"Well," says Harvey, tossing the case file in his hands down to his desk, "I think we can safely say that, whoever this guy is, his head isn't really screwed on right."

"You think?" Jim asks, drily, filling out the last bit of the report for the last case they solved. The case file in question is regarding a string of attempted murders where the victims have been imprisoned in various enclosed areas, which were then flooded, and forced to fight each other for the single tank of oxygen. Thankfully, so far, the GCPD has managed to turn up in time to save everyone, but it's getting closer and closer to not being soon enough—and, if they don't catch the perp soon, they'll more than likely be looking at multiple dead bodies.

Harvey glowers, and takes a swig from his flask. "We got anything new from the last crime scene yet?" he asks, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth.

Jim shrugs. "No idea—though," he adds, "we should probably go check in with Ed, see if he's made any breakthroughs."

The other's expression twists into a grimace, and Harvey shakes his head. "You go," he says, "Nygma creeps me out." He shudders. "No one should be that cheerful about crime scenes."

"Hey," Jim admonishes, "he's a pretty important part of actually getting the right guys behind bars. Sure, he might be a bit different, but he's not a bad guy."

"Careful, Jimbo, you're starting to sound like you're sweet on him, or something," Harvey ribs, eyes narrowed playfully.

Jim sputters; cheeks heating. "Shut up," he grumbles, rising and glaring at the other. "I think he's a good guy, that's all."

"Uh huh. Sure."

Scowling, Jim turns on his heel and makes his way towards Ed's office in the lower levels. He's only actually been there once or twice, and he's half afraid he'll get lost along the way, but, thankfully, he manages to find it just fine.

He hesitates at the door; Harvey's words replaying through his mind against his will; and he mentally bats them aside as hard as he can, before knocking and pushing the door open.

Ed, at his desk, raises his head; usually flat expression lighting up with a smile, eyes widening. "Detective!" he greets. "What can I do for you?"

"Jim, please," he reminds the forensic analyst. "And I was actually coming to ask if you've got any new information about the last crime scene of mine."

"The water guy, right?" Jim nods, and Ed continues. "Actually, I do—figured something interesting out about the oxygen tanks."

Jim raises a brow, sticking his hands in his pockets. "Oh?"

"Riddle me this—humans aren't aquatic, so which ones breathe under water for fun?"

Jim frowns. "Breathe under water for fun...is it some kind of sport?" he guesses; and, catching sight of the widening smile, presses onwards. "Humans can't naturally breathe under water, so they would be using some sort of device—wait, I think I've got it. Is it a scuba diver?"

Ed's expression is one of sheer delight; and he claps his hands. "Excellent! Yes, you're correct—and the oxygen tanks found in the crime scenes are specifically designed for scuba diving."

"So then whoever it is would have to be involved in scuba diving to have access to them," Jim theorises.

The other nods. "Precisely—and, that's why I've taken the liberty of looking into scuba instructors who live in Gotham. Here," he says, riffling through his desk drawer before pulling out a paper and handing it to Jim.

"I'm surprised there's this many people," Jim says. "I wouldn't have thought it—there's not exactly places to go scuba diving in Gotham. Well," he amends, "unless you count the harbour."

Ed wrinkles his nose; the motion somehow making him look terribly geeky when paired with his wide, thick glasses. "I do not want to think about that. "

Jim laughs. "I can get why. Anyway," he adds, reaching out to place his hand on Ed's arm, "thank you, Ed. You're an invaluable member of the team."

Ed mumbles something incoherent; looking down at the floor. His hair, Jim notices, is curlier and softer than usual, as if it's no longer being held flat by some sort of product. It's a good look on him, he decides; and then, realising what exactly he's thinking, releases Ed and takes a quick step back. "Thanks again," he says, trying to leave quickly without giving off the impression that he's fleeing.

Jim makes his way back up to the bullpen, and then to his desk. Harvey's sitting at his own, a newspaper in hand, and when Jim calls his name, he folds it up and drops it with a thwap on the desk. "You got anything?"

Jim nods, handing over the paper. "Ed found out all the licensed scuba instructors in town," he says.

"Well, then," Harvey says, "let's go pay them a visit."

The first three they talk to don't know anything, but the fourth one—a Mr. Evan Sharp—tells them something worthwhile. "A few of my tanks have gone missing," he says. "The only people who have acces to them besides me are my two assistants—Jenny Scotts and Mike Vandervitch. I've tried questioning them, but neither of them admits to anything, and the security cam footage for the nights the tanks have gone missing are all blank or corrupted."

Jim nods, jotting the two names down on a pad of paper. "Thank you, Mr. Sharp," he says. "You're doing Gotham a service."

"Boy Scout," Harvey mutters.

They manage to track down Jenny, who, it turns out, has a solid alibi—she works nights at the Ace of Hearts, a nightclub catering to the middle class. A quick visit there confirms she was on shift every night the oxygen tanks went missing.

Mike turns up a dead end. No one seems to know where he is, and most haven't seen him in weeks.

Finally, though, they get lucky with one of Harvey's street contacts, who tells them that Mike frequents the Last Laugh bar every Saturday evening.

It's Thursday, though, so there isn't much they can do; and as such, return to the precinct.

Jim finds himself making his way back down to Ed's lab—he feels the overwhelming need to update Ed on how the case is going, and to thank him once again for his help.

When he pushes the door open, he finds Ed standing at one of the stainless steel tapes; tongue sticking out slightly as he measures out some sort of green liquid into a glass vial. Jim waits until he straightens, done with his task, to clear his throat.

Ed whips around, eyes widening. "D—Jim!" he exclaims. "What can I do for you?"

"Nothing, actually," Jim says, shaking his head. "Just came to give you an update on our case, and say thank you, again, for your help."

Ed's cheeks pinken. "You really don't have to do that," he protests, sounding horribly flustered. "It's my job, after all."

"Still," Jim insists. "Thank you."

Ed shifts from foot to foot. "You said you had an update on the case?"

"Oh, yeah—we found a lead on a suspect, but we can't follow it up until Saturday."

"That's unfortunate," Ed says. "I have full confidence that you'll be able to find the perpetrator, though."

This time, it's Jim's cheeks that heat. "Thanks, Ed," he says. "That means a lot. Well—I should probably get out of your hair."

"It's no trouble to me," Ed protests; and then, slightly more quietly, "I...appreciate your company."

Jim stands still for a moment, blinking, silent; and then when Ed's expression begins to cloud with anxiety, rushes to assure the other. "That's really nice of you to say, Ed," he says. "Really. And...I appreciate your company, too." And then, impulsively, without thinking, he blurts out, "Hey—what do you say we hang out at my place some time?"

Ed's eyes go wide, and he says, "Really?"

"Really," Jim confirms. "What about this Sunday—tenish? It'll be good to unwind a bit. Here, I can write down my address for you. Can I use that notepad on your desk?"

Ed glances at the one he's pointing at—a green pad of paper with a question mark at the bottom right corner of each page. "Um—actually, let me get you another one, if you don't mind."

Jim nods. "Sure," he says, pulling out a pen as he waits for Ed to cross the room and pull out a different pad of paper, and pass it to him. Quickly, he jots down the address for his apartment before setting it down on the other's desk. "There you go," he says. "I'll see you on Sunday, then."

The smile Ed offers him as he escorts him to the door has Jim walking with a lightness in his step for the rest of the day.

The next two days pass more or less without even; and before he knows it, Jim is sitting at the bar counter in the Last Laugh next to Harvey, in plainclothes, keeping an eye out for Mike. Harvey's ordered them both shots, and downed his own already. Jim's been steadfastly ignoring his own.

Finally, around ten, the door opens to admit a gaggle of people, as well as a blast of cold air that cuts through the warmth of the inside like a hot knife through butter, leaving Jim shivering for a moment and wishing he had worn a thicker sweater.

The door swings shut, and the people begin to disperse, and Jim catches sight of a gangly, lightly tanned man with a shock of white hair with a single red streak dyed into it—Mike.

He elbows Harvey. "Hey," he hisses, "Vandervitch is here."

Harvey puts down his shot glass quickly, craning his head to catch a glimpse of the man. He's taken a booth seat by himself, and he's talking on the phone with someone. "You wanna approach him?" Jim asks.

Harvey nods. "If we try and wait and then follow him out, there's a good chance he could run. He can't do that here without causing a scene."

"Right, then." Jim rises.

Harvey remains seated. "You gonna drink that, or?" he asks, gesturing to the full shot glass. When Jim shakes his head, the other reaches out and downs it, before grimacing. "Alright," he says, standing up. "Let's go catch a bad guy."

They slide into the seats opposite Mike, and Jim pulls out his badge. "We have a few questions we need to ask you, Mr. Vandervitch," he says, keeping his voice low.

Mike looks annoyed. "I gotta go," he says, into his phone, before hanging up. "Look, I ain't got any idea what you wanna talk to me for, but whatever it is, you're wrong."

"Then I'm sure you can tell us where you were the night of the eighth, the nineteenth, and the twenty-fourth," Harvey says, smoothly.

Mike freezes. "I was at home," he snaps.

"Let me guess—alone?" Harvey's smile is more of a baring of teeth.

Abruptly, Mike stands; hurrying towards the door. Jim and Harvey make after him, following him outside and down a few alleys until they manage to corner him at the end end of one of the piers.

They manage to grab him without much issue, but as Jim goes to cuff him, the man suddenly headbuts him, knocking him over—and into the waters of the harbour.

For a few moments, Jim tumbles around in the murky waters, before managing to get his head above water, sputtering to try and get the disgusting water out of his mouth to little avail. He manages to clamber up onto land, staggering to a standing position next to Harvey, who's cuffed Mike.

"You smell awful, brother," Harvey says, nose wrinkling.

"Oh, gimme a break," Jim grumbles. "I just got knocked into the harbour—I'm freezing and my mouth tastes like piss."

Thankfully, Harvey's car has heating, even if he complains about Jim dripping on his seats; and within a few minutes, it's blasting away, doing its best to chase away the chill that seems to have settled into his bones.

They take Mike into the precinct, and Essen tells them they have the rest of the day off, sending another team in to search Mike's place.

Jim take the opportunity to go home, take a shower, and collapse in bed, out like a light within minutes.

When he wakes up the next morning, he shrugs on a pair of his most comfortable clothes, and makes himself breakfast, the radio on quietly in the background.

He only remembers his invitation to Ed at half past nine, at which point he hurries around the living room to try and make it looks like less of a disaster, and thinks he succeeds fairly well.

The time from then until Ed arrives passes in agony, as Jim suddenly finds himself going through every worst case scenario he can imagine.

Finally, the doorbell rings, and Jim goes to get it, finding Ed standing at the door, a box in hand which he holds out to him. "I stopped by the bakery," he explains. "I thought you might like a cinnamon roll."

"Thanks, Ed," Jim says, accepting the box. As a matter of fact, he loves cinnamon rolls. "Come in."

Ed follows after him, and Jim gestures to the couch. "You go ahead and sit down—I'm going to get plates for these."

He comes back a few minutes later to find Ed eying his small stack of video games. "Do you play?" he asks, as he accepts his plate.

Jim grins sheepishly. "Not enough to be any good at anything," he admits. "Do you?"

"Oh, yes," Ed enthuses. "I love video games."

"Well, go ahead and pop one into the player," Jim says. "I think I have a controller around here somewhere..."

It takes him a few minutes of digging around in the cabinet to find it; and when he finds it and turns around to hand it to Ed, he finds the other carefully picking apart his cinnamon roll.

When Ed notices him watching, he flushes. "Sorry," he mumbles.

Jim shakes his head. "You're not doing anything wrong," he rebukes gently.

That seems to help put the other somewhat at ease, and soon, he's finished his cinnamon roll and gotten full swing into the video game—at which, Jim notes, he's excellent. "Have you already played this?" Jim wonders aloud.

Ed nods. "Only the once," he says, "but it's really not that hard, once you figure it out,"

Jim scoffs, taking a bite of his own cinnamon roll. "I can't get past level three, but you blew through that in less than ten minutes—I'm pretty damn impressed."

A dusting of pink settles over Ed's cheeks. "It's nothing," he says, brushing off the compliment, and then narrowing his eyes at the screen, fingers flying over the controller.

He manages to beat eight levels in an hour, and Jim finds himself no longer watching the screen, but rather watching Ed's face—usually, his expression seems very flat, but if he concentrates, the way the other's eyes widen and his brows lift incrementally tells a lot about his thoughts.

Jim finds himself watching the other's eyes especially—seemingly a deep, uninterrupted brown, when he concentrates, he can see flecks of black and gold. It's...well, Jim isn't really eloquent enough to put how he feels about Ed's eyes into words.

When Ed beats a particularly challenging level, he sets the controller down, grinning. "This is fun, " he breathes. His entire being seems to be vibrating slightly—fingers twitching and legs bouncing, and Jim finds himself smiling as well. Happiness looks good on Ed.

Before he can think twice about it, Jim vp finds himself saying it out loud—and then cursing himself when Ed's face shutters. "Sorry, sorry," he says. "I don't wanna make you—uncomfortable, or anything."

Ed remains still for a moment, before he says, quietly, "I've never had anyone say anything like that to me."

Jim gapes. "No one? But surely—you're an attractive guy, someone must have told you that before!"

The other shakes his head. "To be fair," he says, "people tend to not want to be around me much—I'm not really good at interacting with them, so..." he trails off.

Jim scowls; taking Ed's hands in his own. "Trust me," he says, "you're definitely attractive."

Ed blushes deeply, eyes flitting downward; and Jim squeezes his hands.

When Ed looks up again, there's a spark of something in his eyes. "Jim," he says, "can I ask you a question?"

Jim nods. "Shoot," he says, offering a comforting smile.

Ed hesitates for a moment, seemingly working up his nerve, and then says, "Does this count as a date?"

Jim blinks. "I..." he thinks for a few moments; Harvey's teasing, and his own reaction to it; the flutter of warmth in his chest when he sees Ed. "I guess that depends on if you want it to be," he says, finally. "I don't mind either way. You're my friend, Ed, and I like you a lot."

Ed beams. "I like you a lot too," he says. "I think I want this to be a date."

Jim chuckles. "Okay," he says.

Ed extracts his hands from Jim's, picking up the controller, and proceeds to soundly beat the game.

When Jim escorts him to the door later, the other lingers in the doorway, before leaning in to press a kiss to Jim's lips; fleeting and barely there. "We should do this again," he says, voice a little breathy.

Jim grins. "I'd like that," he says; and watches Ed make his way down the hall to the stairwell. After he closes the door, Jim finds himself pressing his fingers to his lips, smiling, the phantom of a kiss still lingering on them.

He goes about tidying the apartment, sticking their dishes in the dishwasher and cleaning the counters with a lightness in his step, still smiling the entire time.