When Bullock left the station, he was quite cheerful about his day. They saved one of their own – or rather, Jim saved himself, but they got there in time to save face – caught the bad guy, closed an underground fight club. It was cause for celebration, he thought, a bar was in order.
But thoughts about his partner kept nagging him, and he couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't quite right. So he made the strange decision to come back and check on Jim. His partner had been beaten black and blue, and to be honest he looked a little worse for wear when Bullock last saw him.
He found the young cop on the stairs leading to the parking lot, sitting on a step with his head between his knees. Whether it was haunting memories of nearly dying there, or just sheer exhaustion, the older cop couldn't tell. He patted Jim on the shoulder, eliciting a grunt. That was all Jim did to acknowledge his presence.
"Let's get you home," Bullock said, and he helped him get up, down the stairs and into his car. Jim didn't say a word.
Jim stayed silent during the whole ride. He gazed absently through the window, and it looked as if he was seeing something else entirely. But as soon as they passed the threshold of the apartment, the young cop seemed to come undone. He suddenly looked very very old, muscles taut and face crumpled in pain.
"Hey, kid, sit down before you fall on your ass," Bullock warned, leading him towards the bed with a light push.
"You're the ass," Jim replied through gritted teeth.
"Yeah, yeah, watch your mouth, warrior cop."
Jim made a face, and Bullock couldn't tell if it was because of the nickname or because sitting down pulled at the cop's wounds. The old ones were still healing, he didn't need that.
To be honest, Bullock had told him to wait and be careful. It was mostly his fault. But the older cop knew that he should have had Jim's back anyway. That was his role as a partner. What if they'd been too late, he thought. What if Jim hadn't been the victor...?
His own concern seemed out of character. He suddenly felt very thirsty, and found his way to Jim's bottles. A glass for the injured, a glass or ten for himself.
"She's gone, Harvey."
It wasn't much more than a whisper and Bullock considered making his way out and doing as if he didn't hear anything. What could he answer to that anyway?
He sat on the bed next to Jim, and there was more awkward patting.
"There there."
This city is wrecking your life, he didn't say. Maybe she made the right choice.
"Think you'll be okay on your own?"
Bullock seemed hesitant to leave. Jim waved vaguely and didn't look up. He was holding the cool glass against his head.
Bullock closed the door and went on his merry way, leaving Jim alone in the huge flat, with the sad company of the lone message on the answering machine. The city outside was bright and shiny despite the odd hour, and the light was creeping in, pulsing like a living creature, as if Gotham itself was closing in on Jim.