AN This story is always a little strange to write, because I normally gravitate to very long chapters. But I'm really liking the concise, snapshot sort of feel these shorter chapters give the story.

Jim finished brushing his teeth and at the clock in his bathroom. Almost seven forty-five, he needed to leave. He rinsed his toothbrush and dropped it back into the cup (he was almost used to it being alone. Almost.).

Jim opened the bathroom door and walked to where his suit jacket was draped on the bed.

"You hum, you know that?"

Jim started and reached instinctively to his hip for his gun. It was probably a good thing it was still hanging up in the hallway.

"Dammit, Selina, what are you doing here?" he demanded, suddenly very thankful he got dressed in the bathroom. Jim wasn't sure if he could handle her sass garbed only in a towel.

She was sprawled at the desk, rocking the chair back as she munched an apple. She raised an eyebrow at him and took another bite.

"You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

"She's said worse. Why are you here?"

She shrugged and looked out the window.

"You are the one that gave an open invitation," she reminded him. Jim grit his teeth, wondering if he was allowed to put bans on visits between midnight and nine o'clock. Then again, he wasn't especially comfortable with her roaming his apartment when he wasn't there, either. Why had he thought it a good idea to encourage this?

"Off to pay the bills?" she asked the window.

"Yes, actually," he said, pulling on his suit jacket. Jim grabbed his badge and keys from his nightstand. "I'd appreciate you not adding to them."

"Sure you would."

Jim tugged on his shoes.

"Don't break anything."

"Okay then."

"Don't mess with the stove or oven."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Do not take a five hour shower."

"Whatever."

He rolled his eyes and walked to the door. He stopped just before he left and turned back around.

"Why're you here?"

Selina shrugged again, and Jim thought she wouldn't answer. Then she said, "Just wanted some quiet."

He nodded and left for work.

Jim was distracted all morning. Finally, Harvey huffed and slapped down the folder he was looking at.

"Gordon, what's gotten into you?"

"What?" Jim jumped and stared at Harvey.

"You've been a space case all day. What, leave the stove on? Ditch a girl with a lame excuse?"

Jim gave Harvey a face and leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen on the edge of his desk.

"It's nothing."

"'Nothing' isn't ignoring Nygma when he asks you a questions three times," he informed Jim. Disapproving mother was such an unflattering look on him.

"I'm just a little distracted."

"Yeah, why? Let me in, I haven't had any good gossip lately," Harvey said, an overly eager look on his face. Despite Harvey Bullock's prickly, uncaring exterior, he had a terrible habit of becoming overly involved in the petty drama of everyone's lives. He may have complained and criticized Jim endlessly while he and Barbara had broken up, but there had been a distinct amount of excitement in his face whenever he coaxed the newest installment out of Jim.

"A stray cat's decided to make itself at home on my balcony. I'm pretty sure I left a window open, and I don't want to come home to find the place wrecked." Harvey stared at him with that eager expression for a few seconds before he realized that was it.

"A stray cat?"

Yep, it's half-starved and everything," he said, not looking up from the note he was writing.

"A cat?" Harvey repeated. Jim heaved a sigh and looked at him.

"What."

"A cat has got you twitchy. You hunt down psychos and hang out with mobsters—" Harvey dropped his voiced, then raised it once he had passed the incriminating part "—and some pet is making you nervous?"

"Not my apartment, remember?"

"Right, lady friend is letting you borrow it while she's finding herself in Spain or something."

"She's not letting me borrow it," he said defensively.

"Yeah, you're the house sitter with benefits."

Jim's look could have killed, it really could have.

"All I'm saying," Harvey said quickly, "is that that cat is the least of your problems right now. Hell, even your personal life is screwed up. Worry about those, not a cat."

"Yeah, sure," Jim said, returning his attention to his report. Except his cat might have been peddling his furniture as they spoke.

AN Harvey Bullock is my grumpy slovenly lackadaisical prince I dare you to fight me on this.