Breaking Cover

Bad Graces, Good Coffee

XxxX

"Hi, Jim," This really the first thing you're gonna say to Gordon this morning?

Please no.

"You look awful."

Guess so.

"Thanks for that, Preacher."

Jim Gordon somehow managed to snap his head up from the stack of archived files he'd been studying since unholy hours of the morning, the troop of untouched, stale coffee sitting in Styrofoam cups littered about as if they'd made his desk their resident ZIP code. My eyes swept over the unkept space judgmentally, but somehow managed to smile anyway. From the look of Jim Gordon's current state, it had been a long night.

As had the previous two nights, but, who was counting?

Gordon leaned back in his chair, which knickered in just a way that put it directly between nails-on-a-chalkboard and smacking-with-your-mouth-open levels of irritation. I tried not to squirm as the misphonia bit at my spine, but my face contorted and and shivered anyway. Shoulders shaking as the sound ground through every living cell my body had to offer, I plastered on a smile.

Gordon's thin smile broadened as he sat forward and folded his hands together on the Everest-sized stack of upended files, which had only been holding his workspace hostage for the past 48 hours. Dark circles did nothing for his complexion, and his hair looked as if at any moment it would detach from his scalp and wash itself. The muscle in his face almost ripped from his jaw with the strength of a sleep-deprived yawn. His tie had joined the sullied two in the bottom of his desk, tail sticking out of a partially-closed drawer.

It took ironclad willpower to not allow my eye to twitch in unmitigated upset.

He pointed at the files I had under my arm with a Sharpie marker. Standing, he circled the desk and put his hands on his hips as he stretched his neck to the side, tossing the marker away. A quicksilver smile cut through every good-natured barb I could've thrown in his face, and my mouth shifted in uncertain patterns as he leaned against the desk and crossed a foot over his other.

I decided to play nice. He was exhausted and was within an inch of snapping, though he put on a good façade for friends close enough to read him properly. This had not been the longest I'd seen Jim awake, but, it was definitely one of the rougher times he'd stayed up for days working a case. I tried to be sympathetic, but inwardly scorned my friend for taking poor care of himself.

Leslie, poor sweet Dr. Thompkins, the current love of Jim's life, feared the job would put him in an early grave if the next twenty years were like this.

I told her no, Jim would dig that grave himself. I sighed.

"Morning, Jim," I backtracked, vying for new ground as I scratched behind my ear busily. The files I'd retrieved flung through the air for mere seconds before they collided on his desk, joining their brethren in the bottomless mass of work.

He chuckled and bobbed his head defeatedly, hands folding in front of him. "Morning, June," he paused to glance over his shoulder, before his brow wrinkled in what appeared to be optimistic curiosity. Reaching for a stale coffee, he dared a sniff, then popped a finger into the liquid caffeine. He tasted it, wrinkled his nose, and tossed the half-full cup into his trashbin.

"How's the coffee?" he interrogated, distracted.

I snorted ornately, gesturing to the collection of cups already on his desk. "Why, you need another one to complete your collection?" He pushed off the desk and followed me around his workspace, allowing me to glance down at the paperwork he'd been studying minutes before.

"These are medical files," I reached down and lifted one by the bottom of the spine, either page dropping as I scanned the faded ink with fervency. My brow wrinkled and my glasses shifted on my nose, prompting an adjustment. "The plastic surgery clinic," my gaze snapped up to consider him. "You got a warrant," I observed.

Blatant observations about a case we'd been working for days, of course, but I needed something for my mouth to do other than hang open in slackjaw surprise. This was the best lead we'd gotten on the Ogre and his penchant for killing Gotham beauties in hours. GCPD had all but scrambling for purchase on the slipping fear of Gotham's elite core, the media spreading nothing but chaos and lazy, varied rumors over fact.

My face studied the lines of Jim's expression, looking for any chink in the armor of his resolution to not emote anything presently on his mind. Jim had been pulling his hair out ever since we'd made the connection that the latest victim was Babs Kean, his once-love.

He put on a brave show, but I could see, from the first call Barbara hadn't answered, that this was shell shock. Someone close to him walked the line between the living and the dead, and I'd known Jim long enough to understand that his concept of personal responsibility was otherworldly. He wouldn't rest until Barbara - or what was left of her - was found.

If anything did happen to Kean, Gordon would let the open wound of guilt bleed him dry like a dripping corpse. Jim Gordon would chew the rotting bone of failure like a dog until his dying breath, and there'd be no convincing him otherwise. He guarded his personal life, those who came and went out of it as they pleased, with a passion that I'd never seen rivaled in another working professional. Jim didn't mind brandishing his badge and his gun, muddying the clean lines of justice, when it came to people he cared about.

I slapped the file back to his desk dismissively, upsetting his troop of coffee cups. Crossing my arms, I popped out a hip and considered the growing mound of files that I would, inevitably, be responsible for taking to the Annex. At least Kringle would have something to do, other than mull over her absent love life. It gave me an excuse to rummage around for interesting cases, anyway.

I puffed out an exaggerated breath and plunked myself down on Gordon's desk, crossing one leg over the other. I smoothed my skirt and flicked a curl over my shoulder. Temptation to not start devouring his case files just mere inches from my fingers was profound, but I mustered every ounce of effort my soul could find and crushed the primal desire.

My eyes lifted to hold his gaze. "Coffee's hot if you need it, G." I made a show of inspecting my nails, bobbing my foot. "I'll just wait here until you pull your head out of that deep dark hole behind you and tell me what you're getting at," I looked over my glasses at him, unmoving. I'd laid the trap in this game we were suckers for playing.

His lips spread into a slow, cheshire smile as his fingers grabbed at the contents of his breast pocket. He withdrew a folded, rectangular envelope of a stationary that looked expensive and was finished with an old-fashioned, wax seal. Holding it between two fingers, he flicked the corner of the page, and offered it to me.

I hopped off the desk and like a childish waif, lunged to snatch the froo-froo stationary away, but he pulled back, lifting the document high over his head. Forbidden fruit was just beyond reach. I frowned, Jim knew I was sucker for surprises and anything having to do with an investigation that I was privvy enough to get my hands on.

My brows avalanched and I huffed in protest, gesturing with an outstretched hand in the silent What gives? way. He laughed.

Actually laughed. Jim hadn't shown any emotion aside from blind optimism or hopeless stoicism in days.

"Ah, ah not yet," he shook his head and pushed back my shoulder to create distance, "This isn't for you, Preacher."

I was so startled by his jovial attitude that it took me a second to connect the dots that I had been denied.

Purposeful structure fell out of my shoulders and I slumped. My mouth opened to retort, but I instead manifested a squeak of surprise at the heavy hand that clapped over my shoulder as Jim's gaze flecked to consider the man beside me. Wrangled under the arm of Harvey Bullock, I didn't even have a moment to sputter out a response to the bigger detective.

Bullock gave me an appraising look, brow raised with the beginnings of a smile teasing the corner of his mouth. This close, he smelled oddly of cologne and mint, which was unusual, considering at this hour Harvey had consumed probably more than one greasy breakfast food on his way in. I reeled back, brow wrinkled in uncertainty as he scanned my features.

He didn't release me right away, his arm content to hang over my shoulder. This was odd, even for Harvey.

I shared his observation, eyes moving easily over his features. Beneath his tipped fedora his hair was still damp, evidence of a shower, which explained the mint. I bristled against the cut of his frame when his arm tightened around my shoulders, feeling suddenly very small under his careful stare. The familiar holster he wore stabbed uncomfortably against my ribs beneath his suitjacket.

He snorted and gestured to Jim with a cup of coffee between his fingers. The whole moment had maybe lasted a few seconds, but I felt like I'd been stuck to him for hours. I squirmed, my ribs beginning to hurt from his piece stabbing into my bone structure.

"You managed to leave her speechless, Jimbo. Well done. Should give you an award or something," he groused.

My gaze narrowed on Bullock, which only prompted a sparkling grin from him. I ducked out from beneath his arm and he lifted it, allowing me exit from his immediate presence. I straightened my shirt and moved to check my hair in the reflection from Essen's door glass, content that my curls hadn't been too muffled from Harvey's uncharacteristic physical violation.

I turned on my heel to find Jim and Bullock both looking to me. Gordon looked as surprised as I felt, though I made a good show of dismissing the entire moment with a lift of my chin. Loosening my shoulders in an attempt to dismiss the warmth of Harvey's hug, I was borderline mortified to find that it still lingered, crawling about my epidermis like a second skin. This was weird.

"Morning, Preacher," Harvey nodded to me, recognizing my existence finally. He slipped a hand into his pocket as he settled into easy posture. His eyes moved down the curve of my hip, lingered on my legs, and finally found my shoes. "Stiletto's on a Thursday. Nice."

Gesturing to my shoes, he snorted softly before shaking his head.

Harv took a pointed drink of coffee before moving across the bullpen to his workspace, as if making a point about my choice of footwear. Sweeping the fedora off his head, he tossed it to the growing heap currently taking residence on the surface of the desk. His chair, which grandfathered him in the game of life, squeaked as it assumed his weight.

As if on cue, he kicked his feet up to the edge of the desk, leaned back, and flattened his lips into a thin smirk. His hands folded behind his head and he seemed more than content to just watch me, like always. Bullock did a lot more perusing of female merchandise than he did paperwork, a hazard of being a woman working closely with male detectives. I wasn't the first, nor the last, woman he openly surveyed.

He smacked his tongue against the inside wall of his cheek. "So what's shakin', Preach? Anything new? What I miss this morning?" His tone was sing-song, as if he were deliberately trying to rile me. Only Harvey Bullock could irritate someone by asking everyday questions in a certain tone that made your guts twist with irritation.

I rolled my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose, trying not exhale dramatically. Preacher, always with the "Preacher." The name grated across my nerves every time he said it with a such glib tease. Not only was it the name God had christened my family with, but it was the name I went by in the House. I had been "Preacher" since I was born, even though my brothers hadn't inherited the nickname, which would've made more sense.

I suppose it was ironic - or perhaps hilarious - to label a female in a male-dominate job with a masculine name. I didn't really mind, only when Harvey had such fun teasing me about it. Thoughts of my childhood spun like troubled waters, all the boys who had always teased me about my virginity and innocent frame of mind flashing by in a blur.

Everyone called me Preacher, aside from the rare times Jim and I were alone enough to warrant my Christian name, which was equally funny — June. June Preacher.

Momma had tried to warn me I was asking for trouble in working law, Dad had just said to watch my six, since every cop would take a vested interest in it anyway. The corner of my lip lifted, thinking about the satisfaction it gave me to have feminine foibles and the control over men they promised. Barbara had once told me beautiful and sensuality were weapons and to use them as such, when necessary. But with a name like June Preacher, sounded like I belonged more in a child's storybook than an actual precinct. Maybe a character from a cheap dime store novella.

I smiled to myself, One of those where the woman busts out of a corset with a half-naked bronze Adonis hanging over her. Wasn't going to lie, the mental image of me in a corset with a bronze god on my arm was laughable.

Why not? Yeah, I could totally – Harvey sat forward and the thunkof his feet hitting the floor jarred me out of my revelry. I was aware I'd been smirking when Harvey's expression mirrored my own, as if he'd caught me in a sly little secret. I looked away, nose suddenly warmer than I would've liked it to be.

To his credit, Bull changed the subject. "Good coffee, Preach," Bullock gestured to me by raising the Styrofoam up. A dash of coffee sloshed over the side, dropping to the mess on his desk, which he didn't seem to notice. His eyes moved effortlessly to Jim, "You get some, Jimbo?"

The lines of my back steeled and I crossed my arms, narrowing my gaze down at Harvey as I leaned harder against the desk, crossing my foot over the other. My brow snapped to attention and I shot him a blithe look of disenchantment. Tossing the pen I'd been messing with over my shoulder, somewhere behind me it rattled back to its place.

I shook my head and snorted derisively. "See you took advantage of my freshly brewed Starbucks brew, isn't that nice." A brow lifted over my eye as he nodded and lifted the cup in recognition of my sacrifice, smile almost blinding. "That stuff ain't free, you know."

He beamed at me, nodding in understanding. A few people had access to my personal coffee machine, Jim and Harvey among them. Essen sometimes, mostly on the nights she burned the candle from both ends and I felt generous. I couldn't stand the provided coffee in the House, it was cheap and smelled like eggs, which wasn't my vibe. As the House coffee snob, I took pride in my entitlement.

When Lobe stopped receiving my memos demanding quality coffee, I'd just started supplying my own.

"And my eternal thanks you have, Preach," he punctuated it with a last nod before raking a handful of damp hair back with a hand. For a moment I wish I hadn't caught his eyes roaming down my entire body, seeming to note the cut of my hip. For a second I hoped I'd imagined it.

No such luck. He noticed I had caught him and looked away quick enough to warrant suspicion. My stomach plummeted like it had taken a nosedive from a 747.

"Where are we this morning on Ogre?" His parroted, attention flung to Jim. He folded his hands behind his head. "Other than the fact you look like shit, Jim. How many hours has it been since you slept? Anywhere near that new record?"

I rolled my eyes and reached up to push my glasses snug against the bridge of my nose. I fiddled with a button on the front of my shirt, my other hand smoothing the front of my skirt as Jim moved to Harvey's desk, flicking the stationary he'd been holding with a finger. He ignored Harvey's jibe, eyes traveling between us in an orbit that was indiscernible.

With emerald jealousy I watched the envelope find Bullock with a poignant smack to his desk. My finger twitched subliminally.

My teeth clicked together in a pout, and it took quantifiable levels of effort not to march over to Bull and snatch the envelope from his hands. Instead, I watched his calloused mits tore at the paper which certainly deserved an elegant letter opener. I shoved the notion of smacking him upside his noggin aside. The things I wanted to do to Harvey Bullock in this moment bordered innumerable.

He ripped the contents out with thick fingers, unfolded what appeared to be an invitation. I watched his eyes scan the lines, craven for information. His brow furrowed in confusion and he sat back brusquely.

"The Foxglove? How the frick did you get hold of one of these, Gordon?" His voice rose in a masculine surprise, but I was too busy choking on his words to actually care.

My throat closed and I felt every organ in my body begin shut down protocols at the mention of Gotham's most notorious nightclub swirling around me like a host of flustered birds. Hot scandal raced through my blood and sent heat to my cheeks. My sharp inhale would've been considered laughable, but Jim nor Harvey had seemed to notice.

The things I had heard were enough to justify the moisture evaporating from the back of my mouth.

Jim's hands nonchalantly slipped into the pockets of his trousers, and he rocked back on his heels with damnable ease. Shrugging with a sly edge of dismissiveness, his theatrical disinterest was simply that - theatrical. He looked amused and like he wanted to say something. The dark gleam shimmering at the corner of his eyes, prompting a proud and determined smile, was his tell.

He gestured to the invitation with a nod and casual lift of his shoulders. "Connections," he said backhandedly. "The Ogre used to hang out at the Foxglove, and someone's bound to recognize him." He stepped toward his desk, practically tore open the top drawer, and reached inside for his issued pistol, which he tossed to the desk with casual ease.

I snapped to attention from my spot leaning against his desk. Suddenly my hands became cumbersome and I didn't know what to do with them. Wishing I could rip them from my skeleton, I folded them behind me and pulled my shoulders back primly, my eyes glued to the pointed toes of my stilettos. Hoping the scarlet hue drained from my face, I swallowed the jagged shards of glass in the back of the throat. Any minute, I anticipated the taste of blood.

Bullock sat back in his chair, and I watched his expression change from one of surprise to genuine impress. My hip found the edge of Gordon's desk again. My eyes flicked between Bullock and Gordon, observant of the silent conversation between them. Harvey's face said everything that words would, Jim's lifted brow was evidence enough of the conclusion.

When Harvey sighed deeply and made on his feet to adjust his tipped tie, the pin dropped in my head. I pointed at Harvey and tossed a repugnant look at the detective beside me, who looked right satisfied with himself. It took world-teetering amounts of personal restraint not to slap Jim into reality and scream over his stunned corpse.

"You are seriously sending Harvey to Gotham's biggest fetish club?" My voice lifted an octave in disbelief. I began pacing, my fingers digging into short curls as I shook my head. I reeled, uncertain of the emotions in my chest, just aware that they weren't positive ones. I muttered, "Well that's the best idea I've heard in the last three days, Jim," I spun on my heel to face him with fiery sass.

"Send the only one of us who thinks with his sexual organs more than his brain to work the biggest lead we've got. Well done!" My voice cracked, "Barbara is as good as found!" I tried not to laugh dismissively as I approached the stairs, needing something to do before I lost the remaining reserve of my composure. Like rocket fuel, it had burned away in the engines of disbelief.

It took only a beat of pregnant silence between us for Harvey to open his arms to either side placatingly, an open invitation to whatever else I would say. My jaw clicked closed and I cast him a sidelong glance as his lips twisted into a smirk, his shoulders easing back, cool as a cucumber. As if I didn't have a massive nine millimeter pistol just inches from my fingertips.

I swear to God he was staring down his nose at me.

His popped brow confirmed his hautiness. "Very well spoken, Comms, very well spoken," he slow-clapped until my face fell into a scowl would have cut him to ribbons if it were possible. He snorted and shook his head, "You don't know anything about the streets, babe," he folded his thumb into his chest, "I'm the guy for the job, honey."

I simmered. Communications Officer or not, I was still an intelligent member of the House who had worked hard to have a place in this bullpen, and Harvey knew I had a point. He was just covering his bluster with bravado and pride, as always. I may not have spent my hours on the street or had complicated networks underground, but I knew Gotham like the back of my hand. I'd dedicated my career to knowing every presshound and ink junkie in the city who was worth their salt in news. Comms didn't get far if they didn't have flashy credentials or connections, especially in this town.

Both Jim and Harvey knew that, which is why they kept me close. Why I wanted to be close. They were the best cops in the precinct, had weeded out the House more than any IA rat I'd ever seen, and I respected them. Without me, they were little more than blood-thirsty hounds at the mercy of the papers.

That blade cut both ways. Without them, I'd be bored out of my mind taking calls from junior enlistees about grammar and sentence structure, writing speeches and proofing copy for marketing and PR. The very thought made me shiver with goosebumps. I'd done my time pushing papers, now I crafted material that spoke to the masses and saved lives.

But this. Jim had to have known better – Harvey was the worst possible solo for the Foxglove. His philandering reputation with booze and womanizing preceded him, like a standing order. Or trailed behind him like a bad habit, pick your poison.

Hardly mattered – I had a point, and a frickin' good one, at that.

And I'd be hogtied backwards if I let saving Barbara ride on Harvey's visit to the Foxglove. Jim was my friend, and by acquaintance, Barbara was as well. I'd gotten close to her when they were dating, and she was a friend I didn't want to read about in the paper on the Obits page. Or a body I wanted to ID.

With bad grace I stalked back up the steps, heels ticking off the floor, and got in front of Bullock. Threw my chin in the air and pursed my lips into a smirk. He leaned forward, mere inches from intimate space. I could practically taste the Starbucks Veranda on his breath and map the lines of his face. My brow twitched in a knowing tell I'd not meant to share, but had anyway.

He gave no quarter and I did not yield, and he looked satisfied before a hint of impression softened the crease of his brow. Maybe he'd never gone toe-to-toe with a woman who couldn't be sweet-talked or went weak at the knees at his charming personality. Or, maybe he didn't expect me to have a spine. Either way, some look of surprise had passed through his eyes, and I tried to not unravel.

My shoulders settled and I prayed to God no one could see the sweat racing down the cut of my spine through my dress shirt. My palms were slick with perspiration, and I was certain I'd started sweating through the pits of my shirt. I would've rocked back on my heels, had these not been stilettos I'd received - from, ironically, Barbara Kean - for my last birthday.

Every aching moment my toes pinched together in these Jimmy Choos waiting for his response, I thought of her. And how Harvey's throbbing dick could cost me another friend if I didn't stand here like a stonewall against the blowhard.

My gaze flickered down his person, considering. Crooked tie, half-tucked shirt. Scuffed shoes and threadbare trousers. He looked equal parts mess and cliché, a slob of a detective with a big mouth and bigger aspirations. I, and everyone else in the House, knew he was anything but a sloppy cop. Bullock may have utilized questionable methods, but he got results and was a good man.

Jim trusted him with his life, and that was something I could invest stock in.

I couldn't lie. I had seen Bull in action. My stony expression softened - Bullock had saved my skin a couple of times in the field, had gone to bat for me against Lobe and Essen when crap was on the fan and water was over the dam. I read the press releases about his heroism, right alongside his file notes and misconduct investigations. Deep down though, I knew Harv would take a bullet for me like he would any one of us.

Heck, I shared my coveted Starbucks with the heathen.

Our professional relationship had ebbed into "friends" territory, despite these little tiffs of controversy. Or the name calling. Or the dick measuring contests, even though mine was nonexistent. Being a woman, and all, as he'd once claimed.

But, I wasn't gonna tell him that. The key to working with men was to keep them guessing and never show your hand.

I flicked my tongue against the back of my top teeth, waiting. Tell me I'm wrong, Bull.

Only when hell freezes over, babe, the cant of his head said.

A chuckle rustled in his barrel chest and he reached up to scratch through his beard. We didn't need words to navigate the air between us, this wasn't the first dance we'd shared as coworkers with opposite opinions. Electricity cracked between us like a whip, and if he was the lightning bolt, I was darn well goin to play the trailing thunder.

Something dark passed through his eyes, deepening our shared gaze. My breathing very quickly became shallow, the air heavier with nothing but him in my space. I could practically taste his cologne. Heat radiated off his body like he was shedding a second skin. Hot breath became the only thing I could think about, my stomach twisting in a million questionable emotions even Ed could never reason as I stared at his mouth for only a moment, eyes flicking back up to consider his own.

He broke eye contact first, gaze hitting the floor as he scratched fingers through his peppered beard once again. Taking a step back, fresh air swirled and whisked away whatever had flared between us. My tongue was swollen and it was difficult to swallow the sharp words on the tip of my tongue.

Exasperated, I turned to face a very entertained Detective Gordon. He was watching us with pursed lips, trying to hold back what I assumed was a chuckle, considering the fact he was shedding off nervous energy by rocking back on his heels. His fists were stuffed so far into his pockets that, for a moment, I thought tey would tear open.

My brow popped tall and I gestured to Harvey, with gusto, wordlessly wrestling with Gordon to take control of the situation I'd lost control of.

"You can't be serious, Jim," I said finally. "This is the Foxglove. It's prestigious, it's snobbish, and it's expensive." I tossed a look at Bull that was equal parts judgmental as it was disbelieving, "Do you even own anything that doesn't look like it came from a 1982 JCPenney's catalog?" My nose wrinkled in revulsion at the three suits I picked hanging in Harvey's closet.

Bull harrumphed and rolled his eyes, waving me off with a flappable hand that I, ultimately, shoved down. "Don't worry, Jimbo," lifted brows and a raised hand triggered Gordon's attention from me, "I got connections all over the city, you know that. Walk in the park." He shrugged a shoulder and straightened his tie once more, which only canted it further.

"You mean a walk through hell," I intoned.

Jim snorted and silenced me with a quelling look equivalent to one you'd give an insolent child. "She makes a point, Harv," he shrugged and dragged his look back to Harvey, "As much as I trust you to do this and do it right, we need focus. Barbara needs focus."

I swallowed any protest and curled my toes. Barbara needed focus, he was right, Not Harvey's wandering eye over any woman who'll give him the time of day.

"And that's why June is going with you, as your date," he finished.

I froze. My jaw suddenly became detached from my skeletal system and fell open, spine snapping to an attention I didn't think was possible. For a second I wondered if I'd been run through, my gut hallowed. My fists balled together so tightly I feared my bones had been grafted to my wrists.

Nothing other than a bleat managed out of my throat, but somewhere in the ether that had materialized around the bullpen, Bullock was laughing. A myriad of emotions cut through me like racehorses from the gate, trampling any grace I may have exercised in front of Jim Gordon, who looked apoplectic, if not amused.

Reality hit me and it was a stone slicing through the ocean. I fell out of my orbit, mouth gaping like a fish out of water, spluttering for some kind of sense. Me, as Bull's date? Jim must've had an aneurysm from sleep deprivation, because nobody would believe I was Harvey Bullock's date, not at the Foxglove, not anywhere near the underbelly of Gotham's sin.

And it wasn't because I was better than Harvey. Heaven's no. Bullock's little black book was as long as my arm. The women he had known, who respected him…

I was no off-the-runway Gotham beauty; didn't have men lined up at my door to ask me to dinner at the Dorsia or anything of the kind. I couldn't have caught the eye of a blind man, the good charm and seduction did me, and the women who went to the Foxglove as plus-one's were show-stopping beauties, escorts, or employees. I didn't carry the aura of money, was definitely not desirable enough to be an escort, and certainly wasn't an employee of a rotating fetish club flouncing about Gotham.

And, Harvey Bullock was known for running with expensive women. Fish Mooney, the Dutchess, a dozen other females who were dripping in diamonds and turned their noses up at anything less than two-hundred-dollar wine. These were the women who controlled the breathing beast of Gotham, women that Bullock had spent a lifetime schoomizing and bedding for information. These femme fatales filled their pools with champagne, flirted with diplomatic elites, and towed the line between scandal and business like a Mac truck.

And me? Well, my young, single-at-28-ass hadn't been on a date in three years. Fear shriveled my spine like a lifeless corpse, and I would've wilted had Jim not stopped to clap a hand to my shoulder. He winked at me, the hint of a smile curling the corner of his mouth. Absentmindedly, I flicked the cross pendant hanging from the necklace wrapped around my wrist.

Had there been a cold bucket of water to toss over the flame that had consumed me, it wouldn't have been enough. Giving my arm a light smack, Gordon shot me a quicksilver smile and I frowned at his casual ease of the announcement. Didn't he realize he had the wrong girl, that this was ridiculous?

My face must've said it all because he gave me a flat look. The synopsis of my brain were still snapping and flayed in disbelief.

"Oh, c'mon, June," he gestured to me, palm up, and offered a pleading look. "A nice girl like you, the Foxglove? It'll be fun." Everything about his tone said otherwise. He had the gall to offer a snicker.

I smacked my palm against my forehead, eyes pinched.

"Yeah, who knows, Juney," Harv intoned somewhere behind me, "Maybe you'll even meet a new beau," I jumped when he was suddenly over my shoulder, chortling in my ear with hands on my shoulders, "I mean, I know with me there it'll be tough, but, you know, brave, desperate souls and all - someone may pluck up the balls to –"

Stirrings of nervousness snapped me like a rubberband. "Alright, alright!" I exclaimed in plummy tones. I whirled so quickly on my heel that I almost toppled back into Jim's desk, but paid the blunder no mind as my hands went up in surrender. "Fine, I'll go." Bullock shot me a megawatt smile, something passing through his eyes that wobbled my confidence just a little.

I pointed a finger at him, head canted to the side in warning before my gaze shifted to Jim. "You're gonna owe me, Jim." When he looked like he might laugh, my brows raised seriously. "I'm not kidding, G." I gnawed at the bare bones of the conversation, hoping Gordon would interject and save me from further words.

Jim moved back to his desk and began sorting through files, maliciously quiet about the entire thing. I buoyed on the sounds of paperwork rustling, the promise of work arriving to provide salvation from social tension. Plucking up a few folders, Jim crossed to retrieve the invite from Bull's workspace.

Files under arm, he stopped before me and flicked the paper forward with a lidded look of cool, and I snatched it away from him, pouty.

He sighed, deeply. "It'll be fine, June," he said with exaggerated nonchalance. Jim gave me a good natured nudge with his elbow before he gestured up and down my form, "Besides, I bet you'll look great in a dress," he said in saccharine, cool tones.

I went to swat him but he dodged, moving to head downstairs with Harvey as he chortled perkily. Movement from my peripheral told me that Essen had returned from a meeting with an armload of paperwork, texting away on her cell phone. She looked frazzled. The Captain must have caught my observation because she flecked a look up at me, rallied quickly, and gestured with her head to her office.

"When you've got a second, Preacher," she said neutrally, "I need to draft a statement to the Gazette regarding last night's Narrows mugging." A firm nod to Jim's desk was followed by a gesture of her loaded arm, "Grab a pen. I want this done before my meeting with Lobe." It was said with insurmountable finality. Wild horses would've have been able to change the course of events I'd just been ordered to.

I nodded and lifted an acknowledging hand, trailing to Jim's desk to pluck a pen from an old mug. Harvey and Jim had stopped on the stairs to watch the exchange, both of them sharing a look. Turning to the rail, I gripped it with white knuckles and pointed the pen directly at Bull's face.

He smirked enigmatically and winked, pursing his lips together in a less-than-serious smooch before stepping off the bottom stair. It took every nerve in my body not to crack a smile, but I did manage to roll my eyes with heavy nonchalance.

Jim just chuckled, passive. "Thanks, Preacher," he said with admiration, nodding to me while rocking back on his heels. He rolled a shoulder and cleared his throat, gesturing in the direction Bullock had meandered to.

Styrofoam cup in hand, he shook hands with a uniform passing by my desk, before reaching for the pot of fresh Starbucks brew. Had I been a cartoon character, smoke would've been rolling out of my ears, a laugh tickling the back of my throat. The nerve of this man. I crossed my arms and mustered the gall to tap my foot, rallying my confidence quickly.

"Hey Bull," I called across the floor. Thursday rustles of activity dimmed to an almost silent wave. Bullock's attention whipped to me in surprise. Even at a distance I could see his face flush with an embarrassed hue. My lips twisted into a sleeks mile, "You can put the coffee you owe me right in the bottom drawer!" I simpered in cool, pluming tones.

There was a mild chuckle that settled among our brothers and sisters, which drowned the tick of my heels across the floor as I marched into Essen's office.