Chapter Text
Harvey was asleep, still sitting in his chair, his chin propped up by his arm, his elbow wedged into the corner. Jim frowned, looked at his watch. Shit. It was 10 o’ clock. They were supposed to have left hours ago.
Jim cleared Harvey’s desk - he’d fallen asleep working on his homework. It wasn’t done yet. But Jim had no doubt all the evidence had been run, the old paperwork had been shredded, and the coffee pot had never gone empty. Jim shook his head. What was he doing to this kid?
Jim touched Harvey, gently. Harvey jolted, knees and elbows banging against the desk. Eyes wide.
“Just me.” Jim said. It was humbling, to see how quickly that information returned calm to Harvey. He rubbed his eyes, even yawned.
“Sorry, boss.” Harvey said. “Didn’t mean to nod off.”
“You did good work today.” Jim said. “It’s late, let’s get going.” He grabbed Harvey’s backpack. The imprint of Harvey’s hand was still red on his cheek. He was fourteen years old, going on thirty, but all Jim saw when he looked at him now was a tired kid.
“You eat anything yet?” Jim asked. Herding Harvey towards the lobby. The night shift hummed around them, a constant smattering of ringing phones and crackling updates from dispatch. Sergeant Singer nodded good night as they walked past the front desk.
“Bradshaw brought me a sandwich. I’m good. Corrigan told me about that guy killing those women - you gonna catch him?”
Fucking Corrigan. What was he doing telling Harvey about the freak slicing hookers open?
“Haven’t yet, but we will.”
The drive home was easy. Harvey dozed in the passenger seat and Jim kept the radio low. At red lights Jim eyed Harvey. It wasn’t often he was able to get a good look at the kid - one where Harvey wasn’t shying away or bristling in response, depending on his mood.
He needed better clothes. His jacket was just an old one of Jim’s from when he was a beat cop, pulled out of the closet at random because Harvey didn’t have anything waterproof and Gotham was going through a wet spell. The zipper was busted and there was a cut in the lining from an altercation Jim had with a knife wielding drop head years ago.
Even Harvey’s jeans had rips in the knees. Maybe that was the style these days — but the sight still rubbed Jim wrong.
Harvey didn’t wake up when they pulled in front of the house. Jim rubbed his chin, stubble catching at his hand. He really should have gotten the kid home sooner. He pulled the key out of the ignition, the radio cutting to complete silence.
“Harv,” Jim said. “We’re home.”
Harvey blinked. Once, twice, then dug at his eyes with the heels of his hands. Jim waited, the car clicking as the engine cooled.