#gotham!jim gordon headcanons
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What Gotham Fox Characters Are Like on April Fool's Day (Part 1: Jim & Jerome)👻🤡😂
Warnings: mention of Jerome not being against using bombs
Jim Gordon Busy. He's busy fighting crime. So busy that he'll just nod at whatever prank news you give him. "Did you see the news, Jim? They wrote your name "Jam Gordy". "Mhm." "Look, a deer!" "Love you too, sweetheart." 🤦😂
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To his defence: he really does have tons to do. Which means that he'll melt right into his special someone's arms at the end of the day.
Jerome Valeska
Is also busy. Doing crime. But he finds time to tell you all about it. "Let me tell you, I did not expect much from the green guy, but he's got good ideas, alright. Do you have an idea too? Come on, I wanna hear 'em, I'm a spontaneous guy."
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Anything you want to do is good enough for him. Be it something small or something as big as a bomb. But best don't mention such things. He might think you stopped talking about it due to insecurities, not common sense 😆.
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batmanlovesnirvana · 7 months ago
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What would Bruce Wayne be cancelled for ?
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vodrae · 1 year ago
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Gotham City top Mole :
- Poison Ivy, talks to plants, always useful if something happens near a park. Hard to convince. Will almost always collaborate without telling it if the victim is a woman or a child. Always ask more space for the green in the city.
- Catwoman. There is strays everywhere in the city, and she understand them. In general more willing than her girlfriend Ivy. Will ask about her criminal record or us to look the other way during her next heist. If it's get to difficult, ask Batman to handle her.
- Harley Quinn. Give informations on the Clown Gang without us asking. Give her a cap, a gun with fake bullets, a badge and let her use the car's siren and she will tell everything we need. She won't work with us if her girlfriends are not happy with our deal. In this case, call any vigilante in town and let them share a batburger with her.
- Viktor Friese. Since WayneTech offered him a lab suiting his condition to conduct his researchs to save his wife, he is always willing to help.
- Harvey Dent/Double-Face. Already save the city more times than it's good to write it down. Everytime, we needed Bruce Wayne.
- Ratcatcher. He can talk to rats, and they are everywhere. Let him calls his family or promise him a better cell. In VERY LAST RESORT, theaten to arrest his daughter for complicity.
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milkymooshi · 5 months ago
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Dream Gotham blunt rotation?
Harvey, every adult woman in Gotham (except Isabella bc weirdo :/), Harvey (again), Victor Fries (I think he really needs it tbh, or a wife but yk.)
Nightmare Gotham blunt rotation?
Oswald, Ed, Jim (I fucking hate him), Oswald ( again bc he would realistically be the worst to get high with), Jim (I want this man euthanized).
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it-happened-once-in-a-meme · 4 months ago
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(Spoilers for whether Nygmobblepot is canon!)
If Nygmobblepot is ever canonized, 💜💚
I want there to be a live slug reaction, preferably from Jim, cause as not just a Nygmobblepot but also a Gobblepot shipper I want to see him possibly jealous 🤭
Regardless, the reaction should be panic. Cause the Penguin and the Riddler teaming up is one thing. But them being together and helping each other without expecting anything in return: chaos! 😂😱
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rokishimizu4 · 3 months ago
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Arrows and Smoke
(Realized that Bruce and Oliver were married in one past or another, but I love Roy and Jason more)
It wasn’t often that Oliver Queen found himself actually busy at a gala, as it usually him bullshitting his way through the conversation and polite smiles. However, after getting the message from Flash, it was all hands on deck.
Even poor Roy, who usually never goes to any galas, was forced to attend as Cass’s plus one. As, and Oliver would never admit it out loud, but Roy was a better, quiet, shot and Cass’s ability to read people makes for a great duo.
Oliver stood off to the side, surrounded by chatty women with big earrings and even bigger check books, and felt like he rather switch places with Flash, risked bite mark and all, but notices a man entering with his wife and twin, which was someone that he never saw before.
He was not the only one to notice as he could see Jason, damn that kid got tall, do a quick circle once and flashed a polite smile at the family as the father grabbed a glass of champagne. (Aka not familiar but not on the Bat’s hit list)
However, his attention is ripped from the strange family as Bruce strides up to him, and his group of older ladies, and asks if he could “steal” him away for a moment.
”Thank fuck, I thought those ladies wanted to strip me.” He teases as he follows after Bruce, talking nonsense to fool everyone else, but tries to keep any eye on the family-especially on how much the father drinks.
“It seems like a few of your kids couldn’t make it. Who has a gala in the middle of the day anyways?” (Aka has your kids find anything? Reason for the early meeting?) “I can barely keep up with my own business nowadays.”
”Duke and Dick are in an early meeting and Barbara is meeting her father for lunch. Cass and Damian were the only ones that could make it.” (Aka busy as all hell). “It’s been sometime since we were able to have a proper get together.”
”Tell me about it! I can barely sit down to eat without someone in my ear talking about recent events.”
The two men talk and flirt with young women for a few more hours, never drinking more than a glass or two. Keeping eyes out for anyone that could be a target. Until a crash of a metal tray hitting the polished marble.
Eyes turn towards the noise and everyone sees the father, of the small family, raising his hand towards his wife as if to smack her, but Jason got in the middle of it.
Bruce and Oliver rush to the scene, only to find the man crying while his wife stands there indifferent. As if her almost being hit was just another day for her. The twins stand a little ways off to the side with Roy and Cass.
”What is the meaning of this? Security!” Another man, the Host of the Gala, calls but Oliver holds up a hand to stop the guards.
”I believe he just needs some fresh air, I’ll escort him out. Please, continue the party.” Oliver flashes his Ollie smile and helps the man to his feet and politely drags the man out and into the fresh air.
”It’s not what it looks like, I swear.” The man mumbles, clearly having more than a few glasses of champagne but not sure what else he could have drank.
”That.. that woman… don’t let..” The man tries to continue but his eyes begin to droop, and Oliver starts to worry.
However, before Oliver could get more out of him the man starts coughing violently. He tries to keep the man on his feet and tries to call for help. He manages to get the attention of people, and calls 911.
Police and ambulance arrives even before the first ring, signaling that someone else called long before he did. The medics take the man as Oliver rushes back in, almost being trampled by the mob rushing out of the building while screaming bloody murder.
It doesn’t take long for Oliver to figure out why as the windows burst apart around the force of a ice slide rampaging through.
Several people?, burst down the ice slide cackling like children, with the twins in the arms of a red werewolf (Having the time of their lives). A winged girl, with blue and pink hair and a very revealing dress, flies down and snatches the man right out of the medic’s grip and spreads some type of dust as she flies.
A man with a black fedora mumbles spells and chants for all to hear and Oliver starts to feel dizzy as a sudden sleepiness overcomes him.
Then the strangest of all, a black and purple monster of oil follows after, carrying the screaming woman out of the building and drops her violently off at Jim’s police car. Her screaming about her head being ripped off and eaten.
Then, as if nothing happened, the group disappeared in the fedora wearing man’s smoke spell, but not before an arrow shoots through it and hits the man’s fedora.
”Nice shot kid.” Oliver whispered in awe as the police and medics quickly take over the scene, only making way for Signal and Nightwing once they are on scene.
“Commissioner Gordon, please bring this woman in for kidnapping, drug and sex trafficking, and for the murder of Mrs. Bolton, a Metropolis running mate for mayor.” Nightwing orders, and Oliver thinks that he and Roy should have stayed in Central City with the Flash.
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gothamitelove · 5 days ago
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Hey!! Can I do a request with Gotham!Jim Gordon? I saw the yandere post with him and got some ideas. How would Yandere!Jim Gordon be when he's angry (like yelling and getting a bit rough)and makes S/O cry, scratch themselves, start shaking bc they are scared and they are crazy overwhelmed.? X Male reader please🙏
Yandere+Gotham+Jim Gordon
Anyway that's all (Tyy💕)
DUDE. i LOVE yan!gotham!jim thank you for giving me another reason to write about him
pissed off yan!gotham!jim gordon headcanons
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this would probably only happen because you were being unsafe. maybe you weren't thinking, or maybe you didn't see another way to work things out. but he would only really get this mad because he's worried
but of course, the second he sees you cry, it all comes crumbling down.
he can't stand seeing you upset. he'll move your hands so you're not scratching yourself up and hold you, running his fingers through your hair and there are cheek and forehead kisses galore
he tells you that he's sorry, he really didn't mean to scare you. he just worries, and gotham is such a dangerous city, and the work he does makes it more dangerous specifically for you
he'll get you a blanket and situate you down on the couch, give you something to anchor yourself with
of course if you need time alone, he'll give that to you too- begrudgingly
he loves you so much. he'd rather die than hurt you. but there have to be rules. you can't just go out and do whatever- what's he going to do if you get hurt? he wouldn't be able to live with himself.
this probably ends with another restriction on your movement. i won't lie
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lumillsie · 8 days ago
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ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ gotham masterlist. ੈ✩‧₊˚
╰┈➤ jim gordon, barbara kean, victor zsasz, oswald cobblepot, edward nygma, sofia falcone, jerome valeska, jeremiah valeska, tabitha galavan
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˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ jim gordon. ੈ✩‧₊˚
tba.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ barbara kean. ੈ✩‧₊˚
tba.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ victor zsasz. ੈ✩‧₊˚
tba.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ edward nygma. ੈ✩‧₊˚
tba.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ sofia falcone. ੈ✩‧₊˚
tba.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ jerome valeska. ੈ✩‧₊˚
tba.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ jeremiah valeska. ੈ✩‧₊˚
tba.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ tabitha galavan. ੈ✩‧₊˚
tba.
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charliethedino-12 · 2 years ago
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Gotham??? Yeah, more like autism! Am I right or am I right?
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shyjusticewarrior · 2 years ago
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Gotham Incorrect Quotes Pt 155
Oswald: You saved me, Jim. I owe you my life.
Jim: No thanks, I've seen it and I'm not impressed.
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Ed, surrounded by pictures of Oswald: *frantically writing riddles*
Lee: Well Ed, I came over to see if you wanted to go to Cherry's, but I can see you're busy having an episode.
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Ed: The victims were dismembered and sacrificed on an alter made of antlers.
Jim: Dear God.
Ed: Most likely yes.
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Oswald: I think true unconditional love is like... do you love someone so much that you would even love them if they didn't love you anymore? That is unconditional love.
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What Gotham Fox Characters Are Like on April Fool's Day (Part 2: Harvey & Jim (again))👻🤡😂
Harvey Bullock is very stressed out due to the enormous amount of work, and he really doesn't want his co-workers to distract him with anything - be it riddles or jokes or fun facts - but he's also a man who can appreciate the idea of the holiday.
"Hey, Jim, have you heard, the Riddler hi-jacked the GCPD's clothing production warehouse. Now all the vests are green." "Uh-huh." "And they had to replace some of our ammunition with water balloons." "Sounds good." "You sure 'bout that, Partner? Have you heard that Barbara's dating Nygma?" "Yes." "They're naming their firstborn after me. "Yes-what?"
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Harvey knowing the stress that can come with April Fool's day, makes sure to explain that something was a prank right away and not to lie about serious topics...unless the "news" is so very obviously a lie that you just have to get it, Jim. "Why would Barbara name her child Harvey? I mean, come on!"
This detective will be very tired at the end of the day and might need distance or a gentle touch depending on what happened during his workshift. Expect to hear the crazy stories on the next day. And the ones after that. There's a lot.
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batmanlovesnirvana · 8 days ago
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Chapter eight | back to black.
masterlist.
pairing : battinson x fem!oc (can be read as x reader)
words : +7k
A/N : FUNERAL DAY !! I originally planned for this chapter to be 10k words, but it felt like too much, so I decided to split it into two parts. I’ll post the next part soon after this one! As always, feel free to leave a comment—I love hearing your thoughts!
cw : Bruce being a simp, Maryam and her sisters making fun of him, I forgot what else, 18+, thriller, medical procedures, angst, mental health issues, depression, ptsd, noire, canon-typical violence, POV alternating, gritty, horror, illness, slow burn, action, fluff, mutual pining, forced proximity, crime families, crime, fighting ect… read at your own risk !
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THE CAVE FEELS MORE LIKE A TOMB than a workspace, cold and silent, echoing only the low whirring of Bruce's gadgets. 
Beneath Wayne Tower, Gotham's pulse feels distant, dulled by layers of concrete and steel.
At his workbench, as usual, Bruce sits alone, bathed in the soft blue glow of multiple screens. His face is as unmoving as stone, but his eyes burn with an intensity that belies his calm. 
On the screen before him, the footage replays—not of Gotham's criminals, not of the streets he prowls, not even of Selina's contacts or his enemies. But her. Maryam.
Maryam—like the Virgin Mary, but nothing so innocent, nothing so untouchable. Maryam is fire and ice, contradiction and certainty, strength and vulnerability. She is as untamed as the storm and as steady as the mountains. 
He knows it well, and yet, even after all this time, she's still a mystery he can't solve, a puzzle with pieces he's terrified to touch.
The screen freezes on her face, capturing her in mid-sentence, her expression twisted not in anger, but in something deeper—hurt. Her brow is furrowed, and those striking hazel eyes, that impossible green-gold, blaze with a betrayal that lances through him like a blade. Her lips, poised to unleash a torrent of words she'd held back, are pressed tight in defiance. And all he can do is stare, feeling the sting of his own stupidity.
Valuable. 
He'd said it as if it were a compliment, as if it justified the risks she took, as if it somehow explained the place she'd carved out in his life of shadows and secrets. But he hadn't anticipated her reaction, the flicker of hurt that had flashed across her face, the way she'd recoiled, as though he'd reduced her to a pawn in his endless game of vengeance.
His hands, fingers tense above the controls, curl into fists as her words echo back, slicing through the silence of the Cave like a ghostly accusation.
"Just some asset to monitor, a liability to contain—like a ticking bomb?"
He could see her in his mind, fire in her eyes as she spat the words at him, her voice trembling with fury, her frame taut with unspent energy. And he'd felt that pang, deep in his chest, as if something inside him had cracked, letting in the tiniest sliver of vulnerability, one he'd locked away long ago.
He remembers the way she looked at him, her gaze searching, peeling back the layers of his resolve with an intimacy he wasn't prepared for. "I'm not just... valuable. I'm a person. I bleed, I hurt. And you... you can't just..." She'd hesitated, her voice wavering, raw with something achingly human. "You can't just treat me like I'm another cog in your mission."
She'd left him speechless. 
He, who always had an answer, who prided himself on his ability to read people, who knew Gotham's darkest corners like the back of his hand—he had nothing to say. 
Because she was right.
He'd built his life on walls, fortress upon fortress, a castle to keep everyone out, and her words had broken through like a wrecking ball.
He leans forward, his elbows resting on the table, burying his face in his hands. 
And for the first time in years, he feels the weight of guilt, sharp and foreign, pressing into him like a blade he can't remove. He'd made a vow to never let anyone in, to keep his mission above everything, and yet here she was, tearing down his carefully constructed armor with nothing but her honesty.
He's so absorbed that he doesn't notice Alfred's quiet approach, the soft click of his footsteps as he stops a few paces behind. 
After a moment, the butler clears his throat gently, breaking the silence. 
Bruce doesn't turn, but his body tenses, the mask slipping back into place, though the rawness lingers in his eyes.
"Enjoying the view, sir?" Alfred asks, his tone laced with mischief as he steps into the dim light.
Bruce clenches his jaw, not answering his guardian, the words swirling in his mind—valuable, asset, liability. He feels the weight of them now, heavier than ever.
He'd built walls so high around himself, walls no one—not even Alfred—could breach. But Maryam... she had found a way through, dismantling his defenses piece by piece, forcing him to confront things he'd long since buried. 
Things he swore to himself would never resurface.
"Looks like you upset her," Alfred says softly, "Again." he says putting his arm behind his back, inspecting the screens before him.
Bruce exhales, shifting in his chair, his annoyance barely concealed. "It's not... like that, Alfred." His voice is low, roughened by something that sounds almost like regret. "She just... she has this way of getting under my skin."
Alfred chuckled softly, moving closer and crossing his arms as he leaned against the edge of the workbench. "Under your skin? Good heavens, I'd say that's quite the understatement, Master Wayne."
Bruce didn't reply, his eyes fixed on the monitor. 
The screen showed Maryam's face frozen in a moment of hurt, her emotions laid bare. That expression gnawed at him, more than he cared to admit.
Alfred caught the flicker in his young master's gaze and raised his brows, making his point.
"Not many people would stand up to you like that."
Bruce frowned, his jaw tightening as he turned his gaze back to the screen. "It's not about standing up to me," he muttered, his voice so low it was almost a gravelly whisper.
But Alfred, as persistent as ever, pressed on. "Oh, I think it is. That kind of anger comes from caring, Bruce. Even if you didn't realize it at the time."
Bruce let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. Stubbornness radiated off him like armor. "She misunderstood."
"Did she? Or did you just say the wrong thing?"
Bruce's jaw tightened further, his teeth grinding almost audibly. "She doesn't understand what I'm trying to do."
"And whose fault is that, hm? Communication has never been your strongest suit, sir."
Bruce didn't respond, the tension in his body evident in the way his hands gripped the computer mouse and his knuckles whitened.
Alfred watched him in silence for a moment before speaking again, his tone softer now, more measured. "People aren't tools, Bruce. She said it better than I could. They're not assets to be managed or risks to be calculated. Especially not someone like her."
Bruce's gaze faltered for a moment, his mind replaying the moment on its own, no longer needing the footage. He could hear her voice, see her expression, feel the weight of her words. The hurt in her voice cut through him like glass, and her defiance still lingered in the space between them.
Was she wrong to be angry? No. If anything, she'd been right. He had reduced her to a tool in that moment, another pawn in his endless war. But Maryam wasn't a tool. She wasn't a pawn. She wasn't like anyone else.
She had her own battles, her own scars. And yet, she had stood before him, unflinching, demanding more. Demanding better.
And he had failed her.
"If you truly believe she's valuable," Alfred said quietly, "perhaps you should show her why."
Bruce finally turned slightly, his eyes meeting Alfred's briefly. The butler gave him a small, encouraging smile.
"You'll have another chance, I'm sure," Alfred continued. Then, after a pause, he added, "Didn't you tell me that she seems familiar—?"
"She's a medical examiner. Nothing else."
There it was again—his stubbornness, a trait they both shared. Or was it something else? More like fear. 
Fear from a man who claimed to have none.
The thought of letting someone in, of opening even the smallest part of himself, was too much. Too dangerous.  It wasn't practical; he told himself that over and over. There wasn't time for it.
The butler sighed, shaking his head, as though reading Bruce's thoughts. "You keep telling yourself that, sir."
Bruce didn't reply, his gaze drifting back to the darkened screen. The weight of his choices, of his words, hung heavy in the cave, like a storm cloud refusing to dissipate.
A beat of silence passed before Alfred's voice cut through, pulling him back to the present. "Shall I take it as a good sign," the butler asked, a faint smile playing on his lips, a touch of humor in his tone.
Bruce furrowed his brows, not understanding. "What?"
Alfred gestured toward him. "Your attire." he clarified, raising a brow. "Is Bruce Wayne making an actual appearance?"
Oh, that.
Bruce glanced down at himself. He was, indeed, dressed in a suit—formal and impeccable, though he had barely noticed the effort it had taken.
Blinking as if shaking off the question's sudden intrusion, he straightened, rolling his shoulders to cast off the weight of his thoughts.
"There's a public memorial for Mayor Mitchell," he explained, his voice steady but cool. "Serial killers like to follow the reaction to their crimes—Riddler might not be able to resist."
"Oh, that reminds me." Alfred reached into his waistcoat pocket, producing a folded piece of paper. "I took the liberty of doing a little work on this latest cipher..."
Bruce finally turned from the screens, the faint screeches of bats echoing from above as he focused on Alfred. The butler unfolded the paper, gesturing to the symbols.
"I'm afraid his Spanish is less than perfect, but I'm fairly certain it translates to, 'You are el rata alada.'"
Bruce took the paper, his brow furrowing as he studied it. "'Rata alada'... rat with wings?"
"It's slang for pigeon," Alfred explained. "Does that make any sense to you?"
Bruce nodded slightly, his mind already working. "Yeah... a stool pigeon."
Before the thought could deepen, Alfred's sharp eyes caught something else. "Where are your cufflinks?" he remarked, gesturing toward Bruce's bare cuffs.
Bruce muttered distractedly, "Couldn't find them," his attention still fixed on the cipher in his hands.
Alfred sighed and pulled a pair from his own pocket, stepping forward. "You can't go out like that—"
"Alfred, I don't want your cufflinks," Bruce snapped, irritation flickering in his voice as he glanced briefly at the older man.
"You have to keep up appearances," Alfred insisted, his tone calm but firm as he took Bruce's wrist and began fastening the cufflink. "You're still a Wayne, after all."
Reluctantly, Bruce let him.
As Alfred worked, Bruce noticed the monogrammed 'W' on the cufflink. He raised an eyebrow and let out a small, wry chuckle. "What about you? Are you a Wayne now?"
Alfred smiled faintly, moving to secure the other sleeve. "Your father gave them to me," he said quietly, the words heavy with unspoken emotion.
Bruce paused, the statement catching him off guard. 
He looked at Alfred, his expression softening slightly. But Alfred, ever the professional, broke the moment with a lighthearted smile. "I'm just loaning them to you—I want them back."
The billionaire nodded, a rare, fleeting warmth passing between them before he turned away, the weight of their conversation still lingering in the cave air.
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The sun had barely risen, casting a dim, gray light over Gotham as Dr. Halimi adjusted the collar of her tailored black coat, her eyes scanning her reflection in the mirror. The soft morning light filtered through the small windows of her apartment, bathing the room in a quiet, muted glow.
She took a step back, her gaze moving over the sleek lines of the black coat, which hugged her figure with an austere, precise elegance. The cut was sharp, the fabric smooth, cinching at the waist and falling just below her knees—a perfect balance of timelessness and severity. She smoothed the lapel with practiced hands, tugging at the waist one last time before letting her eyes rest on the black veil pinned to her pillbox hat.
The veil draped softly over her high cheekbones, adding a quiet touch of drama to her otherwise composed appearance. It rested at a slight angle, lending her a timeless, classic look, while her caramel hair was half-up, the rest falling in soft waves down her back.
Sherine had teased her about the veil, calling it "a bit much," but to Maryam, it felt like the only choice. It was right for today—appropriate, even necessary.
Her black high heels clicked sharply against the hardwood floor as she stepped back once more. The impracticality of them was a minor sacrifice for the sake of elegance. She adjusted the pillbox hat once again, smoothing the veil, allowing herself a fleeting moment to indulge in the kind of grace she rarely had the chance to embrace.
Maryam wasn’t one to lean into vanity—not because she didn’t enjoy it, but because her line of work didn’t exactly leave room for it. But today... today was different.
Her eyes dropped to her hand, where she held her mother’s brooch—an old, delicate thing, with silver vines curling around soft pearls. She ran her thumb over its familiar curves, feeling the weight of its history, its stories, pressed into her skin.
It was a relic, a link to a past long gone, and for years it had been tucked away in a velvet box beneath her bed. Pinning it to her coat had felt like the right choice—small, subtle, and close to her heart. But now, doubt began to creep in.
Would it draw too much attention? Invite too many questions? She wasn’t sure if anyone here would recognize it—or what it would mean if they did. For a moment, she considered leaving it behind.
Just then, Sherine yawned from the hallway, adjusting her earrings in the mirror. Dressed in a sharp black dress and high heels, she looked every bit the polished, worldly journalist and archaeologist she was.
She'd flown in from Metropolis just for this, bringing with her an extra pep in her step and an almost comical disbelief at Gotham's perpetual gloom. Despite being a Gothamite herself, it seemed that Metropolis had rubbed off on her.
"Okay fine, I admit it, the veil looks amazing," Sherine's voice broke through Maryam's thoughts as she stepped further into the room, reaching out to touch the delicate fabric. 
The doctor quickly slapped her hand away, and Sherine rolled her eyes in exaggerated annoyance.
Maryam smirked, smoothing down the veil with a delicate hand. "Thanks, it's called 'honoring tradition,' Sher."
Her sister raised an eyebrow. "Right. A tradition you remembered just for today, I see. You look like you're about to attend a royal funeral."
"Close enough," Maryam retorted with a dry laugh, checking her reflection again. "Besides, with Bruce Wayne rumored to make an appearance, it might as well be. Gotham's royalty, gracing us commoners with his presence."
"Ah, yes. Mr. Wayne," Sherine replied, practically snickering. "The hermit king himself."
Maryam shot her sister a sideways glance, a smirk tugging at the corners of her otherwise serious expression. “Can you believe it? Word is, the elusive Wayne heir might actually make an appearance today,” she said, raising an arm dramatically and waving it like she was unveiling a grand banner.
Sherine scoffed. "Nepo baby royalty. It's ridiculous, really. His family practically built Gotham—and I don't mean that in a good way. He's the poster child for unchecked capitalism."
Maryam chuckled, shaking her head. "You're not wrong. The Wayne legacy is all around us, and yet he hides away like some... Gotham myth."
"Not unlike Falcone," Sherine added, raising an eyebrow. "Though between the two, I think Falcone's the scarier recluse."
The mention of Falcone brought a flicker of unease to Maryam's face. "Do you think he'll show up?" She asked, more to herself than to Sherine. The thought of Falcone coming out of his shadows was unsettling, to say the least.
"Not a chance," Sherine dismissed with a wave of her hand. "That man's probably hiding under a dozen layers of security and shadows."
"Still, I wouldn't put it past him. He's got his hands in everything in this city."
"Not more reclusive than Bruce Wayne, though," Sherine snorted, reaching for her clutch. "At least Falcone actually does something—however terrible it is."
"If he shows up with his son Vittorio, I swear to God, I'll—" Maryam began, spritzing a hint of her favorite perfume on her wrists.
"You will do absolutely nothing," Sherine cut in, standing beside her and fussing with her hair in the mirror, her vibrant red waves catching the muted morning light. "You don't want to start anything, especially today. It's the mayor's funeral, for crying out loud."
"Oh, I'm serious, Sherine. I went out as the Wraith just two nights ago and yesterday as a civilian, and still nothing. Nothing! If Vittorio even glances in Alma's direction, they're going to find out exactly what I'm capable of," Maryam muttered, her eyes flashing with a hint of defiance as she twisted off the cap of her perfume.
Sherine raised an eyebrow. "And that's exactly why I'm reminding you to keep it together. This isn't some Gotham street brawl—it's a funeral. Dignity, remember?"
Maryam scoffed, setting the perfume bottle back on her dresser. "Falcone is the last person who deserves any respect. And his son? The only thing he got from his father is that insufferable sense of entitlement."
Sherine just sighed, too tired to argue with her stubborn sister. "You're impossible," she muttered, shaking her head.
Maryam responded with a faint, tight smile, but her eyes flickered back to the brooch now sitting quietly on her dresser.
She picked it up, her thumb tracing the delicate silver vines and tiny pearls. It felt almost too precious for a day like this—too bold, too revealing of a heritage she'd rather keep hidden.
Sherine noticed her hesitation. "Are you really going to wear that?" she asked, softening her tone, then quickly added with a grin, "Actually, I hope you do."
"I don't know," Maryam murmured, uncertain.
"Oh, for heaven's sake. Just wear the damn brooch," Sherine said with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. "No one here is going to recognize it. The average Gothamite probably thinks the Romanovs are a brand of vodka."
"Not everyone's that ignorant of history," Maryam replied with a hint of amusement.
Sherine smirked. "Maybe not, but Gotham has its own blind spots. Who's really going to scrutinize your jewelry today?"
Maryam took a deep breath, her fingers hovering over the brooch before slipping it back into its velvet box, closing the lid firmly. "I just... don't want any unnecessary attention."
Sherine shrugged, looking Maryam over. "Fine. But you're still the most elegant one there, veil and all. That coat is practically regal."
Maryam's gaze lingered on the box, feeling the familiar tug of unease. She'd nearly decided to leave it behind... but, almost on instinct, she pinned the brooch to her coat, the weight of it settling against her heart.
"Yeah, fuck it," she said with a finality, sliding her clutch under her arm."So, are you ready? We need to pick up Aunt Meysa and Alma before they complain that we left them to fend for themselves."
"Oh, trust me," Sherine replied, laughing as she slipped on her coat. "Aunt Meysa is probably lecturing Alma as we speak. You know Alma's in hiding mode—poor thing can't even escape her law books without Aunt Meysa giving her a full interrogation."
Maryam smiled knowingly. "It's probably good for Alma. Keeps her grounded."
As they made their way out of the apartment, Maryam's heels clicked against the floor with a steady rhythm, each step seeming to amplify her resolve. 
Sherine chattered beside her as they descended the stairs and headed to Maryam's car, parked just down the block. The streets were already buzzing with Gotham's peculiar mix of early risers and the last stragglers of the night.
Sliding into the driver's seat, Maryam took a deep breath, her fingers gripping the steering wheel. Her sister glanced over, reading her sister's tension.
"Hey, it's just a funeral," Sherine said, trying to sound lighthearted.
"It's Gotham," Maryam corrected, a hint of grim humor in her voice. "Funerals here are never just funerals."
Sherine laughed. "Alright, fair. But come on, it's the mayor's funeral, not some mob boss's funeral. How bad could it be?"
Maryam shot her a look that clearly said, You should know better by now.
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As they drove, Sherine’s phone buzzed incessantly, its ringing filling the otherwise quiet car.
The name "C" flashed on the screen, and Maryam caught the subtle twitch of her sister’s eye— the same one that always appeared when this particular contact reached out. The phone rang again, and Maryam couldn’t help but glance at her sister, who tried to hide the faint blush creeping up her neck.
They exchanged a quick glance, and both reached for the phone. Sherine, always quick, made a grab for it, but Maryam, with a mischievous grin, was quicker.
She snatched the phone away before Sherine had a chance to react.
"Ooooh, who is this, dear sister?" Maryam teased, unlocking the phone and scrolling through the messages. "Hmm? Someone special?"
"Nobody!" Sherine snapped, her voice tight as she stretched for the phone, but Maryam held it out of reach, enjoying her sister’s discomfort.
Maryam clicked on the contact photo, revealing a handsome man with black glasses, a shy smile, and messy black curls that fell just above his forehead. It looked like one of those professional photos you’d put on a company badge.
"Ooh, very cute. Very your style. Very glasses, very nerdy... very American," Maryam mocked playfully.
Sherine blushed deeply, her grip tightening on the steering wheel. "Khalas, Maryam! We’re gonna have an accident!" she scolded, her voice sharp as she tried once again to reach for the phone, but Maryam pulled it away.
Maryam continued scrolling, her fingers dancing across the screen. "Come on, tell me his name, and I’ll stop."
Sherine sighed in defeat. "Okay, fine! Clark, his name is Clark!"
Maryam raised an eyebrow, clicking her tongue. "Very American," she said with a grin. Sherine’s face reddened further, and her voice hardened as she reached for the phone again.
"Maryam."
Maryam sighed, finally giving in and tossing the phone into Sherine’s lap. The car remained perfectly still— Maryam was too precise behind the wheel for anything to disrupt their calm drive. The silence lingered, but Maryam wasn’t quite ready to let it settle just yet.
With a small smirk on her lips, Maryam reached for the radio, her red nails glittering as they stopped at a red light. She glanced at her sister, then at the road, before breaking the silence.
"So?" she asked, her voice laced with curiosity and mischief.
Sherine let out a long sigh, her voice softening as she glanced at the passing streets. "Ugh, yes, he's very American. From Kansas, farmer’s son and all that," she muttered, her tone losing some of its usual edge. "And... yeah, he's very attractive, to put it simply. Clark Joseph Kent. That's his name. He works at the Daily Planet as a journalist with me."
As Sherine spoke, her voice steadied, but Maryam could hear the quiet vulnerability slipping through her words. Sherine always said a person's full name when she was crushing hard on them.
"We're just friends, okay?" Sherine added, biting her nails nervously as she stole a glance at the road. "I mean, what am I even saying? Just colleagues. He's... he's interested in someone else." Her gaze drifted out the window, and Maryam caught the subtle clench of her sister's jaw, the silent struggle to hold back her feelings. "I met him three months ago and made him visit our place of work per Perry's order. That's all there is to know. We work together, and that's it." It was almost as if she were trying to convince herself.
Maryam raised an eyebrow, her smirk never wavering. She knew her sister too well. Sherine could pretend she didn’t care, but Maryam could see the truth beneath the layers of nonchalance.
But she also knew when to stay silent and let her sister talk in her own time.
"You better not tell anyone about him," Sherine said quietly, her voice carrying a hint of caution.
Maryam turned the wheel to the left, steering them through a turn, and made the motion of zipping her mouth with one hand. "Your secret’s safe with me," she teased, her smirk still in place.
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They pulled up in front of Aunt Meysa's building, where both Aunt Meysa and Aunt Jamila were already waiting at the curb. 
Aunt Meysa, the picture of elegance, stood tall in a somber black dress, her usual veil draped gracefully over her greying hair. She raised an eyebrow, her usual approving expression settling on her face.
"Masha'Allah," she said with a nod, her eyes scanning their outfits. "You both look presentable, thank goodness."
Maryam smirked, fighting back a laugh. "Shokran, Amti Meysa."
Beside her, Aunt Jamila let out a low chuckle, her lips pulling into a wry smile as she cast Maryam and Sherine a quick, assessing look. "Almost like they didn't grow up running around in dusty alleys."
Maryam only hummed in response, stepping forward to kiss the cheeks of her two aunts in turn.
Just then, Aunt Meysa cast a sharp look back toward the building entrance. "Alma's coming down," she announced, a hint of exasperation in her tone. Her gaze flicked to Maryam. "You know she's ignoring you, right?"
"Isn't she always?" Maryam replied, shrugging lightly.
Sure enough, Alma appeared in the doorway moments later. She wore a simple black dress paired with an elegant coat and high-heeled boots. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, and her gaze remained downcast, deliberately avoiding her sisters.
"Ah, finally!" Aunt Jamila clapped her hands, her tone hovering between amusement and reproach.
Sherine leaned out of the car window with a grin. "Ready to face the lions, Alma?" she teased as Alma climbed into the backseat, her expression resigned.
Alma rolled her eyes, folding her arms tightly. "Like I had much of a choice," she muttered, shooting Aunt Meysa a half-hearted glare.
Aunt Meysa arched an eyebrow, her voice thick with her Arab accent. "I swear to God, girls, I don’t want any problems. I’m warning you!"
When they finally pulled up in front of Gotham’s City Hall, the scene outside was pure chaos. The streets were teeming with people, their chants rising in the air—"No more lies." Banners with the Riddler's ominous symbols waved above the crowd like a dark omen.
"Shouf," Aunt Meysa gestured toward the crowd, her head tilting slightly, eyes narrowing in disbelief. "What is this?" she demanded, clutching her veil tightly as she observed the scene with sharp, calculating eyes.
No one responded right away. The atmosphere was heavy with tension as they all stared out at the gathering, unsure of what they were witnessing.
Suddenly, a cop tapped on the glass, pulling Maryam from her thoughts. She snapped to attention, rolling the window down with a slight hesitation.
"Hello, names please," the officer said, his tone bordering on a command as he looked at them expectantly.
"Ben Halimi, sir," Aunt Jamila replied smoothly, handing Maryam an envelope with the invitations.
Maryam passed the envelope to the officer, who took it and quickly skimmed the contents. "Alright," he said with a nod, pointing toward a nearby parking lot. "This way, please."
As they parked, the air felt thick with humidity, the wet pavement reflecting the city’s lights. The sound of heels clicking against the slick ground echoed through the otherwise quiet street. Aunt Meysa led the way, her steps measured and dignified, her head held high as always. Sherine, Maryam, and Alma followed closely behind, the weight of the evening settling over them in the form of a quiet procession.
"Why didn't we get the same service?" Aunt Meysa asked, casting a critical glance at the sleek, elegant cars pulling up nearby.
"Because we're peasants, Amti," Maryam quipped without missing a beat, her tone dry and laced with humor.
Aunt Jamila laughed, her eyes sparkling. "Maryam, you look like royalty. We should've had the same treatment," she teased.
Maryam gave a mock grimace, her lips curling into a wry smile. "Yes, of course. And maybe we should've brought our butler too, right?" she retorted, which earned her an exaggerated eye roll from her aunt.
As they approached the entrance to City Hall, Maryam’s eyes scanned the crowd, noting the sea of black suits and dresses, the low hum of conversation, and the occasional camera flash from the paparazzi. Her gaze landed on Warda and her husband, Ryan, standing near the grand staircase. They were mostly overlooked by the flashing cameras, an odd relief in the sea of attention.
Warda stood with her hands gently resting over her growing belly, radiant even in mourning attire. Ryan hovered close beside her, one hand protectively on her back, his gaze sharp as he scanned the bustling crowd.
Aunt Jamila waved at them, her expression softening into something warm and affectionate. She shuffled over to greet them while other attendees glanced their way. Sherine offered those onlookers an awkward smile, but Maryam merely raised a brow, daring anyone to say something.
"Finally! We've been waiting for you. Rania's been fussing—"
"We know," Alma interrupted, her tone curt as she slipped her hands into her coat for warmth. "We saw the messages in the group chat."
"Feeling alright?" Maryam asked Warda, her instinct as a doctor surfacing as she nodded toward her sister's rounded belly.
Warda smiled gently. "Just fine. Ryan's the one fussing over me, though."
Ryan shook his head with an amused smirk, but Maryam chuckled, looping her arm through her sister's. "That's what husbands are for."
In Gotham, even a funeral felt like a performance, and Maryam couldn't help but wonder what kind of show was waiting for them inside.
She didn't have to wonder for long.
Not far from them, Carmine Falcone emerged from a sleek black car, flanked by his usual bodyguards. 
He extended a hand to help a striking woman out—a companion for the day, no doubt. Behind them, his son, Vittorio, followed, phone pressed to his ear, his sharp gaze scanning the crowd with calculated precision. Maryam heard Alma shift nervously behind her.
"Is that—" Ryan started, narrowing his eyes.
"The Falcones," Maryam muttered, an unexpected flare of anger tightening her jaw.
"No, I meant Bruce Wayne," Ryan clarified.
"Oh my god, yes!" Warda whispered, her eyes lighting up with excitement.
"He's even more handsome in person," Aunt Jamila added, squinting like she was assessing a priceless possession.
"Look, Maryam! Go talk to him!" she urged, her voice practically bubbling over with enthusiasm.
"Don't be ridiculous, Amti," Warda replied in Arabic, trying to suppress a laugh.
But Maryam wasn't paying attention. She hardly noticed the paparazzi shouting for Wayne or her family's chatter, because at that moment, Vittorio's eyes locked with Alma's. Alma immediately turned her head, a blush creeping up her cheeks, while his jaw tightened visibly.
Sherine squeezed Maryam's arm. "Mar—"
"Don't you dare, Maryam! You'll embarrass me!" Alma hissed, but her words went ignored.
Maryam shook off her sister's grip, her focus narrowing as she strode confidently toward the Falcones. Aunt Meysa's voice trailed after her, sharp with disapproval. "Where is she going? We're supposed to go inside!"
But Maryam didn't stop. Every step she took drew attention. As she closed the distance to Gotham's notorious crime family, one of Falcone's security guards stepped in her way.
"Ma'am, what do you think you're doing?" he asked, his tone cold and dismissive.
Maryam pointed at Vittorio, her eyes burning with intent. "I need to speak to him."
Carmine's dark-rimmed glasses gleamed in the dim light as he turned his attention to her. His gaze, a mixture of curiosity and quiet menace, lingered on her before he spoke, his voice a low rumble. "And who might you be?"
Without flinching, she met his stare, her voice steady. "You should ask your son."
Vittorio said nothing, his gaze dropping away as he clenched his jaw and slid his phone into his waistcoat pocket. But Carmine didn't wait for an explanation. His sharp eyes flicked over Maryam's shoulder, settling on her family. His gaze lingered on Alma, and a knowing smirk tugged at his lips.
"They weren't lying when they said you girls were a sight to see. Beautiful," he murmured, his tone as smooth as it was unsettling.
A shudder rippled through Maryam, her unease deepening.
Then, from behind him, came a laugh—loud, brash, and unmistakably familiar.
Oz Cobblepot. Of course.
The sudden jolt of recognition struck Maryam. Her mouth opened, but no words came out. 
What did he mean by that? The way he spoke, like he already knew them—knew her—made her uneasy. Before she could find her voice, Carmine slipped his hand under her arm, his grip surprisingly gentle, almost as if she were fragile porcelain.
"Take a walk with us," he said, guiding her forward.
Still in a daze, Maryam let herself be led, her feet moving almost automatically as they began climbing the stairs. 
She glanced back, catching the confused, wary looks of her family. Aunt Jamila's eyes narrowed, a mix of concern and indignation flashing in them. Alma, on the other hand, seemed like she wanted to vanish into the ground. Aunt Meysa's stern expression softened, her lips pressing into a tight line, as if she wanted to call Maryam back but couldn't bring herself to.
As they ascended, Maryam's heart pounded in her chest, her mind racing with questions she couldn't yet voice.
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Bruce gripped the steering wheel, his gaze narrowing as he scanned the city hall ahead. 
The city hall loomed ahead, its steps swarming with mourners and a sea of makeshift memorials. Flowers, candles, and angry placards blurred together in the drizzle, the wet pavement reflecting glints of firelight and the oppressive gray sky.
People were chanting "no more lies" people who at first thought were mourners but needed people who were protesting.
Among them , a group of hooded men caught his eye, their scrawled question-mark signs mimicking the Riddler's mark. 
Always lurking, he thought grimly.
Not far from him, another protestor waved a sign reading "Who Else Dies for Gotham's Lies?"
His blood chilled at the sight.
The honk of a traffic cop jarred him back to the present.
He avance with his car in the traffic before he could even down his window, an officer was already double-tooking through it when he recognized Bruce, his stoic professionalism cracking into something close to reverence. "MR Wayne over here!" he pointed to the place where valets were waiting down the stairs of the city hall the cop waved him forward.
The valet opened his door, and Bruce stepped out, adjusting the cuffs of his tailored suit. The murmurs started immediately.
"Is that the Bruce Wayne?"
"Bruce Wayne's here!"
The paparazzi swarmed, shouting over each other as camera flashes exploded around him. Bruce reached for his wallet, barely paying attention.
Then he saw them.
Carmine Falcone stepped out of a sleek black car, his phalanx of bodyguards forming a protective shield around him. 
He moved with a calm, deliberate arrogance, the kind that only a man like Falcone could carry off. Bruce's eyes narrowed as he watched him reach out a hand to help someone step out of the car.
A slender leg, clad in a high-heeled boot, emerged first. Bruce's stomach tightened. The boots were strikingly similar to the ones Annika and Selina favored in the club. The woman followed, her face obscured by a hat, her movements poised and deliberate. For a moment, Bruce's mind reeled. Was that Selina?
But before he could process further, his attention snapped to something—or someone—else.
Maryam Ben Halimi.
The haunting of his dreams. 
Her face appeared in his line of sight, pulling his focus away from the unfolding scene. He recognized immediately despite her elegant veiled pillow box hat. She stood a short distance away, surrounded by a cluster of women—a pregnant woman, likely her sister, stood closest to her, her husband at her side. Maryam's hand rested gently on the woman's arm as she spoke, her expression soft but firm.
Bruce's hand, mid-motion to hand cash to the valet, faltered. 
The noise of the crowd, the paparazzi's shouts—it all faded into a dull hum. 
All he could see was her.
Even in the somber atmosphere of a funeral, she looked radiant. Her dark attire was elegant, almost regal-- like royalty, a stark contrast to the gritty chaos around them. 
For a fleeting moment, Bruce forgot why he was here. 
He forgot everything except the way she held herself—graceful, poised, utterly captivating.
Then she moved.
Bruce's brows furrowed as he watched Maryam break away from her family, her stride purposeful, graceful. She was heading straight toward Falcone.
What is she doing?
His pulse quickened as Carmine turned, his sharp eyes narrowing with interest as Maryam approached. The woman on his arm seemed momentarily forgotten.After talking for a few minutes, Carmine slipped his arm under Maryam's, his demeanor shifting to one of calculated charm as he began leading her up the steps to City Hall.
Bruce's stomach dropped.
No. No, no, no.
Before he could think, his body moved on instinct. 
The crowd was thick, a crush of mourners, reporters, and onlookers. Cameras flashed, and the paparazzi's voices rose in a cacophony around him, but he heard none of it. His eyes were locked on Maryam and Falcone, his focus razor-sharp.
He couldn't call out to her. No, that wasn't an option. She didn't know him—not as Bruce Wayne. To her, he was a stranger, a man with no place in her life.
And yet, none of that mattered. The only thing driving him forward was the unshakable instinct to pull her away from that man, to shield her from whatever danger lurked behind Falcone's veneer of charm.
As he closed the distance, the bottleneck near the entrance to city hall became a wall of bodies. Falcone's security detail fanned out, forming a human barricade between the mob boss and the growing crowd.
Bruce's jaw tightened, his frustration mounting as he tried to maneuver closer. Two bodyguards stepped into his path, their imposing forms blocking his view. His gaze darted past them, landing squarely on Maryam.
She turned then, her veil shifting slightly as her hazel eyes caught his. Bruce felt a jolt run through him. Her gaze met his directly—steady, searching. She took a shallow breath, her eyes narrowing as though trying to place him. Recognition? No, it couldn't be. She didn't know him. Not like this.
Still, he couldn't look away. 
It was as though the crowd, the noise, the chaos around them all melted into nothing. She held his gaze, her expression unreadable, while he stared back, caught in the moment.
It was only when one of the bodyguards slammed a hand against his chest that he snapped back to reality.
"Hey, hey—give us some space here, slick," the man growled, shoving Bruce back a step.
Bruce bristled, his frustration threatening to boil over. His piercing glare bore into the man as he fought the urge to push back harder.
The commotion finally drew Falcone's attention. The crime boss paused on the steps, his grip still resting lightly but possessively on Maryam's arm. He turned toward the scene, his eyes glinting with amusement as his thin lips curled into a smirk.
"Watch it, fellas—you've got the prince of the city there!" Falcone's drawl was smooth, mocking, every word dipped in condescension.
The bodyguards hesitated, exchanging glances before loosening their grip slightly at Falcone's signal.
Bruce stood rooted to the spot, his gaze fixed on Maryam as if the sheer force of it could dissolve the distance between them. For a moment, something flickered in her eyes—uncertainty, hesitation, or perhaps a fleeting recognition that vanished as quickly as it came. He didn't know, couldn't know. 
But it pierced him all the same, an ache he wasn't prepared for.
The woman with the hat and the heels that had first caught his attention—the ones so similar to Selina's—turned as well, revealing not Selina, but Carla, the girl from the club. 
The realization barely registered; his focus was elsewhere.
"Some event," Falcone drawled, stepping forward with a smug grin. "Brought out the one guy in Gotham more reclusive than me. To what do we owe the honor, Mr. Wayne?"
Bruce didn't answer. He couldn't tear his eyes away from Maryam. She stood beside Falcone, her posture stiff, her body tense, but her expression now unreadable. If she was afraid, she didn't show it. Instead, her composure was as calculated as a blade—poised, sharp, and ready.
Falcone noticed. He followed Bruce's gaze back to Maryam, his grin deepening. Then, in a move so deliberate it felt like a taunt, he slid an arm around her waist.
The effect was instant. Maryam's shoulders tightened, and though she didn't flinch, the discomfort was plain in the set of her jaw. Bruce's fists clenched at his sides, a surge of anger coursing through him. He stepped forward again, but the bodyguards moved in, one of them shoving him back with a heavy hand.
"Easy there, Wayne," Falcone said, raising an eyebrow, his voice laced with mockery. "We're just having a little chat." He turned back to Maryam, his expression almost playful. "Do you two know each other?"
Maryam's hesitation was barely perceptible, a single heartbeat of silence before she answered. "No," she said, her voice steady but tight. She looked away from Bruce, breaking the connection between their gazes. "He's a total stranger."
The words landed like a blow. Bruce's chest tightened. But weren't they true? She didn't know him—not here, not like this. Outside of the cowl, he was nothing to her. A stranger. He reminded himself that he couldn't fault her for that.
And yet, the sting remained.
But Bruce didn't falter. His gaze stayed locked on her, even as she avoided his. The tension between him and Falcone thickened, an unspoken challenge simmering just beneath the surface.
"Let her go," Bruce said quietly, his voice low and even, each word a deliberate act of defiance.
Falcone's smirk deepened. His hand on Maryam's waist tightened ever so slightly, a gesture so subtle it might have gone unnoticed. But not by Bruce.
"Why don't you run along, Wayne?" another voice interjected, this time Vittorio's, dripping with false civility. "This is family business."
Bruce ignored him, his eyes narrowing at Falcone. "I thought your father never left the Shoreline," he said coldly, his tone cutting. "Aren't you afraid someone'll take a shot at you?"
Falcone's smirk didn't waver, but his eyes darkened. "You mean now that your father isn't around?" He turned slightly, calling over his shoulder. "Oz, you know Bruce Wayne?"
A gravelly voice answered, "Whoa—s'that right?" Oswald Cobblepot emerged from the shadows, his calculating gaze sweeping over Bruce from head to toe. He looked unimpressed, but the sharp gleam in his eyes betrayed him.
Falcone chuckled, turning his attention back to Bruce. "His father saved my life, you know. I always tell the story to Vittorio here." He clapped a hand on his son's shoulder, but Vittorio didn't react, his cold gaze fixed on Bruce as he dragged on a cigarette.
Falcone tapped his chest. "Took a bullet right here. Couldn't go to a hospital, so we showed up on Dr. Wayne's doorstep. Operated on me right there on the dining room table. Kid here saw the whole thing." His grin widened. "You don't think that meant something?"
Bruce's jaw clenched. He wanted to fire back, but Maryam's voice cut through the tension.
"I should probably go," she said, her voice steady but edged with tension. She stepped away from the group with a fluid grace that bordered on defiance, her grip tightening around her clutch. Falcone didn't even acknowledge her departure, his attention still fixed on Bruce.
Her heels clicked sharply against the pavement as she moved, the sound cutting through the charged air. For a brief moment, she turned her head back toward him, a flicker of something in her eyes—uncertainty, or perhaps contemplation. Her brow furrowed, a brief pause in her otherwise composed demeanor, as though something was weighing heavily on her mind.
Then, with a final, decisive glance, she hurried into City Hall, blending into the crowd, her figure swallowed up by the throng of people.
Bruce's eyes followed her until she disappeared inside. 
Then, finally, he spoke. "It meant he took the Hippocratic Oath."
Falcone's laughter was sharp and derisive. "Hippocratic Oath, huh? That's good."
Vittorio, his silence thick as always, flicked his cigarette toward Bruce's shoes, a subtle yet pointed gesture. Bruce didn't so much as blink.
"'Scuse me," he muttered, brushing past them without a second glance.
His focus was singular now.
Maryam.
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Oooooop 👀👀
I know this might be a bit cringey, but I can’t help myself—I just love doing it! So, here’s what I envisioned for Maryam’s outfit in this chapter :)) :
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[ Translation ]
Amti : aunt.
Khalas : stop.
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Jim Gordon is the bicycle of Gotham i swear you can ship him with nearly everyone
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martyrbat · 2 years ago
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I just know Barbara Gordon’s pet growing up would have been two gold fish that her uncle Jim got her.
she would get SO annoyed anytime jim messes up and calls one fish the other's name too...
(also, he tries his hardest to tell them apart, really, but also just... its two goldfish. what the hell do you mean ‘you can just tell’??)
#i also like thinking she was a mouse/rat kid....#i have a slightly weird headcanon for older! babs and how she ends up having a parrot too#also stay with me ok?? but young babs seeing an alleyway cat with a hurt leg and torn ear and#just going to jim. the ‘dad — uncle jim! please! it obviously needs help!!’ but jim puts his foot down. the house is cramped enough#and a stray cant be around an infant! what if the cat has something and scratches or bites?! absolutely not.#he gets home from work & ofc has the cat bc she had watery eyes and the poor girl did just lose her only family member and had to leave#her friends and home and everything she once had. even her own name is no longer her own....#she deserves something thatd make her happy and make gotham feel like a home...#but huh. for an alleyway cat it sure is quite fat huh? im sure its nothing unusual and hey it is kinda cute! :)#it gives birth to 5 kittens under his bed that night because of fucking course it does#jim is so fucking tired guys. he ends up asking his weird masked friend if he knew anyone thatd want a kitten in 8ish weeks.#when given the choice; babs decides to keep the mama instead of just a kitten. (jim secretly bonds with a kitten and keeps one anyways :))#i just think she deserves an old rescue cat... she spoils it and rants to it and it keeps her grounded to reality in a way :33#barbara gordon#uncle gordon#thank u for the ask anon!! this is a cute hc i am officially adopting it >:33#<- more like of-fish-ially....#sorry.
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it-happened-once-in-a-meme · 3 months ago
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How Gotham Characters' Religious Beliefs Change and Oswald Cobblepot's Fear of Hell 🔥
Inspired by @shyjusticewarrior 's post saying that we don't talk enough about Oswald's canonical fear of hell
Spoilers for S02 E12
My headcanon is that after people were resurrected, especially Theo Galavan, who Oswald saw die very clearly, some main characters (I'm thinking Jim too) kinda became agnostic. Sure, a miracle just happened, but what a weird one. Was Theo in hell? Mhm, he came back with a god complex and badass powers instead of traumatized, does it really matter?
Also let's not forget that Oswald was willing to die/okay with it multiple times, either for loved ones or because he hit rock bottom. 😢
In total, a lot of Gotham characters start out with a big fear of hell because if it's used to instill fear in Gothamites, it must be horrifying with how bad Gotham already is. And then the resurrections start.
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angstandhappiness · 4 months ago
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ABSOLUTELY FASCINATING
I love the headcanon that none of the Bats are supers, but over time? Gotham is slowly messing them up, one by one.
Bruce smiles at Clark one day in the Cave, and his eyes reflect the light back like a wolf's
Jason suddenly has tiny fangs, but nobody has the nerve to mention it
Alfred literally doesn't die
Dick can jump higher and faster than ever before, but barely notices it
Tim is awake for three days straight and doesn't blink
They're all subtly, but noticeably different. Gotham-blessed, or cursed, or something in between.
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