked. When he was finally naked too, he turned to her and saw her sprawled naked on his bed.

"You're a beautiful woman, Jane," he said. She smiled as he got on the bed with her. He sat with his back against the headboard and she straddled his legs. She carefully guided him to her and he slid inside. "Oh Jane," he breathed.

"Put your hands on me, James, make love with me," she whispered. She held onto his shoulders to steady herself. She rocked up and down, her body quivering. He watched her, wincing, her body moving out of rhythm.

"What's wrong?" he asked, holding her, looking up at her.

"I-I can't seem to relax," she said, embarrassed. He wrapped an arm around her back and lowered her onto the bed, never coming out of her, never letting go.

"Do you want me to stop?" he asked. She shook her head.

"Please don't stop. I'm just out of practice," he smiled. He pulled her legs up over his hips and began to take control. Her reactions and the way she felt, she hadn't been lying. A woman didn't react to sex like this if she were having it regularly. She went from trembling, nervousness to enjoying it with him. Jesus, Bruce, when was the last time you touched your wife?, he wondered. Poor thing was shaking with each thrust, either from pleasure that she wasn't used to or because she hadn't had sex in so long it hurt.

"Am I hurting you, Jane?" he asked. She shook her head.

"I just haven't done this in so long," she said. He withdrew from her then and turned her on her front. She held the bars of his headboard as he entered her from behind. "Oh fuck," she swore.

"Better?" he asked, rocking in and out of her slowly. She nodded. Being in this position, James behind her, moving in her, the friction between them undid her and she settled into the act of lovemaking with him. She arched back into him, her hips rolling in compliment to his thrusts. She tried to stifle her moans, but he heard them, heard her breathe his name in pleasure. It'd been a long time since he heard a woman moan and sigh his name in the throes of passion.

"That feels so good," she groaned, "I'm going to come, oohhh." He picked that moment to pull her up into a sitting position, her back against his chest. The change of position put him so deeply within her. She held onto him, her hands gripping his legs. "Please. Please please please," she moaned, her head dropping back to his shoulder, her long dark hair soft against his bare skin.

He reached down between her legs, still rocking steadily and deeply inside her, and found the tip of her clit. He diddled it with his fingers, and she convulsed around him.

"James, oh god," she moaned, bucking against him, her body taking control and her brain over-whelmed with sensation. He held her tight, and when he felt her orgasm waning, he let the tight spasms of her cunt send him over the edge too.

"Jane, Christ," he swore, pushing in deep and holding there. He held her, his bare arms around her naked body, her inner muscles holding him tight as the waves of his orgasm grew less intense. Finally, both orgasms subsided into a warm, drowsy glow. He withdrew from her, pulling her between the sheets of his bed with him. He gathered the covers around them as she settled against his chest.

"Do you think Bruce would be upset?" he asked, holding her in his arms, naked with her in his bed. He never dreamed he'd been sleeping with Bruce Wayne's young widow. He never dreamed she could be so like him.

"I think he'd want us both to be happy," she said. She rested her cheek against his chest, her arms around him beneath the covers. The feeling of her flesh against his was so comforting, it was almost a relief. She relished in being held by a man who was genuinely interested in her and not the facade.

That night, Bruce Wayne's widow, the tabloid-dubbed Princess of Gotham, slept in the bed and the arms of the Commissioner of the Gotham City Police.

"Robbing the Mansion! Commissioner of Police James Gordon Steps Out with Masked Hero's Young Widow," he read aloud to her. Jane blushed, not able to help the smile spreading across her face. "Well that's nice, make it sound like you're 19 and not 29."

"I thought I was done being part of headlines," she said, but still couldn't help by laugh.

"And what's so funny?" he asked playfully.

"Robbing the mansion," she giggled. "Very original."

"I'm sure I'll never hear the end of this down at the station." he remarked. She got up from the table and came around to him. He pulled her down onto his lap. "Of course it'll only be jealousy." She smiled as he kissed the side of her neck, his facial hair grazing her skin. "I have to get going." They stood up, him in his work clothes and she in one of his old button downs, the neckline draping over one shoulder.

"Be careful," she said as he leaned in to kiss her.