Gotham, bar: Dick G/Jim G (not a boyband.)
[The day had been long and overwhelming in ways even days at GCPD hadn't been.—In a matter of hours, everything Jim Gordon thought he knew about the world and every person in it wasn't just uprooted, but yanked out of the ground, drowned in Roundup, crushed, and set on fire. His head ached somewhere deep behind his right temple, and he was exhausted.
But, he'd made more than a dent in not-Barbara's scotch and he felt wrung dry, lonelier than he had in a long time—or, maybe not so long, but it was a hollowed out feeling and he didn't trace it back. So he'd agreed to come downtown, to get a drink with a man related to a a man he knew as a 12-year-old boy who liked to stand on very high things—he'd agreed to get a drink with the man who... was the father of his not-daughter's unborn child.
It hurt his head just to think about, so it was probably good he was already well-liquored when he finally came through the door of the place Grayson had mentioned. The atmosphere was calm, the crowd complacent, and Jim was relieved. He hadn't known what to expect, but this was better than some noisy place where there was only standing room and better than all of Bullock's haunts, hopefully with less mob connections too. Black dress pants, a button-up shirt, and a black tie was how he'd found himself this morning and it was how he came, sleeves shoved up on his forearms like he didn't feel the cold cloying outside.
It took a minute, but he figured it out.
Jim crossed the room, weaving through tables of people who paid him no mind, and sat on the barstool next to Dick—found because he kept looking over his shoulder like he was waiting for someone. Which he was. The detective gave a terse smile that even liquor couldn't loosen.] You must be Dick.