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He is silence, he is grace....he's fallen flat on his face. The gun clatters to the ground and Jim groans. To make matters worse, he's fallen from the roof of a building- rather, tripped and fell. For the second he plummets through the air, he thinks, So this is it, then, the end of Jim Gordon, world's greatest assassin before he remembers that it's a two-story building and scolds himself for being overly dramatic.
He quickly tucks his head, crosses his arms and relaxes his muscles, rolls on impact- is that his shoulder that just popped like it got dislocated? Whatever it was, now the upper left half of his body hurts like hell- and spreads out on the grass, stares up into the sky dazedly.
"Oh my God! Are you alright?" someone's asking, and there's worried brown eyes and square, half-rimmed glasses. Jim blinks, waits for the face to fade into focus, and shit it's just his luck that the person who is trying to make sure he's okay is Edward Nygma, the man who he's been sent to assassinate.
"Not really," he mumbles and passes out.
When he comes to, he's laid out on a sofa in a small apartment covered in a quilt, head propped up by what must be four different pillows. He makes to pull it off, but there's someone by his side who stills his hands. "You need to stay warm," Nygma admonishes, "You might very well have a mild concussion- here, I made you a cup of tea and some acetaminophen," Nygma says, pushes a warm mug into his hand as well as a small box. "Wait, no, that came out wrong," he says, flustered, "I didn't make the acetaminophen, um." He smiles awkwardly, adjusts his glasses. "Edward Nygma at your service."
Jim refrains from saying I know because he'll probably sound like some sort of stalker, when really, he isn't- he just happens to have a file full of information on the man, which when one puts it like that, now that he thinks about it, does make him sound like a stalker, but really, he's just a dedicated assassin.
"James," he settles on instead, because he may be a contract killer, but his mother raised him to be polite.
Nygma's face lights up. "Well, now I know your name, may I inquire as to how you fell off of my apartment roof?"
Oh, nothing, just trying to kill you. "Birdwatching," he lies. "I was trying to get photos of some doves on the ledge, and, well, I guess I got to close to the edge," he laughs sheepishly.
"Quite a story, my friend," Nygma's eyes twinkle. "Rest- I have errands to run."
Somehow over the course of half a month, Nygma becomes just Ed. Many of Jim's days are spent dozing, but when he does awaken, he'll make meals for the both of them- Ed's schedule as a politician running for Mayor is hectic, and it's the least Jim can do to repay the man.
There's also the matter of Jim's very-small, teeny-tiny, itsy-bitsy crush. Jim isn't about to kid himself- probably half of Gotham's women- and a fair number of men- have what could be called celebrity crushes on him, and really, Jim can't blame them, because damn those cheekbones could cut diamond.
The entire situation leaves Jim feeling hysterical and fully out of his depth, as well as with a new appreciation for the age-old assassin's adage about not familiarizing one's self with the target beyond what's absolutely necessary. In the end, everything reaches a tipping point on Friday night of the fourth week.
They're eating stir-fry, and Ed's complaining about the other candidates. "Honestly," he huffs, "I'm surprised that none of them have tried to kill me yet." It makes something in Jim snap, guilt cascades through his carefully built emotional barriers. Here he is, sitting with the man he was attempting to assassinate, and the entire situation makes him feel dirty, the guilt like oil on his skin, and he wants to scratch at it till he bleeds because then, maybe, he might be able to start atoning.
He sets his fork down, stands, ignores Ed's look of concern and mutters, "I don't feel too good," before quickly hiding in the bathroom. He sits on the floor, back against the door, pulls his knees up to his chest and buries his head in his hands and cries as quietly as he can.
"James, are you alright? Do you want me to get you something?" Ed's voice draws him out of his mind.
He locks the door and faces the mirror, takes in his puffy red eyes and says, strangledly, "Y-yeah, I'm fine." He turns on the water, splashes his face, and dries it, trying to look like he hasn't been crying for the last ten minutes and opens the door.
Ed stands on the other side of the threshold, adjusts his glasses. "Was it something I said?" he asks worriedly. "If it was, I apologize- I'm not the best at socio-emotional cues."
Jim takes a deep, grounding breath. "No, it's not your fault at all," he smiles, "I was just kind of stressed- your competitors really seem to be out to get you. I'm just…worried for you."
"Oh," Ed says softly, "I'm…I'm touched." He hesitates for a moment. "Would you- would you like a hug?" he asks tentatively, and, when Jim nods, wraps long arms around him, pulling him into a warm embrace. They stay there for what might be mere minutes or many long hours, but eventually, Jim pulls away.
He swallows nervously. "I…I need to tell you something," he says quietly, draws a breath. "I haven't exactly been truthful- I said I was birdwatching but actually I was hired by one of your political rivals to assassinate you," he admits, makes to stand. "I understand if you hate me- feel free to put a bounty on my head. For what it's worth, I'm sorry."
There's silence, and Jim's halfway to the door before a hand on his wrist halts him "Well then, if you're such a great assassin, you must know I'm hardly innocent," Ed huffs. "Ever heard of the Riddler? That was me," he says. "Do you really think I, Edward Nygma, would hold your actions against you?"
Jim turns, gapes at the man, who smiles. "Well, now we've got that over with, would you be willing to go out with me- like a date, maybe coffee or ice-cream?" Ed asks, grinning.
Jim's ears redden as he valiantly tries not to blush. "Y- yeah, that sounds nice," he responds.
Perhaps he should thank the apartment's roof.