"Detective Gordon?"

James looked up from a case file he was pouring over to see a red-haired police officer standing in front of his desk, holding out the office phone.

"For you," she said briefly, but her eyes lingered on his face for the shadow of a moment. "Wayne Manor."

He nodded and took the phone from her. "Gordon speaking."

"Detective Gordon," the voice on the other end was hoarse, tired, and he immediately recognized it as Alfred, Bruce Wayne's guardian. "It's Alfred Pennyworth—Mr. Wayne's butler, if you remember"—

As if he could forget.

"I remember."

"It's—well, I know you were here last week," Alfred began. "But I was wondering if I could ask you another favor."

"A favor?"

"It's Bruce. Again."

"Is the kid okay?"

There was a long pause.

"Alfred?"

"He cut his wrists this morning."

James sucked in his breath as if he'd been struck. "What?"

"He's fine. Alive. Can you come?"

"Which hospital is he in?"

"No hospital."

"What?" this time there was anger lacing Gordon's tone. "He slashed his wrists and you didn't bring him to the hospital?"

"He refused to go," Alfred said simply. "Of course, I called a physician who was an old friend of Master Wayne's, and he patched the boy up, but"—

"I'm on my way," Gordon cut him off curtly, hanging up the phone.

"On your way where?" a voice drawled, and Gordon turned to find Harley leaning lazily against the other side of his desk.

"Wayne Manor," James told him, shrugging his suit coat over his shoulders. "And I'm in a hurry."

"Wayne Manor?" Harvey's eyes narrowed, and he moved just slightly so that he was blocking James' path. "You seem to spend a lot of time there considering that case was closed weeks ago."

"I know the case is closed," James said impatiently, moving past him. "It's a personal visit."

"Then it can be done on personal time."

"The kid slashed open his own wrists," Gordon snarled. "I don't have time."

This time, Harvey stepped back, his face paling slightly as he raised his hands in surrender.

When James arrived at Wayne Manor, he was greeted by a different man, an assistant butler.

"Mr. Pennyworth offers his sincerest apologies for not greeting you in person," the butler said. "He has not, of course, left Master Wayne's side since the… since the accident."

"The accident," James repeated dryly, marveling at the way every person in this mansion maintained their formality even in the midst of a crisis as desperate as this.

When they entered the bedroom where Bruce was resting, Alfred stood to greet them.

"Detective Gordon," he dipped his head. "Thank you for coming."

"Of course." James nodded, shaking his hand briefly and then stepping past to look at Bruce.

The boy was lying still in the bed, utterly pale against his pillows, and he was staring straight ahead as if he had not even noticed James' entrance. His wrists were both bandaged tightly, and his pale hands—the only sign of movement—clenched and unclenched nervously.

"Bruce," Gordon said, his voice sharper than he had intended. "What the hell is this?"

"Detective"—Alfred began, but Bruce straightened in the bed, shaking his head at him.

"It's alright," he said softly, his voice still so oddly formal, making him sound much older than his fourteen years. "Detective, I was testing myself. Again. I needed to know how much blood I could lose and still"—he stopped abruptly.

"And still what, Bruce?" James asked, forcing his voice to match the boy's even tone.

Bruce looked pointedly at the assistant butler, who withdrew immediately, closing the door behind him. "And still train," Bruce finished. "And still hit harder," he added coldly, and Gordon met his gaze; all fear and desperate anger and determination—and grief there, too. So much grief.

"Listen, Bruce," James began, his tone soft this time. "You don't need to hit back. You don't need to train. You don't need to do any of this."

"That night, if I'd been able to fight"—

"Your parents would still have died," James said harshly, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Alfred open his mouth in protest, but Bruce still held his gaze. "I've seen a lot more street crime than you could ever imagine, kid, and it always ends the same. And believe me, kid, there is no scenario where a fourteen-year-old boy beats a gunman, no matter how special that boy thinks he is."

Bruce sucked in his breath as sharply as if James had slapped him.

"Detective Gordon," Alfred began again, but then paused, his eyes thoughtful as he looked down at his young charge. "Perhaps Master Bruce needs to rest. Thank you for visiting."

James nodded, but stepped forward first, his hand snaking out to grab one of Bruce's bandaged wrists. "Maybe you won't listen," he said sharply, and his eyes were fire as they bored into Bruce's. "But I will say this, because you need to hear it: you don't have to bleed for what's been done, Bruce."

"No," Bruce replied coldly. "But someone does."

"That's not on you," James said sharply. "You're smart enough to know that. And if you're as smart as I think you are, you'll take my number"—he released the boy's wrist and tossed his card onto the bed—"and when you're recovered, you'll call me, and you'll train in a healthy way. But you'll train my way, and if I find you add to those scars, I'll drag you to a goddamn therapist myself, Alfred be damned."

He turned and strode from the room, slamming the door behind him, a small, grim smile touching his lips at the thought of the two open-mouthed expressions of shock he had left behind him.