Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

If I am stranded, I know where I am – I just can’t get away.

“The creature is here, again.”

Jim startled, looking up from his brown files, pages slightly curling from the sweat on his palms. Michelle Luck was a tough case, as tough as they got, and as grisly too –  wrong place, wrong time, wrong everything. Somehow all the clues were there, but right when they were called upon for examination, they slowly turned flimsy until they were reduced to useless scraps; another tiny mirage vanishing in the vast desert of hope that was Gotham.

“God, that little rat is a massive pain in the ass. Yours especially, Jim.”

Harvey slurps from his coffee, looking unusually prim for once despite the audio. This case had not taken the slightest toll on him, seeing as he had thrown in the towel the moment their first clue had backstabbed them, leading them to a dead end 43 miles out of the city. And despite her professed support, it was obvious Essen was hankering for them to work on the next case; the city needed them to yield results, not chase after wild geese.

“Can’t stick around to help, unfortunately. Have a date with a hot number, and have no patience. You’ll have to take that on yourself, pal.” Harvey scrunched the paper cup and threw it on his desk, only to pick up his hat and coat, ready to take his leave. “You could have shot him, you know, saved us all the trouble – but you had to go and be a moral jackass. Now stew in it. Uncle Harvey’s off to see the Plum Fairy.” he said, his giddy voice building up with sleazy excitement, all previous reproach swiftly fading.

Before Jim could say anything, he bounded down the stairs, strolling through the bullpen and past the arrest commotion to charge for the exit, only stopping to pat Oswald’s hair and laugh cruelly when the man shied away.

Right. Right.  

Unlike Harvey, Oswald looked completely beaten down – his suit ripped up and muddy, his matted hair framing his filthy face, an ugly, deep cut on his left cheek bleeding profusely. When he was escorted to the holding cells, Jim could see his limp was much more pronounced than normal, his face tight with pain – a picture of misery, and Jim couldn’t remember ever having met someone so inherently pathetic.

The ‘creature’ was indeed very mysterious. The way he begged for his life, almost disgusting in its shamelessness, its jittery intensity. But when allowed to live, how prissy and proper he was, with eloquent opinions, kind requests and business intentions. It bothered Jim greatly. Or how sensitive he was, Jim could see, when Harvey teased him, his opportunistic sadism too thinly veiled when it came to Oswald.

“He doesn’t need it, he’ll be fine.” he’d shouted to the paramedics last month after letting uniforms pull him out of the river, waving away the offered blanket. “Big boy, aren’t ya, Penguin? That’s right, pet.” He’d laughed when Oswald had shivered too much to ignore, a death glare sent his way, perplexed paramedics tinkering with their supplies to steal curious looks; Jim too tired and busy to put an end to this. He should have done something. He is a good man, he’s meant to help people. He is also a weak man, with basic instincts and tendencies he tries not to nurture, but they pop up in various forms, nonetheless. Oswald might be dirt, but he is the fragile sort of dirt Jim didn’t feel too comfortable leaving open to Gotham’s freezing elements or Harvey’s bullying. A little too short, a little too skinny, the trembling line of his small mouth just that side of delicate.

The creature was also looking at him now, wet eyes wide and longing, but not quite enough. Jim is a homicide detective. He is on a case, the toughest one yet, and he cannot waste his time doing the job of uniforms. They can deal with this unsightly mess, and all his quiet snivelling.

Michelle Luck was last seen by Mercier’s Place on November 28^th. He has to go back there, try again – press harder, dig deeper. And he has to contact her parents once more, officially to give his meagre update, but mostly to make sure Michelle was indeed a real person and not an apparition concocted in his sleep-deprived state to satisfy his clear need for torture.

Oswald could…wait.

When he finally gets back, it’s past 1 a.m. and it is some reprieve, how the station has finally calmed down, settling into a bizarre hum of nocturnal crime; it’s still noisy, because this is Gotham, but not quite the trademark hysteria he dreaded. It must be a quiet night, as has been the case for the past few days, almost like Michelle’s slaughter was graphic enough to warrant a feeling of unease or maybe satisfy some itch.

But Jim knows better than that. This is some sort of calm before the storm; he can feel it brewing, something sinister stalling with intent.

Oswald is not in the holding cell anymore. He must have been acquitted, the charges dropped like lava, a friendly call from Maroni enough to make the big bad go away. He doesn’t ask around because he doesn’t care. He wants to see his apartment again, wants to see his bed, even wants to eat the leftover pizza from 2 days ago. Why? Because that is his life now, and he has learned to look forward to this cheap, catatonic kind of downtime – stale takeout with the brainwash of sales TV, and 4 hours of sweaty, beer-smelling sleep (even though he doesn’t touch the stuff, a whiskey man to his hard core).

He's waiting for something himself, this inertia a symptom of some future horror or brilliance.

Jim soon discovers that Oswald is not in the holding cell because he is sitting in his chair. Jim’s chair. Handcuffed to it by both arms.

He  tries not to let it show, how much he dislikes his colleagues, but it’s times like these he just can’t deal, cursing the department and everyone in it. Damn it.

There’s no officer standing by, but there is a new file on his desk with a note attached to it – clearly deemed to be a suitable substitute for professional police work. He leans over his desk to grab it, Oswald silently watching him beneath his cuts and bruises, the chair gently swivelling to follow Jim’s movements. They don’t exchange a single word while Jim checks the file, which he is grateful for.

Oswald is not cleared, and there was no phone call. He was arrested during a brawl in the Narrows, a secondary lead in Luck’s case identifying a number of participants as potential witnesses or suspects, leading the police to arrest the whole lot. They thought Cobblepot knew something, but left the honour of interrogation to Jim, him being the lead detective on the case. The note said they had already let go most of the other suspects, but Cobblepot looked promising.

Go to hell, he thought, for never showing one shred of human or professional decency. Maroni would call by tomorrow morning. And then what? Drop his other leads and interrogate Oswald by force in some alley? A second arrest without solid evidence would warrant more than a friendly phone call, and Jim just. cannot. handle. this. It was either ask his questions now, or miss his chance. Alvarez could have interrogated Oswald himself, but no–

…Goddamn it.

Harvey.

“You’ll have to take that on yourself, pal.”

Makes sense now, why no one could bother to ask a few basic questions. Jim should have known.

Goddamn it all.

What was even the point, though? Ask Oswald what happened to Michelle, who killed her?

Who is Michelle Luck? He can already hear his answer, playing dumb and acting like the holy dove. No one saw anything, no one heard anything. Michelle was a ghost that was never even there in the first place; an illusion, a trick of the light, a mass hallucination.

He turns to look at Oswald, throwing the file in the bin. Lost cause, this one. Jim doesn’t doubt Oswald knows something, but he is innocent of this crime. Despite the unsteady waters Jim is treading, at least he knows this wasn’t a mob hit. This was some other kind of monster.

“Jim?” Oswald’s hoarse voice is quiet, tentative. “Jim, I didn’t do anything. Promise. You have to let me go now, okay? Please.” He twists around in the chair, lifting his wrists for Jim to release him, and there is something decidedly childlike shining through the gesture; Jim kind of wants to hit him.

“Jim, my friend, please. You know Don Maroni will…” Oswald’s voice weakens with uncertainty. “Jim? Why are you looking at me like that? I swear this is worse than it looks. Just flesh wounds.” He chuckles nervously. “Jim?”

Jim’s exhausted, starving. He’s dead inside, and he just saw this again, this look Oswald gives him sometimes, by now instantly recognizable and no less upsetting for being warped by the red ruin of his face.

He knows what it is, of course. Or rather, he has a working theory, a terrible suspicion. Harvey loves to pitch in on the issue every time they’re on a stakeout, and for the full 24-hour window of fresh, steaming opportunity after every run-in they have with Oswald.

“The little freak, he likes you, you know.” Coffee slurp. “Probably gets his rocks off to you every night or something.” Savage donut bite, then “Oh God, no – that mental image’s gonna leave a scar.” But Jim doesn’t know about that, mind flashing back to milky, freckled skin, a small, pouting mouth, the lithe, pale planes of bony hands grasping his own with a crumbling invit– Harvey’s fake (?) retching sounds, then a real startle as someone knocks on the driver’s window, the coffee spill fanning dramatically over the dashboard along with obscenities.

“I’m just saying, everyone in town knows Penguin’s got the hots for you.” SMASH! “You saw him today –  looking at you like the Virgin Mary, bloodied from head to toe.” WHAM! “I bet you star in every depraved fantasy that little punk has ever had.” Knocking, slamming, ramming into doors, abandoned dust sneaking into their DNA, guns heavy in their hands as they trespass. “Now Fish is different. Woman has style, dignity.” THUD! Oswald’s sweaty face in distress, shouting for them to wait up as they run from a shower of bullets; the shooters all amateurs, and quantity over quality just won’t do the trick. Maybe some other time, and Jim doesn’t think back to hurting eyes and wincing lips, or looming, breathy forgiveness the next day.

So, he thinks he knows what this is – what Oswald is, his…kind.

“Jim?” Wide eyes like plates of aquamarine. Pretty. Dark circles like obedient bruises, staying right within the lines of the designated hollows, tight with dried tears and smudges of black makeup. Disgusting. Somehow he always looks like this, both pretty and disgusting – repulsive, with his damp, dainty fingers and greasy, styled bangs, so bizarre Jim’s tempted to join in on Harvey’s cruel teasing sometimes, tell him he looks and smells exactly like wet dog when soaked with Gotham rain. Leave him to fend for himself, despite the dawn of murder on his tail last winter.

He hadn’t, regretfully. He’d taken Oswald to the nearest alley, ashamed, letting him grasp his coat arm with 3 fingers to calm him down while he summoned all his might to come up with a plan that didn’t end up with them clocking out at the morgue; shallow, panicked breaths the soundtrack to Jim’s resignation – he’d turned stone cold as a statue when Oswald had tried leaning into him, a step back enough to redraw the line.

Jim has come to terms with it, how he will always notice both no matter what he does, or how broken down he feels; these were just the ways of the creature, the repercussions of his pathetic make.

“Oswald.”

Oswald stutters, almost surprised, eyes kind of alight. He leans forward, pushes his cuffed hands up again, thinks he has Jim; probably claps himself on the back, congratulates the spidery schemes festering behind his ropey hair – we got him again, gentlemen, a very well done!

Jim thinks he’s just so wretched.

He grabs the tiny key off his belt and yanks Oswald’s hands towards him, unlocking the cuffs and jostling him as much as he can without raising too many questions in this beautiful, vile creature.

“Jim?”

“Get the hell out of here.”

“Jim, I – “

“Leave, Oswald. Go crawl back to whatever hole they dug you out of this time.” He hadn’t bothered taking off his coat, and that suits him just fine, throwing the cuffs on his desk and taking a sharp turn heading for the stairs.

He’s almost at the base when he thinks better of it, makes a run up to his desk. Oswald is still looking at him, too stunned to have moved.

Jim can’t just leave him there, by his desk. Who knew what he’d find (or not find) tomorrow morning: anything from newly lightweight files and expertly trimmed documents to Oswald somehow still standing there, maybe having handcuffed himself back to Jim’s chair, refusing to leave until they could do-over the entire scene to his liking.

This time, James, I want you to look at me like you mean it.

He reaches for Oswald, his instinctive step back a great victory in these small hours. He grabs his arm hard and starts dragging him down the stairs with him, as merciless as he can muster with the mangled leg dragging helplessly in his peripheral.

“Jim, what are you doing?! Let me go! Jim! I’ll be good, I promise!”

Oswald whimpers, then makes another low, whining noise behind him as he trips over his feet.

Something in Jim calls out for him to stop and comfort this tortured mess, perfectly matched in its potential as the niggling urge to turn and pummel the creature until he cries for real.

His fingers lock like a steel vice around Oswald’s arm, pulling him faster and faster towards the precinct’s exit until finally they make it out to the street. A few cops shoot them odd looks, almost caring for this speck of a commotion the way they never do for a multi-body massacre. Jim thinks about losing it and yelling at them to mind their own fucking business, and apparently contemplates engaging in that cathartic display a moment too long, so that it takes him a while to hear it.

To hear Oswald, crying behind him.

Genuinely crying, real tears descending down his dirty cheeks.

Oh, honey.

Jim freezes as if at gunpoint; it’s not the sight, but the thought. It has come to him bare, as instinctive as Oswald’s retreat a few minutes earlier, back at his desk. It stands still in the middle of him mind, embarrassed to be had, yet rings gently to his very finger tips, echoing the shy sentiment, and Jim just…

…Oswald might be dirt, but he is the fragile sort of dirt…

Jim sighs – lets go of Oswald’s arm, trying to ignore the slight shaking of narrow shoulders. Jim doesn’t want to make the little freak hurt…not like this.

Oswald is still sobbing, his shoulders hunched as if to get away from Jim, his small mouth pinched with pain. Jim looks down and can immediately tell something is wrong, more than usual; the twist of Oswald’s leg somehow novel, as if Jim put a new spin on it.

Jim recalls Oswald from what feels like an eternity ago, evening beat cops dragging him to the general holding cells, his limp more pronounced than normal, the taunts of those who serve and protect a little greater in volume.

…Oswald’s pretty eyes searching for him, wet with pain, then wide with longing as he spots him; his mouth taking the shape of his name…“Jim”…

“J-Jim.” His face is a watercolour mess of blood and tears, sweet red with salt black.

“Oswald. Fuck. I – ” Jim just wanted to go home, didn’t mean for this to happen.

Why didn’t Maroni just call?

Jim looks at Oswald, lens focusing for the first time, and he can see how badly this day has taken a toll on him – the fight in the Narrows, the arrest, the none too gentle bedside manner of patrol cops and Harvey (the harsh pets to Oswald’s hair, the showmanship of wiping his hand on some other arrestee’s coat), then locked in the holding cells with thugs twice his size...

He’s probably scared; probably in greater pain than he lets on – the crusty cut on his cheek a botched brown and quite abhorrent – and still, he lets on quite a bit. Probably wants Jim to do something about it.

“Sorry.” His voice is rough, rusty iron. “Stop crying.” He can’t stand the sight of it, now, can’t bear the sound, not at goddamn – 1:28 a.m.. “…fucking stop.”

“J-Jim, it h-hurts, m-my leg – “ He sobs harder, looking so helpless Jim knows what’s up immediately, what the little pest wants; can see the master plan.

(Except maybe there is no plan, just insult upon injury; a swollen, busted ankle and Oswald’s slight, sensitive nature shining through the layers of superimposed sadistic grime, head turned to the side in warm waves of embarrassment.)

He’d flag a taxi, the hour the least of his problems, but it’s not like he wants to advertise what he’s about to do, which is compromise his principles and career to help someone who’s last reported escapade had made Essen vomit – quietly, politely, and only after the briefing was over, crouching behind her desk to emerge grey and shivering.

Nicholas Maani, 21.

Jim fixes Oswald a stern look, then barks. “Stay.”

He doesn’t bother waiting for Oswald’s reply, finding his way to his car as fast as he can; in less than 5 minutes he’s pulling up in front of the precinct.

“Oswald. Get in the car.”

“J-Jim. Jim. W-where are you talking me? I didn’t – Don Maroni will –”

Jim’s patience runs out like that last bit of precious sand in the hourglass. He yanks Oswald forward with him, his sleeves curiously damp – pushes him to the car, and in the backseat. He should be more careful, he knows, because all this whimpering must be embarrassing – and that is an offense punishable by murder in Oswald’s eyes. But Jim prefers to let the messes pile on until he can face them without the risk of prying eyes, so he just gets in, and drives the car home.

Chapter Text

If I am lost, I don’t know where I am – I need to find my way.

His apartment is dark and damp – reeks of sweat and whiskey, a great deal of decay. Jim knows the mouldy walls are slowly killing him, but he is leaving his mark on them too, happy to repay in kind with cop rot.

Jim will take with him anything he can reach on his way down.

Oswald scans the contents of Jim’s living room before limping inside – hesitant – but Jim knows he clocks all his possessions like a bloodhound.

Jim owns a record player; I shall buy him a rare vinyl and make sure to bring up his lack of reciprocity next time our lives are in mortal danger. That will make favour bank.

Pain momentarily forgotten, he’s trailing his fingers over the singular piece of antique Jim’s got, his face relaxing as he takes in the trinity of golden frames – Jim and his mother, several Christmases ago; Jim and his father, Sunday morning and only a few weeks before his death…

Jim in the army, kneeling at the beach: crew blond shining in the clean light of dawn, boyish smile and healthy-looking, arm slung over the German shepherd by his side – a purposeful, happy idealist of 22 years old...the camaraderie and grit overwhelming his senses, the ‘good soldier’ of his Sergeant puffing his chest but never his head.

That’s all Jim’s ever wanted to be, really. He keeps chasing that minty feeling, that fresh light of barely morning, with sand everywhere and salt in the sparkling wind.

Keep chasing that feeling, the goodness of sunup. Keep scrubbing harder for Gotham to shine. Keep Essen on his side. Keep telling Harvey to stop pushing Penguin down the precinct’s stairs. Keep trying to teach Ed tact and distance; keep being his friend, somehow.

Keep pushing Oswald out of his dreams, his soft sighs and white back, his pink mouth and spread knees…

“You look happy in this picture…” says the creature, and Jim is jostled out of his thoughts, disturbed by the gentle whisper.

“You look like shit.”

Oswald looks up at him, face tightening with misery.

Jim doesn’t want to see this mute hurt, only wants to pass out on his bed like all the normal cops do – drunk and beat with exhaustion, flashes of full breasts and chemical blond a lullaby to shaky limbo.

Maybe think of Barbara’s soft curves as he tips his head back, open-mouthed, to let the night overtake him…

“I have to check your leg.”

Oswald looks spooked, a cornered animal.

“I don’t think that’s the best idea.”

“I wasn’t asking.”

“This is none of your business. Don’t touch me.” Oswald seems to be recuperating fast, and Jim would rather not have to deal with this.

Jim strides forward, gets to Oswald and pins him to the nearby couch, sick of stalling. He kneels, slightly elevating Oswald’s injured limb before pulling up the pant leg to reveal his overheating, swollen ankle.

Oswald stops struggling, immediately. Jim feels him tense above him though, feels trembling fingers on his shoulder, prompting him to look up.

“Don’t make it hurt. If you really have to look, just don’t–” His breath hitches as Jim goes to work, the medical supplies eternally strewn across his coffee table coming in handy.

He presses at the lump, trying to assess the damage. His fingers are rough after a 12-hour shift and Oswald’s jittery attempts at pulling away make him feel even shittier.

“Stay still.”

“Jim, my f-friend...” His soft cries of pain almost make Jim mad, Oswald so outside the lines of what a man should be he feels the hysterical urge to give him the American spiel.

Big boys don’t cry, Oswald. Harvey keeps telling you this and you don’t listen, do you?

“Please, aah, that h-hurt...Jim, s-stop” He puts his desperate hands over Jim’s, trying to push them away to cover his busted ankle, protect it from harsh ministrations.

“Oswald.” Patience is a virtue Jim does not have. “I am trying to help you. Sit. Still.”

“N-no, no” He keeps trying to pry Jim’s hands away from the hypersensitive area, blind to the damage the reprieve he seeks could harbour.

Jim snatches Oswald’s wrists fast within the grasp of one hand, the other prodding where he left off as he bears the pleading he put off earlier today, paying his debt of audience.

“P-please…m-mmh, aah-h” Oswald keeps jerking in small, heated bursts of pain, shaking Jim and making his job that much harder.

Jim tightens his grip – can feel the clamminess of his wrists, the cold sweat and thin bones; can feel Oswald’s fingers swiping at his own, weak with resignation.

Can hear his startled sobbing, a pitiful vibrato that carries, as Jim experimentally turns the ankle side to side.

honeyhoneyhoneyhoney

Jim doesn’t want to be the bad guy.

Ashamed, he pauses; lifts his free hand and pushes his fingers into Oswald’s messy hair, stiff with product and dirt. Oswald jumps, makes to move back and sink into the cushions; Jim follows him slowly, not getting up or letting go, just leaning into the curve of the frail body in front of him.

Jim pets him gently until it all goes soft.

“You’re okay…” he whispers, a tentative ghost.

Oswald has calmed down now, the tears stopped in their tracks. He’s opened his eyes to silently observe Jim as he finishes patching him up. Nothing broken, but severely sprained. Poor bastard. Jim can’t wrap the ankle yet though.

“You need to clean up.”

“…Jim, I don’t –”

Jim ignores him in favour of fetching a glass of water for Oswald to wash down some painkillers because they’re not even done yet, not with his left cheek looking like an overripe, particularly pulpy strawberry.

“Jim?”

He hands over the water, then rips two pocket squares from the pill card and throws them on Oswald’s lap. He grabs a nearby chair and sits in front of his curious patient; at eye level, the bloody cut on his face is so jarring it looks painted on, graphic like theatre.

“I really hope this doesn’t need stitches, for both our sakes.”

“It’s not too bad, I told you. Nothing I can’t handle, old friend.” Oswald smiles, a proud little grin brightening his face, chin held a tad higher; Jim would pitch in on the matter, having seen the little guy cry and wail far more than any human should ever see another do so – alas, he chooses life and keeps it professional.

“Sit still.”

“Your wish is my command, Detective.”

Jim huffs a laugh before leaning back to take in Oswald’s face, and for a moment, he wants to burst out laughing. Poor Oswald looks so mauled, like a crude cartoon or half a Carrie, his left cheek covered in it, his pristine right merely spotty with dirt and freckles.

Instead, Jim reaches for a hefty piece of gauze and dips it into Oswald’s glass, mouth quirking at the creature’s offended gasp. He starts cleaning the wound, wetting the gauze again and again until the ruby rivulets down Oswald’s cheek turn to pink, become a healthy clear.

Underneath, the skin is swollen and heavily textured, as if someone had grated his cheek against gravel until various levels of tissue had started peeling back. Thankfully, the damage is not deep enough to warrant proper stitches – probably – so Jim gets the honours of applying antiseptic.

Harvey is spending the night with the Plum Fairy, Jim with Oswald – all is fair and equal.

Surprisingly, Oswald is being a model patient now – slightly shifting but idle for the most part as Jim dabs that gaudy, godawful amber of iodine onto his cut, staining in short-lived silence. The longer he goes on though, the more the smaller man loses his goodwill, hypersensitivity getting the best of him. Little by little, he’s flinched backwards so far Jim is forced to loom over him like some Grim Reaper instead of weary nurse – unlicensed, yes, but well-intended. 

And Oswald’s a fully (?) grown adult; Jim has no duty nor desire to coddle him, or entertain this childish cowering.

With a sigh, he sits back in his chair instead of hovering over it like an idiot. Marring a fresh cotton ball, he lifts his free hand to grip Oswald’s jaw and lock him in place, mindful of his bruises but firm.

(Somewhere at the very back of his head, shy suspicion simmers – this is hardly Oswald’s first rodeo, and Jim wouldn’t put it past him to drag out this moonlit rendezvous on purpose, just for…for whatever it is that Oswald wants from him. But that is above Nurse Jim’s non-existent paygrade.)

“This will definitely sting.”

Alarm flits across Oswald’s features before he gasps, wincing and twitching with every swipe until Jim ends up cupping his uninjured cheek to steady him, fingers splayed, thumb resting just beneath his sharp cheekbone.

…This is new.

He’s touched Cobblepot before, sure, but never like this. Up close and personal, he can see the fine little hairs on Oswald’s face, can feel how soft the skin is despite the blemishes, curiously smooth and without a trace of stubble.

“Do you not shave?”

Had Jim been less tired, he would have cared more how bizarre his prying query rang in the dead of night, or at least noticed the kind of queasy territory he was entering.

“Excuse me?” Oswald’s eyes go big, predictably astounded at Jim taking liberties, though God knows Jim wouldn’t take them if Oswald didn’t give them.

Absentminded, Jim brushes over that patch of skin again and again, his thumb catching on the downy texture in tender rhythm.

How marvellous – his gangster has peach fuzz.

“You don’t need to, do you?”

He smirks a little, teasing and wanting to get a rise out of the creature, treat himself to the spectacle of his indignation. He catches Oswald’s eye, expecting some bemused expression of his – like he doesn’t quite understand what Jim is getting at, but whatever it is, he is not a fan.

Instead, he finds Oswald’s piercing eyes locked on him, his lithe body leaning forward, his shoulders pushed back to bring himself closer to Jim and press his face into his palm.

Jim’s intuition knows exactly what this is, because what is intuition if not recognition? Titbits from their past encounters culminating to destroy all reasonable doubt about Oswald’s intentions, and more, stuff that’s never happened, worrisome fragments from his sick dreams.

…Oswald’s jaw cradled in his hand, his own head thrown back cause it’s too much and he can’t deal – suddenly worried he won’t have time, will miss the chance to see his pink mouth open and full, his lips swollen and slick, his throat so pale as he swallows on his knees…

…

Oswald scares Jim like nothing else.

He yanks his hand back as if burned.

Then, using three medical-adhesive strips, he tapes closed the cut on Oswald’s cheek, pressing each in place – first the one, then the next, finally the last – in stone cold silence until the nausea subsides.

“Jim?”

En garde.

“Jim?” The creature sounds small and scared, and Jim hates it – hates him for bringing this to him, these unwanted thoughts, this stress and fear and doubt.

“Done.” He mutters. “Don’t get them wet or they won’t do their job.”

“Wet? Jim, I–”

“You need to clean up. I’ll wrap your ankle after.”

“Jim – you just…my face, you–”

“I don’t know what you’re on about.”

“No, Jim, listen– ”

“You smell like vomit and sewer.”

A black flash of madness and shiny evil illuminate the creature’s eyes.

Too far.

Not for the first time, Jim wonders if this acquaintance of his will be the one overlooked variable that kills him – not some big bad or great unknown. Isn’t that what they say? Not some stranger danger in a dark alley but someone close to the victim, someone they knew. Jim sometimes forgets that this small, childlike man is capable of coldblooded murder, of torture and true crime; he hopes he’ll live to regret it.

 “…Go clean up.” He’s tidying up his first aid kit, though he knows he’ll trash it within the week. “Bathroom’s down the hall, in the bedroom.”

“James.”

“Down the hall, to the left. Go.”

“…You expect me to– ”

“Yes.”

“But–“

“Oswald. Go.”

Oswald stares at him before turning on his heel to heed his order. Jim can hear him sniff passionately as he waddles away, a wallowing pregnant with complaint and neglect.

If he wants to be that way, that’s his prerogative. Jim is so hungry he feels scooped out, so he heads back to the kitchen to deal with the pizza leftovers.

Jim saved Oswald’s life once, yet somehow he finds himself in debt. He knows the creature keeps books in his head, always acts as if he is owed something – be it Jim’s attention, his respect, his forgiveness. Jim also knows this is Oswald’s game of pity, his sordid investment in conditioning; he can feel it working, this familiar slithering beneath his skin going wild as he makes his way to the bathroom.

He's okay now. He can do this. He waited, gave them both space, got himself together.

There’ll be no more mistakes.

He’s okay.

The door is closed but unlocked; inside, Oswald is leaning over the frugal basin, posture biased to a violent right as clumsy hands try to make friends of the water and his hair. His jacket is a tidy, rolled up bundle atop the toilet lid, his vest the weary cherry on top.

Oswald is only in his shirt now, a white marbled with black sweat. His sharp elbows stretch the fabric to form taut straight lines, his arms bent and lifted like the spread wings of a bat.

“What are you doing?”

Oswald jumps up and spins to face him, some water escaping the safe confines of the sink and splashing onto the floor. His soaked hair sends droplets sliding down his face; wet and loose without its styling, it seems much longer, making Oswald look a little like a frenzied, moody mop.

“Jim! You scared me.” He tries for one of his jittery laughs, but Jim can tell his heart’s not in it. “You told me to clean up.”

“Are you planning on washing your foot in the sink? Or the rest of you for that matter?”

A whore’s bath, Barbara’s voice giggles in his ear, submerged and fading within the molasses of memory, but still tinged with bursting life – Barbara stumbling to the bathroom, Jim, you made me late, now look at this…I’ll do it though, a whore’s bath you for darling, winking and carefree with her touch of upper-class.

“Jim. I may not look it, but I am tired myself.” There we go, the creature’s on the come up. “I don’t know what you want me to do. I didn’t think it polite to just barge in your shower.”

No bathtub, damnit. Oswald has his injured foot, looks like he can barely stand as is. And Jim’s apartment may be atrocious, but he can bear his own filth – no more though.

Jim speeds through a mental meeting and makes the executive decision for the both of them.

“I am sure politeness is the only thing on your mind – strip.”

Oswald’s eyes widen, momentary surprise overtaking his face with slack before he starts laughing. He looks quite amused and very fond of Jim, despite the nervous, stuttering air of his outburst.

“Oswald. I’m not kidding. Get in the shower, now.”

Oswald falters, yet keeps smiling up at him, tentative but with simmer beneath the surface, like a fizzy drink – sweet but spiky with pops. “As much as I appreciate your sudden interest in my wellbeing, old friend, and I do, really, I’m not quite sure I can…Please do not misunderstand me, it’s been a long day, and while I am grateful for this detour and the chance for us to spend time together, I think its best I go. My mother gets so sick with worry, I-I wish you could see how she works herself up sometimes, with me staying out so late…And anyways, D-Don Maroni will be looking for me, sooner or later, so you see, Jim, I really must–”

Oh, no, you don’t.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen – pay attention, ‘old friend’.” He locks eyes with Oswald, plastering on his bestseller of a fake smile: teeth gritted, face tight with mockery. “Either you get in the shower right now or I dump you outside my apartment. Choice is yours.”

Counterintuitive as his ultimatum sounds given Oswald is practically begging him to leave, Jim wishes he didn’t know the subtext that makes this offer a beacon of rationality. Oswald likes to put on his show of pennies. Or at least, he must find comfort in it, as if he thinks it will magically make Jim force him to stay – yet here they are.

Oswald’s mouth hangs open at the interruption, moving without sound before he backtracks. “Jim, I – well, it would really be so kind of you to let me stay, I’d be gone by 6, 7 tops, but truly I don’t –”

Bingo.

“Strip.”

“Jim.”

“Strip.”

“J-Jim, I –”

Something of dangerous substance must show in his eyes then, because Oswald looks scared again, though Jim can’t tell if it’s for real.

The creature’s hands start steady on the first button yet are shaking by the last, Jim’s eyes fixed on Oswald’s mottled knuckles. Oswald looks up at him, disbelieving then imploring. Bedside manners were never Jim’s strong suit, so he just raises his eyebrows, expectant.

Oswald takes off his shirt, his eyes downcast, his cheeks red. His torso is littered with bruises, a catalogue of pain: the yellow shapes of fingers on his arms, the brownish, blotchy spread on his sides, the mauve motherload on his stomach.

Jim feels the familiar weight of his professional judgement settle on his shoulders, the worn and weary insomniac that makes him good at his job. It pushes for justice, craves to ask who did this, and why, and would the victim like to press charges, surely they must, but he shuts down these urges, incredibly naïve and downright laughable when it comes to Cobblepot. He learned his lesson back at Mooney’s sordid base – the stark line of mercy separating casualties of mindless abuse from those who had it coming.

“All in fun”...

They’re both having a blast now, that’s for sure.

The creature pauses.

“J-Jim, would you…would you turn, friend? I just, well, t-this is i-indecent and I –”

Jim can grant him that, turns to ready the shower for his houseguest.

Still, he catches sight of Oswald pushing his slacks down his pale legs, an unsteady hand reaching for the edge of the sink to balance himself.

…But Jim’s mercy doesn’t have to be earned, need not be deserved, because one doesn’t have to work for reflex, nor pray or beg for instinct.

Jim offers his hand for support when the sounds of discomfort get a little too sincere for his liking, with uneven edge – is surprised when Oswald pushes away from him and leans against the wall, clad in his underwear only.

…Harvey’s thick fingers digging into Oswald’s hair, the smaller man shying away from the brute treatment…

“Oswald…” Sorry.

Oswald has gone quiet with shame, his face turned to the side, his breaths coming out short and sharp.

“That’s enough…get in the shower.” There’s no need to take it that far. “The water’s warm, should help.”

After a few idle moments, Oswald shuffles forward. He pauses before reaching Jim beside the glass sliding door, waiting.

Taking the cue, he steps back to let Oswald limp the last few tiles until he enters the cubicle.

Jim can’t help himself; can’t help the way his heart seizes with guilt at the sight of Oswald’s petite figure trembling as he stands there, lost in the middle of the shower, practically naked and in pain. He’s leaning hard to his right, his posture scrunched, and Jim remembers with a pang why he brought him to his house in the first place.

James, you monster…

Jim takes off his shirt. He doesn’t stop to think this through, lets emotion cloud his thoughts and muscle memory guide his motions as he undresses down to his boxers, kicking off his shoes. He hears Oswald’s sharp intake of breath, slightly muffled by the glass between them; turns to catch his eyes, wide as two full moons, staring at him with raw surprise.

Then Jim takes a step forward, slides the door open and gets in the shower with Oswald.

Jim thinks that, from Oswald’s perspective, he must seem as lost as he did, alone in this dingy stall only a minute ago.

Jim’s not lost; he’s stranded.

He’s also not so tired anymore, too wired as duty calls; Oswald may be obviously dirty, smudged with bits and bobs of occupational hazard, but Jim is caked with the filth of city life too, decent and transparent as it may be.

The water falls all around them with grace, hot and acoustic; the booth slowly filling with pearly mist, the clarity of glass fading into soft off-white. Hidden as this keeps them from the outside world, they are still two men in their underwear standing in the confines of a bachelor shower.

And here Jim thought Oswald was the one with serious boundary issues…

Jim looks at Oswald, immediately wishes he hadn’t, then kneels in front of him.

“…Lean back against the wall. I have to clean your ankle.”

There is glacial movement up above, Oswald shifting until Jim is able to get to work.

He moves with measured swipes, perfunctory and clinical as can be. Ultimately, he focuses on the pleasant sear of water down his back and the wet roar of their fuzzy bubble, Oswald’s radio silence an initially welcome but ultimately eerie visitor – dabbling in sweet anxiety and playing, playing, playing…

Finally, Jim stands up and soaps the loofah, offering it to the creature as if this limbo night is standard procedure and not utter madness.

He avoids Oswald’s face, somehow hoping this ‘too little, too late’ will make the creature’s dazed, open-mouthed stare dissolve from memory rather than haunt – or hunt, vicious and with intent.

Jim is scared of being prey, of losing this uphill battle with the worse parts of himself.

So he banishes stray thoughts, dreads the spiky flashes of Oswald’s bare shoulders – lonely-looking and creamy, heavily sprinkled with wholesome caramel spots.

How can someone so evil be this freckly?

The splatter on his cheeks is by far the most obvious, but this misplaced condition – belonging to the skin of children, not lowlifes – creeps all over Oswald’s body, down to his wrists and the backs of his hands, a disturbing detail on his scrapped knees.

Jim shakes his head – remembers he got to keep the soap, so sets about washing, hogging the hot water while Oswald washes discreetly, pressed against the shower’s corner.

For all his flaws, Jim excels at compartmentalizing – discipline and willpower the twin angels on his shoulders, and Jim lends an ear. They whisper to him about the ongoing investigation, Michelle Luck, her mangled body and butchered timeline. Jim runs through the evidence again, a quick mental exercise he’s taken up to occupy his anxiety, letting it pester his work rather than his personal, private affairs – keep out.

Yet, he won’t allow this routine to avail of autopilot, won’t let Michelle become a sick habit or, worse, hobby. Her case should needle him endlessly, should plague him with sleepless nights and nightmares, cannot ever be entertainment.

Jim retraces her last steps, recalls the clues splaying every which way, zooming in on patches of potential while he washes his hair. Jim sticks his head under the water one last time, a baptism of sorts as he vows to never let Michelle fade away until he can bring her a sorry smidge of justice, and they can both rest in peace.

Released from his trance, he becomes increasingly aware of Oswald’s laboured breathing, magnified by the small space and their prescribed proximity. He’s probably still hurting – an impromptu shower and last-minute pills hardly a substitute for proper rest, despite the admittedly lava temperatures. Jim’s been anything but magnanimous with the hot water; apparently, he’s been reduced to Barbara’s old tricks.

How predictable of him, to take the shape of what he lost and cling to it blindly, so that he fails to register the cadence of Oswald’s noises – misses what is now glaringly obvious as Jim stares at him, frozen.

The sight is breath-taking, not the way beauty commands awe but how fear stills all life, petrifies.

Oswald is pink all over, his cheeks a bright, burning red. His mouth is open as if he’s struggling to breathe, his lips softened from the steam, his chest rising in short, helpless bursts. When their eyes meet, the creature’s gaze is wide and afraid, much like Jim’s, but dark, his pupils fully blown.

And in the smoky silence of their own little world, most incriminating of all is Oswald’s erection, the hard line of it visible through his soaked underwear.

“I bet you star in every depraved fantasy that little punk has ever had”…

…

Jim is repulsed by the view, wants nothin–

His back, it was his back Jim noticed immediately, how perfectly white it was, how slender and how gorgeous despite the skew of his limp. Jim wanted to lay his palm flat between his skinny shoulder blades and slide his hand down, down, down to feel the smoothness of his velvet skin and –

Oswald’s eyes are locked on his, striking as if in technicolour and shining with need, his hand shy as it reaches for Jim’s face, tentative fingers twitching –

 – and beautiful, he is so beautiful, so–

Jim straightens up, grabs the door handle, and steps out of the shower. He picks up his solitary towel from the wobbly rack, grabs his comb from the mirror sill and armed as such, promptly exits the bathroom.

Chapter Text

It is not what he does, but what he is, the stuff he’s made of. Goodness is his fundamental ingredient, woven throughout his DNA and emanating from his entire being. Even if Jim was to do something bad, he would still remain as good as ever, because he simply cannot help himself; that is who he is. And if Jim ever did something truly despicable, what would be considered impossible to forgive were it anybody else, he would be ultimately pardoned, no questions asked – his foul play eternally overshadowed by his once-upon-a-time honour, his original integrity.

His kindness, his mercy: The pain on his face as he’d gazed at Oswald’s shivering body, carelessly cramped in the car boot, small and helpless as a baby bird. His fear had been that of a snared animal, so primal and wild. Quaking in the darkness as the car had sped through backstreets, an unstoppable force dragging Oswald to his premature death, he had silently called out for his mother many times – yearning for her comforting touch and so scared he thought he’d have a heart attack and die before they ever reached the stuff of nightmares: the desolate pier and rotten sea.

There had been a violence of light, clinical white signifying the end of the line. Then, amidst all the wretchedness, a warm hope cutting through Oswald’s fear: troubled eyes straying towards him, even as Detective Bullock passionately argued for the end of his miserable existence. Jim’s baby blues – so soulful, full of pity and care – as he gazed at his snivelling, bleeding face, searching for the strength to do what was impossible for him not to: be good.

Oswald had felt it then for the first time: this pathetic longing for the beautiful, merciful cop, this visceral need to latch onto him and never let go.

And here, in Jim’s home and most private space – where he washed himself…a-and possibly t-touched himself – this need had manifested in the worst possible way.

James Gordon is a very handsome man.

Before, it was hard not to notice his lovely physique, perfectly accentuated by his tight suits, which only got tighter around his strong arms when he would grab Oswald and shake him like a rag doll – shouting at him about business matters while his victim did his best not to cum in his pants.

So easy he was, and Jim was so forceful, so harsh with him.

More than one time he had sat down afterwards, all alone by the dumpsters behind Maroni’s restaurant – too rattled by Jim’s visit, he’d cry a little, angry and humiliated. A bit scared and still under the influence of his own acting, he’d whimper then flush all over, frustrated, because that is not what grown men did.

…But there were other times, when he couldn’t sleep at night, his cheek swollen from Maroni’s fist and blooming with bruises like a field of aching poppies. The memory of the Don grinding his face into the table – push and release then push harder to make a point of the pain, to make Oswald choke on his submission – so embarrassing, yet not half as bad as Oswald’s method of self-soothing.

Tucked in bed by his mother and kissed goodnight on the mouth, he was left half delirious – swaddled like a baby and drunk on cheap wine, treacherous hand down his wet underwear as he thought of Jim:

Jim being mad and stern like a schoolmaster, rough and mean; Jim asking him for favours, or saving his life; Jim killing, for him; Jim doing everyday things, like police paperwork or styling his hair or sleeping;

J-Jim p-playing with himself, making himself feel good after a long day at work. In the shower or in bed, n-naked and sweating, back arched, so strong, so beautiful, so, so…

Jim touching Oswald’s body, doing things to him that were inappropriate and debasing, things that made him beg and writhe until he came with a small cry.

That was before.

But now, seeing Jim mostly bare and in such close quarters, his body so pleasing to the eye as he twisted then bent while he washed…that was different, real and immediate. His soapy shoulders, the water running down his broad back, the blond hair on his arms…

His eyes searching Oswald’s – surprised, then confused, finally scared…of what? That Oswald would try something, would try getting closer, attempt touching? And yet…

Jim had brought him to his apartment. Isn’t that what people did when they wanted to…w-wanted to…

And he had touched his hair, had run his fingers through it like his mother did, had made Oswald want to kiss him – a little afraid because Jim was being too cruel, but overjoyed to be spending time with him, his pain a vivid background.

For a moment, Jim’s face had melted into something Oswald thought he recognized, so he had reached out, fearful and needy, mortified at the hardness between his legs but hoping against all hope for Jim’s loving embrace, his sweet kisses…

Then Jim had turned his back on him, had left him alone in the shower – the water getting colder by the second, his ankle buzzing with pain, shaky hands covering his front even through his underwear…his eyes glassy, his cheeks flaming, his heart broken.

Chapter Text

If I am gone, there is no way for me to find – off track with the world, I simply let go.

Jim’s out of the shower, but not out of his head. There is no way around this misery, he knows, despite those who insist on ‘mind over mood’ and swear by positivity. He has to stew in it, live with it, go to bed tortured. Over…over what? Cobblepot?

That little pest who looks much too diseased for it to be just a look, or quirky genetics; pasty and marked all over with an array of blemishes and scars, his beaky nose bumpy and permanently discoloured on the bridge, his walk so jarring for someone so young – not to speak of the actual damage, his ankle and shin butchered, because snitches get stitches but Oswald clearly did not.

That’s right – Oswald is a criminal, his hands bloody, his soul dirty beyond compare.

And probably…what, a size S, maybe even XS?

How does he kill exactly? Telepathically?

Jim wears his own pyjamas, then scavenges his drawers for the smallest pair he can find before setting up the couch for his houseguest.

His houseguest, who only a few minutes ago was hard and reaching out for him. Oswald, who is sure to be so mortified of that little misstep Jim is half convinced he’ll try to sneak out of his apartment, or disappear into thin air altogether.

He hears noise coming from his bedroom, feeling the panic drug of anxiety flood his bloodstream, that bit of muffled horror filling his stomach. There’ve been too many slip-ups today, too many triggers lately, too much leeway he’s been giving himself.

Be good, Jimmy.

He rubs a hand over his face and starts for the bedroom.

He finds Oswald lingering awkwardly in the middle of the room, one of Jim’s sheets wrapped neatly around his slim waist. His eyes are puffy like he’s been crying. Jim reasons he’s been crying all night, is injured and in pain, so this makes complete sense for someone like Oswald.

Nothing to do with…

There are dried tear tracks shining on his face, blurring his freckles then cutting through bruises, moonlit tattoos of white gold perfectly loyal to the curves of his cheeks.

“Shit. Sorry. I forgot to get you a towel. I did get you something to wear though. Nothing fancy, but should do the job.”

Oswald is slow to respond but manages a hint of a smile, a polite grimace with a short dip of his chin.

Something’s off.

“Thank you, Detective Gordon. I – I appreciate all you’ve done for me.” His head is bowed, his voice so quiet and breaking at the end.

What’s wrong?

“I’ll wrap your ankle now and then you can sleep on the couch.”

It’s not embarrassment, which is to be expected in the aftermath of their communal showering and…excitement at the end. That’s there too, but not alone.

He motions for Oswald to sit on the bed before starting to dress the injured limb. Above him, Oswald is deathly still, very tense.

He’s holding his breath.

Christ.

Jim sighs, so very tired and feeling increasingly wrong-footed.

“Oswald, what is–” Their eyes lock, just for a second, but it’s more than enough.

Fear. And not just the regular kind.

“Oswald…are you scared of me?”

Oswald’s hands are shaking, and he draws them closer to his skinny chest, curling in on himself.

No. Not scared of him, exactly. Perhaps…scared of others like him, back at the station – words thrown around, not too much but maybe just enough.

Dougherty had whispered faggot but made sure everyone had heard – Essen had frowned but said nothing, Harvey had laughed, Jim was too busy…and really, when had he become such a terrible person?

“Oswald, what happened in the shower…it’s okay.” He keeps his voice soft, his hands gentle. This is so – “I’m not mad about it. I’m not going to do anything, you don’t have to be scared of that, not with me.”

He would rough Oswald up to get information and speed up cases, he would grab him and restrain him if he had to arrest him, he would hit him if he fought back and as a cop would defend himself as needed, but he would never hurt Oswald over the nature of his affections.

They’re done now; Oswald pulls away, shuffles a bit to the left, turns his head to the side.

“Y-yes, Detective, I understand.”

He’s frozen in place, waiting.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” Jim doesn’t – “Oswald, look at me. It’s okay.” Jim could never, would never – 

“M-my apologies, I n-never meant to…That was unacceptable, I know, when you have been so kind to me, so graceful. It will never happen again, I…I-If you could find it in yourself to forgive me, sir, I a-assure you this would – ” He’s lifting his hands now, putting them in front of his face as if trying to protect himself from Jim.

But Jim loves Oswald.

He loves him, and he wants him, so he rises from his knees, cups Oswald’s beaten face between his palms and kisses him on the mouth.

Chapter Text

If I am gone, there is no way for me to find – off track with the world, I simply let go.

Oswald’s lips are unresponsive, his body stiff, but only for a few moments of Jim’s weakness. He is so lost in the sensation of touching him, desperate to grab onto this opportunity and show Oswald what he cannot tell him, show him right now what he cannot ever again.

Then he will stop, push Oswald away again, break his promise not to hurt him.

Jim could have been the man he wants to be if Oswald didn’t suddenly press forward so hard their teeth bump, returning his kiss and so simply making it theirs.

Their kiss.

“Jim, s-sorry, I–”

“No, it’s okay.” His mouth is so warm, so sweet against his. “It’s okay, baby.” He slips one hand into Oswald’s raven locks, his hair damp and soft, a little like feathers where it’s starting to dry. Jim presses gently at the back of his head, pulling Oswald closer but not up, wanting the smaller man in his arms but weary of his wounded leg.

Oswald is clumsy and obviously inexperienced, but so eager for him, tilting his head all the way back to turn the kiss sublime, opening his small mouth to welcome Jim inside. He’s making these high sounds at the back of his throat, whining and whimpering like no woman Jim’s ever been with before – so strange, like everything about him. Jim kisses him harder, torn between stopping to comfort him and easing his distress with each damning caress, with every fervent slide of his tongue.

Oswald’s hands flutter uselessly at Jim’s chest, then clutch his shoulders with all his might. The sounds get higher, more insistent, and Jim’s scared he’s made him cry again. “Hush, honey,” he murmurs against his lips, brushing his thumb over Oswald’s unscathed cheek. “I’m not going to hurt you anymore, beautiful.” More kissing, his tongue lapping firmly at the roof of Oswald’s mouth, strings of saliva connecting them as they pull apart for breath.

Jim doesn’t let go of Oswald’s face, leans forward until their foreheads touch.

Oswald is still sitting on the bed, and Jim is hardly comfortable, hovering over him and depriving himself of the body contact he’s starved for, so he nudges at the noirette until he’s lying down on Jim’s bed.

Oswald rises on his elbows immediately, reaching for Jim, his face open and full of wonder like a child’s, his stark eyes eclipsed, black as the night stretching out before them.

Don’t miss it.

Jim climbs atop the bed to straddle Oswald, claiming a prime position where he can finally touch every nook and cranny of this maddening creature, get a first-hand feel of his sly, shivering essence.

His lips are spit-slick and swollen from kissing, his bare chest flushed and on display; like with his face, there’s hardly any hair there, only pale skin with sparse scribbles of scars and his nipples, pink and perking from the cold.

Jim starts kissing him again – wants to bruise his pretty little mouth from the force of it. His fingers travel from Oswald’s bobbing neck to his cut collarbone and down his vulnerable chest, lightly rolling the tender bud of his nipple between his thumb and forefinger before pinching it tight. He repeats the abuse on its rosy twin, revelling in how Oswald’s skinny hips buck sharply – enough for him to feel the growing hardness between the noirette’s legs. Along with lust there’s curiosity about what he looks like down there, so Jim breaks the kiss to steal a glance, that traitorous sheet doing Oswald – undoubtedly as uptight about this as with everything else – far too many favours when Jim needs him naked yesterday.

“Don’t stop, Jim, please, I need…I n-need–” Oswald is stroking Jim’s face, his fingers light and jumpy, like maybe he’s not actually allowed to – maybe he thinks this is also a one-way street, like everything about their relationship until now.

In this moment, Jim wants to make it up to him more than he wants to save Gotham, or spare himself.

He takes Oswald’s clammy hand in his own, places their shared hold into his hair, half-smiling at him through his lust, letting him know it’s okay. More than okay – perfect.

“It’s alright. I want you to touch me. Like this, baby, like any way you want.”

Oswald is red-faced and panting, yet his gaze never strays from Jim’s as he brings up both hands to thread them through his hair, framing his face reverently. He keeps repeating this full petting motion, starting from his hairline and ending at his nape, similar to what Jim did to him in the living room.

Jim lets him, moves closer to nuzzle his neck and press sloppy kisses along his collarbone, the skin slightly sticky from water residue and his rising body temperature.

For a second, it occurs to Jim that Oswald might be playing this solely by ear, or that Harvey was wrong and despite what happened in the shower, he is not quite looking for what Jim had in mind – silently asking for something a great deal kinder, less sordid, clean and sweet like a kiss on the cheek…

Then Oswald’s touch trails down his face, his pointer and middle finger tracing the shape of Jim’s mouth, dipping in to feel the inner curve of his lower lip, his eyes fleeting from Jim’s and back.

“You are very handsome,” he whispers.

Jim raises his eyebrows, not expecting the compliment, definitely not expecting Oswald to catch up so fast when he was ready to slow down. Before he can respond, the noirette is kissing him, shy but sure of his experiment. His kiss isn’t lush or fashioned of flourishes like Barbara’s; it isn’t impressive, but unfiltered with innocence and thus endearing in its sincerity.

Oswald tastes a little like whiskey and green tea, smells like rain and antiseptic, moans in surprise when Jim bites him, a little harder than he meant to but only teasing.

Only a moment passes, then Oswald’s got both hands shoved under Jim’s sweatshirt, palms flat on his stomach. Jim bites back a laugh, certain that would never be received well, and keeps kissing him – pleasantly surprised at Oswald taking the lead and willing to let him have his fill, curious to see how he will navigate this gained ground.

Oswald pats a couple of times at Jim’s abs, then twists one hand so it lays horizontally across, splaying his fingers and stroking his belly, surer of himself and no longer testing. His other hand is mapping Jim’s back, sliding between his shoulder blades, fingertips grazing his nape before he whines into their kiss, moving his arm to tug restlessly at the hem of Jim’s shirt.

It’s cute. It’s fresh. Sue him, Jim likes it.

He pulls back, presses a kiss at the corner of Oswald’s mouth, makes a point to catch his eye.

“You want this off?”

“Yes, yes, please.”

“It’s only fair, no?” He lowers his gaze, looks up at Oswald again, smirking and not so subtly reminding him that he is more than half-naked – shirtless and using Jim’s sheet to cover up below the waist.

The answering blush blooms a sparkly, girly pink, spreading high on his cheeks and neatly blending with the bloody brushstrokes on his face.

You’re an easy one, aren’t you?

Jim kind of wants to coo at him, wants to lick him, to taste in high definition and feel in real time everything about him that is peculiar and unlike.

“Don’t tease me, Jim. Y-you know I don’t like that.”

That’s not what he’s saying though, is it? What he’s really implying is that Jim knows him, enough to know his likes and dislikes; is pushing for past rapport, reaching again for some imaginary world where Jim is his personal friend and close confidant.

Jim pities him a little, for being so alone he clings to someone who is, for all intents and purposes, his legal enemy.

Feels bad for him. Wants to make it all better.

He leans forward and kisses his ruddy cheek, the one where all the damage is, gentle as a fairy’s footsteps – slow, and featherlight, taken with care. Moves back to meet his pretty eyes. Gives him what he wants.

“I know, Oswald. But I’m not teasing you, not now.” He pulls off his shirt in one swift sweep, unable to stop the surge of pride at Oswald’s breathless stare – his doe eyes and twitching hands stroking his ego where life in Gotham has left him touch-starved.

He tosses the shirt aside, then cups the noirette’s sharp jaw to kiss his awed little mouth, letting his tongue travel as deep inside as it can go before sucking on Oswald’s own. Jim wants to drink from his mouth as if it’s the fountain of youth, wants to eat the hotness off his parted lips and feast on each odd spot of him, nip at every idiosyncrasy of his.

The smaller man starts, then settles, lets Jim greedily swallow all his anxious, pitchy noises, taking his fear away because like most things tonight, this must be a first. Oswald is a creature of strategy, and despite Harvey’s insistences, Jim doubts he ever planned for this…indiscretion of theirs.

Starved for breath and dying to feel his touch, he breaks their kiss, the both of them panting like animals. Oswald’s hands are shyly resting on Jim’s hips, had gripped him there when the biting had started, his fingers half-bunched in the worn waistband and pressing jerkily into the softer bits of tan skin.

Jim eases back to give Oswald better access and allow him to sit up.

“Touch me,” he whispers.

Oswald swallows hard and lifts his hands bravely to place them on Jim’s chest, at the top of his pecs. He tongues at his lip in concentration, his inky lashes fluttering before he seems to make his decision, his right hand keeping Jim steady while his left skims down to his nipple. Once again, he repeats exactly what Jim did to him before, the only difference his touch being unpractised and thus a little too rough.

“Hss—ah!”

“Sorry, sorry!”

“No, it’s okay. M’ just sensitive, that’s all.” Oswald looks at him, quietly surveying him before his fingers thaw. “Just be gentle, Ozzy.”

His blush is down to his chest now, and yeah, Jim thought so. He lets Oswald play with his nipples a little more, getting the hang of it, before he speaks again.

"You like that, don't you? Me calling you that?” His voice is low and thick, cloudy with lust.

Oswald’s bashful eyes dart up to him, a second of confirmation. Jim chuckles, terribly fond and stupid with need.

“Good boy, Ozzy.” The erection beneath him jumps enough for Jim to feel, and yeah, he thought that too.

Vindicated and increasingly aroused, he sits back while Oswald traces the contours of his torso, very careful now.

Jim likes this, likes looking at Oswald’s elegant hands against his body, the fine bone structure only made more beautiful by the porcelain and silk of his skin. Likes teasing him, sees what Harvey saw in the sport – but Jim doesn’t want to hurt Oswald, only wants to make him feel good, make amends for being so busy every time Oswald needed his help, needed someone to stand up for him.

This man’s touch has got him in a trance — swaying from the melodrama of his spinning mind, drunk on the marvel of sensory input, and ultimately half-delirious from the blood that is urgently rushing south. He only falls deeper when he feels Oswald’s hands venture lower and lower, pausing at his navel before slipping beneath, his bony fingers mapping his happy trail up and down, up and down…And while he’s likely gathering courage, Jim is constantly bringing himself to heel, stalling the urge to seize the noirette’s hands and shove them to his aching crotch.

Then there’s a palm on the tented front of his pyjama pants, clumsily moulding to the shape of him before squeezing hard. Jim’s hips respond on instinct as he thrusts forward into the smaller man’s grasp, delighted at being held like this. Oswald’s grip is warm and secure, his eyes fixed on the growing bulge between Jim’s legs; the massaging makes him moan, each base push of his pelvis having him growl, the aftermath of the pull leaving him groaning and desperate for more.

“James…you’re so hard…” he whispers, tone hushed and holy.

“Ozzy…fuck – aah, don’t stop.”

Oswald’s fondling falters a little, one hand moving down to fully cup his balls in a satisfying hold while the other keeps kneading at his sensitive manhood, the tight clutch at the crux of Jim’s thighs commanding a sharp snap of his hips.

“God, Oswald…” He kisses the noirette hard, pulling back with resolution. “You’re killing me,” he says before jumping off the bed and shucking his pyjama pants.

Oswald has turned his head a little to the side, as if he’s embarrassed or giving Jim privacy, and it would be endearing if it didn’t hint at everything that is wrong with him.

It makes Jim a little sad, and a little mad, gives him an idea that is a little mean but ultimately rewarding for the both of them.

“Ozzy, come ‘ere.”

Oswald takes a couple of deep breaths before lifting himself off the bed, keeping the weight off his bad leg, one hand straying to the mattress to keep his balance.

Jim wishes the sight didn’t tug at the heartstrings as much as it does. Oswald got his limp for being a greedy snitch, a traitor, a lowly criminal double-crossing the vile scum of this horrid city. It is, in fact, much less than he deserved. According to his own kind, he should be dead.

Jim goes back to him, sort of crowds him against the bed but without letting him sit down again; they have to be standing for his sordid plan to work. Mwahahaha…

…where does he get the energy, honestly…

“You okay?” he murmurs, hands coming up to frame Oswald’s face.

“Yes, fine – thank you.”

So polite.

“Leg okay?”

“Yes. You do not need to worry about me, James.”

“I’m sure. James?”

“…you called me Ozzy.” There’s that sweetheart blush again, the one that made Harvey’s locker room talk especially crude and insufferable – doubly annoying since its insinuations were hardly true, were being the key word – and triply annoying for being spot on.

“Fair,” he says, then loosens his hold to let one hand glide down, down – stopping to tweak one of Oswald’s nipples again, tiny and stiff between his fingers. He’s giving him that look again, the “holy dove” as Harvey likes to call it, because Oswald is not subtle; Jim kinda hated him for it – just another thing that made Jim Gordon stand out like a sore thumb in the proud gutter of the GCPD.

Not now though – now he wants more.

Wants to taste his clean sweat, to feel the skin-on-skin contact he’d sell his soul for, to touch him where he is most tender.

Wants to be inside him.

And his hand strays lower, knuckles brushing slowly down the noirette’s bruised belly. And lower still, fingers venturing to where Oswald has secured the sheet around his waist. He lets his touch linger for a heartbeat before grasping the fabric and pulling firmly, unveiling Oswald in all his naked glory.