Gotham Imagines and One Shots

Back from the dead - Part 3 - Jim x Reader

Harvey sat her down on the chair, as he perched himself on the corner of the captain's desk. His eyes hadn't left her since she had appeared. The Irishman fearing that if they moved away for even a second, (Y/n) might just disappear again. The detective still sure, that despite the fact that he had already held her in his arms, she wasn't real. That she was a beautiful spectre sent to haunt himself and Jim.

"I'm real, Harv. I promise. I'm not a ghost or anything like that..............." (Y/n) assured, as she reached out her hand and took his. Their fingers intertwining.

"(Y/n).........where...........? What the hell...........?"

"It's a long story Harv......................"

"I've got all day, honey.............." Harvey interjected, as his grip on her hand tightened. Watching as (Y/n) took a deep breath and nodded.

                                                    >>---------------------------------<<

Jim made his way along the streets, looking for one thing. It might have been early in the morning, but he needed a drink or three. And as this was Gotham, there would always be some place open. Some place that probably never closed. Some place where he could try and drown all the emotions that were currently bombarding him.

In truth, he had no idea what to think, or what to feel. Despite how ridiculous it might have seemed to others, to Harvey; Jim had always had the strangest feeling that (Y/n) wasn't dead. The whole thing, the situation in which she had been "killed", though not an unusual one for Gotham, had never rung true with him. In fact, it reeked of a set up. And now it would appear that he had been right. That his life had been destroyed by others far above his pay grade, that neither knew or cared about what was between himself and (Y/n). Yet that wasn't the thing that hurt the most. What really hurt, was the fact that (Y/n) had agreed to it. That she had allowed him to think that she was dead. That she had been happy to leave him. Jim now wondering whether she had ever actually loved him at all. Whether she had even really cared.

With a heavy sigh, Jim pushed his way through a door. The detective making his way over to the bar. Ignoring the looks from the other patron that were nursing their drinks. The seasoned alcoholics that probably barely ever left the seats in which they now sat. The only people that they ever conversed with, the other bleary eyed customers.

"What can I get ya?" The older man behind the bar enquired, as Jim took a seat on one of the stools.

"Scotch, large. And keep them coming." Jim replied, as he pulled out his wallet and placed some bills on the bar top.

"You're the boss." The bartender responded, as he grabbed a glass and placed it in front of Jim. The brown liquor sloshing into it. The detective slowly raising it to his lips. His eyes inadvertently catching sight of his image in the mirror that lay behind the multitude of half empty bottles.

How was it possible that he seemed to have aged between the precinct and here? It was as if all the pain and loneliness of the past three years, had suddenly etched themselves onto his face. As if all the nights that he had woken in a pool of his own sweat as he had dreamt about (Y/n) dying. About him fighting to get to her. Trying to save her, but always failing, had suddenly made his hair look greyer.

He could also see the sparkle of the tears that were building up in the corners of his eyes. Tears that he could feel grow heavier. It obvious that at any minute they would fall, and there was nothing he could do about it. And despite the anger that was brewing inside him, Jim knew that the tears were those of joy rather than anything else. Joy because (Y/n) was alive. Joy because she had come back to Gotham. Because she had come back to........come back to him. A sudden number of 'what if' questions, creeping into the back of his mind. What if she hadn't come back to stay? What if she hadn't come back for him? What if, she had found another life, another man to love while she had been away doing whatever the hell she had been doing. But no. That wasn't (Y/n)'s style. That would be a cruel thing to do, and (Y/n) had never been cruel. It only made sense that she must have done what she needed to do, and now was hoping to reclaim her old life. But would she want him in it? Did he want her in his? Could he forgive her for putting him through everything that he had felt since he had heard of her death? In truth, he never thought that they were questions that he would have to ask himself.

Quickly he downed the Scotch. The bartender topping up the glass as the detective placed it back on the bar. Jim repeating the action and tapping the rim of the glass, as it was again placed on the wooden top. More liquor being poured in. He knew that this wasn't the best way to deal with things. That this was more Harvey's style, than his. That he should have stayed at the precinct and listened to what (Y/n) had to say. Listened to her reasons for doing what she had done. For allowing him to think that he had lost her forever. But he needed time to think. He needed time to try and sort through everything that he was feeling. To try and come up with the questions that he needed to ask her, before he headed back to the precinct. Before he could face her. Before he could look into those beautiful eyes that he had missed so much. And even though this probably wasn't the best way to do that; the best place to do that. It was as good as any that he could think of at that moment. The only place that made any kind of sense.