"You need a ride?" Jim could barely believe his ears, and he just blinked owlishly at the detective.
He had thought that he was done for. That he was going to die on the parking lot of the precinct. One second he was running away, and the next he was falling to the ground, hard. The asphalt was rough under his palms, and his leg was burning with a fire matching the one in his guts.
The car which nearly ran him over was an unexpected surprise. He wouldn't admit to it afterwards, but when he scrambled to get into the car, he was so relived he could have kissed Montoya. Probably Allen too.
Bullets whizzed past the car as they drove away. The vehicle lurched to the side, and Jim gripped the door handle, half sitting, half lying in the backseat.
"Looks like you've angered the wrong people, Gordon," Montoya said without looking back.
Jim gritted his teeth and said nothing. The simple act of breathing was sapping all his energy. The adrenaline buzz that had kept him moving until then was wearing off quickly. His thoughts were all jumbled; all he could focus on was that he was messing up the upholstering with all this blood. His blood. Slick, hot blood, coating his hands, his clothes. Too much of it.
Where were you supposed to put pressure first, he thought hazily, guts or leg? Artery, something. His hands were slipping, as he faded in and out of consciousness. He could hear Allen calling his name, but he sounded so far away. He was so tired.
ooo
"Gordon? Jim, stay awake," Allen repeated. "Montoya, he doesn't look good," he said. His partner briefly looked at Jim's reflection in the rear-view mirror and nodded.
They had to find a place to hide, and quick. The young cop looked ashen, his brow covered in sweat, lines of pain etched on his face. His eyes were glassy, and Allen wasn't sure he was hearing him at all.
Montoya finally slowed down a bit, after she made sure Zsasz and his friends weren't following them. Allen managed to squeeze in the backseat, suddenly aware of the strong coppery smell of the blood. He took off his jacket and used it as a makeshift tourniquet on Jim's leg. He moaned, but he was out for good, his head lolling against the door.
Then he pried open Jim's jacket and shirt, pushing away the cop's lax hands and trying to guess how bad it was. Through and through, he realized. Allen sighed, worry ebbing away a little. Hopefully no vital organ was hit, they'll just have to find someone to patch him up discreetly. After that, he'd be able to go back to his suicidal saving of Gotham. The honest ones were always the first to die anyway.
ooo
Getting Jim out of the car proved tricky, as he was heavier than he looked. They manhandled him into the university building, trying to look inconspicuous. A great thing about Gotham citizens was that they tended to simply look the other way when they witnessed bloodied cops being carried away in the streets.
The university wasn't ideal, but Jim would be in good hands; hospital was out of the picture anyway, that was either that or letting him bleed out.
He looks way too young, Allen thought, as he watched the deft hands of the not-really-a-doctor cut away what was left of Jim's clothes. Defenseless, even. Yesterday, they were arresting him for murder, and now they were saving his sorry ass; funny how quickly things could change in this town. He would have been safer in prison, he thought, even though it sounded silly. Cops never last long in prison.
When the occasional doctor began stitching the wounds, under the scrutiny of a hundred pairs of rat eyes, Allen went out of the room to find his partner. He wasn't squeamish, he had seen worse, but somehow it seemed oddly intimate. He didn't need to see the young cop like that.
ooo
Jim came to with a strangled scream; the pain was overwhelming, but soon settled in his side and leg. Right, bullet wounds. He quickly regained his composure, as memory came back, even though he was pretty hazy on the details. Not a hospital, his brain told him, taking in the rat cages. Maybe a doctor, he thought when the lady shone a penlight in his eyes, blinding him.
He was confused, but confused was good, because it led to anger; don't let them see you're terrified, he thought. They did not break you. He couldn't let anyone see that he was in pain, only Barbara was allowed to see him vulnerable.
He swung his legs over the side of the table, determined to get up, whether his battered body agreed or not. He had work to do.