A few days pass. Jamie spends them doing her best to try and prove Mario Pepper's innocence, working with his attorney. They're just on the cusp of finding a witness willing to testify that the evidence was planted when the lead suddenly goes silent. The next day, Pepper turns up dead in his cell; the death ruled, quickly, as being a suicide by the police.

Bitterness floods through Jamie; and she spends the day brooding. Bullock seems interminably cheery after the news is announced, which only makes things worse. In an attempt to escape him, she asks Captain Essen for a new partner, only to be summarily denied.

She's marinating in anger an frustration when her phone rings, and she snaps, "Hello?" into the receiver.

"Detective Gordon," Alfred Pennyworth greets. "Bruce wanted to ask if you'd be free to come over for tea tomorrow?"

She blinks; slightly surprised by the request. "Yeah, I think I'm free," she says. "Uh, what time?"

"Around three?"

"That works for me," she confirms. "Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Pennyworth." And with that, she hangs up.

Bullock gives her a curious look. "Hot date or something?" he asks.

Jamie twitches. Speaking to the man makes bile rise in her throat—every time she hears his voice, all she can think of is Osvalda, wing broken and terror stark on her face. "None of your business," she snaps. "Don't you have some paperwork you need to do for the arrest we made earlier?"

He scowls at her, but seems to get the hint, thank god.

The next day, Jamie takes her car—rarely used, as she prefers public transport—down the winding road to Wayne Manor. It's a majestic building, pale cream, with beautiful ionic columns in the front and a set of white steps leading up from the well-maintained garden path to the front entrance.

She's just about to make her way up the steps when she happens to glance up, and catches sight of a darkly-clad figure on the roof, wings spread wide. Bruce.

"Hey!" she calls, "be careful up there! Your wings aren't fully grown yet—if you fall, you'll hurt yourself!"

He starts; glancing down at her. A moment later, Pennyworth appears from around the side of the house. "Master Bruce!" he shouts, "come on down already, for heaven's sake—you're going to get yourself killed!"

"I'm fine!" Bruce shouts back.

"Then at least come down to greet your guest, " Pennyworth says; exasperated. That seems to work, because Bruce disappears away from the edge. Pennyworth ushers Jamie inside. "Apologies for Master Bruce," he says, "he's developed a reckless streak a mile wide in the last week."

Jamie waves him off. "It's fine," she says. "Grief makes people react in strange ways."

"I wish it wouldn't make him endanger himself," he sighs; and then: "ah, Master Bruce. How good of you to join us."

Bruce looks somewhat cowed as he sits in the chair across from Jamie, tucking his wings behind him. "Sorry," he mutters, sullenly. "I was just trying to teach myself to conquer fear—I was perfectly safe."

"Fear's a good thing," Jamie points out, taking the teacup from the tray that Pennyworth's fetched. "Thank you," she murmurs, before continuing. "It keeps you alive—tells you where the edge is."

Bruce scowls. "I can see the edge with my eyes," he says, somewhat mulishly, and dumps a heaping spoonful of sugar into his own tea, taking a cookie as well, and nibbling on it. "I heard Mario Pepper passed away."

Jamie nods; unsurprised at the segue. A part of her had suspected that the boy had an ulterior motive for inviting her. "I suspect foul play," she says, grimly; and then hesitates. "I...you can't tell anyone, but I have reason to believe he was framed."

"And whoever it was killed him to keep him silent?" Bruce concludes.

Jamie nods. "Exactly. I'm trying to get to the bottom of it, but—" she grimaces. "The higher powers of Gotham aren't exactly making my job easy." She sips her tea.

The words sit between them for a long moment, before Bruce takes a bite of his cookie. "Right," he says. "Well, thank you for trying, at least." The disappointment in his tone is evident; and Jamie wishes she could do something about it.

She nods. "Of course," she says. "That is my job."

That gets a wan smile out of him. "I doubt most of your colleagues would feel the same," he says; but drops the topic. They spend the next hour discussing the state of the Wayne Manor's gardens, and the well on the property that apparently leads into a giant cave of bats, before Jamie thanks him and Pennyworth for inviting her, and bids her goodbyes.

Jamie clocks into work on Monday to find that apparently, kids have been disappearing by the dozens off the street. Bullock sneers when she drops the case file onto his desk, having already read it herself. "What do we care about street rats?" he asks.

You can't murder him, Jamie reminds herself, digging her fingernails into her palms. "Because it's our job," she says, instead. "Come on—apparently, there's someone they scooped up last night who's at the prison who says he knows something who we have to go talk to."

Bullock grumbles something indistinct. "Fine," he says, finally, with a put-upon sigh, and rises from his desk, following after her.

They take a squad car to the prison. The officers there seem to be half-asleep on their feet with boredom, and perk up slightly when they flash their badges. "We want to speak with Mackey O'Connell," Jamie explains, "he's got ties to a case of ours."

The officer on duty grunts. "Alright," he says, "right this way."

Leading them down a winding labyrinth of hallways, he finally stops in front of a cell that looks indistinguishable from the others. "O'Connell," he barks, "you've got visitors!"

There's movement inside the cell; and then a tall, balding man comes to the bars. "You're the officers?" he asks; gaze darting around, as if checking to see if anyone else is listening in on their conversation.

Jamie nods. "That's us," she says. "Do you want to talk here, or would you rather we take you in to one of the interrogation rooms?"

"Interrogation room," he says, firmly; a hint of fear in her voice.

"Alright," Jamie says; and turns to the officer who brought them. "Do you mind if...?"

He shrugs. "Nah, go ahead. O'Connell's never been trouble, anyway."

She nods; watching as he unlocks the door and escorts O'Connell down the hallway. After a moment, she and Bullock follow after.

"I'll take this one," Bullock says, pushing past her and into the room. "You keep a watch out out there." The door slams behind him.

Jamie sighs. "Right," she says, leaning up against the wall.

About ten minutes pass in silence; and then there's a sudden bang. Alarmed, Jamie yanks the door open to find Bullock looming over O'Connell.

"I told you!" O'Connell says; fear stark on his face, "there's people taking kids off the street—ask Cat, she'll tell you!"

"You'd better tell me the fucking truth," Bullock growls, hands spread flat on the table, leaning forward, "or I'll beat it out of you." O'Connell cowers slightly.

"Bullock," Jamie says, sharply, "that's illegal."

Bullock turns to face her. "As if that stopped you from offing Cobblepit, raven ," he sneers; and then: "I think we're done here." With that, he storms past her, leaving Jamie alone with O'Connell.

"Sorry about him," she says with a grimace. "I'll escort you back to your cell."

Bullock's taken the car already and left when she gets back outside; and Jamie sighs; spending the next twenty minutes making her way to the closest bus-stop and catching the two-thirty back to the precinct.

When she gets back, she takes one look at her desk next to Bullock, and decides she needs a cup of coffee before she has to deal with him again. Making her way down to the small breakroom, she opens the door to find Ed struggling with the coffee-machine.

"You want a hand with that?" Jamie asks, after watching her futilely attempt to fix it for a few moments

The auburn-haired woman looks up, surprise colouring her expression. "D—Jamie!" she exclaims. "Er, yes please. If you don't mind."

Jamie shakes her head. "Not at all," she says, warmly. "I wouldn't have offered if I did."

It takes a few minutes, but she manages to figure out the problem. Once it's solved, she turns to Ed. "You take it any particular way?"

Ed shakes her head. "Just plain black," she says.

A smile quirks at Jamie's lips. "Funny," she says. "Me, too."

Pouring them both cups of coffee, she passes Ed one of them. Their fingers brush for a moment, a spark jumping against Jamie's skin at the contact before disappearing.

They spend the next fifteen minutes exchanging funny anecdotes and horror stories as they drink their coffee, sequestered away from the rest of the precinct, the breakroom a momentary bubble of peace.

The peace is shattered as soon as she makes her way back to her desk and finds Bullock smiling gleefully. "Captain wants to talk to us," he says.

Jamie sighs. Great. She follows after him and into the Captain's office.

"Gordon," Essen greets. "Bullock here tells me you aren't letting him interrogate people."

"I pointed out that he's not allowed to use physical force or threaten it," Jamie says, calmly.

Essen glares at her. "Get with the program," she says sharply; and then, "update me on your case."

Jamie gives her a brief rundown; explaining the information they managed to glean from O'Connell. "He claims that someone's kidnapping street kids," she concludes.

Bullock snorts. "I can't imagine why you'd want to buy them," he says. "It's not like any of them are going to be pretty." Once again, Jamie tamps down on her desire to throttle the man, keeping her expression a careful neutral mask. Fortunately, both for his life and her sanity, the door opens and Ed enters.

"O'Connell was picked up last night with a high concentration of ATP in his system," Ed says, without preamble.

"Regular English, you ass," Bullock mutters, and Ed glares at him.

"It's a very potent knockout drug," she snaps. "It's unavailable on the streets, so the only way for his assailants to have obtained it is to have bought or stolen it from a pharmacy."

Essen nods. "Thank you, Ms. Nygma," she says; a clear dismissal.

"One last thing," Ed says, looking at Jamie as she exits. "I'm the start of every incident, the middle of every thing, come once in illness and twice in illusion—what am I?"

Bullock rolls his eyes. "We don't have time for your damn riddles," he snaps; but Jamie holds up a hand to silence him, thinking for a moment.

"The letter i ," she says, finally; and is rewarded with a megawatt grin before Ed spins on her heel, closing the door softly behind her.

Essen clears her throat. "Alright," she says, "Gordon, Bullock, I want you looking into this. And for God's sake, keep it out of the papers."

Jamie nods; following Bullock out to their desks.

"Maybe we shouldn't go," Bullock says, suddenly hesitant, as he picks his coat up off the back of his desk-chair. "That's on Fish's turf..." he trails off. I hope she does murder you, Jamie thinks, viciously. He seems to think better of protesting further, though, pulling on his coat and barking, "Alright, let's go."

When they get to the front of Mooney's nightclub, Bullock swallows; anxiety clear on his face. Jamie almost feels bad for him.

When they enter, the nightclub's empty, save for the man who Falcone had left alive at the warehouse days before. Butch Gilzean, Jamie remembers, having looked into his file when she had returned to the precinct.

"What do you want?" he growls, eying them suspiciously. "Boss's busy—"

The statement is rendered moot a moment later when Mooney sweeps down the staircase, red dress fluttering slightly. "I'm never too busy for my favourite detective," she says, smiling; but it's fixed; and her knuckles are white around the base of her wineglass. "Come, sit with me," she commands, taking a seat at one of the tables. "I do apologise for that little...incident," she says, sounding not in the least apologetic as they sit, "truly, I regret ordering your deaths."

Gazing at Jamie, her smile turns into something sharp and cruel. "You know, Detective Gordon, I believe I misjudged you—though I am slightly disappointed you turned out to not be the paragon of integrity you pretend to be. Such a shame you got with the program and killed my dear little Penguin." She swirls her wine, the deep burgundy liquid shimmering slightly in the low-lights. "Would either of you like a drink?"

"No, thanks," Jamie says, politely. Bullock, though, gives a hearty yes. Mooney gestures to a waiter, who disappears behind the bar before returning with a glass and what appears to be a bottle of vodka, setting the glass down before Bullock and pouring a finger.

Bullock eyes the glass dubiously; but the waiter's already left, taking the bottle with him; so Bullock shrugs and downs it.

Mooney claps her hands. "Now, to business—I assume you want to know something?"

"Word is that someone's kidnapping street kids," Jamie says, without preamble. "Have you heard anything about that?"

Mooney taps her chin thoughtfully. "Come to think of it, I have heard rumours that someone in Florida is paying good money for anyone who's young and healthy, but no one knows why, or who the buyer is—though, frankly, I doubt anyone cares."

Jamie nods. "Right," she says, standing. "Well, thank you for your help. Bullock, let's go."

"Are you sure you don't want a drink?" Mooney offers once more. Jamie shakes her head, steering her partner towards the exit, ignoring the same place, same time? he mouths to Mooney.

They split up after exiting the nightclub; Bullock claiming that he needs to go get a bite to eat, and Jamie's more than happy to get rid of him; making her way back to the precinct.

A few hours later, Essen summons the both of them to her office once again. Essen's pacing, expression furious, before she sits down at her desk and jerks the monitor around so Jamie and Bullock can see. "Someone leaked it to the press," she says, lowly, the headline screaming GOTHAM'S CHILDREN GOING MISSING: WHAT IS THE GCPD HIDING? "The only two people it could have been are you or Bullock."

"It wasn't me ," Jamie protests. "I value my position too much."

Bullock voices a denial a moment later; though Jamie catches a vaguely smug expression on his face. Essen sighs, and rubs the bridge of her nose. "Fine," she says. "I'm choosing to believe you, Gordon—for now. One more slip-up, and you're fired, understood?"

"Yes, Captain."

She sighs. "Good. Now, tell me about the case."

"Only three pharmaceutical companies in Gotham stock ATP," Jamie informs Essen. "Our other lead is a dud, so we're planning on searching all three of them."

Essen nods. "Alright. Dismissed."

The first two pharmacies don't turn up anything promising; and by the third one, they're both cranky. "Can we talk to Mr. Quillan?" Jamie asks the receptionist, trying not to snap. The woman is a bit... jumpy for a receptionist, Jamie notes; a sliver of dread fluttering in her gut like a particularly hyperactive butterfly.

"Of course," the woman says, leading them to Quillan's office; and then, "oh, dang, I'm sorry, I, uh, totally forgot—he's actually on vacation..."

Leaving Bullock to speak with the woman, Jamie slips away, quietly walking among the rows of medications. On instinct, she unholsters her gun, though she leaves the safety on and points it to the floor.

As she approaches the back, a muffled whine sounds, and then quickly cuts off; the sound of a gun's safety being turned off ringing through the silence a moment later. "GCPD!" she yells, "put your weapons down!"

Barely a second later, a man leaps out from the passage leading to the basement door and begins shooting; the bullets piercing the boxes around her. Jamie ducks, returning fire cautiously, trying to conserve ammunition, shooting to incapacitate rather than wound mortally.

A moment later, the woman, who's definitely not a receptionist, comes running; rattling off shot after shot, forcing Jamie to drop to the ground, though one of them manages to graze her shoulder, and she hisses.

When she rises, the two have disappeared. "Damnit!" she exclaims. Bullock appears from the other side of the pharmacy, having ducked behind the desk for cover.

"I'll go after them," he growls, making his way to the exit.

"Alright," she says, "I'll stay and look for Quillan."

It's a good thing she does, too; because her search takes her to the back exit, and she catches the tail end of a conversation between two men, one of whom she assumes is Quillan. "Quick," he hises, to the other man, "kill the kids and dump them in the sewer."

Absolutely not, Jamie thinks, grimly; and does her best to ignore her wounded shoulder, ambushing the two men before they can fire on the children; kicking the first one in the back of his knees so he drop sto the ground.

The other man startles, taking a step back—right into the uncovered manhole, and falls, sceaming, into the sewer.

Jamie purses her lips; mind dark. Perfect. Just perfect. The paperwork's going to be an utter nightmare.

She cuffs Quillan and escorts him and the kids to the precinct. The Mayor decides to visit as well, and make a speech—though, why, exactly, escapes Jamie. Thankfully, Ed's perfectly willing to quietly chat with her, and she gets around to inviting the other to come around to her apartment for a game of chess or cards some time when both of them have some time.

"We should probably pay attention," Ed murmurs, but her lips are quirked.

"Eh," Jamie whispers back, "since there's no law against two-hour speeches, I think it's fair to assume it's also perfectly illegal to ignore said speeches."

The two of them devolve into quiet laughter; and Jamie feels a warm, comfortable ball settle into her chest. It's a nice feeling.

Tuning back into the speech, she hears James say, "—the unfortunate children will be taken into the care of juvenile services." With that, he makes his way towards Essen's office.

"Sorry, I have to go," Jamie says, quickly, to Ed; and follows after him.

James seems to be expecting her; and he greets her with a wide smile. "Ah, Detective Gordon!"

"Mayor," she greets, frigidly, "you can't possibly think the people will stand for your usage of these abductions as an excuse to round up children and throw them into the juvenile equivalent of prison without even so much as a trial—"

Essen glares at her; clearly annoyed. "Gordon," she hisses; a clear, shut up now signal.

James, though, doesn't seem bothered. "This is Gotham," he says, "the city'll be happy with the solution. And, frankly," he sniffs, I don't care what you think."

"You're dismissed," Essen snaps.

Things go fine until it turns out that one of the busses with kids in it has up and disappeared. Bullock suggests they question Quillan again; and this time, Jamie can't find it in her to protest; just watches as Quillan groans in pain and cowers as Bullock brings the phonebook down on him again as a blugeoning weapon.

"I swear, I don't know anything else!" Quillan begs, "please, please— "

Bullock raises a brow; unimpressed; but stops. "See my partner over there, Detective Gordon?" Quillan nods mutely. Bullock continues. "She's usually gentler with scum like you. Do you want to guess why she ain't raising a finger to stop me?"

Jamie pushes away from the wall she's been leaning against; face devoid of all emotion, and replies. "It's easy," she says, quietly. "Thirty kids, or one scumbag like you—you do the math."

Bullock grins; raising the phonebook again. "Wait!" Quillan yelps. "Alright, alright, I do remember one thing—the truck they were driving in when they came to ge the kids, it had a pretty recognisable logo—a fork over a blue plate. I didn't say anything 'cause it's, you know, kind of a horrible idea that they might be—" He cuts himself off with a scream as Bullock raises the phonebook again.

This time, though, Jamie steps between them. "Alright, that's enough," she commands; and pulls out a pad of paper and a pen, handing them to Quillan. "We need you to draw the logo," she orders.

Faced with the option between that and another round with the phonebook, Quillan chooses quickly.

After that, Jamie takes the pad of paper down to Ed, who searches the system for a logo matching the description. "Nope," Ed says, closing the database. As she moves, she accidentally knocks over her cup of coffee; some of it splattering onto Jamie. Flustering, she quickly begins to apologise. Jamie waves it off—she has extra shirts in her locker, anyway. Ed purses her lips. "There's no logos that match the description," she repeats.

Jamie sighs, closing her eyes for a second; and then snapping them open as an idea pops into her head. "Are there any with a trident?" she asks.

Ed hums; opening up the database again; and clicks through the copyrighted logos in Gotham on file, scanning the screen. "Oh!" she exclaims. "There it is—Trident Shipping Co. And," she adds, scanning the logs, "they have a shipment to Florida scheduled for two this afternoon."

Jamie glances at the clock, which shows one o'clock. "Thanks, Ed," she says. "I owe you one!"

With that, she quickly makes her way to collect Bullock.

They manage to get there in time to catch the kidnappers, with a bit of help from one of the children.

That evening, Jamie's phone rings—Alfred Pennyworth. She answers. "Hello?"

Pennyworth lets out an audible sigh of relief. "Ms. Gordon," he says. "I'm at wit's end. Can you come by and speak with Master Bruce?"

She frowns. "Yeah, sure—what's wrong?"

He hesitates. "I think it'll be easier to explain face to face," he says, finally. "We'll expect you in an hour?"

"That's fine," she agrees.

She arrives in time for a late tea—she suspects that Pennyworth prepared it as a nervous habit. "Thank goodness you're here," he says, sipping his tea, "I haven't the faintest idea what to do. Master Bruce's been intentionally harming himself, and hardly sleeping, and, to make matters worse, when he does sleep, he's plagued by nightmares." He sighs, deeply.

Jamie frowns; taking a sip of her own tea. "Have you suggested a psychiatrist?"

"Of course! He refuses every time," Pennyworth says, sighing once again. "And I promised his father that I would raise him as he would have, had he lived—trusting him to choose his own path."

There's a rustle; and Jamie's head snaps around; catching a glimpse of a darkly-clad figure ducking around the doorway. "I think he's been listening in," she says, drily.

Pennyworth closes his eyes. "Master Bruce," he calls, "you can come on out now."

A moment later, the boy slips into the room. Crossing his arms, he says, "I haven't been hurting myself. I've just been testing my boundaries. And I don't need a—a psychiatrist. "

Jamie twists her lips. "What you're going through is normal, given the situation you're in," she says, "talking to someone can really help."

"Did it help you? " Bruce asks; shrewdly.

Jamie freezes for a moment. "Sometimes," she lies; thinking of how she stormed out midway through the third session and never returned.

Bruce smiles thinly. "You're a terrible liar." And then, "I want to commend you on your rescue of the kidnapped children." Biting his lip, he asks, "Can I write you a cheque to pass on to them?"

Jamie grimaces. "This is Gotham," she says, "it doesn't work like that. Money won't buy those kids people to care about them the way that Alfred cares about you."

"Well, then," he says, fiddling with the hem of his shirt, "at least allow me to donate some new clothing for them—they looked very ragged."

Jamie hesitates. "Alright," she says, "I can probably arrange for that."

Jamie and Ed along with a few other officers are tasked with herding the rescued children towards the correct social service workers; and they watch fondly as the children fiddle with the fabric of their new clothes, awe on their faces.

One of the children's arguing with the officer attempting to get her moving, though; her voice becoming loud enough that Jamie catches the tail end of her sentence. "— going, " she says, stubbornly, refusing to move. "I gotta speak with Detective Gordon."

The officer throws up his hands in frustration. "You have to, kid!" he exclaims. "You're thirteen, and you have no relatives—I can't just let you back onto the street!"

Jamie makes her way over towards them. "I heard you wanted to talk to me?" she says, politely, to the frizzy-haired girl.

The girl nods. "Detective Gordon," she says, "I'm Selina—or Cat, if you prefer. I know you're still digging into the Wayne murder, and that you aren't like the rest of the crooks at the GCPD. I can tell you who killed the Waynes, 'cause I saw who did it— if, " she adds, "you get me out of juvie."