Sunday dinner had become sacred ritual in the Gordon household. No matter what fires burned in Gotham—literal or figurative—James Gordon made it home by six on Sundays. Barbara prepared the table with actual cloth napkins instead of paper towels. Matthew, for his part, was responsible for dessert, usually ice cream scooped with careful precision that belied his supposed visual impairment.
This particular Sunday, rain lashed against the windows as the small family gathered around a pot roast that had been slow-cooking all day. The aroma of beef, carrots, and onions filled the modest dining room, mingling with the scent of freshly baked rolls Barbara had retrieved from the corner bakery earlier that afternoon.
"Matt, vegetables at ten o'clock, potatoes at two," Barbara said automatically as she served his plate.
"Thanks, Babs." Matthew navigated his meal with practiced ease, finding each component without hesitation. He'd mastered the art of appearing competent but not suspiciously so—fumbling just enough with his fork to maintain the illusion that he was still adapting to blindness.
James Gordon cleared his throat. "Good week at school, Matt?"
"Pretty good. Got an A on my history project about the founding of Gotham." He took a bite of pot roast, savoring the rich flavor. "Mrs. Davis said my braille is improving faster than she expected."
"That's my boy," Gordon said, pride evident in his voice. "And how about that math competition?"
"Second place." Matthew shrugged as if it were nothing, though in truth he'd deliberately missed a few questions to avoid standing out too much. "Jason Watson beat me by three points."
Barbara snorted. "Only because you couldn't see the jerk copying off Melissa's paper the whole time."
"Barbara," their father warned, though there was no real sternness in his tone.
"Well, it's true," she muttered, stabbing a carrot with unnecessary force.
Matthew smiled to himself. For all her academic achievements and maturity, Barbara still possessed the fierce sense of justice that would eventually lead her to don a cape and cowl. In that way, she was much like Jack Murdock had been—unable to stand by when something wasn't right, even when intervention came at personal cost.
The comparison between his two fathers had been unavoidable these past months. Jack Murdock: a boxer, rough around the edges, doing his best with limited resources. James Gordon: a cop, principled and steady, fighting corruption from within the system. Different men from different worlds, but both possessed an unshakable moral core that had shaped their sons.
"How about you, Babs?" Matthew asked, redirecting the conversation. "How's that advanced placement literature class going?"
"Brutal," she admitted. "We're reading 'Crime and Punishment' now. Six hundred pages of Russian existential crisis."
"Sounds cheerful," their father commented dryly.
"It's actually fascinating," Barbara continued, warming to her subject. "All about this guy who thinks he's above moral law because of his intelligence, so he commits murder to prove his theory. But then his conscience destroys him from the inside out."
"Justice comes in many forms," Gordon observed, his voice taking on the thoughtful quality it often did when he reflected on his work.
"Speaking of justice," Matthew said, seizing the opening, "some kids at school were talking about Batman yesterday. Is he real, Dad?"
The atmosphere in the room shifted subtly. Matthew could sense his father's heartbeat quickening, could hear the slight creak of the chair as Gordon shifted his weight—signs of discomfort at the direct question.
"Batman is... complicated," Gordon finally answered.
"That's not an answer," Barbara pointed out.
Gordon sighed. "Yes, he's real. A man dressed like a bat who fights criminals outside the law. The official GCPD position is that he's a vigilante who should be arrested."
"And the unofficial position?" Matthew pressed.
A long pause followed. Matthew could practically hear his father weighing how much to share with his children.
"Unofficially," Gordon said finally, "Gotham is a city where the lines between right and wrong get blurred. Sometimes... sometimes the system I've sworn to uphold isn't enough."
"So you work with him," Matthew stated rather than asked.
"I didn't say that." Gordon's tone carried a warning, but Matthew detected no anger, only caution.
"You don't have to," Barbara interjected. "Everyone knows about the Bat-Signal on the GCPD roof. Vicki Vale did that exposé in the Gazette last month."
Gordon took a sip of water, gathering his thoughts. "What I will say is this: Batman operates outside the law, which makes him dangerous. But he also adheres to a strict moral code, which makes him... useful."
"Has he ever saved you?" Matthew asked, genuinely curious despite already knowing the answer from his nightly eavesdropping.
His father's fork paused halfway to his mouth. "That's... yes. Just last week, in fact."
Matthew perked up, recognizing an opening for a story he hadn't yet pieced together through his intelligence gathering.
"We had a situation at the docks—nothing you kids need to worry about," Gordon added quickly. "A weapons smuggling operation we'd been tracking for months. My team was in position when things went south. One of the smugglers spotted our undercover officer."
Gordon rarely shared details of his work, especially the dangerous parts. Matthew remained perfectly still, afraid any movement might break the spell.
"We were outnumbered, outgunned, and backup was still five minutes out. That's a lifetime in a firefight." Gordon's voice took on a distant quality. "Then the lights went out. All of them, simultaneously. What followed was... I still can't quite explain it. Shadows moving faster than should be possible. Men crying out and dropping their weapons."
"Batman," Barbara whispered, captivated.
Gordon nodded. "When it was over, twelve armed criminals were zip-tied and waiting for us. Three of my officers who had been pinned down were safe. And all I saw was a silhouette disappearing over the rooftops."
"That's amazing," Matthew said softly.
"It's dangerous," Gordon corrected. "Batman isn't some comic book hero to be idolized. He's a man making hard choices outside the system I've sworn to uphold."
"But you're glad he was there," Matthew pressed.
Gordon was quiet for a moment. "Yes," he finally admitted. "That night, I was glad."
The conversation shifted to safer topics after that—Barbara's upcoming science fair project, plans for the Christmas holiday still months away, a new restaurant opening downtown. But Matthew kept returning to his father's story, comparing it with what he'd gleaned through his enhanced hearing.
Gordon had sanitized the tale significantly. What he hadn't mentioned was how close he'd come to being killed that night, how one of the smugglers had him at gunpoint when Batman intervened, or how the weapons shipment had been destined for a terrorist cell planning attacks on Gotham's transit system.
These were the details Matthew had pieced together through his nightly listening sessions, through careful analysis of police band chatter and criminal conversations. Details his father deliberately shielded them from, hoping to preserve some semblance of childhood innocence.
"Matt, you're awfully quiet," Barbara observed, breaking into his thoughts. "Everything okay?"
"Just thinking," he replied, offering a small smile.
"That's dangerous," she teased, echoing their father's earlier warning about Batman.
"Sometimes thinking is all we can do," Matthew responded, the words coming out more philosophically than he'd intended.
Barbara's heartbeat altered slightly—a flutter of concern. "You've been different since the accident," she said softly. "Calmer somehow. Less... I don't know..."
"Less what?" Matthew asked, genuinely curious about how his behavior appeared to others.
"Less like a kid," she finally said. "Sometimes you say things that sound like they should be coming from someone way older. And you never complain about being blind, not even once."
Matthew tensed, realizing he'd let his guard slip. The mannerisms and speech patterns of his adult self were bleeding through more than he'd realized. Pretending to be a child is not easy...
"The accident changed me," he said carefully, which was true enough. "Makes you think about what matters."
"It's more than that," Barbara persisted. "It's like... like you've already made peace with everything. Kids don't do that, Matt. They rage and cry and break things when life isn't fair."
James Gordon set down his fork, his attention fully engaged now. "Babs has a point, son. Dr. Thompkins mentioned you might be repressing your feelings about what happened. It's okay to be angry or scared."
Matthew considered his response carefully. His family was perceptive—dangerously so. He needed to give them something authentic without revealing too much.
"I was angry at first," he admitted. "And scared. But then I realized something. Being blind doesn't change who I am inside. It just changes how I experience the world."
"That's... very mature," Gordon said, surprise evident in his voice.
Matthew shrugged, he wasn't going to argue over this. "Maybe the accident made me grow up faster. Or maybe this is just who I am now."
A heavy silence fell over the table, broken only by the soft clink of silverware against plates. Matthew could sense Barbara's continued concern, the way she studied him while pretending not to. Her heart rate remained elevated, her breathing pattern suggesting she wanted to say more but was restraining herself.
"Dessert?" Matthew offered, eager to shift the focus away from his unusually adult perspective. "I convinced Dad to pick up chocolate ice cream yesterday."
The tension gradually dissolved as they moved to lighter subjects, but Matthew made a mental note to be more careful. His sister was observant—perhaps too observant for his comfort. He would need to occasionally display more age-appropriate reactions, maybe even manufacture a few emotional outbursts about his condition to allay suspicions.
The Gordons weren't perfect—his father worked too much, Barbara could be overprotective, and they all ate too many meals from paper cartons—but they were solid. Dependable. Present.
Jack Murdock had done his best, but he'd been a single father with limited resources and a dangerous career. James Gordon shared the dangerous career but had built something stable despite it. There was love in this house, messy and imperfect, but undeniably real.
This family—this second chance—was worth preserving at all costs.
"Matt," his father's voice broke through his thoughts, "you're smiling. What's on your mind?"
Matthew didn't hesitate. "Just thinking about how lucky I am," he said simply. And for once, he didn't have to pretend at all.