Chapter Text
The first meeting between the Commissioner and Peter goes like this:
Peter meets Commissioner Gordon on a windy day. It’s a sunny day, a rare sight in Gotham, but the heavy wind makes it seem just like any other old Gotham day. Cold, chilly, and miserable.
Peter heads into the streets and looks for a relatively well off person as a target. He doesn’t want to do this but he needs food and he hasn’t eaten in days which, by the way, wouldn’t be a problem for him, but he knows three kids who haven’t eaten in days just like him and they can’t survive like this. Not when one of them is only four years old.
So, while he would typically scrounge around for food and pick pocketing would be his last resort, that couldn’t be the case right now when lives were on the line that didn’t have to be. Not when Peter could do something about it.
There’s a man standing near the rush of people with his back turned to all of them and lighting a cigarette. Peter moves discreetly towards him, light on his feet, swift, and angling his body so it’s not obvious he has a target.
Food is the goal. He repeats that sentence constantly and as he goes to grasp the man’s wallet, his wrist is caught. Peter’s eyes widen and he moves to spring back, to jump away and leave in a hurry, but the man has a good grip on Peter and won’t let go.
Peter begins to scream.
“Help! Help! A kidnapper!”
Unsurprisingly, no one moves to help him. They all stare in silence as Peter is dragged away from the spot, his hand still tightly gripped in the clutches of the old man. Peter should have known better.
Leave it to Gothamites to watch a live kidnapping happening right in front of them during the brightest time of day Gotham has to offer and do absolutely nothing to help. Peter has no one else to blame but himself.
“Kid,” huffs out the man, voice gruff and rough. It’s the kind that comes with the constant use of cigarettes. Peter would know. He lives in Gotham. “I’m not kidnapping you. Just don’t appreciate pickpockets.”
The man looks down at him, inspecting. “If I let go you won’t run away or scream?”
Peter looks up, staring, and quirks an eyebrow at him. “That’s what kidnappers say.”
The man laughs.
“I’m part of the police. Why would I want to kidnap a kid?” Pausing, he then tilts his head and rubs at his chin. “Actually, hearing it like that makes it worse.”
Peter swings his head back and tilts it sarcastically, shifting his weight back. “You think? Almost ninety-five percent of the GCPD are bribable rats,” Peter spits out.
The supposed “police man” leans back and crosses his arms, inspecting Peter.
“Actually, almost eighty-seven percent of the GCPD are bribable rats. We’ve been attempting a deep cleaning for some years now.”
Peter’s eyes widen in shock. “It’s better than I thought,” he murmurs to himself, hand coming to rub at his chin.
“Yeah, well, we try.” The man goes back to inspecting Peter. “What’d you want the money for? Food? Clothes?” The man’s eyes narrow. “Or drugs?”
Peter bites his lip so hard he draws blood, debating whether he should trust and tell the man. He’s also a bit offended. Like, come on. Does he scream drugs? He decides there’s no harm in telling him. The information shouldn’t really be all that exploitable.
“There are these kids,” Peter begins. “The typical rule on the streets is every kid for themselves unless you’re part of a group but…they’re new and they’re young.”
Peter’s eyes had turned to stare down at his old, decrepit, and worn out shoes. He was embarrassed, wearing the only jacket he owned, however baggy, old, and torn it was, while standing in his equally dirty shoes and dirty self.
Peter wanted to pop out of existence.
The man stared at Peter, his gaze hard and steely as he searched Peter’s face. It made sense. Kids were typically used to exploit money off of people so that the exploiters could buy drugs or do something illegal. The whole ‘make them mushy and then stab’ plan.
“Tell you what,” he says finally. “I’ll buy you and the children some food. That way you can eat and I can make sure you aren’t getting used for sympathy money or drug money.”
Peter stared warily at him before nodding. “The kids should be waiting over there.”
Peter pointed to an alleyway and they walked over. The man, Peter decided at that moment, was an idiot. What if Peter was part of a bigger scheme that wanted to get at him? What made him certain that Peter wasn’t leading the man to a group that wanted to mug him? Or worse, kill him?
But the man simply continued to follow him and then proceeded to sit next to Peter in a tiny restaurant, the three kids— siblings— across from them. They were ranging from ages four, six, and seven and a half. The seven year old always emphasized that half a year.
“They should go into social services.”
Peter’s head whipped around fast, his hackles raised. “They’ll be sold off into child trafficking or abused. This is Gotham.”
The man shook his head. “They won’t survive the upcoming winter if they stay on the streets.” He sighs. “Plus, I wasn’t planning on keeping them in this city. I was thinking about Metropolis. The crime rate is lower and they deserve better.”
The police man gazed at the children who continued to scarf down the food. Peter picked at his food sullenly.
“I’m guessing their parents were casualties in the recent Joker attack?”
Peter lowered his head and nodded. “No other family members. They died three years ago in one of Firefly’s attacks.”
The man’s hand clenched. “Their lives would be better.”
Peter released a breath of air. “Fine.” His eyes met the police man’s, holding onto his gaze. “But promise you’ll make sure they’ll go to Metropolis.”
He nodded. “Shouldn’t you go with them? You’re in the streets too, no?”
Peter shakes his head no and raises it snobbishly.
“I can take care of myself. Plus, I was born and raised here. Where else could I go?”
A scoff and a bitter smile. “You’re still young. You still have a long time to decide.”
Peter ignores any words that come out of the man’s mouth after that. He does, however, make sure to put a tracker in the kids’ clothes. Nothing fancy, just something he’d developed in his free time.
When they make it to an orphanage in Metropolis, a well known one backed up by Superman, Peter releases a sigh of relief. He didn’t know how he would’ve reached Metropolis had anything gone wrong.
They continue to run into each other so much throughout the weeks that one day, Peter eventually scales his way up onto the GCPD’s building to meet up with the man uninvited. He almost gives him a heart attack.
“Are you stalking me?” Peter demands with an angry scowl on his face.
Said man, having come out to smoke, puts away his cigarette and clutches his heart.
“You almost killed me from a heart attack,” he murmurs.
Peter cocks an eyebrow. “You’re more likely to die from lung cancer.”
The Commissioner laughs. “Yeah, probably...”
He turns to look at Peter and dons on a contemplative look.
“Call me Gordon.”
Peter scoffs. “I don’t know you that well and you’re old. If anything, you’d be Mr. Gordon. Plus, I heard you have a teenage daughter already. You’re too old for informal language.”
The man, now dubbed Mr. Gordon, laughs.
“I suppose that's true.”
Peter glares. “Of course it is.”