Chapter Text
Lightning flashed briefly in the clouds overhead, illuminating the former Van Dahl home, now the sprawling estate of the newly elected mayor. Tiny raindrops began to appear on the windshield of Jim’s patrol car as he leant back in the seat, apprehension gnawing at his insides.
I shouldn’t be here, the voice inside him said — his better angel, he presumed — with a warning tone. I should be back at the precinct. Call Arkham and make sure Tetch has been processed, go over the file again, call Lee…
He let that thought trail off and die. Mario’s face was still fresh in his memory, hovering over him in that hospital bed. No. The last thing he should do is call Lee.
The sky continued to darken and Jim continued to sit. He could still go. But he knew what that would mean for the next time he and Oswald crossed paths: enduring the man’s snide comments and icy glare and the barely concealed hurt in his eyes that seemed to reach out and tighten around Jim’s chest in a way he didn’t like to think about.
The key was still in the ignition, and his right hand hovered over it. He grabbed it. Forget it. Dealing with the horribly confusing emotions he felt surrounding Oswald Cobblepot was a regular occurrence; one more tick mark on his guilty conscience was nothing.
With a sigh, Jim pulled the key out, set the parking brake, and climbed out of the car.
The hanging eaves of the Gothic mansion loomed up before him as he approached the ornate front door and climbed the short steps up to them. The wind was picking up, whistling through the trees and biting at his neck, only heightening his apprehension. He reached out and knocked.
A minute went by and no one answered. He knocked again. Still no one appeared, not Oswald, or his housekeeper, or some dim witted lackey. Hand hovering over his gun, he tried the handle. It was unlocked. He eased the door open and stepped inside.
The entrance hall was dark, all the lights off. As his eyes adjusted, he scanned for anyone, standing or lurking in the shadows as he was all too used to nowadays. But there was no one. The house was silent. The only light was coming from off to the left, the gentle, flickering orange of a fire. A single pair of wet, uneven footsteps led off in that direction.
“Penguin?” He called. No reply.
Jim followed the footsteps into the parlor room. For a moment, he thought it was empty, but then he saw the dark shape huddled on the couch and realized it was a person.
The mayor was right in the center of the couch next to the fireplace, sinking into the cushions, bad leg crossed over the other and arms crossed. Oswald’s hair was plastered across his forehead, truer to what Jim was familiar with, and not the swept back, businesslike style that he wore when in a press conference or in the photos plastered across every paper, billboard, and bus stop in the city. This was more distinctly… Penguin, though in this case it seemed like nervous sweat that was responsible for the look, and not copious amounts of product. He still wore his coat, and between the added bulk of that and his hair, he looked like some small, wet, disgruntled bird hunkered down in a nest.
He didn’t move when Jim entered the parlor, nor when he walked over and stood in front of him.
“Ahem.”
At that the Penguin finally looked up and met his gaze. There were circles under his dark eyes, his mouth twisted in a deeper than usual frown, and his face was a bit splotched. Had he been crying? Jim didn’t dare to ask.
“Hello, Jim.” No smile, no wink. His voice was flat and a bit scratchy. He sniffed.
“Hello, Oswald,” he replied stiffly, both uncomfortable and fighting the urge to reach out and ask what was wrong. Instead, he settled on: ”What do you want?”
Oswald huffed and shuffled deeper into the couch, if that were possible. “Skipping the pleasantries, as always. I suppose it’s not unreasonable, given what circumstances we usually meet under.” Without uncrossing his arms, Oswald gestured towards the chair across from the couch. “Sit, won’t you?”
He could sense the cloud hovering over the Penguin, the fact the man was hovering dangerously on the edge between the simpering facade he usually wore and the unhinged killer that Jim had heard plenty about but never seen up close. (He suspected he’d never been allowed to see, his mind turning over the implications if that were true.)
He sat.
“I’m glad to see you’re alright, Jim,” Oswald said, and it irked him, the simple sincerity in the criminal’s voice, the way he curled his lips in a small smile that crinkled his cheeks and made Jim’s stomach swoop. “After hearing what happened with Tetch… well, it’s a good thing I wasn’t the one to catch him and his lackeys.”
Jim chose to ignore the last part.
“You are alright, aren’t you? Is there anything weighing on you? I know it may not always seem so, but I can spare a friendly ear for you whenever you need it.” Oswald blinked. It had to be the exhaustion seeping through Jim’s body that made him think the man was fluttering his lashes.
“You don’t need me to tell you how insane it’s been recently,” He said with a frown. “You asked me here for something, so get on with it.”
“Maybe I just wanted to talk.” The man’s tone was airy, but he looked contrite. Was it true? If so, Jim should just cut this short and go. He stayed put. Oswald continued, “Besides, it would be shameful, after all this time, to not be able to tell when something is wrong with an old friend.”
We aren’t friends, he almost said, the words on his tongue in an instant, but he swallowed them, alongside his professional pride. He was too wrung out to try and rile Penguin up. He didn’t even know if it was true, at this point.
“Valerie broke up with me,” Jim said, forcing the words out. It didn’t hurt to say as much as he’d thought it might. He should feel guilty, but he didn’t. He couldn’t.
Oswald snorted, but his eyebrows rose and his eyelids narrowed, focusing on Jim with a piercing intensity that held him in place like a squirming bug. “Thank god. If there’s one thing I’m sick of seeing, it’s Jim Gordon’s whirlwind romances that go absolutely nowhere. Though, you’d think after striking out twice a man would realize women aren’t his forte.”
He didn’t miss the emphasis placed on that word. “And you’re implying I’d have more luck… elsewhere?” Jim struggled to keep his voice even.
Oswald quickly looked away and shrugged with manufactured nonchalance. “All I’m saying is you’re easy on the eyes and you shouldn’t let lack of experience in other areas limit your options.”
”Who said I lack experience?” Jim’s voice rose a little, and he wanted to slap himself. Of all the bait to rise to.
Oswald seemed a bit taken aback and worried his bottom lip a little with his teeth. Jim’s eyes were drawn to the movement, lingering there as his mind went fuzzy for a moment. “No one,” Oswald replied after a moment, and he looked at Jim again with an odd expression.
The silence that came after that wasn’t awkward, just heavy. Heavy with implications and things unsaid and uncomfortable truths that no one wanted to admit to. It was Oswald who broke it, but not in the way Jim expected. (What had he expected? Feared? Hoped?)
”I didn’t ask you to come so I could drag you through the mud about your love life.” Oswald muttered. “I just… there has been a development, one associated with my chief of staff and your former coworker.”
There it was. Jim sighed internally. “Please tell me there isn’t another murder I need to bring him in for.”
The shadow of a smirk crossed Oswald’s face for a second. “Would I tell you if there was?” A beat. “But no. Nothing like that, I swear to you.”
”Then what?”
“…I don’t want to talk about it.”
Jim threw his hands up and braced himself to stand. “I’m not your damn therapist, Oswald. If there’s something you need to say. Then say it.” He stood and turned to the doorway. This was going nowhere and he had better things to do — or, at least, things he could convince himself were more important.
But then a cool hand wrapped around his wrist, the shock of the unexpected touch enough to still him. “Please,” Oswald said, leaning forward, unfolding from the couch. His eyes were wide, panic spelled out in his face.
He hesitated. (Why did he always hesitate? It never ended well.)
He sat on the couch to Oswald’s right and relaxed back into the seat, and Oswald mirrored him, though tension was still visible in his limbs. He let go of Jim’s wrist. The detective resisted the urge to reach out and place it back there.
“I’m so tired, Jim.” He said, voice so quiet it was almost lost in the crackling of the flames. “And when I’m tired I can’t show it. Can’t tell anyone. I don’t have many friends, Jim, I… I’m lonely, in my line of work. They either get killed or get away because they realize what will happen if they stay. And my best friend…” he paused. Swallowed. Shook his head. “I hope that after all that has happened… I can still consider you one. And that when I call you just because I don’t want to be alone with the thoughts swimming in my head, you’ll respond.
“Because you’re a good man, James Gordon. Even if you’re a self-righteous cop, you’re still a good man.”
“Everyone says that, but I’m not so sure I believe it anymore,” Jim said, looking at the fire, at Oswald, who from this angle glowed around the edges with yellow-orange light. His eyes traced the man’s jawline, speaking slowly, thoughts drifting. “I used to think that unwavering dedication to the law, the truth, was enough to fix things. And every day it feels like there’s someone new just itching to prove me wrong.” He blinked. “Maybe they’re right. Maybe you’re right. I’m a self-righteous bastard and should stop pretending otherwise.”
Oswald turned away from the fire to look at him, and for a moment Jim forgot what he was rambling about, because damn, was he handsome. No; he was pretty. Where that blinding realization had come from was beyond him, and he struggled to even focus on what Oswald was saying to him.
“No one said you weren’t a bastard, Jim. I like that about you.” His tone… it was soft, and there was a small smile on his lips.
Oswald leaned in a little. “I’m lonely,” he repeated. He was definitely fluttering his lashes now.
“Oh,” Jim said dumbly, then: “Oh.”
The realization of what Oswald was implying hit him like an arrow. He was pinned in place. Jim wasn’t thickheaded enough to not have seen the way Oswald acted around him, on occasions where they weren’t pointing guns and holding knives to throats. He could tell what was behind the rare coy glance, shy grin, and light touch when circumstances put them close enough for it. But those had always, since the beginning, been easily compartmentalized, along with whatever feelings had arisen from those instances. This, here and now — Oswald leaning closer, eyes trained on his mouth, wasn’t just going to be boxed away.
It had Jim grasping for any sense of normalcy, and he blurted out. “Oswald. What happened with Nygma.” He wasn’t even certain if it sounded like a question, the words barely came out.
Oswald recoiled like he’d been burned. “Jim—”
“You call me over here, say something ‘happened’ with Nygma, and now you’re almost in my lap.” He was too breathless to sound annoyed, but he tried. “I’m not that stupid.”
“I apologized for making fun of your lack of romantic prowess, don’t turn around and do the same to me,” Oswald hissed, then snapped his mouth shut and reddened. He looked furious with himself.
“So I’m your second choice, is that it? To Edward Nygma?” He wasn’t sure whether to be proud or offended.
With a huff, Oswald was back in Jim’s face again, this time grabbing his tie and holding him there. “Do you really want to be discussing that right now?” His breath ghosted over Jim’s face, pert lips puckered ever so slightly.
Despite the image before him wrecking complete havoc on Jim’s mental fortitude, he still knew what the correct answer was. The door hadn’t moved, and his keys were still in his pocket. But after everything, all this, even the correct answer didn’t feel like the right one.
“Not really, no.” He replied. And they were both leaning in and Oswald’s lips were covering his own and Jim realized he was more desperate than he thought.