Author's Note: Ah yes, home sweet home in the Transformers fandom. YAY. But we're doing something nEwIsH...
This originally was born as a crossover but I attempted it THREE TIMES with no success and it didn't quite sit right. So, after much deliberation, I've decided to launch my attack of this story with a Transformers focus...just in a different location, with a few added characters, and a new location.
Is this technically a crossover? Ehhhhhhhh...
It's debatable. I've decided not to follow Gotham's timeline at all, just use the location and the characters, so really this is technically a Transformers story with crossover characters.
If it becomes an issue I'll change the listing to be a crossover, but for now, I think it's fine...? *dives under desk* If you don't know anything about Gotham, you SHOULD get acquainted because it's an EXCELLENT show, but otherwise it's fine.
And yes, we do have a love triangle. Lennox/OC/Bullock. Yay for me, I LOVE torturing myself.
Anyway, thanks for the reviews, patience, and clicks. 'Preciate it, friend-os.
Zero Dark Thirty
Hi, I'm _
XXX
Thus far, Earth had yet to be the highlight of his little excursion across the stars.
From a top-down view, organic worlds weren't the most Cybertronian-friendly when you really got down to it. Half the time they were a rust-waiting-to-happen nightmare, with fleshy host species more fragile than they were useful, and honest-to-Primus, they smelled.
All these worlds smelled. If the general populations weren't squishable beneath your pedes or oozing some kind of trans fluid, they were sickly and grew something called hair, which could grow any number of places on an organic body (most he didn't want to think about). They had short life spans, were easily broken, and were near the most pathetic things he'd ever witnessed.
Yeah, organic worlds were the pits, most of the time.
And while Earth had its charms, it left something to be desired. Particularly an alt form that wasn't throwing off mechanical codes or wounding his moral pride at the mere sight of it. But, Optimus had said covert, and not to draw the optic (humans called them eyes? Maybe?) with anything that would stand out or raise suspicion.
As much as he admired the Prime's leadership, and as much as he'd give his right servo for the mech, he wasn't about to settle when it came to what could be his only alt mode on this rock.
So, he'd taken his sweet time tapping into the world's in-line global networking system (the locals called it the 'internet') and researched.
He'd decided on a sweet little 1967 Camaro Z/28. Built to race, built to move on this world, they weren't ostentatious and they weren't uncommon. He'd grimaced and felt his tanks drop at the very primitive idea of what passed on this planet as engineering before locating one at something called an auction, which wasn't terribly far from his current location.
Back home, they were the gods of machines and sciences. Stars did not outshine Cybertron's brightest minds, they were eons ahead of the worlds in their interstellar neighborhood. He'd give his spark chamber for a drop of refined Energon, for a mere glimpse at the sparkling city center of Iacon and all its beauty.
To even think of venting the air of constellations near his homeworld kicked his cardiac pump up. Coolant rushed to chill the heat that imagination rousted in his lines.
Oh, Cybertron, he found himself longing to say the name aloud—it had been stellar cycles since he'd spoken to another sentient since arriving in this small corner of known space—someday, soon, I'll find you again. Please just be something that can be found when I get around to it…
He stopped racing the track of such thoughts. There was work to do here on this rock.
Thoughts of Cybertron, like most thoughts during this fraggin' war, would have to wait.
. . .
There are exactly two permeating scents that smack you between the eyes when any poor sap has the misfortune to step into the GCPD precinct, and those are coffee and BO. And not body odor in that heroic, we're-saving-so-many-lives-there's-literally-no-time-to-bathe kind of vibe, but BO in that the-lockup-regulars-haven't-been-bathed-in-a-week way.
Even from here the cloud of drugs and alcohol cocktailing with unwashed bodies was a lot.
My nose curled up as I hauled into the precinct through the heavy double doors, heels ticking off the dated linoleum as I sidestepped a plump officer rushing out the door, phone pressed to his ear. I wasn't even on his radar enough to warrant an apology when his elbow clipped mine, jostling the Starbucks in my hand enough for me to scowl over my shoulder at his retreating back.
"Oh no, don't worry about it, I'm totally fine, no worries amigo," I bumbled to myself.
The title was a stretch, yes, but spoken with sarcasm hot enough to leave a brand on the man's face in my brain for the remainder of my employment with this agency. I tried to hold a grudge—how could he not see I was carrying Starbucks?— but, it was fleeting.
My eyes rolled to the ceiling as I smoothed my hand over the front of my slacks, trying to gauge my appearance best as possible despite not standing in front of a mirror, which was impossible. Instead of mentally flogging myself about an outfit choice that may or may not matter, I shuffled over a step at the top of the stairs, making way for busier passerbys and professionals coming up off the precinct floor.
Sweeping the room, I could sense the hardly containedied chaos slipping through the tired and frenzied expressions of sergeants parked at desks, officers coming off a beat to file reports, admin trying to keep up with the bleeding workload slowly killing the beast that was a mega-city PD. One woman parked at a desk must've been new or a temp, because she was literally crying over a stack of paperwork, dabbing at her probably-fake eyelashes with a tangerine Dunkin' Donuts napkin.
I blinked, stone still in the current of chaos rippling between four walls, a ceiling, and an ancient-wooden floor. A phone that had to have been straight out of the nineties screamed closer to me than any sane person would've appreciated.
Startled, I snapped out of quiet observation of the room and tried to hide a bodily grimace. Taking a soft slurp of coffee, my gaze flowed over the top of my cup and to the desk where said phone was screaming. Curiosity peaked, I tipped my head to the side in a study of the desk. It was unoccupied, and chronically so since it was mildly clean. And that must've been the reason, because it was the only piece of office equipment in the room that was anywhere near godliness.
Everything else was a living wreck, dented, or suffering from anciency.
One of the desk jockeys screamed for somebody to "Get that damn phone!" and the corner of my mouth tipped up in amusement as I watched him roll his eyes and gesture through the air, looking severely grieved at what was, actually, a minor interruption. The stress boiling over on his face was evidenced enough by the pulse beating in this place—a police precinct was sure to be hellfire and chaos, a circus of arrests, stress, caffeine addiction, and workaholic-ism.
A bolt of electric enthusiasm shot up the length of my spine, almost rattling at the base of my neck. If I hadn't been forcing myself to blend into the atmosphere, I'd have been flouncing into this place on the balls of my feet. Noting my tightened grip on the Starbucks cup, I tried not to look doe-eyed and desperately stupid from across the room.
I tipped my wrist to check the name scrawled in Sharpie marker on the back of my hand. Essen. I needed to find Sarah Essen, this precinct's Captain and the woman who would, from this day forward, be signing my paychecks. I'd met her three weeks ago during prelim interviews, but hadn't connected with her since I'd finished with hiring managers.
Assured that Essen was thrilled to have me on staff, HR had said that the welcome wagon would be well established for me when I'd come for my first day. Granted, my first day was mid-week Wednesday, a day nobody really wanted to start work, but had been ideal. Considering I was due to attend a press conference and an after-meeting handshake with the Commish, today was perfect.
"Well, here goes nothing."
Ancient planks beneath my feet creaked as I stepped off the stairs and began cutting a weaving path through the bustle of bodies and lines of desks. Mumbling apologies and blatant ignorance of my bodily presence followed me as I brushed by personnel and officers, edging my way toward the most frantic-looking desk sergeant I'd ever seen. Subliminally deciding that this man was someone I could press for information, I zeroed in on him like something from Top Gun.
Stumbling over computer wires taped haphazardly to the floor and in the cheapest way I'd ever seen for a government-funded establishment, I reached up to brush a strand of hair that had curled into my face. Squaring my shoulders back subtly, I stepped up to the desk at the exact moment the sergeant literally threwhis phone back into its cradle, huffing and scribbling frantically with a pudgy, though arthritic, hand.
A wiser person would've chosen another curmudgeon to bother. But this was my curmudgeon, I'd picked him out already.
"Excuse me," I said in my most cheerily-professional voice, smiling brightly at the man whose face was still welded to his dossier, "I'm looking for Captain Sarah Essen. My name is June Preacher, it's my first day—"
Not missing a beat, he didn't even look up from his paperwork before his other hand pointed up the stairs to the bullpen.
"Her office is at the top."
Deflating, I waited for a beat for him to continue speaking, maybe pause to look up at me, but he did not.
"Oh. Well, that's fine, I can—" I took a step to the side, to make for the steps on light feet. That was the trigger because Mr. Rude Desk Sergeant's attention whipped up to me with the speed of light, face wrinkled in the most disturbing mix of confused irritation I'd ever seen.
"And where the hell do you think you're going?"
Wondering for a second if the vein popping in his temple was actually going to explode, my gaze mapped his face for a minute before the black man showed some struggle in standing from his chair. His fingers pressed into the splay of paperwork before him as he leaned over what was a faded mahogany desk, brow cocked in that You're pissing me off but I have to deal with you kind of way.
I stammered for a beat, before exhaling a bit sharply, "I have specific instructions from HR to check in with Captain Essen to receive my assignments," my voice was collected, but pointed. "Or did she leave word with somebody else to show me the ropes?"
He snorted, flippantly amused. "That's funny you think Essen even knows who the hell you are, kid." Dropping back into the seat with enough heft to make it squeak and the floor sigh, he nodded beyond me, "You just sit your ass down and I'll let Cap know you're here to see her when she's ready."
Well, that was progress. Yay for me.
While I didn't want to make enemies with Mr. Rude Desk Sergeant, whose name appeared to be Williams, according to his ID badge, I wasn't about to be made the butt of this conversation. Tipping my chin up just a bit, I leveled a cool-as-a-cucumber smile at him before glancing over my shoulder to study the room around us, making sure nobody else was coming to my aide.
I bit the inside of my cheek, giving the desk a quick scan. Having not even taken my name, Williams probably didn't even remember my telling him who I was.
Setting down my Starbucks, I reached for a discarded pencil. Leaning over the desk, I snatched the corner of an opened envelope and scrawled my name, title, and the time I'd been given from HR to arrive and have my meeting with Essen. Fully aware of Williams staring at me with a contained composure on the bleeding edge of irritation, I hummed to myself as I finished off the note.
Setting the pencil down with vigor, the paper slipped across his desk beneath my acrylic nail as I pushed it to him.
Eyes dropping to consider the memo, I could see the man was fuming but had the decency to compose himself. His eyes pulled back up to mine, only to find that my expression had simmered into a smug little grin as I straightened and snatched up my Starbucks.
"I'll just make myself comfortable," I wrinkled my nose with a bit more exaggerated sass than was needed for the moment. I gestured to the line of chairs nearest one of the lockups, which was borderline hidden behind the staircase leading to the upper level.
Vacant and shadowed in the corner of the room, it was every bit of the space people went to be completely invisible or deliberately sat in to be ignored. Heels ticking again, I could've sworn I heard Williams pick up his desk phone and dial in. Satisfied at a job well done, I clicked my tongue against my cheek before arriving in the sitting area.
Lord, the smell was beastly. Body odor, feces, piss, and the undercurrent of burned coffee made something in my gut swirl in that revolting, heave-your-grilled-cheese-lunch-sandwich way.
Worse than the feedlot in a 102-degree summer, good God—
How I was ever going to acclimate was a small mystery, but adjust I would—if I could survive 102-degree feed lot summers, this wouldn't be an issue in a couple of weeks. Pretty soon not dwelling amidst the smell would be stranger than living with it. Ah, progress.
I sat down, depositing my purse in the empty seat beside me to finish my Starbucks in peace. Ruffling through the HR paperwork I'd received yesterday afternoon, I draped a leg over my knee and bobbed my foot, absorbing the ins and outs of the room's noise, keeping it mentally at a distance while also being aware of the commotion enough to be attentive. Skills that came with a variety of experiences, naturally.
It wasn't more than three minutes before I heard the quiet shake of steel and open-mouth breathing pointed in my direction.
Didn't need to see someone gaping at me from my 11 o'clock to know that they were. Great. Just freakin' dandy. Curiosity got the best of me. It may have killed many cats, but it had failed to kill June Preacher thus far. Eyes lifting to the first lockup cell in the line with all the disinterest I could muster despite the current of thrill lighting up my blood like a control panel, I found Mr. Mouth-Breather.
Immediately I was locked in a staring contest with Mr. Mouth Breather, dressed in full biker leather. Complete with tattoos, and stringy locks draped down his back like the veil of greasy hair that it was. He was balding, complete with red and weeping sores on his face that looked as if they were victims of active festering. Unable to tell if he was a lost and discarded Hells Angel biker or just a stoner dude with a pending arrest, I kept my jaw clenched.
Skin greasy and covered in a visible sheen of smeared filth, his knuckles were white with the effort he was exuding to clench the bars of his cell. Treelike arms were nearly trembling with the effort, his pupils dilated to not-far-off dinnerplates as he stared at me with the intensity of a rabid creature. Definitely a cokehead.
I blinked, effectively ending our staring contest. I knew better than to address perps, especially when they were still riding the effects of drugs, so instead, I offered him the smallest recognition. Until he snorted and dragged the back of his hand beneath his draining nose, gaze not breaking from me in the slightest. R
evolted as he stood there in his full, ridding-high glory, I snorted in a small way. Dropped my attention back to the HR paperwork I'd be giving to Essen.
"Yo, Markowitz, whatcha got over there?"
Out of nowhere the voice shot forward and for a second I assumed that Mr. Mouth Breather had been speaking to me. Brow wrinkled, I narrowed my gaze at him but found, that while his gaze didnt' break from me, he looked as if he were going to peer over his shoulder. Somebody else had asked the question.
Dots connected, my attention snapped from him to the body in the cell next to his. A much smaller man was facing us, arms looped through the cell casually, like he'd been there a couple of days and had grown accustomed to the posture. The way his hair clung to his skull and his sunken eyes were rimmed in black supported the hypothesis that yes, this was a frequent flyer.
Immediately I knew this man was not compromised by drugs. His eyes were cold and calculating like they could cut bone, narrowed at me in a discerning kind of way, like he wanted to peel back my ribs and watch my heartbeat. His mouth shifted up in a way that said he liked that he had my attention, maybe was enjoying it a bit too much. He shifted his weight on his feet and nodded to me before snapping his fingers at the man he'd spoken to.
"She's pretty," Markowitz said with all the intelligence of a fourth grader smitten with a schoolyard crush, "I like lookin' at her." Frost-white knuckles gripped the bars harder, and for a moment I wondered if he'd go full King Kong and start screaming. I didn't let it phase me.
I held the other man's attention, unmoving. It was hard to discern the moment, but I felt rolling in the pit of my core that this was a defining moment. Maybe sent by the Almighty to test my spine and my hide, to see if I could run with the boys and actually do this thing I'd set out to do so long ago. If I cracked now, would I continue to crack? Would I be able to stare into the filth of this city and have a spine when it mattered?
Teetering on a precipice, the corner of my mouth lifted.
The stranger's tongue clicked against his cheek and the flowing silence between our trio indicated that I'd missed something he'd maybe tacked on. It didn't rightly matter, I didn't need to hear what he said to know it was something hypersexual—the crotch grab and the focused stare at my tits were enough of a giveaway.
"Yeah? Looks like a good fuck." I blinked, my gaze widening enough at his harsh language to make him snort amusedly, "What? Never been fucked by a felon before, tits?"
Markowitz laughed like a delirious lunatic, "Like you've ever fucked anyone before, Perry. You can barely get a rise out of your dick much less get one out of a pussy." Then, his drug haze lifted for a second, dark eyes raking over my seated self like he wasn't on cloud nine thanks to whatever was tearing up his blood.
"Besides, that's alotta woman for your scrawny ass, Perry. Looks to me like she needsa strong hand." He licked his lips.
"Pfff, the bitch can't even look at ya, Markowitz. Look at 'er. One look at your corona and she's locked up tighter than a whore in church."
My brow lifted. They talked like I wasn't actually seated a stone's throw from their aforementioned dicks, much less actually registering my existence outside of what sexual favors I could bestow. I hung there in my own stupor for a few seconds longer than necessary, before my jaw stitched shut and my shoulders squared back like they'd been welded to the freaking wall.
Perry and his buddy Markowitz had some pretty massive balls, talking to a woman in a police precinct like they were. I tipped my head considerably, gaze sweeping over the pair of them before my nose wrinkled. I deliberately stared straight at their micro-dicks, making a show of thinking.
The man called Perry snorted before he whistled low. "See something you might like, baby?"
Yep, this was my moment. Oh Jesus, don't let me screw this up. I absolutely would not let two whack doodles shake me on my first day, and I wasn't about to let their hypersexualization of me go unchecked.
Compromise is game over, Juney. Somehow the words were familiar, but I didn't recall where I'd heard them before. They just broadened my already-swelled chest of bravado as I leveled a cool look of collectivity between the two hopefuls. Any more excited and Markowitz would blow his wad, given the way he was almost trembling with anticipation.
Eyes darting to look at him dead in the face without correcting my posture, my lips curved into a slow smile that matched Perry's Cheshire grin. I skipped my tongue over my back teeth, for a second weighing the pros and cons of what I wanted to say through a proverbial filter.
But I didn't have said proverbial filter.
"Oh, sorry—I just wanted to make sure your dicks were actually as small as I assumed they were, but it's a little hard to tell at distance." I wrinkled my nose just enough to drive the point home before I straightened, grabbed my bag, and stood.
The rest of the lockup had tuned into our conversation, and my jab had sent them into wolfish jibes and catcalls, leaving Perry and Markowitz witless and stupefied. I could see that Perry was rallying, thinking through a response as I locked eyes with him.
Drawing the strap of my bag over my shoulder, I moved to stand before Perry's cell and leveled the most half-mast, icy look I could drum up. I dared a quick look. Scrunched up the corner of my mouth in faux disappointment and clicked my tongue like the brat I was trying to be.
"Give 'em a few years, I'm sure they'll drop, Per."
It took herculean effort not to burst out laughing at the look on his face. A cocktail of livid and embarrassment, I wasn't sure whether he would implode out of rage or mortification first. I couldn't contain my snorting laugh as I turned on my heel, about to move away from the tempting fruit that was hanging so low that it was within reach.
Readjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder, there wasn't even time to register the man's hand snatching up my wrist. Vocal cords didn't even release a squeak before he pulled me forward into the bars of his cell, my face smacking hard against the aged, cold steel. I yelped before I hissed through my teeth, shoulder protesting hotly in response as he crushed me against the lockup.
"Somebody get this moron under contro—ouch!" I hollered behind me before pain shooting through my shoulder prompted another hiss from between clenched teeth, "Let go of my arm."
He didn't release, instead got up as close as the cell between us would allow. "Fuck you and your tight-ass, bitch."
I tried pulling back, attempting to rip my arm out of his grip, and he grunted with the effort. Wicked amused shot through his eyes, and I didn't even hear the fluster of bodies responding to our scene, until hot breath chased down the back of my neck. Out of nowhere, two officers were on either side of me, reaching through the lockup, trying to free Perry's hold on my appendage.
"Screw off," I seethed.
One of the officers was telling me not to panic, I think, but I couldn't hear what she was saying in my focus on this scumsucker's amusement. I pushed back from the bars, trying to create distance, but Perry's freakin' nails were digging into my arm.
He chuckled, "You first—" before his eyes snapped up to whoever had stumbled upon our little scene.
Perry turned the color of bone china before I actually saw him swallow, the look of reverence on his face enough to break his concentration.
I tried checking over my shoulder, thankful that Perry's hold let up just a fraction, but didn't get the chance to actually make out the person. Whoever had joined our little party ushered the two officers at either side of me away. Not that I really cared—I was sweating through my dress shirt and my shoulder was an inferno of hot pain, though Perry's gaze had returned to mine.
"Alright, that's enough bullshit!"
The voice boomed from behind, snapping me to attention like the man's tone had taken a whip to my back flesh.
"I don't wanna even know how the hell we got here, kids, but I'm gonna take a flying leap here and assume that this chick didn't ask for you to latch on like the fuckin' leech you are, Perry."
The name was spoken with the kind of derision a regular offender brought, but any questions I may have cared to ask magicked themselves away under the pressure of pain. My Momma had told me not to look a gift horse in the mouth, and I wasn't about to let this moment of assistance disappear as all my common sense had.
"As much as I appreciate the monologue, hero, I could really use my arm back sometime today." I pulled against Perry's hold again, but it was fruitless again as my face crushed against the steel bars. White-knuckling the bars on my side of the lockup, I tried putting daylight between myself and the steel, to keep my face from frickin' bruising, but I wasn't quite strong enough to channel the brainpower it required.
The floor creaked in the way they all do when weight is distributed, indicating movement. The stranger came into my peripheral vision from my right. It wasn't enough of a picture to be identifying, but, I could see that whoever it was was a head taller than I was, complete with a beard and shoulder holster that brushed against my arm as he leaned over my shoulder. Spicy cologne and the smoky scent of cigarettes filled my nose as I took in a painful, uneasy breath.
"I said that's enough, Perry. Let'r go before I decide to let you hold my hand."
The smirk that carried in his words bore all the finality of a body in charge, and I was suddenly thankful that somebody in this precinct had an ounce of control that I was clearly, in this situation, lacking. Regretting my insatiable need to be a smart alek, I spun the conversation with the two perps in my head, trying not to kick myself too hard at the realization that I'd arrived here of my own power.
You'll never learn, June…
Watching Perry weigh the decision in his mind was like waiting in line for eternity. Thoughtfulness passed over his face before he looked at me and then at the stranger. He slumped, defeated, and released my arm roughly. I whimpered in relief, pulled back through the bars, and clutched the appendage to my chest, heaving for air as relief hit my shoulder in cool blasts of recovery.
I didn't realize the man literally had his arm wrapped around my shoulders until he gave me a light squeeze, a chuckle rumbling somewhere over my shoulder as my head spun to untangle the last few seconds of my life.
Instead of looking to my savior, my gaze found my dropped purse, spilled Starbucks, and upended HR paperwork at my feet. I slumped before putting a hand to my forehead and forcing out a sharp breath. About to take a knee and begin gathering my stuff, I tripped over my heels when the man guided me away from Perry's bone-chilling glare and back to the seating area I'd frequented before.
"Alvarez, go find Essen," he barked into the void of nameless bodies, returning, "In a fuckin' second, Bullock," prompting the "No, not in a second, Vic, right the fuck now, ok?" from the stranger who, apparently, was called Bullock.
His barking wasn't directed at me but it was funny as I was stopped in front of a chair. I couldn't help the small smile as I sat back pointedly, looking up to the guy who had not only stepped in to play savior but had done so with all the tact and poise of a sledgehammer.
He crossed his arms and raised a brow at me, smirking. I couldn't tell if he was impressed or amused, but it didn't matter—the smokiest, darkest blue eyes I'd never seen before bore down at me with intensity. A career behind the badge couldn't have raised a deeper, more fortified look if it had tried.
He was older, early forties, but carrying it more in his gut than his face. My brain began mentally jotting down details of his appearance I didn't want to miss—salt-and-strawberry beard, unkempt longer hair, lines of time carving across his face. Dated clothes, like he only slightly cared that his appearance was straight out of a 1970s JCPenney catalog. I didn't remember seeing such well-oiled leather in any recent memory—so maybe he didn't care about his clothes, he cared about his job and the tools that kept him out of a six-foot under grave.
Overall, a decent package—at first glance. Aren't they all?
What sealed the deal though was his sharp wit that cracked like a whip. Offering a chuckle, the little shake of his head said everything while he actually didn't use words to say anything for a long pause. Detachment hung in his eyes, but there was a flash of intelligence that lit him up like a freakin' control panel.
He rolled his shoulder and settled into a stance that read all levels of stud, and just like that, all sense of my cool, collective June Preacher self jettisoned out the window. Every drop of moisture my mouth may have possessed evaporated at the exact moment he gave me a sweeping, considerate glance. I felt about six inches tall, but, swallowed the nervousness with a slightly-shaking breath.
Oh, yes, was all that consumed every livable space in my ovaries before equal parts of Oh, no cunt-slapped me like a wake-up call on Sunday morning. This Bullock character was everything my style, everything I found attractive at first glance in the opposite sex, but I crushed any thoughts that tried to claw up the wall around my brain. The absolute last thing I needed was female stupid disease my first day on the job, and even though this man was just the man to give it to me, I needed to be strong.
But, no dice. Cold turkey and out of nowhere, I was embarrassed and flustered and excited all at once. Biting the corner of my bottom lip like a girl in trouble with the teacher she was secretly crushing on, I tried pulling out my revelry and looking at the big picture, the precinct picture. I had just literally almost lost an arm, and I wasn't even enrolled in PTO yet.
"You alright, champ?" I snapped out of my stupor at his question, and whipped my attention up at his discerning expression, nodding in response. Not seeming wholly convinced, he stepped forward and offered his hand.
"Bullock. People call me Harvey."
Say no more, "I'm fine." Standing, I slipped mine into his rougher hand and gave him two pumps of a handshake, smiling small, willing every ounce of composure into my almost-wobbling confidence. "Just a little sore." I released his hand and covered my shoulder, rolling it to loosen up the simmering heat settling into the socket, "Believe it or not, he's stronger than he looks."
Gesturing between us, I tacked on, "June Preacher." Whether he chuckled about my name or the situation, I didn't know. Didn't care. Frick.
I wanted more Starbucks. And Advil. Lots and lots of Advil...
"Well, don't think I've heard that one about Perry, but I'll take your word for it,"
He laced his thumbs on the buckle of his belt and gestured to me with a lift of his chin. My expression fell, uncertain if it was meant to be demeaning or serious.
"That so?"
He blew out a laugh, my face obviously reading all my uncertainty, "Jeez, take it down a notch, Rambo," he shot off what I assumed was a smile that had worked before, and shrugged a shoulder dismissively, "Perry ain't usually the handsy type is all I meant," he put up his hands as my expression withered, "Must've liked what he saw."
I didn't miss his gaze raking over the curve of my hip. Was he...? No. No, June. Don't go there. Stop reading into things— "Ah, well," I stepped away and moved to collect my things from the officer who had retrieved them from the floor, "Perry is not the first jagoff who's tried 'holding my hand,'" Making air-quotes, I opened my HR file and began straightening the papers.
"Usually I can calm them down, but, you know, it gets away from ya a time or two."
The man called Harvey Bullock followed me and leaned against the desk to cross his arms in front of him as I took inventory. He didn't miss a beat, looking every bit as comfortable in the chaos around our conversation as I expected a GCPD employee to be. I considered him again with a quick look, determining that he must've been a detective or some other officer because he certainly wasn't on a beat. Casual clothes didn't help matters away from my hypothesis, either.
"Well," he inserted, "I'd congratulate you for keeping your cool and not losing your shit, but, I don't really like to encourage stupidity before lunch." His look withered in that Listen up kind of way as I glanced up from my papers, an amused smile lifting the corner of my lips. My mouth opened to respond, but he cut me off, "It's a general rule you don't mess with the birdies when they're locked up, sweetheart."
Stunned at his absolutely flawless transition into easy, I've-known-you-forever air, I didn't even have time to respond before a barking, "Bullock, what the hell are you doing!?" rattled down from above, prompting both of our attention to the upper level.
And there she was, the woman of the hour. Sarah Essen. Gripping the rail of the loft as if she were inches from pitching herself over and ending it all, her sharp gaze floated between the two of us discerningly, like she wasn't certain who to believe. Her heavy stare cut through me like a hot knife through butter, though Harvey looked amused, popping off a little snort as he looked over to me.
"What?" He laughed, arm fanning out to consider the lockup area, "Just diffusing a situation that could've blown up in your face, Cap," He shot off, pushing away from the desk before moving to the stairs.
Essen's face lit up with horror as she looked at me, then back to him with all the precision of a bouncy ball. Gathering up my things, I hauled off after Bullock, moving up the stairs on staccato feet.
"Situation? What the hell happened?" She crossed her arms, a cocked hip resting against the banister as Harvey rolled to a stop in front of her, looking smug and rather proud of himself for his one-uppance on the matter. "Harvey—"
It took great effort for me not to huff, out of breath as I came to the top of the steps, my out-of-shape heart hammering against tight ribs as I weighed the moment between superior and peon currently unfolding. Essen gave me a considering look before throwing her attention back at the man, brow lifting in an expectant manner. The tension between the two of them was thick as thieves, but in a way that said she'd never fire him, even if he hauled off and smacked her.
He put his hands up in mock surrender, but there was no way a man with his air ever surrendered so easily to a woman in authority. I could read his lines almost as clearly as a book, Harvey Bullock was not the first specimen I'd encountered with a swinging dick problem. Any bigger and his ego was sure to pop the top off the precinct. As funny as the image was, I ignored the idea—confidence kept you alive in this job, something my father had bestowed on me early.
"It's nothin' she's alright," he then gestured with an open hand to me, his other slapping against his thigh pointedly as he diffused the situation, "Perry just got a little frisky and roughed her up, but she's fine. Prolly wants to give a statement or some—"
Like a whip Essen's attention cracked to me, turning away from Harvey to march over, all flustered lines, hand extended. She looked apologetic and horrified as she connected the dots, my hand finding hers strongly in that promised welcome-wagon handshake I'd so been looking forward to. God, the woman had a grip like cold steel.
"Oh my god, you're June, right?" She shook my hand fervently, putting her other over her mouth, which was slack-jaw and aghast, "I apologize, I was just on my way to get you from a phone call when Vic came and told me what happened—shit, you aren't quitting are you?" Her words blended together like she'd forgotten to take a breath—was her palm sweating?
Harvey's "Quitting?" was barely distinguishable beneath my nervous laugh. Shaking my head, I offered her a genuine smile and then wrinkled my nose as if to dismiss the entire affair of me almost losing an arm. Shrugging a shoulder as flippantly as I could manage despite the buried pain pulsing through my arm, I tried not to laugh in this woman—my superior's—face.
"And miss all the fun? Not a chance." I nodded to her, "I'm alright, Captain. Bullock here did a bang-up job of making sure I actually had an arm to report in with." Her weak smile matched the nervous laugh she managed, and I couldn't help but chuckle as she checked Bullock over her shoulder like a nervous mother accounting for a rogue child.
Bullock stared at us with a barely-contained fish-out-of-water gape, which made me smile. So, he was a little shocked and out of his depth. He released a cool breath, raked hair off his brow, and lifted his chin to me with an easy, pleasing smile. Nice recovery, champ. Nodding to him, I winked, and the mock salute did it.
Essen snorted out a laugh. I patted the woman's hand before giving it one final shake and narrowing my eyes at her, engagingly.
"It's great to meet you, Captain Essen. June Preacher, finally reporting for duty."