Harvey leaned over the bar, helping himself to the ice bucket. He was more than a regular, he was a staple at the bar. The whiskey was cheap, the girls were friendly, and he didn't have to talk. Talking took too much energy out of him. Instead, he strolled toward the back and drank in the sights from the dim lit corner of his booth.
Thursday nights were usually slow. The generic 9-5 crowd would be tabbing out by the time he made it out of the station. He liked it this way; it gave him a chance to focus on her. Harvey knew she worked the late shifts and took advantage of the opportunity to see her when he could. They were on friendly terms, but he kept his distance. There was a lingering concern that she might perceive him as a dirty old man and he did his best to preserve some dignity in her presence. She was attractive and young, like the rest of the girls, but she had a light behind her eyes that suggested a keen awareness and an unyielding compassion he often found lacking in the rest of them. She would glide over to his table and sneak a seat across from him, if only for a few seconds. Harvey would nod, trying not to read too much into this innocent gesture. Her youthful energy filled the room and without saying a word she could impress upon him a feeling of vitality that had escaped him even in his younger days. He had to remind himself of the gray in his beard, the aches in his back, and the furrowed brow which revealed the efforts of twenty long years of duty on the force. What could she possibly think of him? Another drunk, trying to forget, most likely. At least, that's what he told himself. He had to keep his distance, even when she was sitting just a few feet away. That's when he needed it the most.
Usually she was focused on the bar, working the regulars but sometimes when it was slow, she would recite poetry, softly, mostly to herself. Harvey remembered asking her about this curious trait; he wanted to know who she was quoting at the very least. She told him in a hushed whisper that John Donne was her favorite. She made it appear as if this admission would incriminate her or reveal a vulnerability that she did not want others to know. Harvey had to fight back the joy of sharing this private privilege with her, for fear of getting too close. Sometimes he thought she did it on purpose, that she was teasing him with cruel smiles of civility but he knew that he was wrong. She never sat with the others; she never spoke about her personal life with them; she would strain a forced smile when someone got too close, and her face would show a cold defiance that only Harvey seemed to noticed. She had to know how he felt about her, but he had worked hard to keep that secret. He had resigned himself to only knowing her indirectly through the bar, it was the safest way.
Tonight the bar was almost empty. It was a quarter past one and most of the regulars had cleared out. Harvey was on his fifth drink, still indifferent to the buzz of his whiskey sour. She knew to pour his drinks strong, while the others received the watered down bottles courtesy of Maroni's tactic of strong-arming the locals. Her last table cleared out, and she began her closing routine. Harvey didn't notice the guy at the end of the bar at first, but his very presence once noted could not be ignored. He had to be at least fifty or older, with oily black hair slicked into a short pony tail. His age shone through the gray strands that escaped the elastic band which was pulled so taught it gave the impression that his entire head would burst at the slightest provocation. He hunched over his stool, making a grotesque caricature in the light from above. Each rivet of his spine poked through the thin vinyl of his jacket adding to his almost in-human figure. His face beheld no expression; it was unsettling how mechanic his features were.
Harvey could feel his gut start to rumble, he knew better than to ignore it. Her usually easy smile gave way to a petite frown as she wiped down the bar. The man whispered something to her, inaudible to Harvey, but he saw the effect it had on her. Her facial expressions betrayed all as she quickly backed away from him. He hasn't done anything yet, don't lose your cool...he didn't want to scare her, he didn't want to whip out his badge, he never knew how people would react to him being a cop, especially in Gotham where it didn't mean too much anymore. No, he was too old for that dog and pony show. He knew how things worked in this city. He was old school, he could wait this out.
Harvey curbed his impatience by chewing on the icy remains of his drink. He felt the cubes explode then melt between his gritted teeth. Each second passed with a painful draw that questioned his intent. 'What if you're wrong? What if you overreact? What if she doesn't want you stepping in?' His insecurity drilled holes in his initial courage as he pondered the endless stream of 'what if's'. Harvey had spent years trying to ignore these thoughts, but he knew he could always trust that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
It didn't take long for the greasy gargoyle to make his move. He called out to her, coarse suggestive language that soon turned to more overt threats. She dismissed him with a wave of her hand that was caught short by his claw-like fingers, gripping into her skin refusing to release. Her eyes widened but she never made a sound in her struggle. Harvey sprang from his seat with lightening speed that surprised even him. With granite force he hurled his weight into the man's side, causing him to crash on the floor. 'Get ready, he's getting back up.' Harvey knew the rhythm of the dance better than most, it's what helped him make Detective. The man drew himself up and lunged at Harvey with a pocket knife clutched in his hand. It was a sloppy move, giving Harvey plenty of time to wind up. His fist met his face with the force of a lead hammer. One shot and he was down on the floor, moaning like a broken air conditioner. Harvey bent down and with a graveled asphalt tone he snarled "OUT!" The man convulsed a few times, making a show of it in Harvey's opinion, before making his way toward the front. Harvey didn't soften his stance until he heard the door click shut.
Harvey turned back toward the her and slumped down on one of the stools. He started to reach into his jacket, gently tugging at his wallet, but she quickly motioned for him to stop. His knuckles were already starting to swell and he knew better than to argue with a woman. He rested his palms on the bar, while she heaped ice into a bucket big enough for his throbbing fist. The cold shock gave him momentary relief as he dipped his hand inside. He couldn't look at her yet, he was afraid to. If he had only been able to glance up he would have seen the admiration pouring out of her. She moved to the other side of the bar and quietly took a seat next to him. Harvey felt his pulse quicken. 'No. Too close' he thought. He wrestled with the thought of leaving, but he couldn't force himself to move. The scent of her hair washed over him, leaving him more intoxicated than the booze ever could. They remained in that state of repose until the ice bucket turned to lukewarm water. Harvey shook off a few drops and examined his hand, a few bruises but nothing broken. He wanted to say something to her...anything, but he was never good with words. He knew it was better to leave those feelings buried in the vault.
He started toward the door, but a slender hand caught hold of his sleeve, pulling him back. Harvey tried to choke down his surprise. He wanted to remain stoic like Bogart, but one look at her pierced through his armor. With deafening sound she whispered, "Thank you". Her eyes shined bright with gratitude, and something else that he couldn't quite grasp. With the silence broken, she lifted her lips to meet his own and Harvey felt the world melt around them. For one brief moment the distance between them seemed smaller. This time, he didn't fight it.