det. gordon

Officer John Cooper knows, and Ben Sherman will learn, that sometimes you see things as a cop nobody should see.

“I will keep that in mind from now on. No more helping people I come across,” he smiled. Yes, that’s what he got from that, and he knew for a fact that he wasn’t going to help anyone, unless putting them out of their misery counted as help. Those details he kept to himself, for obvious reasons. Gordon didn’t need to know about these dark plans.

“That’s not -” There had been every intention to correct the other, but the words fell flat on his tongue as soon as they sprang to mind. Helping the injured wasn't his critique here, that was a fundamental part of this job, and certainly not something to dissuade others from doing. Jim paced on the spot, just a fraction, while the other man continued to ramble out an explanation, arms folding across his chest and stilling once more when he was certain he was finished. 

“You’re lucky.” The point needed to be reiterated. Guys like Edward, supposedly good guys were few and far between in this place; Jim needed him here, and dabbling with criminals only put his life at risk. For now there was nothing to be done, it seemed. Even if that persistent suspicion wouldn’t stop pestering him.

People are generally rough around Gotham, they have this abrasive skin that they’ve built up around themselves to become less affected when crime proceeds like it tends to, when people are rude and will throw one another under the bus to get ahead. He isn’t capable of understanding why he hasn’t sheltered himself like the rest of them, though he’d be willing to bet that it’s based around his upbringing; if he was beaten for just existing, he sure as hell would take a major one for being unkind on top of that. Lila was funny like that: she could have sex, chain smoke and drink until she blacked out, but it was different if he ever stepped out of line. It’s this double standard that has him timid, second guessing himself every step of the way, nervous that it’s the wrong decision and that there will be consequences.  

 It’s hard for him to wrap his head around how he isn’t stuck with her anymore, that he’s here among people that at least don’t want to outright harm him because of arbitrary mistakes. These are his friends, something that he hasn’t had the privilege of having in the past, these are the people that he’s working with, they’re meant to be a collective entity. 

 The redhead is quick to get behind Jim, right on his heels as if he might lose him in this bustling place, criminals of all types are being escorted in, being let out either on bail or waiting for a court date. It’s all of the details that try to capture his attention, battling with the older man for his senses, but Jerome doesn’t have much difficulty in maintaining eye contact, determined. He nods to give a non-verbal signal that he is listening, only speaking when he sees it fit, “You don’t have to look after me.. I appreciate it and everything, I just don’t want to get in the way.” He says, but is brought to another topic soon after. 

The 'welcoming package' that came with formal entry to the GCPD wasn't anything to write home about; Jim still recalled his first day walking through those doors, and the blow by blow onslaught of disappointment that followed. Going out of his way to 'take care' of him wasn't the norm, not by a long shot, but he figured it'd be worth while to put the effort in - kid seemed enthusiastic enough, no need to test that quite yet. Save it for the streets. The slums in Gotham had a way of bringing out peoples true potential.  

"Upper East Side, huh?" An image immediately planted itself in his brain, neglected buildings and long nights patrolling through the maze of alleyways threaded through them. Jim attempts something encouraging but translates as sympathy when he smiles over his shoulder at Jerome, weaving them through fellow officers desks to head into the back. Though he looks as if he could hold his own in a fight, that doesn't necessarily mean his nerves are all there.  "Well, it's a place to sleep, right? You'll be fine just uh, maybe start lookin' elsewhere once your first check comes in."

They can't quite make it through to the locker room without someone grabbing Jim by the arm and halting them there; Bullocks voice is still stuck on the same setting he was assaulting Alvarez with from earlier, rattling off their to-do list for the day that varies from what ' two timin', whore housin' pimp they have shake later' to where to get lunch.  It's brief, the other detective clearly emphasizing that later means later and he's got some personal errands to run first but; "Have fun babysittin' the rookie.''

Heated bodies are pressed together in a proximity that is almost stifling, though it’s strange in the way that he nearly craves it, to be consumed by it, suffocated. Piercing through the air is a groan, weighing heavily in the detective’s throat that’s only coaxed out through his actions, lacking a true resonation that would be fulfilled had he not robbed him of the ability to vocalize properly. In spite of the quality of this sound, he pulls back, his face displaying a level of disbelief that’s unprecedented, eyes searching – as if for some type of meaning, a reason, anything to explain. 

Mouth slightly agape, it’s not the only sign that he’s being given that Jim, in some way or another, is enjoying himself. Lips spread thin and with the cracks previously earned they feel as though they’ll tear back open, teeth biting into the inside of his lower lip. A gentle huff of breath leaves in the form of a chuckle, hands fanning out over the older man’s chest, feeling the way that he seems to physically tremble underneath him, shaking with a combination of nerves and rage. 

“I never expected that you–” 

Pain overrides the importance of what he was going to say, knocking him off balance to the point where he has to catch himself and re-gather his focus, though he’s grateful for the lack of blood that is drawn with this move. He will admit it that it was a solid attempt to deter him, but it does little more than bring about another wave of determination. 

“Oh, Jim, this act never gets old!” He’s practically in hysterics, looking damn-near giddy by the time he’s returned to his position on top of the incapacitated man, bending down so that he can reach behind his head and untie the gag. He wants to hear those little noises, he wants for everyone to hear them and, more importantly, he wants for Jim to lose hope of resisting, “You’re never going to get rid of me..Just give in.” he tells him, hips beginning to swivel and grind down into the hardness that is forming in the front of his pants. No more violence, no more pain, he wants to deconstruct with pleasure, with his body going against his logic. 

“I want to hear you.” He wants to capture his lips free from obstacles, he wants to taste his mouth and he wants Jim Gordon entirely, wants to devour him, fingers beginning to undo the buttons at the top of his shirt,

Arms twist and tug to incite even the smallest bit of leverage here, potentially jeopardizing their later use by forcing them out of their own sockets, but that sacrifice doesn’t seem to compare to the alarm he feel as his situation reaches a new sickening peak. There’s something irrevocably deceptive about his own physical response to the youth above him - callous though his intent is, there’s something beyond his own control occurring, something ignites and is only spurred on as more weight and heat are applied in slow precise motions.

As the gag is removed he finds himself lacking for any comeback he might have previously spat out at him; there’s a million berating voices urging him to let it all spill out but, perhaps it’s other voice, the one belonging to the tantalizing psychopath above him that’s distracting focus. Jim is still trying to understand precisely why he’s chosen to react in such away, and can only boil it down to the unabashed fury he feels for him. How every fibre of him simply wants to yank the restrains off, throw Jerome until he’s a crumpled doll  and use them on the others throat.

The visual alone kindles that basic need that’s pooling in his groin, eyes flying to the hands now working on undressing him, feeling something behind his back pop and give in the rope tie. There’s a touch more room to work now, if only his concentration would remain focused - -

- - Because whether or not it’s a natural reaction, his hips are lifting, gently despite his best efforts, craving that extra bit of friction against the other. He could already feel the shame wash through him as quick as the arousal was building, achingly quick, wondering if this was all going to lead to some horrendous punchline the other had concocted up.  

Nothing but distrust ensues when the others movements remain just that; deliberately precise, non violent in nature, even more perplexing then the usual onslaught. Jim is staring back at him as if he’s something new and perfectly insidious.  

It isn’t until he can register recognition in his face that he feels his chest swell up with a mild amount of pride – it isn’t often that you see people in his situations actually do something with their lives, he hopes that it’ll last. Jim Gordon’s smile comes as a reassurance that he needs, one that tells him that he does belong here and that it was worth the time he invested, all of that effort and moving on past the pain. Going forward, Jerome reminds himself. 

He chuckles at the detective’s comment, how he looks like a commonplace fixture inside of the GCPD and, even though he’s sure it’s just to make him feel welcome on his first day, it doesn’t go unnoticed. 

                                        “Ah, well..” 

The redhead holds out both of his palms, a gesture to dismiss, but it’s an instant later that he’s struggling to extend his own hand to meet Jim Gordon’s, all too eager and tight in his execution, “Huh.. I didn’t think you’d remember me.” he states out loud. 

Homicides weren’t uncommon in Gotham, neither were orphans. 

There was a brief moment where the opportunity to reiterate why exactly he had remembered him presented itself; how the cruelty the youth had endured still rang fresh in Jim's mind despite the abundance of similar circumstances he had come face to face with. There'd been something about the teen that had lingered with him after all was said and done, something that drove him to work extra hard alongside Essen to guarantee a better future, or at least the option of one. Jerome looked a damn well better then the last time they had crossed paths; Jim felt accomplishment just by shaking his hand.  

"I'll ask you that again at the end of your shift."

He releases the hand in his grip, with just a hitch of difficulty given the strength in the others shake, only to slap Jerome on the shoulder and turn towards the private office of the stations Captain.  

"Essen's busy, not that she won't wanna catch up with you but...let me get you set up."

It was a frequent habit to take initiative outside of his job description - one he had no intention of breaking at any point soon. Plus that coffee was still trying to kick in, and he could use the break from sitting and staring at printed words. That, and he didn't like the sound of anyone else getting their hands on Jerome first; certain cops had a habit of initiating others like this was a frat house. He'd already come to peace with the fact that there was a certain responsibility he felt towards him, having witnessed the conditions of his previous life, and that simply brought his protective streak straight to the surface and before he knew it he was walking him through the station.  

"Lockers are this way, you'll need to fight for a desk and... well, you'll be partnered with someone eventually - I'll try pick 'em for you if I can. How's your new place holdin' up by the way? Heard you've been set up nearby."

 ❝ Please don’t be that way. ❞

He pleaded; 

 ❝ It was merely a suggestion. I     don’t have the law on my side     as you do. I’m limited in what    I can do that is to your “standards”   in the first place. ❞ Honestly, what did he expect? There was some argument rearing its head now. Nothing too intense but he figured if Jim was going to storm out of here he might as well give him some reason to do so. He personally thought the law on side was useless anyway, he got further without any restrictions — that was the true beauty of his help but he kept that to himself. 

   ❝ It’s a sad truth that the law doesn’t     always work as you think it should,     James. This is Gotham; your precinct    is almost as corrupt as my streets and     needless to say- sometimes you have     to break some eggs if you want to make    an omelette. ❞

"You think I don't know that by now?"

There would never be an admittance of defeat here; he's not inclined to give even the least bit of leeway towards compromise, despite understanding perfectly well the warped sense that lies in the others words. Jim's already eyeing the door, already knows the relief that will come from simply walking through it, and yet his feet remain firmly planted in the criminals established, attention veered back round to scold at the smaller man.

"We've already tried this."

The others flippant analogy, comparing human lives to breaking some eggs seemed to only spur the detective on, and he was inwardly chastising himself for losing his temper and yet there it went.  

"These aren't your streets. Not any more. I'm trying to change this city, or least get it outta the gutter you people drove it into. And I can't do that with you, I - "

Shoulders fall, the frustration that weighs on them directed more so at himself. This conversation feels old, and yet it never fails to drain him.