Chapter Text
If he had to place an emotion with the department, he’d say overworked resentment. It wasn’t that the people here necessarily hated their jobs; no, the commissioner handpicked them because of just how passionate they were.
In some sense, that was the problem; they cared too much, so every disappointment was personal and biting.
Morgan keeps his head down and does his best not to make eye contact with anyone; he's exhausted from the warehouse, and his shoulders feel too tight. It's the kind of tired that doesn't go away with sleep, but coffee sure does help.
Perhaps he'll see if he can talk the commissioner into letting him use his special blend.
His steps amble, hands stuffed into his pockets, as he makes his way toward a dimly lit hallway.
One of the overhead lights buzzes, flickers, then steadies after some hesitation, like it's also trying not to be noticed.
They probably have to replace the lightbulb, but if the budget spreadsheets he’d peeked at were any indication, funding was already stretched thin.
He waits in front of a metal door, a stray bullet indent here and there from the times the department had been overrun. With an exasperated sigh, Morgan takes the drive out of his pocket and knocks on the door, waiting for the commissioner to open it.
Security protocol.
Morgan hears some shuffling on the other side, muffled by the heavy door as it begins to drag open. A smiling red-haired man meets him with a 3 o’clock shadow and an unkempt mustache.
"Commissioner," Morgan holds up the drive to show it to him.
A pained smile. "I take it you had no problems?"
"None," Morgan is led into the office. "Though the men you sent to collect the traffickers seemed a bit weary about what they were doing."
The commissioner nods, grim as he walks behind his desk and takes a seat. "They're upholders of the law, going against it."
He shifts in his spot, still holding the drive in his hand, before settling into the ratty chair across from the commissioner's desk. Morgan watches as the man takes a sip from a styrofoam cup, before a heaving sigh and a short, rough cough.
The commissioner grabs a cough drop and unwraps it. "We sent those men specifically because they can be quiet about the less legal things this department does for the greater good."
A huff comes from Morgan, his eyes roving over the framed honorary degree of criminology from Gotham University and pinned-up photos of his time in the military.
"So, Gordon?" Morgan plants his feet firmly on the ground and leans back into the chair. "You asked for me, I came, with the drive."
The other man gives a weary sigh. "He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster."
Morgan smiles. "And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you."
"You've been staring into a lot of abysses lately," Gordon drums his fingers against the desk. "And you're one of the last honest men in this kind of work, try not to get sucked in, will you?"
"You worried about me, Jim?" A flush on his cheeks as his smile widens. "I'm honoured, here I thought you only cared for the Bat and your daughter."
Jim gives him a look, something hidden right underneath, hidden mostly by the glare on his glasses.
His lips twitch at the lack of response; the thought of having the commissioner worried about him isn't something he wants. "Had a little guest join me for the warehouse."
"A guest?" Jim's mustache quirks up. "I hope it wasn't John."
Morgan shakes his head, fingering the drive in his hand. "Catwoman."
They're quiet for a moment, the room simmering with unspoken questions as Jim leans back in his seat and brushes his chin with his thumb.
"Catwoman?" Jim asks, more to himself than to Morgan.
He watches as Jim seems to mentally catalogue the information. "This isn't the first time she's dropped by."
"She's been popping up randomly while I'm working. I don't think she's a security risk, but it is slightly worrying." Morgan thinks back to what she had said, or more, the lack of what she said on the rooftop.
A flicker of mirth touches Jim’s eyes. "Only you, she hasn't been bothering anyone else."
"Joy," Morgan groans. "Why am I the one she likes to bother?"
Jim shrugs, but there's something in his posture. "Perhaps you piqued her interest."
He lets out a low laugh, his cheeks flushing a deeper colour at the force of his laughter. Morgan bows his head, unable to keep from laughing.
The only sound inside the office is his laughter and Jim's resigned sigh. Jim peers at him, a smile on his face, perhaps a little happy to see Morgan relax in his presence.
"Is it truly that difficult to believe that perhaps she finds you interesting?" Jim grabs the cough drop wrapper and rolls into a small ball.
Morgan straightens up, the reminder that this man is his boss, not an equal, at least not truly. "I think she finds me interesting, sure, like a cat with a new toy."
He sighs at the imagery and tosses the little wrapper in the trash can under his desk, twirling his mustache. "Perhaps more like a feeder."
"What?" Morgan scoffs.
Jim smiles, a knowing look on his face. "Do you think she's testing you?"
A sigh as Morgan stretches his legs out. "Testing me for what, though?" He glances back at the images on the wall behind Jim.
There's an image of Jim shaking hands with the city's golden boy, Bruce Wayne, both wear tight smiles, and Morgan wonders if either of them remembers what clean hands feel like.
He can't remember himself, so he's in no position to judge.
Morgan cracks his knuckles, pretending that he doesn't need the coffee wafting out of Jim's cup, and the drive in his hand moves to the desk. He observes as Jim's gaze settles on the drive, a grimace on his lips as his grip around his coffee cup tightens.
"And you're sure you had no trouble?"
"I told you, Catwoman helped," Morgan says with a shrug, as if that should explain everything.
Jim watches the drive on his desk before glancing back to Morgan. "And you checked the drive?"
Morgan's stomach flips before settling back down. He crosses a leg over the other and pats the arms of the chair. "I checked it."
The drive sits quietly on the desk, small and sleek, its surface etched with an intricate design—a fragile flower intertwined with a graceful deer, rendered in soft shades of black and grey. Beautiful, almost innocent, if not for what it contained.
A delicate façade, masking the darkness beneath.
Morgan watches as Jim’s eyes flicker to the engraving again, a shadow crossing his face before he clears his throat and reaches for his coffee.
"Will it help tie into your case?"
He glances away, looking toward the bookshelf and noting the dust coating everything on it. "I'll need more time to look over the photos and videos to see if any of them match."
Jim clears his throat and puts down his coffee cup. "Another piece of the puzzle found, anyway?"
"Perhaps," Morgan drags his knuckles against the underside of his chin.
"Some things need to be done," Jim says quietly. "And you're probably the only one who could look at the drive and its files without getting corrupted."
"If you know what I mean," He adds quickly.
Morgan nods, slowly and carefully. "Will anyone else be working on this?"
"Nobody wants to work on this," Jim kneads at his forehead and leans his elbows against the desk. "People have lines they won't cross, child porn being one of them."
And this is a line that Morgan will cross, even if it will destroy any mental stability he has left.
If he does what needs to be done, they'll slap him on the back, hand him a meaningless award, and send him to therapy for the rest of his life.
Morgan looks at the drive for a beat before standing up. "I have paperwork I need to finish."
"No," Jim interrupts his train of thought. "Go home, Morgan."
He puts his hands in his pockets, leaving the drive where it lies on Jim’s desk. "Alright."
"Good man," Jim leans back in his chair, moving his glasses to massage the bridge of his nose. "And maybe get a good night's sleep if you can, it's almost four in the morning."
Morgan makes a beeline for the door before looking back at the commissioner. "Keep the drive safe."
"Of course, it'll be on your desk by your next shift in a manila folder." Jim stays seated.
There's a pause as Morgan rests his hand on the door handle. "All remaining on paper, no system logs."
"No trail for the bat to follow." Jim nods and waves him off. "Go on."
Morgan leaves the office, the metal door clanging behind him, and he takes a breath. Forcing his legs to move, Morgan walks back down the hallway and ignores the flickering light.
His feet drag against the tile floor. He nods toward the officers by the desk and leaves through the back door. His car is where he left it, in one piece with a wet sheen from the drizzle that started when he was talking to the commissioner.
Morgan unlocks the car, exhales, then ducks into the driver’s seat. Sleep can wait. Coffee, too. He just sits for a while, letting the quiet hum of the city wrap around him like guilt.
He rests his head against the driver's wheel. "Therapy forever and a meaningless award."
He looks back up, out to the alleyway behind the precinct and turns the car engine on. Everything will be fine, he thinks.
Probably.
Morgan didn’t know if the abyss was gazing back — but he could feel it blinking.