Move On

***

He should probably move to Chicago.

His back is aching. Stretched a little too far for the decorative tin of popcorn he'd shoved on the top of the fridge three years ago and had been too afraid to clean out ever since, and now he's curled on his side on his bed with a heating pad on his back.

It's embarrassing. If any of his detectives ever saw him like...

Good thing they won't. Right.

But the kitchen is clean. Two whole days before Anna Rosa was due for her apartment-mucking, everything was in its place.

So, his apartment was clean. Even the stacks of magazines Sarah had always been bitching at him to sort through were organized or in the dumpster downstairs.

He'd even caught up on his reading list. His library books were in a bag next to his door, ready to be returned. Barbara would be so proud. Not that she was any better with her library books.

Jim made a mental note to bring his checkbook when he finally made it to his local branch.

He shifted again, trying to get comfortable, but the old bones just weren't cooperating. It was hell getting old. Even Bullock wasn't moving as quickly as...

Jim groaned and glared at his bedside lamp. He was tired of this. Tired of the memories and stopping himself from calling old friends. From calling up and telling the new Commishioner that one little extra thing. Of being put on hold because it was the fourth time he'd called in three hours.

And he still didn't see his little girl all that often. Didn't actually know where she was right now, what with her apartment building being blown sky-high. Just the occasional email and video message.

Gotham hurt to walk in. Hurt to walk. It wasn't his city anymore.

Yeah. He should probably move to Chicago.

Back.