Morning Joe (Open)

[Sergeant Nasri]

“Uh, venti black coffee?” T asked the barista across from him who seemed to understand him clearly and moved to get his coffee. Lifting an eyebrow, he turned to his fiancée who smiled. Apparently Dunkin’ Donuts made awful coffee – so said she – and he needed to act a little classier. He had no problem chugging down the stuff as coffee was really only meant to wake him up in the mornings, not taste good. As he took the cup and lifted it his lips, Amanda rattled off some long list of her custom drink.

“So?” she asked as he handed over a ten to the barista and his shoulders shrugged.

“It’s okay.”

“Oh, it’s delicious and you know it,” she teased with a grin, nudging him towards the drink drop off area. Checking his watch, he mumbled something about getting to work as he kissed her cheek, briefly pausing to grin back at her. “I’m not sure we can afford us both drinking here.”

He turn and ran before her hand could promptly hit his arm, all the while his laugh could be heard until the door to Starbucks closed. Taking a sip of what he did admit to himself was good coffee, he turned the corner to his running car. Giving a good morning greeting to a pair of elderly ladies, T descended into the car and shifted all the gear around promptly. There were definitely days he wished a police car was just a normal car. Pushing the laptop away to make room for his arm (was this car shrinking?), he settled in and pulled the car out into the road. After a few aggravating minutes of maneuvering through traffic, tempted twice to use his emergency lights, he pulled into the station and took his coffee with him.

“Morning, Joe,” T nodded solemnly to a fellow officer as the two passed. He was flashed a grin at his coffee cup and he lifted it up for the man to see. “What can I say? It’s good.”

Dropping a few daily items on his desk, he squinted at a report left on his desk. Quietly sighing, he wondered if asking to be demoted would go over well.

[Charlie Holden]

((Hope you don't mind me snagging this! ))

Charlie Holden, Gotham PD Lieutenant and skirt-chaser extraordinaire, was bored. He was bored with his usual routine, bored of dating the same type of woman (though this he would never admit aloud) and bored with the cruddy paper-pushing he had been assigned to since his return to the office a mere three weeks after he had nearly been killed by one of the newest additions to Gotham’s resident freak show. Having spent the last solid ten minutes screwing up random pieces of scrap paper on his desk and aiming them at the mini basket-ball ring he had suctioned to the wall above his waste-paper bin, it was safe to say that he things were looking pretty bleak until he spotted a familiar arrival through the glass walls of his office.

In a mad (and some might say ‘immature’) scramble to free himself of his chair and nearly tipping himself backwards in the process, he walked briskly towards the desk of Tameem Nasri. Not that he had been snooping or anything, but Charlie had just happened to see a new case file on the Sergeant’s desk that morning which was of great interest to him, particularly because the perp was none other that the deadly redhead who had very nearly caused his lungs to implode. Coming up on Nasri from behind, Charlie crossed his arms over his chest and reminded himself that he needed to get back to the gym to improve his tone.

“Is that the latest Poison Ivy report?” he asked as he nodded at the case file, the sigh not lost on him. Nasri was a fantastic operator and a great cop, but it was no secret that most of the higher ranking officers at Gotham PD these days were either corrupt or over-worked. Nasri was definitely in the latter category. It was only then that Charlie noticed the coffee cup on the Sergeant’s desk, resplendent with the familiar green icon. “And is that Starbucks?” he asked, surprised. “Jesus, Nasri. What, did they overpay you this week?”

[Sergeant Nasri]

(( Not at all! Thank you! ))

An eyebrow rose as he heard the voice from behind and recognized it immediately. While T was all business at work, he still had a sense of who he would be friends with outside of work and who he would always keep at the strict professional level. Charlie was absorbed into his circle of semi-friends as someone he would trust with his life in a bust, shoot-out or chase. However, he did not agree with some fundamental ideas that Charlie lived by; T’s mother raised him to be a strict lover of women, a protector and always respectful. Since it was no secret Charlie’s women changed as often as the peace in Gotham, this Sergeant silently judged him for it. In a show of knowing exactly who it was, he raised the report to the shoulder, letting him check a better glimpse rather than spying.

“Are we really calling her that?” he sighed somewhat in that statement, believing when the police gave validity to their ridiculous titles, they were validating their threats and actions. He preferred to look at them as psychotic, separated from society and meant to be taken, thrown in a room and forgotten about. Not encouraged. Granted, the report had the exact name on it and since her true identity was unknown, he would have no choice but to call her by it as well (though he would have no problem writing ‘Crazy Bioterrorist Jane Doe’).

At the exclamation of his coffee, the report found itself back on the desk and the coffee’s infamous logo was turned away from the prying eyes. T was happy to indulgence his fiancée in any expensive (as long as they could afford it) restaurant and whatnot, but whenever he ate alone, it was always the cheapest he could find. McDonalds was quite a regular on his menu. So when it appeared he was treating himself to ‘higher class’ food, he was none-too-proud. Turning around to cross his arms, he grinned only slightly (very slightly) and leaned against the desk.

“Fiancée,” T explained simply with a somewhat shrug, happy to place all the blame on her as long as she wasn’t around; if she were here, this conversation would be very different. “Apparently Folder’s isn’t ‘classy enough’.” The hand that had been neatly folded into his arms extended out for a formal handshake, the professional hello marked by T. “How are you doing, Holden?”

[Charlie Holden]

((Took a while - I fail. XP Let me know if/when you're ready to pick this back up and I'll move it back! Just so it doesn't get lost in a board cleaning or whatev. <3))

“Been better,” Charlie replied with ease, shaking T’s hand before slipping both of his into his pockets as he appraised his colleague with an inquisitive green gaze. “And hell yeah we’re calling her that,” he added incredulously. Not only was the newest whack-job to join Gotham’s expanding rotating roster pretty damn lethal but she was also sex on legs. It was easy done for Holden to slip out of his ‘Hey, you’re a cop, I’m a cop. Let’s talk cop-talk’ routine and lean instead towards the bawdy locker-room talk the men in the Department indulged in when they thought no one important was listening.

“You should have seen her, man,” he said intensely, leaning in toward T so that any eavesdroppers could hardly mistake his intentions. “Full lips, a magnificent head of firey red hair. Legs up to here.” Charlie made a marking motion at the height of his shoulders before emitting a low whistle. “She was a real piece of work, alright. Not to mention that dust shit she blew in my face damn near killed me.” Nodding emphatically and leaning back against the desk, his eyes took on a faraway look.

“Poison Ivy she most definitely is.” Then he smirked. “She’d make you forget about your fancy fiancé quicker that it’d take for her to make your skin itch, if you know what I mean.”