The Undiscovered Country (3/4)
Title: The Undiscovered Country (3/4)
Continuity: The Dark Knight Rises
Pairing/Characters: Jim Gordon/Bruce Wayne
Warnings: None
Summary: Wintery weather forces Jim and Bruce indoors; Cooking, reading, and cribbage follow.
Rating: G this chapter, up to light PG-13 overall
Word Count: 1800
Jim Gordon took a moment to savor the surreal sight of Bruce Wayne wheeling a shopping cart down a brightly-lit Walmart aisle. He was looking at the merchandise on the shelves as if at artifacts from some exotic new world--which might not be so far from the truth, Jim reflected.
"Is this any good?"
Jim looked at the plastic bottle Bruce was holding up. "I have no idea." Barbara had given him some Old Spice body wash years ago and he'd just kept buying that even after.
Bruce peered at the label and articulated as carefully if reading Sanskrit: "Aveeno Active Naturals Stress Relief Body Wash. With lavender, camomile, and ylang-ylang." He hoisted it, lifting an interrogative eyebrow at Jim. "Apparently it 'calms and relaxes while moisturizing the skin.'"
"Uh, sure, toss it in." A quick spin through the grocery section netted them staples and fruit, plus a stack of frozen pizzas at Bruce's insistence ("The only thing I know how to make.")
Back in the car, Jim paused in the parking lot to answer a couple more texts from work, his fingers cold and clumsy on the screen.
"I can't just drop my work," he said defensively, although Bruce hadn't said anything.
"Important stuff?"
"Yes," Jim said shortly, unwilling to admit that the texts had been about the painters coming to redo the headquarters' walls. His elite handpicked force seemed to be getting by without him just fine, he realized with a pang as he put the car into gear.
At Home Depot, they picked up boards, nails, and red paint. Jim watched Bruce as he wandered the aisles, his attention rapt in a way it hadn't been at Walmart. His hands lingered on wood and tile, brushed across sandpaper and aluminum. Jim remembered a little piece of metal retrieved from a crime scene almost a decade ago, its curves like wings, carefully carved into the titanium.
The tiny projectile still rested in a drawer back in Gotham: a memento of the first time Jim had ever tampered with a crime scene.
"See anything you like?" he said to Bruce, who was thumbing through handbooks on patio furniture.
"Do you think we could pick up the materials for this?" Bruce held up a how-to book, open to a page showing a porch swing.
Jim thought about telling Bruce that it was unlikely they'd be staying long enough for the weather to improve to the point where they could use a porch swing, but he looked at Bruce's face and stopped himself. "Sure, we can do that." He squinted at the list of requirements, and they went off to gather them up as well.
Soon they were driving back toward the lake house, the car redolent with the smell of fresh-cut wood. Jim felt his spirits rising as they drove: they had projects to do, things to keep themselves busy. Maybe some of the awkwardness would pass when they were working with their hands together--
A raindrop spattered on the window, then another. Soon the windshield wipers were going in a steady rhythm.
Let me guess, the forecast calls for rain all week, Jim thought bitterly. Could this get worse?
The drumming on the windshield changed in timbre, sharpening.
Sleet. Of course.
: : :
They got the lumber and paint into the boathouse and scuttled back to the cabin as bits of ice showered down around them. The pine branches were already groaning under the weight, clashing against each other like furious chandeliers. Inside, the lights flickered but held steady, to Jim's relief.
"Could you chop up an onion? I'll make us a couple of omelets."
It became clear within moments that Bruce had never chopped an onion in his life, but he approached it with a sort of intense technicality, as if he were defusing a bomb rather than mincing a vegetable. Eventually the onion was reduced to a pile of perfectly even pieces and Jim slid them into the skillet to join the butter and garlic. Soon the cabin filled with the homey scent of cooking food.
"This is good," Bruce said in between bites, sounding surprised enough that Jim considered taking offense. A gust of wind rattled icy branches against the window, and the lights flickered again. "Doesn't look like we'll be fixing that pier anytime soon," he added.
"I guess not. The weather's pretty unpredictable up here."
"Good thing we've got some books." He smiled slightly. I'll get caught up on my Shakespeare."
The wind was still howling in the morning, bitter drafts slipping through the window frames and curling around the corners of the cabin. They ate breakfast and watched the morning news on the flickering little television--Gotham seemed to be holding up all right. After the dishes were done (Jim washing, Bruce meticulously drying), Bruce claimed one end of the sofa, frowning at Romeo and Juliet ("a couple of ninnies"), then nodding appreciatively at As You Like It. Jim picked up Lord of the Rings and began to re-read in turn, losing himself in the cadences of the language, the sweeping scope of the world.
The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with weary feet...
Bruce insisted on taking his turn in the kitchen that evening, thawing out one of the frozen pizzas. He put it on the table with a flourish. "I took the liberty of adding oregano," he said with some pride, then raised an eyebrow at Jim. "Glaring at it isn't going to improve the signal," he said.
Jim tossed the phone onto the couch with a growl. "If I had known this cabin was in a dead spot, I never would have come. The only place that works is the end of the dock." He took a bite of scalding-hot pizza. "After supper I'm going to see if I can drive somewhere I can get a signal."
"Is there some emergency?"
"Sort of," Jim muttered, relieved when Bruce let the matter drop. He washed the dishes then grabbed the car keys off the hook by the door. He half-expected Bruce would follow him to the door, and found himself oddly surprised when Bruce went back to his sofa and picked up his book.
"I'll be here when you get back," Bruce said.
"Oh. Okay," Jim muttered, then let himself out into the storm.
It took a depressingly long drive until he found a pocket of coverage, enough to pull to the side of the road and check his mail. Three from Councilman Watson; Jim sighed and answered one as vaguely as possible. There was also one from his secretary about the yearly budget, and one from John Blake: Heard you were taking some time off. Will do my best to hold down the fort. Wish me luck. Jim hesitated for a long time on that one, then answered it with just Good luck.
The sleet rattled on the windshield, pine needles clattering on the hood as overloaded branches shuddered. Outside the darkness crouched, eyeing him. His breath steamed in front of him. He put his forehead on the steering wheel rather than look back at the darkness.
After a while he made his limbs move to put the car into gear and wind his way back to the cabin.
When he opened the door, chocolate-scented warm air fogged his glasses opaque. "I made some cocoa," Bruce's voice explained as he pulled his glasses off and cleaned them, squinting.
The cabin was warm and bright, ignoring the darkness outside. Jim wrapped his hands around the mug Bruce pushed into his hands, letting the heat chase the tremors from his fingers.
: : :
The next morning, Bruce woke before he did; Jim came downstairs to find him with a bit of wood and a jackknife in his hands. He turned it over to show Jim the carved spine, curving.
"A bat?"
Bruce flashed him a wry grin. "Too obvious, don't you think?" He bent back to his work, the knife caressing the wood.
Jim watched him for a moment, then pulled out his phone again, as if looking at it would somehow breathe a signal into life. The phone remained inert, a mute oblong of plastic and metal. With his other hand, he pulled open the curtain, glaring out at the loose granular snow being lashed around by the wind. "We're going to get cabin fever," he grumbled.
"There's a lot to do," Bruce said. He shrugged when Jim shot him an annoyed look. "I've gotten good at finding a lot to do with a little."
"What exactly is there to do in a cabin in the woods in early March in a storm?"
"Well, beyond whittling--" Bruce put down the little wooden animal, "--We've got a pile of books, some notebooks and pens, a television, cards and a cribbage board--"
"--You know how to play cribbage?"
"Alfred taught me when I was a boy," Bruce said with a small smile, and Jim had a sudden image of the solemn boy he had met once sitting across the table from a younger Alfred, struggling to hold all his cards in his small hands. "I haven't played in...a very long time, though."
"Me neither. Shall we try it?"
They turned out to be equally inept at the game, which made for well-matched play. The little pegs moved back and forth across the board, jumping over each other, looping back and forth and going nowhere, always returning to where they began. "How do you do it?" Jim heard himself say.
"Well, a lot depends on finding the right cards to discard to the crib--"
"--I don't mean cribbage," Jim said with a glare. "I mean..." He trailed off, uncertain exactly what he did mean.
Bruce shuffled the cards again, watching them interlace. Then he put them down. "I was ready to die," he said, his voice low. "I was bleeding, I was piloting the bomb out of the city, and I was ready to die. To give everything for Gotham. It was...a transcendent feeling. Everything had led to that moment. It was the end of my life, I was sure of it. I knew the autopilot system was fixed, but I couldn't think of a reason to activate it. It seemed...the most simple ending. Almost elegant."
"But you did activate it," Jim said when it seemed that Bruce wasn't going to continue. "You...found a reason."
Bruce picked up the cards, tapped them on the table. "Yes," he said. "I did."
He dealt Jim a new hand.
( Part 4)
Continuity: The Dark Knight Rises
Pairing/Characters: Jim Gordon/Bruce Wayne
Warnings: None
Summary: Wintery weather forces Jim and Bruce indoors; Cooking, reading, and cribbage follow.
Rating: G this chapter, up to light PG-13 overall
Word Count: 1800
Jim Gordon took a moment to savor the surreal sight of Bruce Wayne wheeling a shopping cart down a brightly-lit Walmart aisle. He was looking at the merchandise on the shelves as if at artifacts from some exotic new world--which might not be so far from the truth, Jim reflected.
"Is this any good?"
Jim looked at the plastic bottle Bruce was holding up. "I have no idea." Barbara had given him some Old Spice body wash years ago and he'd just kept buying that even after.
Bruce peered at the label and articulated as carefully if reading Sanskrit: "Aveeno Active Naturals Stress Relief Body Wash. With lavender, camomile, and ylang-ylang." He hoisted it, lifting an interrogative eyebrow at Jim. "Apparently it 'calms and relaxes while moisturizing the skin.'"
"Uh, sure, toss it in." A quick spin through the grocery section netted them staples and fruit, plus a stack of frozen pizzas at Bruce's insistence ("The only thing I know how to make.")
Back in the car, Jim paused in the parking lot to answer a couple more texts from work, his fingers cold and clumsy on the screen.
"I can't just drop my work," he said defensively, although Bruce hadn't said anything.
"Important stuff?"
"Yes," Jim said shortly, unwilling to admit that the texts had been about the painters coming to redo the headquarters' walls. His elite handpicked force seemed to be getting by without him just fine, he realized with a pang as he put the car into gear.
At Home Depot, they picked up boards, nails, and red paint. Jim watched Bruce as he wandered the aisles, his attention rapt in a way it hadn't been at Walmart. His hands lingered on wood and tile, brushed across sandpaper and aluminum. Jim remembered a little piece of metal retrieved from a crime scene almost a decade ago, its curves like wings, carefully carved into the titanium.
The tiny projectile still rested in a drawer back in Gotham: a memento of the first time Jim had ever tampered with a crime scene.
"See anything you like?" he said to Bruce, who was thumbing through handbooks on patio furniture.
"Do you think we could pick up the materials for this?" Bruce held up a how-to book, open to a page showing a porch swing.
Jim thought about telling Bruce that it was unlikely they'd be staying long enough for the weather to improve to the point where they could use a porch swing, but he looked at Bruce's face and stopped himself. "Sure, we can do that." He squinted at the list of requirements, and they went off to gather them up as well.
Soon they were driving back toward the lake house, the car redolent with the smell of fresh-cut wood. Jim felt his spirits rising as they drove: they had projects to do, things to keep themselves busy. Maybe some of the awkwardness would pass when they were working with their hands together--
A raindrop spattered on the window, then another. Soon the windshield wipers were going in a steady rhythm.
Let me guess, the forecast calls for rain all week, Jim thought bitterly. Could this get worse?
The drumming on the windshield changed in timbre, sharpening.
Sleet. Of course.
: : :
They got the lumber and paint into the boathouse and scuttled back to the cabin as bits of ice showered down around them. The pine branches were already groaning under the weight, clashing against each other like furious chandeliers. Inside, the lights flickered but held steady, to Jim's relief.
"Could you chop up an onion? I'll make us a couple of omelets."
It became clear within moments that Bruce had never chopped an onion in his life, but he approached it with a sort of intense technicality, as if he were defusing a bomb rather than mincing a vegetable. Eventually the onion was reduced to a pile of perfectly even pieces and Jim slid them into the skillet to join the butter and garlic. Soon the cabin filled with the homey scent of cooking food.
"This is good," Bruce said in between bites, sounding surprised enough that Jim considered taking offense. A gust of wind rattled icy branches against the window, and the lights flickered again. "Doesn't look like we'll be fixing that pier anytime soon," he added.
"I guess not. The weather's pretty unpredictable up here."
"Good thing we've got some books." He smiled slightly. I'll get caught up on my Shakespeare."
The wind was still howling in the morning, bitter drafts slipping through the window frames and curling around the corners of the cabin. They ate breakfast and watched the morning news on the flickering little television--Gotham seemed to be holding up all right. After the dishes were done (Jim washing, Bruce meticulously drying), Bruce claimed one end of the sofa, frowning at Romeo and Juliet ("a couple of ninnies"), then nodding appreciatively at As You Like It. Jim picked up Lord of the Rings and began to re-read in turn, losing himself in the cadences of the language, the sweeping scope of the world.
The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with weary feet...
Bruce insisted on taking his turn in the kitchen that evening, thawing out one of the frozen pizzas. He put it on the table with a flourish. "I took the liberty of adding oregano," he said with some pride, then raised an eyebrow at Jim. "Glaring at it isn't going to improve the signal," he said.
Jim tossed the phone onto the couch with a growl. "If I had known this cabin was in a dead spot, I never would have come. The only place that works is the end of the dock." He took a bite of scalding-hot pizza. "After supper I'm going to see if I can drive somewhere I can get a signal."
"Is there some emergency?"
"Sort of," Jim muttered, relieved when Bruce let the matter drop. He washed the dishes then grabbed the car keys off the hook by the door. He half-expected Bruce would follow him to the door, and found himself oddly surprised when Bruce went back to his sofa and picked up his book.
"I'll be here when you get back," Bruce said.
"Oh. Okay," Jim muttered, then let himself out into the storm.
It took a depressingly long drive until he found a pocket of coverage, enough to pull to the side of the road and check his mail. Three from Councilman Watson; Jim sighed and answered one as vaguely as possible. There was also one from his secretary about the yearly budget, and one from John Blake: Heard you were taking some time off. Will do my best to hold down the fort. Wish me luck. Jim hesitated for a long time on that one, then answered it with just Good luck.
The sleet rattled on the windshield, pine needles clattering on the hood as overloaded branches shuddered. Outside the darkness crouched, eyeing him. His breath steamed in front of him. He put his forehead on the steering wheel rather than look back at the darkness.
After a while he made his limbs move to put the car into gear and wind his way back to the cabin.
When he opened the door, chocolate-scented warm air fogged his glasses opaque. "I made some cocoa," Bruce's voice explained as he pulled his glasses off and cleaned them, squinting.
The cabin was warm and bright, ignoring the darkness outside. Jim wrapped his hands around the mug Bruce pushed into his hands, letting the heat chase the tremors from his fingers.
: : :
The next morning, Bruce woke before he did; Jim came downstairs to find him with a bit of wood and a jackknife in his hands. He turned it over to show Jim the carved spine, curving.
"A bat?"
Bruce flashed him a wry grin. "Too obvious, don't you think?" He bent back to his work, the knife caressing the wood.
Jim watched him for a moment, then pulled out his phone again, as if looking at it would somehow breathe a signal into life. The phone remained inert, a mute oblong of plastic and metal. With his other hand, he pulled open the curtain, glaring out at the loose granular snow being lashed around by the wind. "We're going to get cabin fever," he grumbled.
"There's a lot to do," Bruce said. He shrugged when Jim shot him an annoyed look. "I've gotten good at finding a lot to do with a little."
"What exactly is there to do in a cabin in the woods in early March in a storm?"
"Well, beyond whittling--" Bruce put down the little wooden animal, "--We've got a pile of books, some notebooks and pens, a television, cards and a cribbage board--"
"--You know how to play cribbage?"
"Alfred taught me when I was a boy," Bruce said with a small smile, and Jim had a sudden image of the solemn boy he had met once sitting across the table from a younger Alfred, struggling to hold all his cards in his small hands. "I haven't played in...a very long time, though."
"Me neither. Shall we try it?"
They turned out to be equally inept at the game, which made for well-matched play. The little pegs moved back and forth across the board, jumping over each other, looping back and forth and going nowhere, always returning to where they began. "How do you do it?" Jim heard himself say.
"Well, a lot depends on finding the right cards to discard to the crib--"
"--I don't mean cribbage," Jim said with a glare. "I mean..." He trailed off, uncertain exactly what he did mean.
Bruce shuffled the cards again, watching them interlace. Then he put them down. "I was ready to die," he said, his voice low. "I was bleeding, I was piloting the bomb out of the city, and I was ready to die. To give everything for Gotham. It was...a transcendent feeling. Everything had led to that moment. It was the end of my life, I was sure of it. I knew the autopilot system was fixed, but I couldn't think of a reason to activate it. It seemed...the most simple ending. Almost elegant."
"But you did activate it," Jim said when it seemed that Bruce wasn't going to continue. "You...found a reason."
Bruce picked up the cards, tapped them on the table. "Yes," he said. "I did."
He dealt Jim a new hand.
( Part 4)