There's a man, breathing heavily, a hand pressed to his ribs, dressed in all black. There, tucked into the man's breast pocket, is a small white pocket-square, embroidered with a purple umbrella. His hands are shaking. He opens the bathroom door, goes back to his bedroom and checks on the man. After that, it's a blur of cleaning, rebandaging and rebinding the wound that leaves Jim feeling exhausted. James Gordon, owner of Javawocky Coffee, a small, but fairly busy little coffee shop. I doubt Victor'll die if you're a few minutes late. His bodyguard- and, if rumours are to be believed, and, this is Gotham, so most rumours are true- personal assassin, Victor Zsasz. He hopes they have.
After that, it's a blur of cleaning, rebandaging and rebinding the wound that leaves Jim feeling exhausted. His bodyguard- and, if rumours are to be believed, and, this is Gotham, so most rumours are true- personal assassin, Victor Zsasz. James Gordon, owner of Javawocky Coffee, a small, but fairly busy little coffee shop. He goes back to the bathroom, this time to wash the blood off of his hands, and looks at himself in the mirror. His hands are shaking. I doubt Victor'll die if you're a few minutes late. And he had thought that, for once, things were going good for him. The bell above the door tinkles again, and he turns to reprimand Selina for forgetting her phone, again, "I thought I put a note-" and stops short. In fact, the last thing Jim ever did as a GCPD detective was to help Cobblepot escape death, an action that later caused Falcone to pull strings and get him fired. How original- and crosses his fingers before he hits the call button, hoping it's the right contact, because some of those contact names leave Jim feeling uncomfortable. Thankfully, the part of his mind that's the sharp, focused bit that he had to train into himself when he was in the army, because if you panic on the field, people die, takes over, and kneels and unzips the man's jacket, untucks and unbuttons his shirt, pulls out his pocket knife and makes a cut into the fabric, rips off a strip, binds it tightly around the wound, repeats the process until the red stops seeping through the fabric, and picks the man up and carries him up the stairs to his apartment. Jim stifles a groan. As he checks to mack sure the wound hasn't started bleeding again, something nags at the back of his mind, and he takes a minute to look at the man's face. As he wipes down the tables methodically, he thinks about how he's come to this point: Dark clothes, guns, those are all things that the common Gothamite wears, but there's one thing that the everyday Gothamite- or even the common criminal- would have. I am going to strangle him when he gets back here. There's a man, breathing heavily, a hand pressed to his ribs, dressed in all black. But, because he's not a cruel person, he carefully- gently, softly, to not disturb- riffles through Zsasz's pockets, looking for his phone- and bites back a gasping laugh because it's a fucking flip-phone because of course it is. To be frank, he looks awful. His hair's dishevelled, his eyes are wild and there're splatters of blood on his face. He opens the bathroom door, goes back to his bedroom and checks on the man. By the by, who happened to save my dumbass boyfriend's life? To think that, once he'd been an up-and-coming GCPD detective. For some reason, it seems familiar. Jim rolls his eyes- penguin in pig-latin. Then, "Oh my gods, is that blood?
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