Staring into the mirror, the pale rays of the early morning sun shining in through the small window in the bathroom, Jamie sighs. Hidden outside her apartment, the soft song of a nightingale drifts in.
She flexes her fingers, watching in muted, morbid fascination as they transform, rippling, the change curling under her skin like a wave. Black scales and talons take the place of smooth skin and pale nails, and the change spreads, short, black feathers growing along her arms and legs, growing thicker at her shoulders. She closes her eyes. When she opens them, messy black wings greet her in the mirror, absorbing light and seeming like black rips in reality, messily slashed with a dull knife.
The primaries, secondaries, and coverts are lacklustre, and bent from a lack of care, and she reaches back, running her fingers over them. While most avis hold their wings in great regard, preening them daily—a meticulous process of rubbing oils onto them and combing them through, hers are kept tucked beneath her skin, maintained only the bare minimum necessary for flight.
For a moment, despair washes over her the way it does every time she sees them. Society isn't exactly accepting of ravens, seeing them as the mark of a criminal, and sometimes... She brushes the almost-thought away. I'm getting better, damnit, she thinks. She's trying, even if it's hard some days.
The sun's rays have grown brighter in the past few minutes; shining through the window with an almost urgency. The nightingale has gone silent. Jamie pulls herself together, trying to mentally ready herself fro a precinct full of aggressive police officers. She sighs, considering the idea that maybe she needs a life outside of work.
When she arrives, the precinct is in total chaos, officers running pell-mell, some dragging people into temporary holding cells, while others simply try to stay on their feet and not run into each other.
She makes her way to her desk; grimacing at the sight of her partner, Harvey Bullock, who's passed out at his own desk, drooling slightly. She wonders if he spent night drinking, and then, catching a whiff of the scent of alcohol wafting off of him, decides that it's entirely plausible.
Just as she's about to sit down and get to the mountain of paperwork awaiting her, a shot rings through the precinct, plunging it into silence. Instinctively, she turns towards the sound; eyes landing on a large figure standing in the bullpen, who's got an officer in a headlock, a gun pressed to her head. "Where are my pills?" he roars; spittle flying; eyes wide. "Give me my pills!"
Mind racing, she evaluates the situation; the man is large, larger than her by a good margin; probably an addict of some sort, normally not too much trouble—but he has a hostage.
She glances around, looking for something that could reasonably pass as the pills he's looking for; and her gaze lands on Bullock's desk. Sitting not too far from his head is a bottle of pills—probably aspirin—but she doesn't think that the man is probably in any state to notice. Alright, she thinks. Distract him for long enough to get his hostage free, and subdue him. A slightly cruel side of her notes that Bullock'll wake up with a headache the size of Russia with no aspirin
Snatching the bottle off his desk, she nevertheless hides the large label on the front, and descends briskly down the stairs, ignoring the glares of her colleagues, and pushes to the front of the crowd.
"Hold your fire!" she calls to the other officers, doing her best to make her voice sound confident and commanding. Addressing the man, she says, "Hey! You want your pills? I've got them."
His gaze snaps to her, and she continues, calmly, "I'll give you your pills, but you have to let Officer Clarke go."
He cocks his head; and she can see the cogs turning in his head. "Pills?" he questions, slowly, words sluggish and slurred; and Jamie nods. Tentatively, he lets go of the officer, and moves towards her, reaching for the bottle.
As soon as he's let go of Clarke, Jamie leaps forward; disarming the man. For half a second, everything seems calm; and then someone shouts, "Take him down, boys!"
The officers around her, previously motionless, jump into action, hitting the man until he kneels, and then landing vicious kicks on his torso. "Hey!" Jamie yells, "stop it!" but her words are drowned out by the fervour. In the commotion, someone shoves past her, slamming her into a desk, and her hip smarts.
A moment later, there's a hand clapping down on her shoulder; and she whirls around to find Bullock. "What the hell d'you think you're doing?" he barks. His grip's a bit tight, and his eyes are bloodshot. "We had the drop on him! And he took an officer's gun—he ought'a been shot."
"If someone had started shooting, we'd have a bloodbath," she snaps.
His expression is stormy; and he opens his mouth to fire back a retort; but the Captain Essen's voice cuts him off; and the two of them turn glaring at each other, before following after her. "Close the door behind you, rookie," she says to Jamie, and Jamie complies.
"You two," says the capitain, "I need you to check out a double homicide in the Theatre District—"
Bullock protests instantly. "What? No! Our shift is almost over."
Jamie barely restrains an eyeroll. They've got a half hour left, at least. " Almost being the operative word," the capitain says; voice brooking no argument.
Bullock's shoulders slump. "Alright," he sighs.
She gives them an expectant look. "Well?" she says. "What are you waiting for? Get to it!"
"Yes, ma'am," they say, in unison.
They make their way out of the precinct in stony silence; Bullock's tinged with an air of irritability, probably owing to his hangover.
A slight drizzle of rain has started up, and it patters against the cracked pavement. They come to the mouth of an alley, and Jamie leaves Bullock to speak with the officer on the scene, taking a walk around the crime scene.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spots a figure huddled under a blanket, and frowns. Curiosity getting the better of her, she makes her way over, startled slightly at the realisation that the figure is a young boy—no more than fourteen years, at most, eyes glassy and red. She bites her lip, uncertain of what to say.
In the end, she settles on a soft, "Hey, there. You alright?"
The boy shifts; and she almost gasps. His wings, exposed for a moment before he tugs the orange shock blanket tight around himself, are an inky black. Unlike her own, though, they appear to be meticulously preened, a dark iridescent rather than a matte black.
His fingers, she notices, have blood beneath them. He must be the son of the couple who were killed, she realises; and suddenly, she can picture him kneeling, sobbing, on the pavement, clutching at his parents.
Awkwardly, she says, "I'm Detective Gordon. I'm, uh, here to investigate the murders of...your parents?"
He nods. "Yeah," he says; voice warbling. His eyes are tearbright; and he rubs them.
"What's your name?" she prompts.
He swallows. "Bruce," he says. His voice trembles. "I—I should have done something," he says, the end of it trailing off into a sob.
Jamie frowns; kneeling to look him in the eyes. "Hey," she says, firmly, "it's not your fault. I promise."
Bruce nods. "Will you—will you catch him?" he asks.
"I'll do my best," she promises.
He opens his mouth to reply; only to exclaim, "Alfred!" and shoot to his feet; a tiny smile breaking across his face. Jamie turns to find an older man approaching. Bruce stands, making his way over to the man's side, and leaning against him; and the man embraces him.
Jamie rises as well, making her way to his side. "Officer Gordon," she introduces.
"Alfred Pennyworth," he replies, dipping his head. "I'm Master Bruce's family—Master Bruce's butler," he corrects; pain in his voice as he does so.
"I've been assigned to the case," she says. "I'll do my best to solve it."
He smiles wanly; eyes bleak. "You must be new here," he says. "But I wish you the best of luck, regardless, and we appreciate the effort." To Bruce, he says, "Let's get you home, Master Bruce."
Bruce breaks away from his embrace, and nods; scrubbing his eyes. His expression is still pained, but not as much as before; clearly, seeing a familiar face has helped temper his grief slightly.
"I can't believe you got us involved in that case without consulting me!" Bullock snaps at her over a plate of fries and a burger. "Do you know what happens to us now? It's a high-profile case—we'll be under huge pressure to shut it." His tone is furious.
"So?" Jamie questions; feeling honestly slightly puzzled; taken slightly aback by his irrateness. "Sure, it's a bit inconvenient, but it's our job. "
"You just don't get it, do you?" he says; shaking his head; tone disgusted. "The Waynes were two of the most important people in Gotham—if we don't close the case quickly, we'll be in hot water, not just from City Hall, but the public, too!"
The café's door opens with a tinkle of the a bell; admitting two people Jamie recognises vaguely. "Bullock," the woman greets. Detective Renee Montoya of the Major Crimes Unit, if Jamie remembers correctly. Her wings, patterned like a red-tailed hawk's, are folded up neatly behind her so as to avoid hitting anything. Beside her, her partner—Allen?—also of the Major Crimes Unit, tips his head in greeting. His small frame supports Blue Macaw plumage, puffed out slightly in a show of dominance.
The display reminds Jamie of the assholes she's dealt with every day since she first presented; making the hairs on her neck bristle slightly; her claws itching with the urge to present and challenge him.
She ignores it; instead refocusing on Montoya and Bullock's conversation. "We can take the case off your hands, if you want," Montoya says. "Get it done properly."
Bullock's got a fake smile pasted on his face that's looking stretched to its limit. "No, thanks," he says, "I ain't afraid of this case, or any others," he bites through gritted teeth. "And I suggest that if you want to take someone's case, 'specially mine, you don't disrespect them." He widens his smile; more of a baring of teeth.
Montoya shrugs. "Alright," she says, turning to leave; Allen following after her.
Taking a bite of her burger, Jamie says, "I thought you didn't want the case?"
"Yeah, well," grunts Bullock, "I wasn't about to give it to her after what she implied." And with that, he stubbornly refuses to elaborate.
They return to the precinct after finishing their meal; and the capitain summons them to her office again. This time, her television is on, switched to the press conference the Mayor's called to address the Wayne murders. "We will bring justice to the Waynes' killers," Aubery promises.
Bullock mutters something under his breath about Carmine Falcone. The capitain shuts off the TV, rubbing her temples; and looks about to say something.
Abruptly, Bullock speak. "Can I have a sec of your time, Captain?" he says; and, shooting a pointed glance at Jamie, adds, " alone. "
"Alright," Essen says, wearily. "Gordon, give us a moment."
Nodding, Jamie exits; closing the door behind her, and returning to her desk. She gets through a few pages of paperwork before Bullock's voice rings through the air. "I demand a new partner!"
Essen must reply negatively; because a moment later, Bullock stalks out, and snarls, "We're leaving. We gotta talk to some people."
They spend the next few hours hitting up his contacts on the street; but no one seems to know anything; or, if they do, they're not willing to talk. Options exhausted, Jamie suggests that they return to the precinct and see if the GCPD's forensic scientist, Ed Nygma, has uncovered anything.
Nygma greets them enthusiastically as they enter her office. "Detectives!" she enthuses. "Just the people I wanted to see!" Her normally hidden green swallow's wings are fanned out behind her and flapping slightly. "I analysed the bullet in Mr. Wayne's chest, and," she says, pausing dramatically, "it's no ordinary bullet. You're looking at something high-end, probably custom-made." She grins widely.
"Thanks, Ms. Nygma," Jamie says; genuinely; and kicks Bullock in the shin when he opens his mouth, looking like he's going to say something less than polite.
"No problem, Detective Gordon!" Nygma says, brightly. "And please, call me Ed."
"In that case," Jamie smiles, "you can call me Jamie. Thanks again, Ed," she says, "have a good night." With that, she herds Bullock away before he begins to insult Ed or something equally unpleasant.
"C'mon, Gordon," Bullock says, "you heard it yourself—this wasn't an ordinary mugging gone wrong."
"And you're suggesting we ask your lady-friend for a lead?" JJamie asks; disbelieving, doubt creeping into her tone.
"Fish ain't my 'lady-friend'," Bullock says, crossly. Jamie raises a brow. He ignores her, continuing. "I think we should ask her 'cause she works for Falcone, and she owes me a favour."
She raises a brow. "So," she says, "just to summarise—you want to go to a known criminal?"
"This is Gotham," Bullock retorts. "That's how things work."
Jamie sighs. "Fine," she says; hoping that this isn't a horrible mistake.
Bullock grins jaggedly.
An hour later, they arrive at Fish Mooney's nightclub, its red umbrella sign gleaming brightly in the dark. Within, the atmosphere is languid, but Mooney's gaze is sharp when it glances over her. Jamie feels like she's under spotlights. It's not a pleasant feeling.
In lieu of fidgeting, she moves off to the side of the room; trying to ignore the fact that all the people in the room probably have criminal ties, including the dark-haired woman who introduces herself as Osvalda.
Regardless, it's better than hanging out with Mooney; and she and Osvalda strike up a pleasant conversation. As they speak, Jamie notes that Osvalda winces slightly any time her ashy owl's wings move—slightly oversized, they're splayed half open and keep knocking against the wall.
Absentmindedly, Jamie comments, "Your wings are quite handsome."
A light blush rises on Osvalda's pale cheeks. "Thank you," she mumbles. "I—"
But whatever she's about to say is cut off as Bullock calls, "Gordon! Let's go!"
Bidding her goodbyes to Osvalda, Jamie follows him out of the nightclub.
When she gets home, she takes a long shower. When she gets out, she has a sudden memory of the flash of Bruce's nicely-preened feathers; and decides that perhaps combing her own wouldn't be the worst idea.
The next morning, Bullock calls her at an absolutely absurdly early hour. "I've got a lead," he says, shortly, his breath laboured, and hangs up. Jamie sighs and goes back to sleep.
A few hours later, her alarm goes off; and she blearily turns it off; yawning as she goes through her morning routine. She makes herself some hashbrowns, feeds breadcrumbs to the ravens that like to perch on the strip of wood that juts out outside her kitchen window, and waters her aloe plant, before pulling her coat on over her uniform, grabbing her badge, and setting off to meet Bullock.
The rendezvous point is a well-maintained apartment building. "Mooney called me back," Bullock explains, shortly. "She said one of the tenants here, Mario Pepper, tried to sell one of her fences a pearl necklace like the one that Martha Wayne was wearing."
"And just how reliable is her info?" Jamie asks, with a raised brow.
"Reliable enough," Bullock says; shortly; and Jamie remembers his odd breathing from when he called her.
Huh, she thinks; but doesn't comment on it.
They make their way up to the third storey of the building; and Bullock rings the doorbell. When it opens, a short, redheaded girl peers through the crack.
"Can we speak to Mario Pepper?" Jamie asks, politely.
The girl regards her warily, before turning to call, "Dad! The police are here, they say they wanna talk to you!"
A minute later, a well-build, redheaded man appears at the door. "Mr. Pepper," Bullock says, stepping forward, "we're with the GCPD. We want to ask you a few questions. Can we come in?"
The same wariness in his daughter's eyes lurks in Pepper's. In an attempt to placate it, Jamie flashes her badge. A moment later, Bullock reluctantly follows suit. Grudgingly, Pepper says, "Alright. Come on in." He escorts them into the kitchen.
"Mr. Pepper," Jamie begins, "where were you the night of the Waynes' death?"
"Here, with my wife, Alice," he says. "Ivy was at a friends' house."
"Do you mind if we talk to your wife as well?"
He twitches. "Alright. Alice!"
A moment later, a pale woman enters. On seeing Jamie and Bullock, she frowns. "Mrs. Pepper," Jamie says, and introduces herself and Bullock. "We just want to know if you were here with your husband the night of the Waynes' deaths," she explains.
Alice nods. "I was," she confirms.
"Alright," Jamie says. "Can we take a look around?"
"Not without a warrant," Pepper says, sharply.
Jamie turns to Bullock. "Alright, let's go," she says. "He's right—we don't have a warrant."
Bullock narrows his eyes at Pepper. "I think you have something to hide," he says, advancing on Pepper.
"Bullock," Jamie begins; but the man lunges forward towards Pepper. Pepper jerks away, vaulting out the open widow.
"Damnit!" Bullock exclaims.
Jamie rounds on him; her temper snapping. "What the fuck? " she asks. "We don't have a damn warrant, Bullock! You can't just try and jump the suspect!" To Alice, she says, "We're terribly sorry. Bullock, let's go."
Bullock scowls; but thankfully complies; and they make their way back to the precinct.
Later, the Captain sends a pair of officers with a warrant to the Pepper residence. There, they uncover a locked box with a pearl necklace and a gun within. Pepper, who had returned home, pleads innocence as they drag him into a holding cell.
Jamie frowns. The entire thing feels wrong —too perfect.
Bullock laughs in her face and tells her she's being paranoid.
Jamie's invited to the Waynes' funeral. Afterwards, Bruce stops her. "Thank you," he says, fervently. "Thank you so much."
Jamie doesn't have the heart to tell him she doesn't think the GCPD has the right person; just nods silently and makes her way back to the precinct as quickly as possible.
When she enters, a skittish-looking Ed is standing by her desk. "Jamie," she greets, "can we talk?—not here," she says, quickly, glancing around. "My office."
Jamie frowns. "Alright," she says, and follows the woman to her office.
Closing the door, Ed leans against it. "I overheard Allen and Montoya talking," she blurts. "I wasn't eavesdropping, I was just passing by, and—apparently, they got it from a private source that Pepper was framed by—by you, and the GCPD."
Jamie blinks; and then narrows her eyes. "I knew it was too perfect," she mutters. "Thank you for telling me. I have to go talk to Detective Montoya."
Ed nods. "Yea, no problem, I'm glad I could help!" she calls after Jamie.
Making her way quickly towards where Montoya's office is, Jamie knocks on the door; waiting for the woman to call, "Come in!"
"What evidence do you have that I framed Pepper?" Jamie demands, as soon as the door's shut behind her.
Montoya blinks coolly at her. "You'll see when I have you and your crooked pals in court," she retorts.
Jamie controls herself—barely. "Fine," she snaps, stalking out of the office. Returning to her desk, she spends a few moments thinking, before deciding that Alice Pepper might be able to tell her something new about the situation.
"Mario was no saint," Alice tells her. "He wouldn't kill someone."
After seeing the man, Jamie feels inclined to agree. Then, suddenly, she remembers the statement that Bruce gave the police—specifically, a line about how shiny the "I know this sounds weird," she says, "but can I see his shoes?"
Alice raises a brow. "Alright," she says, leading the detective to the shoe-cabinet.
Inspecting the shoes, Jamie frowns. "Did he not have any formal shoes?" she asks.
Alice shakes her head. "Never needed them," she replies.
Jamie nods, standing. "Thank you for your time," she says.
"She set him up, Bullock!" Jamie shouts. "She planted the evidence and framed Pepper!" Jamie yells. She'd waited until they were outside the precinct and pulled him into a secluded alleyway.
Bullock shakes his head. "That's impossible. Fish wouldn't do that!"
Jamie snaps. "Did it ever fucking occur to you," she begins, voice rising, "that Fish is a criminal, and criminals lie? Or are you just that blinded by your infatuation for her?" She's practically shaking now. "She's got an innocent man jailed, and all you can do is defend her?—you know what, I'm done trying to convince you," she hisses, throwing her hands up in the air; turning on her heel and storming away, a singular location in mind: Fish Mooney's nightclub.
When she gets there, the sun's overcast, and there's the scent of rain in the air. Cats frolic in the alleyways, but she doesn't pay them any mind; striding into the nightclub and making her way over to Mooney's table.
"Mooney," she growls, "you set us on the tail of an innocent man."
Mooney doesn't bother denying it. "And you're going to do what, exactly?" she asks.
Jamie bares her teeth. "Wait and see," she promises, turning to exit.
Her retreat is blocked, suddenly, by the appearance of three thugs. "I'm afraid," says Mooney from behind her, "I don't really like surprises." With that, the three thugs leap at Jamie.
She snarls; managing to knock one of them out; barely blocking the other's blow to her ribs. Everything blurs, her fingers melting into talons, and she slashes at the two remaining humans, leaving bleeding gashes.
Distracted by the thugs, she fails to notice Mooney readying her umbrella until it's too late.
Jamie wakes up slowly; mouth cottony; and wonders why everything seems upsidedown. It takes her a moment to realise that she's hung upsidedown. Twisting, she manages to catch a glimpse of Ed hung up beside her—and, on her other side, Bullock. The two of them must have tried to come to her rescue. She appreciates the gesture.
Bullock's awake, and opens his mouth, expression slightly terrified; but before he can speak, a man walks past, grinning ominously. Jamie recognises him as one of the thugs Mooney had sicced on her. "Franky!" he calls.
Another man, presumably Franky, appears; clothed in chainmail and a black hood, he selects a butcher's knife from a table covered in various blades, and begins to advance on them. Fear shoots through Jamie, and Bullock begins to yell.
He's barely a foot away when the doors bang open and bullets begin to fly. Franky falls to the ground.
Carmine Falcone himself appears; ornate cane in hand. He meets the singular remaining man's gaze. "Tell Mooney," he says, softly, "that if she wants to kill policemen, she has to ask me first. Go on—tell her!"
The man yelps as a warning bullet streaks past his face, barely missing his head; and he hurries away. "Release them," Falcone says to his men, who make quick work of their bindings.
By now, Ed's lack of reaction's starting to worry Jamie; and as soon as she's standing, she checks the woman's pulse, breathing a sigh of relief as she finds it, steady and strong.
Falcone's voice rings out. "Gordon, I'd like to speak with you in private." He turns, forcing her to follow after.
"I was good friends with your father," he says, after a few beats, when they're outside of hearing range of his men and Bullock. "I admired his integrity and zeal."
Jamie bites back a snort of disbelief. Integrity, she thinks, what integrity did Peter Gordon ever have?
Instead, she says, "I admit, at first, I suspected that you killed the Waynes—but now I'm pretty sure that if that were true, I wouldn't be talking to you."
The Don chuckles, before growing serious once more. "I don't know who killed the Waynes," he says. "I doubt anyone does. It's probably the low-rent crime that it looks like. But what matters," he adds, "is that justice is being served. After all, I am, first and foremost, a businessman, and anarchy is bad for business. But—" his expression grows sharp—"if you try and expose the frame-up, or Gotham and the GCPD's corruption—well. It would be in everyone's best interests that you don't."
Jamie swallows. The Don gives her a nod and walks away, leaving her behind.
They return to the precinct; and Jamie escorts Ed to the infirmary. She's just about to get back to her desk when Bullock corners her. "Gordon," he says. "There's something we need to do down at the Docks."
Suspicion rises in Jamie, but she decides, after a moment, that it's probably exhaustion and paranoia talking—after all, Bullock did try and come to her rescue. Leaving a note on her desk that she'll be back by seven, she follows Bullock to his car.
The two settle into a silence as they drive; tension still thick between them, but slightly better than before. The sky is painted with pink pastels from the sunset. They get out, Jamie blinking in the sunlight.
Bullock makes his way to the back of the car, and Jamie follows—and gasps at the sight that's revealed as Bullock opens the trunk. Osvalda's curled inside, one wing bent at an odd angle, whimpering in pain. "Osvalda!" she exclaims, reaching out to check on the other, but Bullock blocks her.
"Sorry, Gordon," he says, not sounding terribly sympathetic, "the Don's ordered you to off this little thorn in his side—prove you'll remain quiet about the frame-up."
Fool me once, she thinks, her mother's words from her childhood coming back to her, shame on me; fool me again, I'll be the viper in your bed. Play the enemy, deceive them; and when they trust you, strike at their weakness.
"No," she says, and the game has begun.
Bullock shrugs; dragging Osvalda out of the trunk roughly. "If you don't do it, I have orders from the Don to kill the both of you. It won't be too easy, but I will, or else Falcone will kill all of us and probably Nygma, too, for good measure."
Jamie hesitates; and then nods; as if in defeat. Keeping up the charade, she pulls her gun out, grasping Osvalda's shoulder gently, and marches the both of them to the end of the pier.
"A terrible war is coming, Detective!" Osvalda stammers; shaking, panic eviden in her tone. "Falcone's enemies will try and take advantage of his weakness," she pleads, "I can be a useful spy for you! I can prevent the bloodshed that's coming!"
"Shut up," Jamie growls; and thinks, Please, forgive me, spinning the woman around to face the water, placing the gun to Osvalda's head.
"Please—please, have mercy! " Osvalda begs. Jamie leans in, spreading her wings to hide the movement of her gun, hoping her dark wings will make Bullock more likely to believe the hoax she's about to pull.
"Don't ever come back Gotham," she whispers into Osvalda's ear before firing the gun right next to her head, and shoving her into the water.