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Chapter Text

The office felt empty without Ed. He should have been standing at Oswald’s shoulder, pushing papers in front of him and directing where to sign, or sitting in the chair across from Oswald, laughing at how easy it was run the underworld when you controlled central government. Oswald glowered out of the window, heart heavier than the clouds pressing down over the skyline.

Ed, Ed, Ed. Every thought danced to the same insistent beat: where he was, what he was doing, who he was with…

Oswald’s lip curled at thought.

What could Ed possibly have in common with a librarian ? How could she even begin to understand him the way Oswald did? It was a shame that cutting the brakes on her car had ended in nothing more damaging than a fender bender on Schnapp Avenue. Now Oswald would have to leave it a little before trying another method of eradication – and in the meantime, Ed and Isabelle would only grow closer, more sickeningly “in love” and there was nothing Oswald could do but watch.

Snatching the paperweight from his desk, Oswald hurled it as hard as he could across the room before letting out a primeval roar and sweeping an arm across his desk, sending papers and pens, a knife and a gun tumbling to the floor. Grabbing his cane, he swung it into the paneling, again, again and again, savaging the woodwork with every blow…

A click of a latch and a sudden “… think the Mayor would want—” before the voice was cut off and the door shut once more.

Oswald swung round, ready to strike and—

“This a bad time?”

“Yes.” Oswald snarled, tightening his grip.

But all he got in return was an impassive blue stare and a barely perceptible shrug before Jim Gordon crossed over to the liquor cabinet, picked up a bottle of scotch and two tumblers, then set the the glasses on the Mayor’s desk and splashed generous measures into each.

“Drink.” When Jim pushed one of the tumblers across the desk, Oswald made to push it back. Jim held the glass in place. “It wasn’t a question.”

With half a mind to pick it up and throw it at the other man’s head, Oswald knocked back the contents of his glass in one and set it heavily back on the desk. Within an instant, Jim had filled it back up.

“Why don’t you sit down and—”

“Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?” Oswald punctuated his question by swinging the end of his cane against the edge of his desk, the surface of his scotch trembling from the impact.

Jim didn’t answer right away, just took a sip of his drink and settled into a chair. This bounty hunter phase might not be as much … fun as when Gordon was a cop, but Oswald had no objection to the uniform that went with it. Tight jeans, black shirt unbuttoned enough to reveal the shadow of his clavicle; somehow Jim Gordon even managed to make the try-hard leather jacket and the cliche of a five o’clock shadow work.

“I came to look for work,” Jim said eventually. “No monsters on the streets means no bounty for catching them. Figured you owed me.”

“And how’s that?”

Jim raised his eyebrows. “You’re the one who drove them out of town, Mayor Cobblepot. And I don’t recall getting my million dollars for offering up Fish Mooney.”

Oswald took a breath and composed himself as he set his cane down.

“Bygones, old friend, bygones.”

“Can’t pay the rent with bygones,” Jim said.

Taking a seat behind his desk, Oswald reached for his glass and swirled the liquid inside. “I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place. This is a municipal office – unless you’re hiding a killer words-per-minute score, there’s nothing I can offer you.”

He made the mistake of looking up as he said this, gaze snagging on Jim’s. The two of them looked at each other for a long, still moment. Then Jim lifted his glass and took another sip.

“Shame I’m not a decorator.” On seeing Oswald’s puzzlement, he nodded at the splintered paneling. “Looks like you’re remodeling.”

A joke that deserved no response. Oswald knocked back the remains of his drink. “I believe that concludes your business, now if you’ll—”

“Cut the crap, Oswald,” Jim said with a sigh. “I know what this—” he waved his glass at the destruction around them—“is all about.”

“Oh do you?”

“You remember I’m a detective, right?” The supercilious glance Oswald aimed at Jim’s attire provoked a resentful tut. “I don’t have to be wearing the badge to be capable of figuring out a problem. I didn’t see Nygma out there and I don’t see him in here. Where’s your right hand gone?”

Scowling, Oswald reached for the bottle and poured himself a third measure. He’d been feeling dangerous before Jim Gordon walked through the door, now he was feeling positively lethal. “Out to lunch.”

“With Isabella?”

Oswald flapped a hand at the name. The way he added, “With his hussy.” Made him sound like his mother.

“Ed’s out on a date and you’re sulking.”

“Careful, detective ,” Oswald loaded every syllable with contempt.

Jim smiled, just a touch, then set his drink down. “There are better ways of dealing with this than trashing your own office.” Oswald raised his eyebrows in question. “Like talking to friend…”

An urge rose up to snarl back that they weren’t friends, that they never had been, that Oswald’s loyalty to Jim was founded on delusion that one day Jim would see him as someone worth respect. But Jim was still talking, his voice a touch lower, tone a touch softer. “… you can talk to me.”

The way he spoke, the way he looked, held a part of Oswald ransom: the part of him that felt something more enduring than lust, stronger than love – or hate. Something more dangerous than trust.

“What is there to say?” Oswald said, deflecting. “I’m concerned on Ed’s behalf. He doesn’t have the best of luck when it comes to women.”

“If by ‘luck’ you mean that he murdered his last girlfriend, framed her ex for the deed, then framed me for his murder…” Bitterness seethed beneath those words and Oswald raised his eyebrows.

“Well, quite. I’m concerned Ed is a danger to himself and Isabelle.”

“Isabella.”

“Whatever.”

There was a pause. Oswald knew that Jim wasn’t capable of letting go that easily, but when he said, “But you wouldn’t be so concerned if he were dating you?” Oswald nearly spat out his drink.

“ What? ” How the hell did Jim get there so fast? “That isn’t – you are making presumptions —”

Jim lifted his drink. “You mean, deductions.” He grinned over the rim of his glass. “It’s what detectives do.”

Within a second, Oswald rose, slamming his hands down, leaning across the expanse of oak to hiss in as menacing manner as possible, “Don’t you dare —”

“Relax.” Jim didn’t appear in the slightest bit intimidated. “I’m not going to tell anyone.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” Jim sighed. “Look. You can either smash me into splinters like that wall, or you can sit down and plan how to get Ed to notice you. Without killing his girlfriend.”

“You think so little of me, James.”

“An accurate measure.”

But Oswald did as Jim said, settling back into his chair, holding his drink close as he waited for whatever came next. Perhaps a trite pep talk from the man unwise enough to spurn Barbara Kean and walk away from Leslie Thompkins? Maybe a suggestion on how to style his hair, or wear his clothes, as if Ed was as simple to impress as the citizens who’d voted Oswald into office…

“Have you told him how you feel?”

Oswald cast him a disdainful look. No need to fill him in on the details: Jim didn’t need to know that Oswald had come within a whisker of having everything he wanted had it not been for that meddling woman.

“So it’s not like he knows and he chose someone else?”

This time that look he gave Jim was less disdainful, more murderous.

“I need facts, that’s all.” Jim studied his drink a moment, then looked up through his lashes at Oswald. “Because I’ve a proposition that might work out very well for the both of us.”

“Do tell.”

“You want to get Nygma’s attention and I need a job.” Jim paused a moment, but his gaze remained on Oswald. “I propose you and I be seen around together and find out what effect that has on Nygma.”

“Together as in…?”

“Dating.”

Oswald swallowed. “A ploy to make Ed jealous. Don’t you think that’s a little crude?”

“Does it matter?”

“Perhaps not.” Oswald considered Jim’s proposal, turned the idea over, envisaged all the avenues this could lead to. Ed was smart enough to know if he was being played… “We’d have to be convincing.”

“I can be convincing.”

The look that accompanied those words was enough to make Oswald’s stomach drop and he marveled at how composed he sounded when he asked, “And your fee?”

Jim reached for a piece of paper, scrawled a number and passed the paper back to Oswald. “Two weeks’ retainer - plus expenses.”

“I’ll pay for everything anyway,” Oswald said dismissively. “Dinner, drinks…”

“Hotel rooms?”

“I have a perfectly good mansion, Jim. If you want to stay the night, just ask.” Oswald quirked an eyebrow as he glanced up. A mistake, since Jim was still looking at him as if he were thinking about pinning him against the wall and fucking him. If Ed saw Jim looking at Oswald this way… he cleared his throat, glanced back at the figure on the paper and considered it money well spent. “This evening I’ve been invited to the opening of an exhibition at the Gotham Modern Art Gallery. I’ll send a car to collect you.”

“That works.” As he stood, Jim added, “And I’ll be staying…?”

“At your own apartment I imagine.”

“Not your perfectly good mansion?”

Jim’s levity had Oswald responding in kind, a smile threatening to emerge as he replied, “A little soon, perhaps.”

“I don’t think it’s all that soon considering our history,” Jim murmured.

Memories flooded in, uninvited, of being pressed against the wall in Jim’s apartment, a date that ended in arrest and a murder that led to something that neither had ever acknowledged. Slamming a lid on those thoughts, Oswald followed Jim to the door and handed him a cream card with the name and address of a tailor stamped on the front and an umbrella scrawled in black pen on the back.

“Ask for Benvolo Junior and tell him to put whatever you buy on my account. Do not show up tonight dressed like this.”

“I thought you liked the way I dress.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

Jim’s mouth twitched up in the corner, pausing a moment in the doorway to say, “The way you look at me.”

Chapter Text

When Jim had arrived with Penguin’s card and a brief that consisted of, “gotta look respectable by seven forty-five.” Benvolo Junior – a man with a mind as precise as the stitching on his hand-tailored suits – had given Jim a once over, asked if he always wore his pants that tight, then disappeared behind a slatted door so long that Jim wondered if it was a set up.

Two hours later, Jim left with enough clothes to keep him looking respectable every night for the next two weeks if that’s what the job demanded. There was just enough time to stop by the barber’s for a better-than-average trim and a wet shave that left his skin as smooth as the pressed cotton of his new shirts. Back in his own apartment, Jim draped his clothes onto thin wire hangers and squeezed them into his closet amongst his worn-out suits and easy-iron shirts before grabbing a quick shower and finishing off the dregs from the open bottle of scotch on his countertop.

Then, finally, he dressed for the evening ahead, almost afraid to check the mirror in case his surroundings tarnished what he saw. If anything, his reflection looked better than he’d expected. After much consultation, Benvolo suggested he wear a black shirt, black chinos and a charcoal bomber jacket with a subtle houndstooth check. The tailor had lamented briefly that he didn’t sell shoes before discovering he and Jim took the same size and insisted on swapping his own Italian leather brogues for Jim’s cheap work shoes. The result was good . Classy, even, and Jim wondered exactly how big a dent he’d left in Penguin’s wallet.

A rap on the door surprised him, but the person on the other side of the door didn’t.

“Harvey.”

“Jim.” Harvey stood on Jim’s doorstep, beers in one hand, pizza in the other and gave Jim a once over. “Aw crap.”

“What?”

“All this.” Pointing with an armful of Monty’s Best Pizza This Side of Little Italy wasn’t easy, but somehow Harvey managed it. “You standing me up for a date with that reporter?”

“How can I be standing you up when I didn’t know you were coming?”

“So that’s a yes.”

“I’m on a job…”

Harvey opened the box enough for a scent of oregano and hot mozzarella to waft out. “You’re turning this down for a job?”

“Jobs pay more than pizzas. I’m sorry, Harvey, maybe tomorrow, now—”

“James Gordon?”

At the sound of his name, Jim followed Harvey’s gaze down to the bottom of the steps to where Gabe was standing, umbrella up, shielding his bulk from the drizzle that laced the air above the alleyway. As he locked the door, Jim ignored Harvey’s weary, “You have got to be kidding me. This again?”

“It’s strictly business,” Jim called back over his shoulder, careful of the rickety old stairs as he hurried down them.

“You tell yourself that, Jim. I’ll just bank this ‘I told you so’ for later,” Harvey yelled back as Jim climbed into the back of the car and shut the door.

***

Gotham’s Modern Art Gallery lay on on the fringes of Gotham Village, an incongruously old exterior containing four floors of the greatest art from the last century. Barbara had loved the place and Jim felt a welcome kind of nostalgia as he walked up the front steps and through the glass doors. The press were there – a different gaggle from the ones he’d see at the precinct, their appetite for scandal focussed firmly on the walls of the gallery, and the people whose names might one day make it up there. None of them paid Jim any attention as a young woman checked his name and unclipped the velvet rope that led into a room buzzing with genteel laughter and the clink of glass flutes on silver trays.

Despite his diminutive stature, Oswald was remarkably easy to find in a crowd. He was amongst a group by the far wall, the deep indigo jacquard of his suit catching the light as he moved, one arm resting on his cane, the other lightly jabbing at the air. Jim’s gaze skimmed over the exquisite line of his tailcoat, then up to the carefully coiffed shock of dark hair. Power suited him.

Sensing the scrutiny, Oswald glanced over and the sight of Jim seemed to stop him mid flow, mouth open as if the words were caught between his lips.

Jim allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction and offered a silent thank you to the absent Benvolo Junior.

“Oswald…” He ran his hand lightly down Oswald’s arm as he approached.

“Jim, I, er—” Oswald didn’t flounder for long, and instead turned briskly to his companions “— this is Astoria Clark, textile curator for the Gothamheim, Philippe Melrose, artist in resident somewhere unimportant and, of course, you know Bruce Wayne.”

Jim saw the direction of Bruce’s gaze, and moved his hand from Oswald’s arm to the small of his back. Oswald stiffened at the touch, but all the boy’s attention was on Jim.

“I wasn’t expecting to see so many familiar faces tonight,” Bruce said, unable to hide his amusement.

“We certainly were not,” Alfred muttered from where he stood at Bruce’s shoulder, not looking amused at all.

“Late invite,” Jim shrugged, glancing at Oswald, who read Jim’s cue and added, “So nice to have the opportunity to invite a plus one instead of having to bring along the butler.”

The look Alfred directed at the mayor made it hard to keep a straight face and Jim reached for a drink from a passing waiter. When he’d offer up this charade he’d only been thinking about fooling Nygma, but if he and Oswald were to attend more functions as a couple, he was going to have to get used to doing this in front of people he actually knew. Which meant not giving the game away by laughing at their disapproval.

The group around them remained the same for a few minutes more before fragmenting and reforming, a new audience for whom to perform. Although the only role Oswald seemed able to perform was that of irritable party guest. Any time Jim made contact – a hand on his back, arms brushing as he edged nearer – Oswald tensed, and when Jim reached up to brush a little of his fringe to the side, Oswald veered away from his touch so fast that Jim had to pretend he was waving away a fly. Worse still, no matter what Jim said, no matter whether a joke landed or he managed to say something insightful about the art world, it seemed there was nothing he could do to get Oswald to meet his eye. After several rotations of small talk, Oswald made an excuse and steered Jim toward the next room with a, “We are, after all, here to admire an exhibition.”

Walking through the archway, Oswald cast a bored glance at the sculpture that dominated the central space, then cruised the first two paintings with very little interest before Jim brought him to a halt with a hand on his sleeve.

“What’s the rush?”

“I don’t care for art.”

“But you literally just—”

“Made an excuse to leave the last room so we could be seen together in this one.” Oswald scoured Jim’s face before scoffing an incredulous, “You think I actually want to be here?”

Jim tightened his grip on Oswald’s sleeve and tugged him closer. “I know where you want to be, Oswald…” Fuck. That was a mistake. This close, he could smell the pomade in Oswald’s hair: citrus with a hint of something more refined. “… but we’re supposed to look like we’re here together and enjoying ourselves. So don’t sprint past all the artwork, stop flinching when I touch you and at least look at me once in a while.”

Their faces were so close it would have been hard for Oswald to look anywhere else. His eyes were bright beneath the gallery lights, works of art framed by long, dark lashes.

“I can’t be the one doing all the work here,” Jim finished.

“Is that not what I’m paying you for?”

“Of course.” Letting go of Oswald with a shove, Jim turned away with a curt, “Just going to take a bathroom break and I’ll get back to work right away, mister Mayor.”

“Jim—”

But Jim didn’t care. He felt like a fool, going to all this effort to play a part that wasn’t appreciated by the one person he wanted to… No. There would be no thinking like that. As Oswald had so diplomatically pointed out, Jim was getting paid to be here. This was a job. One that came with a wardrobe allowance and a chance to gorge himself on champagne and canapes. That was all.

As he left the bathroom, he heard his name and turned to find Valerie Vale standing by the entrance to the gallery.

“Didn’t realize you covered the culture section of the Gazette …” Jim said.

“Didn’t realize you were cultured.”

Jim laughed, an easy, familiar dynamic.

“Actually I’m here on a rumour about our new mayor.” Vale raised her eyebrows. “A colleague of mine said he’d brought a guest. Few inches shy of six feet, blue eyes, great body. Wearing a particularly fetching outfit that looks like it could pay to fix the water pressure in your shower.”

Jim sighed. “What are you after?”

“A story.” Her eyes looked right through him as she cocked her head and smiled. “Seems a little rude for the man I’ve been sleeping with to go out on a date without letting me know.”

“I wasn’t aware we were exclusive.”

Vale moved her body against Jim’s and smoothing the material of his jacket as she said, “The only exclusive I’m interested in, is the one where you tell me what angle you’re working.”

Jim moved gently out of reach and back toward the gallery. “Nice talking to you, Vale.”

“See you around, James…”

Oswald wasn’t where Jim had left him. He’d moved on to the third room and was standing in front of a wall dominated by hundreds of photographs cut to the same size as the tiles in the bathroom. From afar, they made up a single image of two people kissing. The piece was called Intimacy and, close up, Jim realized that each print was a variation on a theme. Fragments of intimate moments; some easy to discern, like someone’s lips whispering in another’s ear or holding hands with nothing more than a loose crook of a pinkie, teeth biting into lips; others more obscure, inviting the viewer to scrutinize them more carefully, to decode what was on show, to choose to invade the privacy of the piece.

Jim came to a halt next to his date. After talking to Vale, he felt newly aware of where they were, how many people were watching. He and Oswald couldn’t afford to argue again.

“I thought you didn’t like art.” Wasn’t the best opener, but when Oswald replied, his answer came honestly, without mockery or resentment.

“I don’t, usually.”

“What is it about this that caught your attention?” Oswald glanced his way, but Jim kept his eyes on the art. “Could it be that picture three down and four in from the left that’s definitely someone getting a blow job?” He heard Oswald’s breath accelerate. “Or the one to the right of the center, with a pair of lips closing around someone’s finger?” Jim studied the photograph and thought of a time when he’d pushed his fingers between Oswald’s lips…

Still with both of them facing the artwork, Oswald leaned in, stretching up so his mouth was level with Jim’s ear. “The thing that intrigues me, is that those are the images you would point out.”

Before embarrassment could flush his cheeks, Oswald added, “But then, is that not what intimacy is? To allow oneself to be vulnerable? To offer up an opinion, a feeling, a hope, and see if another responds.”

Somehow, they were no longer side-by-side, but turned to face each other, Oswald’s chin tilted up, mouth parted as his breath trembled out between his lips.

“If I kiss you, will you flinch?” Jim murmured. “Because I don’t really fancy the humiliation.”

“I will endeavour not to humiliate you…”

“Stop talking.” Jim leaned in and pressed a kiss to Oswald’s lips, then, slowly, he risked a hand on Oswald’s neck, fingers lightly brushing the hair at the back of his head. At Jim’s touch, Oswald sank into him, shoulders relaxing, lips … not quite parting, but…

Enough, certainly, for anyone who might be watching.

They should stop. In a second, anyway…

But then Jim found that his hand had snaked further round Oswald’s head, gripping him tighter and his breath was no longer under his control. Oswald parted his lips in an invitation that Jim couldn’t have turned down even if he’d wanted to and he touched his tongue to the soft skin of Oswald’s lower lip, felt the waver of breath on his skin…

Someone over the far side of the room laughed a little too loudly, pulling them both out of the moment. Quickly smoothing Oswald’s hair, Jim let his hand fall back to his side and noticed how Oswald’s irises had been reduced to a thin ring of brilliance around the pools of his pupils. Without thinking, Jim leaned in and gave him a peck on the cheek.

“Come on.” He laced his fingers in Oswald’s free hand. “Let someone else look at this piece.”

As they moved along, Jim caught sight of Vale, standing amidst a group of other reporters. When she saw him notice, she flashed him a smile and mouthed the words “ I’ll call you. ”

Convincing as they’d been, Jim wasn’t sure it was enough.

Chapter Text

The hammering on the door was hard to ignore, but it was Ed’s priggish, “Oswald!” that actually woke him. Sitting up, bleary-eyed in the gloom of what passed for the morning sun, Oswald blinked at Ed until his face came into focus. His face – and the paper he was holding up.

Beneath a picture of Oswald and Jim on the cusp of a kiss was the headline Intimacy Explored – the caption for which Ed read aloud as he sat heavily on the end of the bed.

“Oswald Cobblepot, Mayor of Gotham and James Gordon, former detective of the GCPD pictured beneath Miles Galvin’s Intimacy.”

Snapping the paper back, he leveled Oswald with a cold, black stare over the rim of his glasses.

“At what point were you planning on informing your Chief of Staff that you A —” Ed held up a finger— “planned on attending a function at the Gotham Modern Art Gallery and B—” a second finger— “would be taking James Gordon as your date?”

“As I recall, Ed, you were otherwise engaged yesterday. Had you been with me when I replied to say that I planned on accepting such a generous invitation, then of course I would have informed you that Jim was to be my plus one.”

Ed wrestled with this information for a moment, brows twitching as he processed the facts before he said, “I wasn’t aware that the two of you were…” He glanced down at the photograph. “… Close.”

“Jim is an old friend, whose loyalty I have neglected of late.”

For a moment neither spoke, but then Ed gave him a brisk nod and a brief, “Understood” but when he resumed a conversation they’d started yesterday about rent hikes and insurance rates, Oswald felt his heart dull and his hopes wither. Ed understood nothing at all.

***

I have a cocktail party scheduled tomorrow.

Too vague.

I request your attendance at…

Too formal.

Let’s just fuck.

Too flippant.

Oswald sighed. There was no easy way to put this into a text.

Jim answered on the third ring. “Yeah?”

“Are you busy tomorrow night?”

“I don’t have to be.”

“I’ve been invited to a high society soiree. Care to join me?”

“Tell me the dress code, send a car and I’m yours.”

Oswald swallowed. “Cocktail attire. Eight o’clock pick up.” Then he ended the call.

***

As Jim hurried down the steps from his apartment, Oswald admired the outfit he’d put together: a velvet tux in midnight blue over tight black pants and T-shirt, with a mustard yellow pocket square providing a splash of color. Making a mental note to send Benvolo Junior a case of wine, Oswald watched Jim fold himself into the back seat and startle when he saw Oswald waiting for him.

“I thought it best to arrive together.”

Jim’s eye flicked down to Oswald’s attire, but as his suit was hidden beneath his overcoat, there wasn’t much to see. “Works for me. Where is it we’re going?”

“The address is Crest Hill – some woman from the Founders’ Dinner is hosting.”

“How many of these things do you have to go to?”

Oswald shrugged. “I’m merely taking advantage of having someone I wish to be seen with.”

When Jim laughed, Oswald tucked away a smile.

“You saw the Arts Section of the Gazette?” Jim asked.

“Ed brought it to my attention.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“How did he take it?”

Oswald’s brows lowered in a scowl. “A little too well.”

Jim’s “Mm.” Brought him up short.

“What is it?”

“Did you read the article?” When Oswald shook his head, Jim carried on. “It wasn’t written by their usual arts correspondent – what? Don’t look so surprised, you think Barbara just said yes because of the ring? On a cop’s salary? I have depths.” Focusing a little too hard on what those depths might be, Oswald missed what Jim said next, but then, “… Vale’s not buying it. Us, I mean. She’s been lighting up my phone looking for an exclusive ever since.”

“You’re sure that’s all she’s after?”

“Why? You jealous?” Jim flashed him a grin and Oswald’s hand twitched as he suppressed an urge to grab Jim by the throat and remind him that for two weeks, he belonged to no one but him. But that hadn’t been in the contract. Oswald stretched his fingers and pressed his hand flat to the leather of the seat.

“Perhaps tonight we need to behave as if there’s no doubt we’re an item.”

Jim leaned in as the car swung round a corner. “And what would that look like?”

Frustration worried at Oswald’s jaw as he ground his teeth. “I wouldn’t know.” Flicking his gaze up to meet Jim’s, he added, “I’m not the one with the experience.”

“Want me to give you a lesson?” The car pulled forward smoothly, but Jim made no move to sit back up, just remained leaning in, watching Oswald with an expression he found hard to read.

“Well,” Oswald conceded. “I found the pointers you gave at the gallery most helpful.”

“Do you know what I find most helpful?” Jim said. His expression was intent. “Practice.”

“At what, exactly?”

“You need to get used to me touching you…” As he said this, he reached over and brushed his knuckles along Oswald’s jawline. “… to feeling me standing so close that you can smell my aftershave.” Oswald could smell it now – knew it from a far off memory that had grown so distant as to become fantasy. Cheap and fresh and forceful. “You need to be comfortable with us kissing.” Jim leaned in and pressed his lips to Oswald’s cheek.

The touch sent a shiver across his skin and Oswald felt himself tense to disguise it.

“See,” Jim said, “that’s no good.”

“Try again,” Oswald commanded.

Jim huffed as he smiled. “You think you’re the one in charge here?”

Oswald slid him a malevolent glance. “Which one of us is Mayor?”

A gentle kiss planted on his cheek bone. “You are.” Then another in the hollow of his jaw. “I’m just…” Another, on the edge of his lips. “… the guy who’s pretending to fuck you.”

Oswald closed his eyes and held his breath.

“Stop tensing.”

“Stop teasing.” Oswald turned his head and caught Jim’s mouth with his own in a clumsy peck. Mortified, he made to pull away, but Jim’s hand came up to catch his jaw and this time, Oswald met his kiss perfectly. It was like it had been in the gallery, soft and chaste and erotic in a way that made his blood hum and his lungs freeze so that his breathing became laboured, forcing him to part his lips. At the touch of Jim’s tongue it took every ounce of self control not to lunge in for more, to taste him, to devour him…

Not that Jim was the model of self-control. Mouth open, tongue insistent, he leaned in deeper and Oswald found his hand clasped around the lapel of Jim’s jacket, pulling him closer as they kissed each other with a greed that felt nothing like pretence.

They broke apart when Gabe hit the brakes a little too hard and turned round with a, “We’re here, boss.”

***

Heads turned as they walked in and Oswald armed himself with a haughty tilt to his chin – a silent challenge lest anyone dare question his right to be there. But when he turned back to the room after handing his coat and cane to the doorman, Oswald realized he wasn’t the one they doubted. Taking a breath, Oswald reached out to place a hand on Jim’s shoulder.

“People are looking,” he said.

“Then let’s give them a show…” Jim nudged the side of Oswald’s head with his nose. A gesture suffused with a warmth Oswald didn’t know how to handle and in panic, he turned his head to plant a heavy kiss on Jim’s shoulder. He knew he was terrible at this – at conducting himself in a facsimile of a relationship. With Ed it was easy to be close, to touch, to grasp, to act natural because it was. But only because Ed didn’t know what that intimacy meant. With Jim…

History complicated the matter.

Oswald let himself be guided further into the room, took the flute Jim handed him. As they passed an enormous gilded mirror, Oswald glanced at their reflection. They looked good together. Very good. Oswald’s dress coat glimmered darkly under the chandeliers and the cut of mustard at Jim’s breast complemented the gold thread in Oswald’s cravat. But it wasn’t just the way they’d dressed. It was way Jim’s hand rested effortlessly in the small of Oswald’s back and the way he stood with his body ever so slightly angled towards Oswald, as if some part of him remained aware of his existence no matter who else was in the room.

If Ed saw, would he see Jim as a threat? Someone who could take what Ed had yet to realize he wanted? Or would he think Oswald a fool, still smitten with the first man he’d ever fallen for? But no. That was Oswald’s ridicule sneaking through, not Ed’s. The only person who knew what Jim had once meant was Butch – and Butch had gone to ground.

“Whose house did you say this was?” Jim murmured, as the group they were standing with paused their small talk to welcome the Comptroller.

“Some woman called Kathryn.” Jim’s attention sharpened in an instant. “Why?”

“What do you know about her?”

“She was at the Founders’ Dinner – she left before that tedious hypnotist arrived. I’d been talking to her about… my staff.” He’d been talking about Ed, furious that he’d had the audacity to go out on a date that same night. “She alluded to a secret society.”

“And you… never followed that up, huh?” A question weighed with judgement.

“I’ve been busy.”

But Jim’s sigh carried exactly the same disapproval as his words. “This Nygma thing is distracting you—”

“Don’t lecture me on distractions when you’re having too much fun playing bounty hunter to address the reason you quit the GCPD.”

“I’m currently playing the part of your pissed-off boyfriend.”

“Just because we supposedly fucking doesn’t make you my boyfriend.” Oswald matched Jim’s glare measure-for-measure. A muscle in Jim’s jaw twitched, lips pressed into an uninviting line and the warmth of a moment ago had cooled to something that had Oswald wanting to lash out. When Jim reached for his arm, Oswald tried to shift away, only to find himself caught in Jim’s grasp, yanked back into place by his side.

“Do you want everyone to think we’re fighting?”

“We are fighting.”

“It matters what people think, or have you forgotten why we came here?” Jim’s eyes darted across Oswald’s face, his gaze weaving a net to catch Oswald’s rising temper and tame it. And yet it rose, heat building in his chest and fogging his mind. Abruptly, Jim was pushing him toward the edge of the room, grip so tight on Oswald’s arm that he’d see bruises in the morning. Then he was being shoved round the corner, back hitting the wall of a secluded little alcove.

“Stop manhandling me,” Oswald snarled, trying again – failing, again – to pull himself free of Jim’s hold. A forgotten thrill raced through him as Jim pressed him harder up against the wall, his voice a low growl and his eyes narrowed in anger.

Just like old times.

“Stop pretending you don’t get off on this,” Jim said.

“Like you don’t.”

Jim shook him hard enough that his skull bounced off the plasterwork. “Listen to me. We’re not going to fight. We are going to make up and we are going to act like two horny teenagers who can barely keep their hands off each other and we are going to sneak away from the main room as if looking for somewhere to fuck and we are going to search this house for more information on this secret society. Is that clear?”

“That isn’t why we’re here.”

“You really don’t want to know more about the Court of Owls?” Wound up as he was, Oswald found it hard to mask his confusion and Jim added, “That’s the name of the secret society she’s a part of. Which you would know if—”

Oswald snarled. “You’ve made your point.”

Jim nodded, easing back a little and loosening his grip. “Are you in?”

He wanted to say no. To withdraw something Jim wanted just to see how he’d react, but the offer of information was alluring. Knowledge was power, and if there was one thing Oswald craved more than anything, more than the love of the citizens of Gotham, or Ed’s undivided attention, it was power.

“What was it you said I had to do? Act like a horny teenager?” His lip curled in disgust.

“For now, as we work the room, you’re going to look at me…” Jim lifted a hand to Oswald’s chin, thumb resting lightly along his jaw. “… as if I’m the only thing that you’ve ever wanted.” He leaned closer, bypassing Oswald’s lips and whispered into his ear. “Shouldn’t be too hard, Oswald. It used to be true.”

***

The two of them rejoined the party, where Oswald introduced Jim to the few people whose names he’d managed to gather. As it turned out, Jim was good at this. All those years on Barbara Kean’s arm must have been an excellent training ground for the sort of small talk upon which society thrived. He leaned in to listen, nodded in the right places and wrapped acute questions in socially acceptable waffle, showing a little of the depths he’d hinted at in the car.

And Oswald watched. He watched the way Jim’s eyes crinkled in the corners when he made a joke, how he raised his brows when he listened to someone speak, even the way he lifted his glass, until Oswald could anticipate whether Jim was preparing to comment (small sip, two little nods) or whether he was planning on remaining quiet (pointer finger tapping gently on the side of his glass). Occasionally his gaze took an expedition across Jim’s body, admiring the stretch of muscle beneath his T-shirt and way the neckline skimmed the line of his collarbone.

Most of all, he watched Jim’s mouth.

Oswald drank Jim in and the effect was intoxicating.

When Jim gave him a gentle push into the shadows behind a potted orange tree, Oswald clung onto his dignity with all the desperation of a man lost in a sea of lust. This was a job, a facade, and Oswald refused to lose face to his own ill-discipline. Waitstaff glided past, returning empty trays to the distant bowels of the kitchen and bringing forth fresh canapes.

“Kathryn’s noticed us.” Jim’s attention darted briefly over Oswald’s shoulder as he pulled him in close.

“And?”

“Time to escalate.” Jim’s hand ran up Oswald’s arm, his nails lightly scratching at the material of his suit.

Oswald brushed his cheek softly against Jim’s, his lips grazing Jim’s ear as he murmured, “Remind me of the brief.”

He felt Jim swallow before he answered a breathy, “Horny teens who can’t keep our hands off each other.”

“Hands?” He ran a hand up inside Jim’s jacket and tilted his face up. “I think you mean mouths.”

Jim was on him before he could even draw breath and Oswald resisted the urge to groan into Jim’s mouth… this was all pretend. Just because they needed this to look real didn’t mean it had to feel it. Except dear god did it feel real, like it had before, when Oswald ruled the underworld and Jim danced with the devil in a savage tune of desire and longing, the steps spiralling too quickly for either to keep pace. A song Oswald had promised never to sing again.

Jim’s hand ran up the back of Oswald’s head, fingers curling into his hair and—

“Excuse me…”

Oswald whipped round to glare at the person who’d interrupted them.

“What?” The word came out as an infuriated hiss.

The young woman gestured somewhat helplessly at the roomful of people beyond, several of whom were pretending not to be looking. “I’ve been asked to remind the Mayor and his guest that this is…” her voice wavered before she found her resolve. “This is a cocktail party and not the backseat of a cinema.”

Narrowing his eyes, Oswald stepped back from his companion, tugging his vest down, adjusting his jacket. He bid Jim pause a moment where he knew they would be seen and tidied up the crumpled silk of his pocket square and smoothed his hair back into place, public gestures to hide a not-so-private impropriety.

“Shall we?” he said offering Jim his arm, and taking satisfaction in the way Jim murmured a low, “Excellent performance,” before he took it.

***

Mounting anticipation of when they’d make their next move didn’t make Oswald the best of guests. The fact that every single person in the room seemed to want to talk to his date didn’t exactly help – pleased as he was to have someone so enticing on his arm, he’d like at least a little of Jim’s attention. As it was, Jim’s manners were impeccable as he listened to the Secretary of Gotham’s Moral Authority Society drone on and on and…

Oswald found himself drifting into a fantasy of smashing his glass across the man’s face and skewering his throat with the jagged glass of the stem. Then he’d stand back and watch in satisfaction as silent bubbles of blood burst across the man’s lips, more soothing than any conversation.

There were downsides to having to appear respectable.

Remembering that he had at least some part to play beyond appearing completely lust-addled, Oswald tuned back into the conversation as it meandered through dangerous territory about whether to give any credence to the campaign to defund the GCPD.

“Certainly,” Oswald said, raising his glass and winking at Jim. “The GCPD take up quite enough of our city’s resources.”

“Without which the citizens of Gotham would be left to the mercy of street gangs and monsters,” Jim shot back.

The others in the group redirected their attention to Oswald, awaiting his return.

He took a sip of his drink. “And they’d turn to fine, upstanding vigilantes like you, Jim.”

Jim tried to hide his disapproval beneath a chuckle, as if this was all a harmless flirtation, then excused himself – asking for directions to the bathroom. Having been directed up a set of stairs along the far wall, Oswald watched Jim make his way up to the landing, cast a subtle glance in Oswald’s direction, then disappear around the corner. Following him wasn’t so easy. Every group he passed wanted to invite Oswald into the conversation, until he ran out of patience by the foot of the stairs and hissed at a bishop that if the city was so important to God, perhaps He might have paid a little more attention when Hugo Strange stole His job and started bringing people back from the dead. Taking advantage of the shocked silence, Oswald made his way up the carpeted marble steps. His leg ached from taking his weight all evening, but a cane would have limited him in this crowd. At the top of the stairs, he sucked in a fortifying breath to clamp down on the pain and turned the corner to find Jim waiting a little way down a corridor paneled in dark mahogany, lit only by the lights illuminating the artwork hung every ten paces or so.

“Finally.” But instead of falling into step alongside Oswald, Jim caught his sleeve, stepping around swiftly so that Oswald once again found himself pinned against a wall, not quite outside the glow of the nearest picture light.

“Hadn’t we better get started?” Oswald glanced back towards the landing and the swell of noise from the guests below. They wouldn’t have much time before they were missed.

“That’s exactly what I’m doing.” Jim said, tilting his head to block Oswald’s view. The look in his eyes sent Oswald’s pulse hammering.

Oswald waited a moment. “Well…?”

“Impatient as ever…” Jim’s gaze drifted down to Oswald’s mouth – then further still, lazily appraising the body beneath the clothes. “We need to stay in character, Oswald.” He leaned in, pressed a kiss to Oswald’s jawline.

“Why? There’s no one watching.” But that didn’t stop Oswald from drawing his head back so that he was looking Jim right in the eye, their mouths aligned perfectly for a kiss.

“That’s what you think,” Jim whispered a moment before the kiss landed. Just a peck that allowed him to breathe the next words into Oswald’s mouth. “Kiss me for the security cameras, Oswald.”

And so he did. Controlled and close-lipped, but then Jim ran his tongue lightly across Oswald’s lower lip and Oswald gasped at the sensation, sinking into the performance a little more enthusiastically…

“Good boy.”

An uninvited keen whined briefly at the back of Oswald’s throat; the effect instantaneous. Jim thrust Oswald hard against the wall, one hand curling round his waistband, the other running up the side of his head, holding him by the hair and tilting his head, kissing with a ferocity that Oswald couldn’t help but match.

He was dimly aware of a click of a nearby door, presumably the bathroom Jim had been directed to, and someone walked past to return to the party; a moment later Jim broke contact. Eyes wide, chest heaving, he grabbed the knot of Oswald’s tie and tugged him away from the wall like a dog on a leash.

“Come.” Oswald didn’t exactly had a choice as Jim pulled him along the corridor, around a corner. “We’re looking for somewhere private, somewhere we might find paperwork.”

Oswald tried to pry himself free from Jim’s grasp. “Is there really any need to haul me around like a criminal?”

But Jim swung round, hand still firmly twisted in the silk of Oswald’s tie and drew him close.

“I’m hauling you around like I can’t wait to get you somewhere I can fuck you.” The kiss that followed was fueled with such furious need that Oswald almost believed it… until they parted and his gaze flicked up for a fraction of a second to see a camera glinting in the shadows.

The door they wanted was at the far end of the corridor. Jim had opened a few, rejected them immediately for the fact that such a thing was possible, but this door was locked, an owl carved into the panelling, its wing spanning from one side to the other.

“Allow me,” Oswald conjured two slim picks from where they’d been stitched into the leather of his gloves and slid between Jim and the door frame. “Maybe a little misdirection?”

He arched his brows in an invitation that Jim took, snatching a kiss as Oswald worked the lock behind his back until he felt it click and the two of them tumbled into the room beyond. The second the door shut, the two peeled apart, straight to business as Jim made for the nearest set of drawers and Oswald manipulated the lock back into place. They wouldn’t have long but that should buy them a few seconds’ warning at least.

“Check the desk,” Jim called back to him.

Resentful at being ordered around, Oswald hurried over to the far side of the room, an arched window that looked out across the city casting light across an orderly looking desktop. The drawers weren’t locked, which meant they weren’t worth checking and Oswald’s fingers skimmed the wood under the desktop, hunting for a secret compartment, a catch… a folder taped to the underside of the desk.

Pulling it out, Oswald shucked the contents across the desk. Two pages: typed sets of numbers on one, a list of words (names? Codes?) on the other. Grabbing his phone, Oswald photographed the numbers first, then the names, sent them as a message to one of his other numbers and erased all trace of them from his phone, knowing full well that the first thing he would do if he found someone in his office would be to check their photo reel. Hastily stuffing the papers back into the folder, he pressed the tape into place under the desk and hurried back round to the front of the desk, standing there a moment, scanning the room for what they might have missed.

What he saw was a flicker in the shadows under the door.

“Jim.”

But Jim had already heard muffled steps in the corridor beyond, was already across the floor and stepping between Oswald’s thighs, nudging him back against the desk, so close that Oswald could see the Gotham lights sparkle in the blue of his eyes a second before he leaned in.

“There needs to be something to interrupt.”

Oswald ran his fingers messily through Jim’s hair as whoever was on the other side of the door hammered on the wood, but Jim grabbed his wrists, directing his hands down. Oswald met Jim’s gaze and, not breaking eye contact, deftly flicked open Jim’s belt buckle, the catch, the zipper. Without preamble, he tugged the waistband down Jim’s thighs, feeling the warmth of his skin against his fingers.

“Let’s give them a show,” Jim said, tugging down his underwear, then, without hesitation, his hands were on Oswald’s cravat, fingers working the buttons of his vest, tugging at the front of his shirt until there was the click of a key in the lock and Jim lunged into Oswald’s neck, biting his jaw and murmuring into his ear.

“Sell it.”

Not exactly a challenge since his head was thrown back, mouth caught open in gasp as Jim ran his tongue up Oswald’s ear – but if this was real, if Jim Gordon was between his thighs with his pants round his knees…

Oswald’s hands reached down, fingers digging into the curve of Jim’s ass, pulling him in closer and… was that a growl? Was Jim’s breath coming faster? His hips grinding between Oswald’s legs?

Except the door was open now, shadows in suits, someone shouting that this was a private office and Jim was shuffling back, hands yanking up his pants as he turned to face the interruption and Oswald felt the chill of others’ eyes on his rumpled clothing and the ‘V’ of pale skin that Jim had exposed.

The humiliation that tinted his cheeks was real and as one of them men reached out to man-handle him off the desk, Oswald jabbed him in the hand with the first thing he could grasp from the desktop. A pen, it turned out.

“Don't touch me.”

“Mayor Cobblepot.” The voice belonged to Kathryn and Oswald straightened himself with a reasonable stab at dignity.

“Can a man not find a little privacy?”

The woman arched a thin eyebrow, her lips pursing prudishly. “When one is elected to public office, one needs to be a little more discrete.”

“I thought a locked door would be discrete enough.”

“And I thought it would keep out undesirables.” Kathryn’s smirk was cold, the glance she cast at Jim loaded with venom. “It seems we were both wrong.”

***

As Oswald anticipated, both of them had to unlock their phones to be checked – which meant there had definitely been something worth finding. Whether they’d found it was another matter. Spared an ignominious exit through the main room, Kathryn had them escorted down a back set of stairs to the garage. Oswald’s protest that he had his own car might as well have been screamed in silence for all the effect it had.

“Thank you for your attendance, Mayor Cobblepot.” Kathryn held a hand out and a lackey materialised carrying the coat and cane that Oswald had left at the front door. Handing them over, she added, “While I have gone to great lengths to accommodate your history, it has left me somewhat short of tolerance when it comes to the company you keep. Next time I extend an invitation to one of my events, please do not presume it extends to James Gordon.”

Kathryn glanced to the driver, who’d opened the door to the backseat of the limo that had pulled up next to them.

“Mansfield will drive you to wherever it is the two of you would rather be. Goodnight, gentlemen.”

“Night, Kathryn!” Jim called after her with an insincere grin. “Great party.”

Rolling his eyes, Oswald climbed into the backseat and waited for Jim to join him – although before he could direct the driver to drop him at the mansion, Jim gave his own address.

As they joined the traffic, Jim leaned over, hand cupping Oswald’s cheek, pulling him in for a kiss. Tongues touched once, then more and then Jim wasn’t just leaning across the backseat, he was practically sitting in Oswald’s lap, his hand running up behind Oswald’s ear, nails raking through his hair…

“What are you – why?” Oswald whispered in Jim’s mouth, entirely lost as to what was happening.

“You think the driver isn’t going to report back on everything that passes between his passengers?” Jim murmured, thumb rubbing a gentle circle by Oswald’s ear, his eyes earnest. “And since we nearly fucked in that office, we need to do a little more than hold hands across the backseat.”

Jim ran his hand down from Oswald’s ear, thumb carelessly falling across his throat for a second before his fingers ran down Oswald’s cravat, the buttons of his vest, then down further… a twist of the wrist and Jim’s palm was pressing into Oswald’s crotch, a firm, insistent heat rubbing through the material.

“Jim…” His name was little more than a breath. “Don’t…”

“Don’t what?” Jim held his gaze, made no move to change the gentle shift and press of his hand.

Oswald frowned, bit down on his own lip.

Don't play …

“This is too much.” Oswald forced the words out, ignoring what Jim was doing, how good it felt.

“Is it?” Jim increased his pressure, keeping the rhythm steady.

Oswald squeezed his eyes shut, tried to nod.

“Guess I should stop…” Oswald felt him run his nail down the teeth of his zipper.

“Yes.” He snapped his eyes open to meet Jim’s. “You should.”

As effectively as if he’d flicked a switch, Jim withdrew his hand, his whole body, in fact, as he shifted to sit back in his own seat and turned away to look out of the window. Oswald stared at the back of his head for a moment, before turning away himself.

Chapter Text

If Oswald had followed Jim’s lead, then the two of them should have been so far down each other’s throat, that it would have been no problem hauling him out of the car, up the steps and into the safety of Jim’s apartment. As it was, the silence between them had intensified to a point where Jim wasn’t even sure he could manage a cool and distant farewell.

Fine. If Oswald was prepared to jeopardize their arrangement, so be it. Jim got paid either way.

“You can pull over here,” Jim directed. Not bothering with a goodnight, he opened the door and stepped out onto the pavement. As he turned to swing the door shut, he caught the gleam of streetlight on the bonnet of a pale blue car parked in an alleyway over the road.

Dammit.

One arm resting on the top of his door, he leaned in at looked across the backseat at where Oswald was sulking.

“You coming in or what?”

For a moment, Jim thought he would decline, but when he turned away, it was to open the door on the far side and climb out into the night. Joining Jim on the pavement, the two of them watched as the black limo purred away down the road.

“Look, you can call Gabe to fetch you later, but for now, can we just go upstairs?”

“To do what exactly?” Oswald’s gaze was flint, his words clipped and cold.

“To make sure that the reporter who’s watching us from that alleyway doesn’t figure out that all I am to you is a tool to make Nygma jealous.”

Oswald’s eyes narrowed in understanding, but then, “And when we’re in your apartment? Will you fabricate a reason for us to touch? Another way to humiliate me?”

“Humiliate you?” Jim fired back, then checked himself, lifting a hand to touch Oswald lightly on the arm. “Look. We can argue in a minute. But can we at least make it up the stairs? I meant it about being watched. That’s Vale’s car over there.”

It wasn’t the passionate stumble up the steps that Jim would have preferred, but when they got to Jim’s door, Oswald muttered a reluctant, “Maybe you should kiss me?”

An invitation that Jim accepted with equal reluctance, delivering a robotic, close-lipped peck. But when he pulled back, he caught Oswald’s eye, felt the tug of something that could go at least some way towards fixing whatever they’d broken in the backseat of that car.

“Again?” he said.

“Again.”

When they kissed a second time, it was with a tender hesitance that quickly flourished into confidence. They may have been on the verge of arguing the second they were behind that door, but this – this – was something each knew how to want. Rejection had cut deep, but this was a balm to that wound, a healing for hurt and when Jim lifted a hand to the back of Oswald’s head, the other man relaxed into Jim’s embrace.

Not that Jim could afford to relax.

He needed to be careful around Oswald, to guard against the instinct to push him too hard, to want him too much, to make this too real.

So when Oswald’s lips parted, when his tongue lightly brushed Jim’s and his hand tucked itself inside Jim’s jacket, Jim was the one who gently, regretfully eased off, kissing Oswald’s cheek, his temple and then murmuring into his ear, “We should go inside.”

His apartment was dingy. Half the bulbs needed replacing and he’d cut back on heating the place to make the rent. Still, there was fresh milk in the fridge, a decent bottle of Scotch in the cupboard and the plates and glasses on the dish rack were clean. As was the linen on the bed.

Not that he intended Oswald to get that far, but unlike his old place, the apartment was kind of open plan and Jim noted the way Oswald assessed every inch of his surroundings in one appraising sweep.

“Coffee?” When Oswald shrugged, Jim set the kettle on the stove top and changed the filter in his coffee jug. Without looking, he called over his shoulder, “You can sit down you know.”

Shortly after came the scrape of a stool on the wood floor and when Jim turned round, he found Oswald sitting at the table, still in his overcoat and gloves.

“It’s not that cold,” Jim said with amusement.

Oswald shucked off his coat and, after glancing round for a coat rack that didn’t exist, laid it down fussily over his lap. Then the gloves. Then, after only a brief hesitation, he took off his tailcoat.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you in just your shirt sleeves,” Jim said, enjoying this new perspective.

“You’ve seen me in a lot less.” The look in Oswald’s eye as he glanced up had Jim wanting to cast aside any reservations and invite Oswald to get acquainted with his freshly made bed.

“Don’t do that,” Jim hadn’t meant for it to come out as a growl. “Don’t dredge up the past like it’s something to tempt me with when ten minutes ago you were pushing me away.”

As ever, Oswald’s expression was quicksilver, shifting from flirtatious to outraged in a split second. “I asked you to stop short of jacking me off in the back of a limousine and that’s pushing you away ?”

“In case you’ve forgotten we are supposed to be acting like we’re having a scandalous affair – which means doing scandalous things when people can see us.”

Oswald’s jaw twitched. “Of course. When people can see us. I forget how one must perform.”

Jim bit back a retort because, if he didn’t, he would have told Oswald the truth: that the lines blurred every time they were together, that every performance, every direction he’d given that night was an excuse to touch him, to feel an echo of something he wished he’d never lost.

So he lied.

“You hired me to make Nygma jealous. The more people see us, the more they gossip, the better the effect. All I’m doing is my job.”

“In which case, please can you check whether your reporter girlfriend is watching us? I’d like to return home.”

Sighing, Jim turned away and glanced out the window and across the street. “She’s still there. Look. It’s late. I’m tired, you’re tired, let’s just… let’s just have a drink of coffee and if she’s still there, why don’t you stay over? You can take the bed, I’ll take the couch—”

“How pointlessly chivalrous. We can share the bed.”

Jim looked across the kitchen at Oswald. The last time they’d shared a bed, it hadn’t exactly been conducive to sleeping. But Oswald held his gaze, chin tipped up in defiance. If Jim backed down, it would be as good as admitting to all those feelings he was so keen to deny.

He shrugged. “Have it your way.”

***

Settling down with coffee and some hot buttered toast, the two of them discussed what they’d found in Kathryn’s study. In Jim’s case nothing, and as the phone to which Oswald had sent the pictures he’d taken was locked in a desk drawer back at the mansion, all the two of them could do was speculate. After a night of schmooze and booze, Jim’s cognitive function wasn't up to much and, after catching Oswald suppressing another yawn, he got up to check on Vale. Hanging back from the window, out of sight, there was no mistaking the little vintage Volvo. Jim couldn’t see anyone inside, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t there, waiting.

“Doesn’t look like she’s going anywhere.”

“Therefore neither shall I.” Oswald didn’t bother to bring the plates and mugs over to the sink, just made straight toward the bedroom before hesitating. “I’ll need something more comfortable to sleep in.” He took a step, then turned back again. “Oh, and a towel.”

Shaking his head, Jim followed him into the bedroom and pulled open a drawer in his dresser.

“Everything you need’s in there. Bathroom’s that way.” Then he left Oswald to it and went to clean up in the kitchen. When he returned, it was to find Oswald sitting cross-legged under the covers wearing an old training T-shirt from the academy. His hair had long since lost its stiff, sculpted waves, and his face glowed from a a fresh wash.

“I took the liberty of opening the spare toothbrush in the bathroom cabinet,” Oswald said. In the dim light, his eyes glowed a bright, clean blue, as if they’d been washed ready for bed like the rest of him. “You can add the cost to your expenses.”

Cost wasn’t the issue: it was the thought of Oswald rifling through his bathroom cabinet.

And the rest …

Jim knew better than to trust a criminal and yet time and again he gave Oswald Cobblepot the opportunity to scour his secrets.

“Whatever.” Jim made for the bathroom, turned the tap on and stared at his own reflection in the mirrored cabinet a moment before opening it and checking what was in there. The usual stuff – deodorant, painkillers, antacids, a scrappy box of bandages and antiseptic. An unopened box of condoms. Baby oil.

The lube was in the top drawer of his bedside dresser, along with the open box of condoms.

Jim glanced towards the door and wondered whether Oswald had looked there already.

Probably .

He’d probably also sifted through the mess at the bottom of Jim’s wardrobe, the box he kept stashed under his bed and located the gun he kept taped under the mattress. Everything Jim was, everything he’d been, all squirreled away inside a mind that couldn’t be trusted.

Jim brushed his teeth and splashed water over his face, then stripped down to his boxer shorts and threw the rest of his clothes in the laundry basket. Hoping Oswald would be asleep by now, he switched off the light and padded back into the bedroom. The light was off, Oswald nothing more than a mound beneath the duvet, but when Jim pulled the corner back and made to get in, Oswald twisted round to look up at him.

Neither said anything, and in the silence, Jim became very aware of his own breathing, the feel of the cotton sheet against the one knee resting on the mattress, the cold, hard floor beneath his other foot and the fact that all he was wearing was a pair of boxer shorts.

“You’ve some new scars,” Oswald said. The way he said it, the studiously blank look on his face gave nothing away.

“Fighting monsters will do that.”

With the spell broken, Jim climbed into the bed next to Oswald. Jim’s apartment wasn’t exactly palatial and the bed was the biggest the room could fit – which was significantly smaller than the one they’d shared before, on the night that neither acknowledged. When Jim propped himself up on one elbow to sort his pillow out, Oswald was tipped into the dip in the mattress.

Again, Jim’s attention snagged on him and, this time, Oswald was close enough that as Jim became aware of his own breathing, he became equally aware of Oswald’s, the tremble of his lips and the slight rise of his chest. He became aware of the smooth, pale stretch of his neck and the wicked sweep of his jawline and the precision with which someone had trimmed the hair around his ear. Jim would never tire of this face. Of the myriad expressions that passed across these features, but this one, now, was dangerously familiar, eyes wide and wild, brows raised…

It was a look of complete surrender, not to Jim – never to Jim – but to Oswald himself, to what he was feeling.

A look as likely to precede a knife to the heart as it might a kiss.

“Good night, Oswald,” Jim said.

One more moment, in which he saw the bob of the other man’s throat as he swallowed, before Jim turned his back and curled up tight inside the duvet. Next to him, Oswald rolled over in silence. As sleep finally descended on Jim, a woozy, heavy exhaustion that weighed his eyes shut and slowed his breathing, he thought he heard a faint murmur of “Good night, old friend.”

Chapter Text

Oswald woke first - and frequently - at about two in the morning, then past three, just before four… Each time his eyes would snap open and panic would set in. Living on a cocktail of paranoia and pain could do that to a person.

When Oswald woke that last time, the reflex was strong enough that he was sitting bolt upright before he even reached consciousness. Chest heaving, eyes wild, he searched the shadows for a threat that didn’t exist, waiting for his heart to slow and his breathing to ease. Simply lying back down and surrendering to sleep wasn’t an option.

Getting up, he hitched up the waistband of the cotton pajama pants he’d found in Jim’s drawer. They were at least two sizes too big and by the time he’d made it through to the kitchen, they’d slunk back down onto his hips. Tugging them up, he poured a glass of water and, between sips, peered out of the window to look for… what was it? A blue car of some kind parked over the road. But no matter how he scoured the street below, he couldn’t see anything matching that description.

Oswald glanced over his shoulder to where Jim had hung his coat over the back of the couch. All he had to do was get his phone, send a message to Gabe and he could be out of here within half an hour.

His gaze traveled from the back of the couch to the bedroom, where Jim had shifted beneath the covers, one bare leg half hanging off the edge of mattress.

Then he tipped out his half-drunk glass, set it in the sink for Jim to clean when he woke, and returned to bed.

As he climbed under the covers, Jim shifted, edging so close there was barely enough room for Oswald, who lay down gingerly within the halo of heat from Jim’s body and then, startling, he felt an arm snake over his waist, palm resting flat on his stomach and pulling him closer.

“Jim !” Oswald hissed in a whisper.

And was rewarded with Jim sitting up and glaring at the far side of the room, arm raised in defence. “GCPD. Stay back!”

Oswald frowned at the pool of shadows that drew Jim’s ire, then back at the man next to him. But Jim’s eyes were glassy and unfocused, and when he next spoke, it didn’t exactly make sense.

“You’ll have to go through me… you’d better…” The warning hand turned to a wagging finger that abruptly fell away to push Oswald further into his own pillow. “Safe… stay…”

Resisting the urge to slap him awake and put an end to this nonsense, Oswald tried to disentangle himself from Jim’s protective arm. “We’re safe, Jim. No one’s there. Lie down and go back to sleep…”

But when Jim lay back down, it was to curl himself tightly around Oswald, one arm squeezing him so close that the only way to escape would have been to pry it off. Rolling his eyes, Oswald tried as best he could to get comfortable, trying not to notice how it felt to have Jim’s chest resting against his spine, or the way Jim’s breath tickled the hairs on the back of his head.

And then.

Then…

Jim’s hand wasn’t resting on Oswald’s stomach. His fingers, still relaxed, drew uneven circles across Oswald’s T-shirt, slowing down, as if Jim was lulling back into slumber, then regaining some kind of purpose, pressing harder, stroking with clear intent, the circles getting bigger, skimming lower, brushing against the dangerously loose waistband of Oswald’s pajama pants.

Oswald held his breath so tight his lungs twisted into a tourniquet, his entire body held tense.

Lower ... go lower ...

Oswald swallowed, his thoughts so loud inside his mind it was all too easy to believe that Jim had heard them, the way his fingers skimmed back and forth along Oswald’s waistband.

A trickle of breath crossed Oswald’s lips, body relaxing enough for his hips to shift beneath Jim’s touch. Jim responded, fingers dipping down beneath the elastic, and Oswald thrust oh-so-slowly within Jim’s reach…

Need punched his lungs when Jim’s fingers brushed against his hardened tip and, again, he forced himself to release his next breath carefully, air hissing silently between his teeth, eyes scrunched tight shut because maybe if he didn’t look, if he didn’t breathe, then it wasn’t really happening, he wasn’t really giving in so easily to what his pride has denied him in the back of the limo.

Although what he was giving in to wasn’t entirely clear, as Jim sleepily brushed warm fingers along even warmer skin, seemingly without intent. Down, then up, strokes soft and infuriatingly uneven.

After a moments of this aimless exploration, Oswald’s frustration built faster than any orgasm. What point in pride conceding to lust if this was the prize?

Without thought or consideration, Oswald slid his own hand down, caressing the back of Jim’s hand, running his fingers through the valleys of Jim’s knuckles and guiding his hand into a loose grip.

There...

And Jim went with it, a little more purpose, a little more pressure and Oswald was fighting back a groan at the feel of that sure, firm stroke, the brush of the thumb co-ordinating with a light roll of fingers over his frenulum. Fuck. He’d tried to replicate it a hundred times or more since that distant first time in Jim’s old apartment, but nothing nothing he did to himself felt as good as what Jim was doing now.

“Ah! ” It was so quiet, barely more than a breath, but as soon as Oswald heard himself his focus sharpened, sure that something would change as Jim’s slowed his pace, his grip relaxing. No. No. Not yet. So quiet it was barely more than the softest of sighs, the words slipped through his lips, “Don't stop.”

Oswald wasn’t sure if it was an order, a request, or an entreaty, all he knew was that he didn’t want this to stop, not now…

Not ever.

There was no hesitation. Jim complied immediately, fisting Oswald’s cock with renewed vigor until it became impossible for Oswald to keep still, his hips moving in time with Jim’s rhythm, one hand resting lightly on Jim’s wrist, the other twisting itself into the bedsheet, his head half turned, hiding his face in the pillow to muffle his panting because fuck to feel himself in this position, to have Jim Gordon pressed up tight against him, his arm reaching across his body, hand stroking his cock…

His need was a rock rolling steadily uphill, and he could see the summit, felt the clench of excitement at what would come next, that teetering moment before he’d let Jim push him over the edge, and he fought against it as long as he could, tried to concentrate on the pain in his toes as he curled them so tight they began to cramp, his teeth grinding enamel to dust…

But Jim was all over him, squeezing tighter, moving faster and Oswald’s orgasm crashed into him, ripping away any illusion of control as he cried out, mouth pressed so hard into the pillow he was practically swallowing it.

Everything throbbed, blood pounding in his veins, colors blasting the inside of his eyelids as he came in Jim’s hand, cum dripping on his own stomach as Jim eased off, releasing his grip and gently wiping his hand on the thigh of Oswald’s pajama pants.

Dazed and delirious, Oswald finally opened his eyes and glanced over his shoulder, not sure what he wanted to see…

But Jim wasn’t sitting up, wasn’t looking down on him with an infuriating smirk, eyes dark with desire. He wasn’t sitting on the edge of the bed, head hung in regret or walking to the bathroom to clean up.

No, Jim was simply lying on his side, expression soft with sleep, one hand still resting on Oswald’s thigh.

“Jim?” Oswald said, not sure if he believed it. “Jim, wake up.”

But Jim shook his head, burrowed himself further into the mattress. “Sleeping.”

The hand on Oswald’s thigh groped higher, tugging at his T-shirt, pulling him back under the covers to hold him, a little spoon to the curve of Jim’s body. And so it seemed that Oswald had no choice but to surrender to the tide of exhaustion that washed over him, to drift away with Jim’s arm anchoring him to the bed…

The world around him ceased to make sense as his dreams drew close, but he felt Jim shift in the bed behind him, felt him draw in closer before there came the press of lips on the back of his neck.

“Good boy.”

Chapter Text

The haranguing began before Oswald even made it through the door, Ed standing on the front steps of the mansion like a forbidding father waiting to scold a wayward son. First it was a barrage of complaints at having his messages ignored, then it was a snide comment about accepting the wrong kind of invitations, then a comment on how disheveled his clothes were…

“Where did you sleep? In a container at the docks?”

“Actually,” Oswald said spinning round to face him. “If you must know, I slept in Jim Gordon’s bed.”

“Oh.” Ed tucked his chin in, clearly taken aback.

Good.

“You slept in his bed … in your clothes?” Ed eyed cast an eye down the creases in Oswald’s shirt – the unbuttoned cuffs and the loose knot of his cravat.

“I fail to see why you need to know what clothes I slept in.” Oswald made no attempt to hide the satisfied little smirk that tugged at his lips and, emboldened by his friend’s disgruntled expression, he stepped a little closer to add, “If you want to know what a man wears to bed, I suggest you join him.”

And there it was. A flicker of something in the depths of those clever, dark eyes. Curiosity? Desire?

“When I said you need to be careful of accepting the wrong kind of invitation, I’d been referring to Kathryn Munroe’s party,” Ed said, taking a half step back. “Had I realized how indiscriminate you were about the other invitations you’ve accepted, I’d have suggested a different kind of caution.”

“What are you saying?” Oswald’s amusement evaporated.

“If you give it to everyone you meet, it’s no longer priceless, Oswald.”

“I’m not in the mood for riddles—”

“That much is clear.” And with that, Ed crossed the hall and retreated to the campaign room, closing the door behind him.

***

Foregoing a second shower because it would wash away the faint scent of Jim's shower gel  Oswald changed into fresh clothes and asked Olga to bring coffee to the campaign room for himself and Ed. Whether or not Ed intended to sulk, the two of them had work to do. When he joined him, Ed gave no hint of ill-humor. Admittedly, his manner was a little brisk, the conversation terse and the only smiles Oswald could coax from him were close-lipped, but there was no further reprimands about the night before – and no mention of Jim.

It made for swift business and after breaking for an early lunch, they returned to their desks with an hour to spare before the capos were scheduled to arrive.

When the phone rang, Oswald left Ed to answer and carried on reading planning proposals for a new youth center.

“Good afternoon, Mayor’s office…” Then a more abrupt, “Yes” that caught Oswald’s attention. “What is it concerning?” Ed’s expression darkened. “If you can’t tell me what your business is, I’m afraid I can’t pass your call on to the Mayor.” A pause as whoever was on the other end argued their case. “I’m not being – don’t—”

Ed pulled the phone from his ear to glare at it almost the same time as Oswald’s mobile buzzed on his desk. Before Ed could intervene, Oswald accepted the call.

“Mayor Cobblepot?”

“James Gordon,” Oswald replied, his eyes still on Ed.

“Your aide was being difficult.”

“Would it not have been simpler to call this number to start with?” Ed had turned away, but Oswald knew he was listening, could see it in the line of his neck and slight lift in his brow.

“Simpler, yes, but I thought there was value in Ed knowing you’re talking to me.”

Oswald smiled into his phone. “How perceptive of you, Jim.”

“I’m calling about those pictures you took last night. I’d like to see them.”

Truth be told, Oswald had forgotten they even existed. Murmuring for Jim to wait a moment, he unlocked his desk drawer, sifted through the phones in there and picked out the right one. After sending the photos from Kathryn's office to Jim, he put the phone back and locked the drawer.

“If that concludes our business…” he said.

“I believe we have another ten days before we conclude our business.” Oswald could hear him smile, his own mouth hitching up at the corner in response. “Don’t you have another soiree to attend? A ribbon to cut? An after-dinner speech to give?”

But when Oswald reached to flip through his diary, nothing leapt out.

“Not imminently.” He kept his voice cool, disinterested and distant to mask his disappointment at the answer.

“You could always take me out for dinner.”

“And why would I do such a thing?”

“We could discuss any further developments regarding the Court of Owls. Besides, you’ve bought me all these fancy clothes, paid for my services…” There was a shift in Jim’s tone and a rustle of something came down the line. “Seems a shame to leave them hanging in the wardrobe when they could be—”

In a heap on the bedroom floor...

“—seen out on the town.”

Oswald swallowed. That change in tone, the rustle of what sounded like bedsheets had him flustered.

“Where are you?” His voice dipped so low that Ed would have had to strain his ears to hear the question.

A breath, one, then two, came down the line. “Home.”

“Be more specific.”

“Bed.” Jim labored over that single syllable as if it were hard to speak.

“What are you doing?” More breaths, heavier, faster and Oswald listened for the faintest of sounds of activity… “Tell me what you’re doing, Jim.”

“Use your imagination.”

As if that wasn’t what he was already doing. Oswald closed his eyes, pictured Jim as he’d been last night, naked but for his underwear, one hand tucked beneath the elastic of his boxers, the suggestion of movement beneath…

“So it’s a date?” Jim’s voice broke through Oswald’s thoughts and it took a moment to gather them enough to answer.

“Yes. Yes, it’s a date. I’ll book somewhere for tomorrow.”

“I look forward to it.” Was that… could Oswald hear a rhythmic swish in the background… “Gotta go.”

“No, don’t—”

“Urgent business to attend to.” And Jim cut the call.

Oswald stared for a good long moment at the papers on his desk, his phone still pressed to his ear, its silence so loud it drowned out every other sound in the room as Oswald fixated on what urgent business Jim had been so keen to attend. Was this all just a fantasy, a figment of Oswald’s desire? This morning, when he woke, Jim had already been up and out of bed, making fresh coffee in the kitchen in his sweats. Had it not been for the state of his own pajamas, Oswald would have doubted the events of the night before.

But just then, Jim had called from his bed, there’d been that drop in his voice and the sound of…

“Oswald!” Oswald looked up from his reverie to find Ed looming over him, his gangly frame blocking out the dull afternoon light. With his back to the window and his face in shadow, the only thing easy to read was his tone: irritable. “What’s wrong?”

His brows pinched together and Oswald’s mouth half-formed a puzzled, what?

“You look distracted. What did James Gordon want?”

“Dinner.” Oswald shook his head in an attempt to rid himself of the fog of lust that had descended. “Tomorrow.”

“Dinner, as in the meal?”

Oswald crooked a smile and looked up through his lashes. “Dinner as in a date.” Then, hoping to twist the knife a little, he added, “I’ll need your help picking somewhere suitable. Somewhere you’d take a guest if money were no object.”

But rather than the dismay Oswald had hoped to stir, a bright crescent of mirth broke out of the shadows of Ed’s face a moment before he laughed – a patronizing hoot that had Oswald gripping his phone so hard he could have snapped the screen as he resisted the urge to smash it into his friend’s skull.

“Something funny?” he said.

“Oh, come on,”  Ed leaned forward to rest on the desk as if to catch his breath. “I’ll admit he had me fooled for a moment, but that’s just because he’d hoodwinked you .” Ed emitted a gleeful ha , shaking his head as if in on a particularly amusing joke. “I thought you were above such vanities, but I suspect we are, all of us, victims of our own desires. And Jim knows how to exploit yours to get what he wants.”

“What are you talking about?”

Ed leaned across the desk, fixing Oswald with his dark, dark gaze, his expression taking on the intensity that preceded a riddle.

“The more you have the more you crave; a limitless desire that nothing can satisfy. What am I?”

Oswald rolled his eyes. “That could literally be anything .”

“Not when applied to you , Oswald.” Ed’s eyes scanned Oswald’s. “It’s the thing that drives you, the thing that has always  driven you, that pulled you from the depths of the river and pushed Mooney from that roof.”

Silence. Oswald always believed he knew himself, his strength and his shortcomings, as well as he understood those around him, but there were times when he was willing to listen to someone else. Especially if that someone else was Ed…

“Go on…” His conversation with Jim had left Oswald vulnerable and there was a momentary flicker as his gaze kissed the line of Ed’s lips before returning to his eyes.

“The answer is power. You have more now than ever before. You have the hearts of the people of Gotham, the loyalty of the criminals and the will to use it.”

“What’s that got to do with taking Jim Gordon out to dinner?”

“Can you really not guess?” Ed was so close now that it would be all to easy to reach out and cup a hand round the back of his head and pull him in for a kiss. “I thought you were smart enough to see through such false flattery.”

All thoughts of kissing vanished. “Enough with the riddles.”

“Jim wants his job back and who better than the Mayor to over-rule the captain of the GCPD?”

“I— That’s not—” But how was he supposed to counter that? Admitting the truth – that his arrangement with Jim was an honest transaction – wasn’t going to score any points in his attempts to win Ed. But if Ed didn’t believe Jim wanted Oswald for anything more than a promotion…

The plan was doomed.

Unless Oswald convinced Ed otherwise.

Standing, Oswald drew himself to his full height – enough to look down his nose at Ed, still leaning across the desk.

“While I appreciate your suspicious mind when it comes to politics, such suspicions are unwarranted when it comes to personal relationships. This struggle to believe that Jim wishes to spend time with me reads like a projection of your own insecurities regarding your romance with Isabelle.”

“Isabel-la .” Ed snapped. “And no, there’s no insecurity there. You’re changing the subject. I am just concerned—”

“As am I, for you. It’s what happens when we see a dear friend led astray by someone we deem unsuitable.”

“You don’t even know her – I know  Jim Gordon.”

“As do I.” Oswald's lips curled in a secretive smile. “Intimately.”

Turning away, he grinned all the way across the office and out of the door. That had got Ed thinking.

Chapter Text

The restaurant wasn’t one with which Jim was familiar. Not that he’d kept up-to-date with the culinary scene since he split from Lee. Jim’s dining experiences these days was more donuts and diners with Harvey than Michelin stars and côte de boeuf with someone who knew a Syrah from a Sangiovese.

The entrance off Grand Street was nothing more than a plain black door with a nameplate – Libertine  – and a key pad.

“This a restaurant or a speakeasy?” Jim said as Oswald punched in a code.

“Ed described it as the most exclusive invitation-only dining experience that Gotham has to offer.” Oswald tapped the handle of his cane impatiently against the door. “Hello? Is anyone going to open this?”

Within seconds the door swung back and a woman in a crimson velvet suit welcomed them by name and invited them to step into the depths of the building. Jim followed Oswald, taking in the richly papered walls and marble floors. The interiors reeked of a wealth that Jim distrusted on instinct. Businesses didn’t get this rich without brokering darker deals than those made on the stock market.

“Mayor Cobblepot, it’s an honour to have to your presence grace our establishment. Please, come this way.”

The woman led them up a sweeping staircase, ignoring the dining room on the first floor they came to and leading them up to the next. Jim cast a glance through the door, noting the tables bathed in the warm glow of a chandelier and the smooth glide of wait staff navigating the floor.

“What’s wrong with those tables?” Jim asked. There’d been a nice-looking spot by the window.

“When we spoke, Mr Nygma was very clear that our distinguished guests would expect the highest standard of service.” The woman paused at the top of the stairs to heave open a frosted glass door. “While all the food at Libertine comes from the same kitchen, the environment on our members’ floor provides a more intimate setting.”

Something in the way she smiled set Jim’s suspicion on edge, but Oswald was already through the door, confident that he was owed whatever was being offered. Full of misgivings, Jim followed – although their host stopped them just the other side of the door next to a wall full of drawers with gleaming brass handles and numbers stamped into the wood.

“Your phones please, gentlemen.”

“I think I’ll be keeping mine.” Oswald gave a condescending smile as he patted his breast pocket.

“I’m afraid it’s a condition of entry.” Their host drew a lock box from one of the drawers. “Our guests set their own code on the keypad and each box is locked inside a drawer to which only you hold the key. We take security as seriously as we do privacy.”

Appeased enough to comply Oswald resentfully placed his phone in the box, set the code and accepted the key before to turning to Jim, expecting him to follow suit.

“I just need to make a quick call. See you at the table?” Jim didn’t wait for permission before he’d stepped back out onto the landing, Harvey’s number already up on speed dial.

“Y’ello.”

“What do you know about a place called Libertine?”

“Why, Jim, how kind of you to ask, I’m doing swell.”

“C’mon, Harv…”

“You’re buying next time? So generous.”

Jim shook his head and sighed into the phone. “Sure. I’m buying, but only if you actually tell me something useful.”

“Libertine, Libertine… I know the place. I mean, know of it. Guys like you and me don’t get invited to places like that.”

“Don’t we?” Jim eyed his surroundings. “And why’s that?”

“Well there’s the price tag.”

“It’s expensive?”

But Harvey was chuckling. “Depends what floor you’re dining on. Non-members pay twice what the food’s worth and members … well I hear they pay for their meal without money.”

Jim’s gaze settled on the frosted glass doors – and thought of the lockboxes behind them. “What do they pay with, Harvey?”

Harvey was enjoying himself way too much to notice the concern that had crept into Jim’s voice. “Sometimes you act like you’re still wet behind the ears, partner. From what I understand, diners are encouraged to get a little liberal with each other as they dine for the entertainment of their fellow members.” There was a pause in which the penny dropped. “It’s Gotham’s most upmarket voyeurs’ club.”

***

“What was so important?” Oswald sharpened his words with a pointed look when Jim joined him at the table.

“Nothing,” Jim said, edging round the booth to where his place has been set.

The place was classy, considering what it was designed for. Their table, like every other, was set inside a free-standing cylindrical booth, whose sides were made of the same thick, frosted glass as the doors. Inside, the table itself was glass, surround by a low, padded bench covered with a soft, velvety cover that Jim noted was easily removed by undoing some subtle fastenings. A few bolsters softened the seating and the booth was flooded in a soft, golden glow, lit from above and below, with additional lighting casting a more purposeful glow on either side of the small cutaway section where one could access the table.

If he hadn’t known the purpose, Jim would have admired the effect for nothing more than something both intimate and illuminating. A restaurant that understood one might actually want to appreciate the person you were sitting with.

As it was, on his way to their table, Jim had been extremely aware of the fact that while there was no knowing exactly who was inside each booth, silhouettes cast against the frosted glass wall gave a very clear indication of what they were up to. Some were simply dining. Others were a little preoccupied. In one booth the glass table provided an elevated stage for a not-entirely-secret it of foreplay, and while the view from their own table was limited to the vista through the cutaway, there had been several diners taking a leisurely tour of the room.

“You said Nygma booked the table?” Jim asked, handing Oswald a menu and taking one for himself.

“I’ll confess to being a little less discerning than Ed when it comes to fine dining. It seemed prudent to take advantage of his expertise in the matter.” Oswald flicked a self-satisfied glance up from his menu. “And to make it unequivocally clear that I treat my dates very well.”

Jim smothered a smile. “How well, exactly?”

“As well as the occasion demands. You can order what you like, Jim.”

Skimming the menu, Jim said idly, “Have you noticed there’s no price listed?”

Oswald tutted. “I already said money’s no object.”

“It’s not money they want.”

But as Oswald looked up in consternation, a waiter appeared at the entrance to their booth, offering them water, a wine list and outlining the best way to order.

“All our dishes are designed for sharing…”

I bet they are...

“If you’d like, I can offer a bespoke selection catering to your tastes?”

Oswald slapped the menu shut. “Then that is what we shall have.”

After a little conversation about what sort of food they were in the mood for – each question delicately laced with a subtext that flew below Oswald’s radar – Oswald chose a wine from the selection their waiter highlighted and waved him away without once deigning to ask about the price.

Truly, the rich lived in a different world.

Although, in this instance, Jim felt confident he could afford the bill more easily than Oswad.

“What do you mean about the money?” Oswald said, the rare bonhomie with which he’d addressed the waiter gone.

Jim crooked a smile and waved Oswald in a little closer until his knee bumped up against Jim’s thigh and they could both look out of the opening of their booth from the same angle.

“Look through there.” Jim nodded. “At the next table.”

Oswald frowned as he watched the silhouettes of their neighboring diners clink their wine glasses together.

“What exactly am I supposed to notice?”

“Nothing yet.” Jim shifted to a different angle, and pointed to the next table over. “But how about now?”

Rather than watch the action, Jim watched Oswald, enjoying the startled widening of his eyes, the horrified little ‘oh’ of his mouth and the intense flush of embarrassment that colored his cheeks before he looked away – and right at Jim. For a moment Jim was able to revel in the sight of Oswald entirely unseated before he reached for his glass and took a sip of water. When he next looked up, he’d regained his composure, the widening pool of his pupils the only giveaway of what had just passed.

“You knew?”

“Not until I called Harvey.” Oswald nearly snorted out the water he’d just sipped before Jim added, “Don’t worry, he doesn’t know we’re here.”

“But Ed does,” Oswald said, darkness clouding his expression.

“Calling our bluff?”

Oswald shrugged. “Ed thinks you’re just flattering me into helping you get reinstated as a detective.”

“… and that if I actually had to act on that flattery I wouldn’t?”

Oswald slid Jim a sideways glance. “Would you?”

Shuffling over, Jim rested an arm across Oswald’s shoulder and ran his nose across the side of his head, breathing him in. “It worked before…” He trailed his lips up the shell of Oswald’s ear. “… but right now I’m here on a job. And that job is to convince Ed Nygma that you are the most fuckable man in Gotham…” The way Oswald tensed on the word ‘fuckable’ was delicious. “… so yes, Oswald, I’m willing to act on that if you are?”

No answer. Although the way Oswald squirmed in his seat went some way toward one. He wanted to say yes, of that Jim was certain, but the turn things had taken in the back of the limo the other night indicated that Oswald might struggle with having an audience.

Jim carried on. “I presume if Nygma booked the table, then he’ll have arranged for someone to keep an eye on us.” From the sound of it, security was the one thing that might trump privacy. It would have been all too easy to pay extra for someone to ‘protect’ the Mayor. “So let’s start slow…” Jim murmured as he watched the waiter approach with their wine. “Have a drink, find out if the food’s as good as the price they aren’t charging and see where that leads us?”

“That would be most agreeable.” Oswald nodded, turning to meet Jim’s eye. “Although perhaps a kiss wouldn’t be out of the question?”

“How about we answer that question after he’s poured the wine?” Jim kissed Oswald tenderly on the cheek.

Oswald was so swift to approve the wine that Jim doubted he tasted a drop but when he lifted his own glass, Jim inhaled the unmistakable aroma of very expensive wine and the first sip glided across his tongue, a berry-rich vanilla velvet.

Setting his glass down, Jim kept his gaze on Oswald, waiting for the waiter to leave, enjoying how his attention unbuttoned his companion’s composure.

Fuck. If only he could unbutton it all the way…

Oswald put his glass down before the waiter’s shadow had cleared the table. “Kiss me, then.”

Jim reached across to wind Oswald’s tie around his hand, then pulled him over, slow, firm and full of intent. But when Oswald’s lips were within a whisper of his own, he held him fast and fixed him with a look.

“Let me make this clear.” His gaze traveled over Oswald’s face, returning to the fierce bright blue of his eyes. “Because it seems you’ve forgotten. You might be the Mayor of this city, but you don’t call the shots here. I do. And that’s exactly the way you like it.”

Oswald’s breathing was shallow and erratic, his eyes frantic.

“You like it when I grab your clothes and shove you up against a wall hard enough for your teeth to rattle. You yearn to be owned.” Jim twisted Oswald’s tie a little tighter. “So I won’t tolerate those kind of instructions. Understood?”

Oswald’s eyes tracked down from Jim’s gaze to his mouth. The slightest of nods as he parted his lips in a breath, the tip of that clever, wicked tongue running lightly over his bottom lip, waiting… wanting .

And fuck if Jim didn’t want just as keenly.

They kissed – not with the tender hesitancy of their kisses at the gallery, or in the car or outside Jim’s apartment, but raw and honest, a mess of breathing and lips and tongues and teeth, the kind of kiss that felt better than sex, so laden with desire that Jim felt crushed beneath the weight of it. He caught the whimper that broke in the back of Oswald’s throat and drew a growl from his own, lunging in harder, pulling Oswald’s tie tighter with one hand, the other rising to cradle his head, thumb rubbing a circle behind Oswald’s ear.

Oswald, however, kept his hands to himself.

This again.

The only time Oswald had ever touched Jim without direction was the night they murdered Galavan – and Jim knew better than to think they’d get there ever again. Knew better than to want to… Because this was pretend . All of it. Oswald might accept a kiss, might whisper don't stop in the dark when he thought Jim couldn’t hear, but when daylight rolled round, it was Ed he went home to, Ed he wanted.

Oswald might yearn to be owned, but it wasn’t for Jim that he yearned.

Jim eased off then, sitting back to drink his wine, furious with himself for letting his lust confuse fiction with reality. He wasn’t supposed to want Oswald. Not anymore.

“Jim?”

“What?” He refused to look at him, kept his eyes trained on what he could see of the restaurant beyond and concentrated on burying the feelings he’d accidentally churned up.

“Is something wrong?”

“No.” He set down his wine glass, barely more than a drop pooling in the bottom.

“So you broke off because you were thirsty?” Oswald said, reaching for the bottle and pouring Jim a second glass. “Or because you need to be drunk to do anything more than kiss me?”

Jim looked then, caught a glimpse of the insecurity that corroded Oswald’s soul. And felt something click into place.

“You never touch me,” Jim said, quietly. “Not unless I tell you to.”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“This is very much the subject.” Jim shifted round to get a better look at his date, finally taking in how good he looked – a more pared back effort than usual. No tailcoat, just a simple black suit over a charcoal shirt and luxurious silk tie, the purple thread of the paisley gleaming amethyst beneath the lights. “You can touch me. Any time, however you want.” A dangerous flash of awareness passed between them then, each remembering how Oswald had once touched Jim in ways he should have objected to. “For as long as we’re doing … this … you have my permission – my encouragement – to touch me. And for the record, I don’t have to be drunk to do more than kiss you, but this is  a very nice wine.”

He held the glass out and clinked it lightly against the one Oswald had yet to drink from.

“That’s a rapid turnaround from ‘I call the shots here’.” Oswald twisted the stem of his wine glass, watching the burgundy swirl without making any move to drink it.

Jim dipped his head in concession. “I’ll give you a couple for free.”

“A couple?” The sharpened interest in Oswald’s voice put Jim’s guard up, but dialing the offer back now would be a mistake.

“What else had you in mind?” Jim asked.

“Nothing. Yet, anyway. But for now, for clarity’s sake: I can touch you anyhow, anywhere, without your explicit permission?”

“Yes.” The longer he held Oswald’s gaze, the greater the pressure built until Jim could feel his pulse beat beneath his fingernails, in the shadow of his jaw and the depths of his abdomen.

Touch me, please god...

But Oswald just smiled, a secretive, knowing pinch of the lips and turned to look out at the room. “I believe our food is here.”

Chapter Text

Libertine might cater for appetites beyond food, but the starters were nonetheless exquisite: meltingly tender charcuterie that one barely had to bite, crudites so fresh it was like savouring a meadow, and delicate puffs of pastry flavoured with tomato and olive and herbs.

As Oswald reached for a sliver of jámon, he cast a glance to his right, enjoying the expression on Jim’s face as he ate. Having spent so much time watching for the less pleasant ways to motivate a person, it was a treat to witness such pleasure. Especially when that pleasure was Jim’s.

You have my permission – my encouragement – to touch me.

An interesting word ‘encouragement’; one that skirted so close to a request without actually crossing the line.

They’d crossed that line before, of course. Once. (Twice, technically.) There’d been the time Jim had paid a visit to Oswald’s office, begging for the kind of pain that could bring the both of them pleasure, and then the time after that, when the boundaries blurred, when right and wrong ceased to hold meaning and Oswald had spent the night exploring some of the ways in which Jim Gordon was weak for him.

But that was a long time ago. They were different men now, with different desires.

Oswald pursed his lips in a frown. Usually when he lied to himself it wasn’t quite so blatant: it was impossible to deny the speed at which his heart had accelerated from a walk to a sprint the moment Jim reached for his tie; nor the way need awakened as he bathed in the blue of that gaze. When Jim had murmured that Oswald yearned to be owned, had it not taken every shred of control not to cry out that if Jim wanted, he could have him? Whenever, wherever. For ever.

Enough.

While Jim might possess the power to bring Oswald to heel, he’d reversed the polarity of their dynamic with that little speech about wanting to be touched. And Oswald – Penguin, because under everything, that was who he would always  be – was never one to pass up an advantage.

As Jim made to reach for the wine, Oswald touched his fingers to the back of Jim’s hand, glancing up to reap the reward of Jim’s reaction. A flare of the eyes, and a subtle bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.

“Allow me,” Oswald said, reaching across the table with his free hand and topping up Jim’s glass with what remained of the bottle, all the while resting the fingers of his right hand ever so gently on Jim’s.

After putting the bottle back on the table, Oswald turned to study the man next to him, lightly tracing his fingertips across the veins on the back of Jim’s hand and watching his pupils blow black.

“Perhaps you could pass me the last of the bresaola?” Oswald nodded to the denuded charcuterie board. Without having to be told, Jim raised the meat to Oswald’s mouth, holding his gaze as his pushed it gently between parted lips.

Before Jim could withdraw his hand, Oswald caught him by the wrist. Swallowing his food almost as an afterthought, Oswald licked the ends of Jim’s pointer and middle fingers, steering them back into his mouth, enjoying the way his teeth scraped across the flesh of his fingerprint and the groan it elicited from his companion. Cheeks hollowed, he sucked lightly on Jim’s digits, tongue lapping and swirling.

“Fuck .”

Withdrawing, Oswald dipped his head to kiss the inside of Jim’s wrist, reaching across to run his nails along the line of Jim’s jaw and carding his fingers through Jim’s hair.

All the invitation Jim needed, clearly. Within an instant, the world was reduced to nothing but Jim licking at Oswald’s tongue as if chasing the flavour of the morsel he’d just fed him, grasping at his clothes, breathing hot and fast against his skin…

And Oswald returned it all in kind, kissing Jim back with a savage need, nails digging hungrily into the muscles beneath his shirt sleeves, revelling in the way Jim groaned when Oswald caught his lower lip between his teeth.

Was this really all it took? He’d barely done anything and yet Jim was tugging Oswald’s shirt free, hands running up under the material, firm against his bare skin.

“I thought you said we’d start slow?” Oswald murmured.

“Must be something in the food.” Jim laid a trail of kisses down Oswald’s throat, missing the smile that emerged above – a smile that broke into a silent gasp when Jim palmed Oswald through his pants, murmuring, “I’m looking forward to dessert.”

Easing off a little, kissing Oswald lightly on the cheek, Jim sat back as if to study Oswald further, only to glance at the table in confusion. “When’d they clear the plates?”

The dirty plates had been removed and the table swept clear of crumbs. Fresh cutlery had been placed by each setting, a platter of condiments between them. All without either of them noticing. Unsettled by the intrusion, Oswald reached for the little card that accompanied the condiments to distract himself from his discomfort.

“Oh.”

He handed the card to Jim and pulled the platter closer: a couple of drizzlers of liquid; a selection of what looked like wrapped chocolate discs; some silver salt dishes with delicate little spoons…

“A gift from Libertine to those inclined to add a little seasoning to their meal ,” Jim read out, raising his eyebrows as he scanned the list of ‘seasonings’. “Flavoured lube, hot/cold pastilles and a selection of unusual sensations.” Dipping a finger into one of the salt dishes, Jim licked the granules from his finger. “Popping candy. Could be interesting…”

But Oswald was too flustered by it all. The fact that someone had been in the booth, the way the restaurant sought to steer the activity within. It brought home forcefully the fact that this situation had been engineered by Ed and Oswald could feel the control slipping from his grasp.

“Hey,” Jim crooked a finger under Oswald’s chin, turning him to meet Jim’s gaze. “Look. Why don’t we take a break? Go for a walk around the room? See what everyone else is up to, huh?”

“Why?”

Jim shrugged. “Aren’t you curious?”

***

The only light in the main room came from within the booths, each glowing like a lantern within the cavernous dark of the restaurant’s floor. Oswald had gathered himself, tucking his shirt tails back into his pants, re-tying his tie. In doing so, he’d regained enough composure to walk by Jim’s side, aware of the hand resting in the small of his back, steering him across the floor as they walked between the booths and the other couples who’d decided to explore.

No one made eye contact. They were more like ships sailing through the same waters, each intent on their own passage, but next to one of the booths, a few couples had slowed to a stop and, as if of the same mind, Oswald and Jim drifted a little closer, Jim shifting to stand behind Oswald so that they didn’t block anyone else’s view.

It took a moment for Oswald to figure out what they were watching. While the silhouettes of the guests were fairly clear within the booth, the nature of their activity, the angle at which Oswald was watching, took a little concentration, a little imagination … until it clicked.

One of them was pressed hard up against the side of the booth, hands splayed sharp and dark on the surface of the glass. A woman, Oswald would have been inclined to say, from the shape of her hands and the line of her spine, but the way her arms were bent gave no indication of her breasts and truly, Oswald didn’t care to know. Women didn’t interest him. Yet the act the couple were engaged in…

As if reading his mind, Jim edged in closer, one hand resting on Oswald’s hip bone, holding him still, as Jim pressed against his ass.

“Like what you see?” The whisper felt loud against Oswald’s ear.

“Maybe.”

“Do you think once he’s finished eating that ass, that they’re gonna fuck?”

Oswald’s eyes drifted from where the man’s face was lost inside the curve of his partner’s buttocks to the erection bobbing between his legs.

“Yes.”

“Want to watch?”

Oswald swallowed and, squeezing his tight shut in shame, “Yes .”

Jim’s free hand reached round and rubbed Oswald’s cock through his pants. Slow, steady, mirroring the rhythm of the movement beyond the glass as the person getting eaten out rolled their hips. They didn’t have to wait long before the man emerged, his partner turning sharply as if demanding more, but he was shuffling closer, hand on his cock and after only the briefest of fumbles the figures started moving together…

“Listen…” Jim murmured and Oswald listened, mesmerised by the scene in front of him. “You can hear how much they’re enjoying it.”

“Are you  enjoying it?” Oswald managed to say, his throat dry from holding his breath.

“Yes.” Jim pressed harder into Oswald, shifting his weight against him. “Thought you’d be able to tell.”

And as Jim ground into him, the pressure on his cock increased and Oswald’s vision blurred with lust.

“Let’s go back to the table.” The suggestion came forth without Oswald’s permission, but he was too far gone to care.

“And then what?” Jim said.

Oswald swallowed, momentarily fearful of exposing too much of himself.

“You gonna climb onto the table?” Jim suggested.

“I can.”

“Will you take your pants off?”

“No.” Oswald took a breath, then, “You’ll take them off for me.”

“Are you gonna be hard for me?”

He already was – and Jim knew it. “I think that can be arranged.”

“Can I blow you?”

“Yes.” Oswald twisted his head to catch Jim’s jaw with a kiss. “Yes you may.”

“Good.” Jim grinned then, as goofy as it was hot. And there, just for a moment, Oswald felt a flicker of something so much more dangerous than anything he’d felt before.

“Come on.” Jim held out his hand for Oswald, who took it with a nod and whole lot of misgiving.

Chapter Text

Unfortunately for the both of them, when they returned to the booth, they found the table full of lightly steaming dishes.

“I can wait,” Oswald said, giving Jim a salacious up-down look, as if there were things he planned to do while he waited.

The two of them sat down, Oswald to the left, Jim to right, a little closer than was strictly practical, hands brushing as they reached for various dishes, knees bumping and when Jim made to adjust his napkin, his hand ran up the length of Oswald’s thigh as if governed by mind of its own.

Conversation was dominated by the food as they explored the cuisine on offer, commenting on the flavor, the texture – suggesting the other try something. It felt discomfitingly normal and Jim fought to remind himself that this wasn’t a date like any other. He was here with Oswald for god’s sake. Their interests might align for the moment, but there would come a time when they didn’t. Gotham’s mayor might have record approval rating from the people who voted for him, but Jim knew better than to believe Oswald was running things clean. Once this Nygma obsession cleared itself up, something else would emerge – a grab for more power, a scheme to eliminate an enemy – and whatever it was, Jim would be there to stop him.

For now, though, Jim had nine more days to indulge in a fantasy. So long as he remembered that was what it was.

His gaze wandered from his plate to the array of ‘condiments’ and he indulged in a very specific fantasy of coating his fingers in one of those flavoured lubes and giving Oswald the most exquisite combination of tongue- and finger fucking until he was nothing but a needy, writhing mess, begging for Jim’s cock.

“Jim?”

“Oswald.”

“You looked distracted.” As he said it, Oswald lifted Jim’s hand to his lips, pressed a kiss to his palm. “I thought I might help with that…”

Another kiss on the heel of his hand, the inside of his wrist and then Oswald was sucking lightly at Jim’s pulse point. With his other hand, Oswald reached out to unfasten the top button of Jim’s shirt, working effortlessly down the rest to expose a shadowed valley of skin.

All the while, he held Jim’s gaze, kissing, licking, breathing into the soft skin of his wrist.

Tugging the shirt free from Jim’s waistband, he spread the material wide enough for the lighting above to flood Jim’s torso a golden yellow, exposing every scar. Fingers skimmed up Jim’s abs, his ribs, a thumbnail scraping brutally across the tender flesh of his nipple, drawing a wince and an Ah.

“You said I could touch you however I want.” Oswald’s voice was husky and he nipped the skin of Jim’s wrist with his teeth.

“I did say that.” Jim tipped his head back and bit back a cry as Oswald pinched his nipple. Glancing across at Oswald, he added, “Anywhere, anyhow.”

Oswald answered with a smile, and the hand on Jim’s torso scored a savage trail down to his belt. First the buckle, then the catch on Jim’s pants and then he was pulling Jim free from his boxers, his hand every bit as skilled at wrapping itself round Jim’s dick as it had been stripping his clothes away.

Jim tipped his head back in pleasure.

This experience of Oswald’s hand on his cock was something new, his fingers positioned with precision, pressure shifting through tender to confident, to…

A groan escaped as Oswald gripped a little harder, a ripple of pressure as his thumb swiped over Jim’s slit.

When Jim’s eyes stuttered open, he was met with a picture of perfection. The ice of Oswald’s iris melting away as his pupils grew wide, lips curling up in delight, his expression one of unfettered confidence. Holding Jim’s gaze as if hypnotised, Oswald pressed a series of kisses up Jim’s arm, all the while working his cock, until he was close enough to kiss…

But as Jim lunged forward, Oswald dodged his mouth, smile wide and wicked, aware of what Jim wanted – and delighting in denying him.

“Please…” Jim knew he was begging. Didn’t care.

“Please what?” Oswald broke eye contact long enough to glance down to Jim’s cock and back. His breathing was as labored as Jim’s, getting off on the power Jim had so easily gifted.

“Kiss me.” Again Jim mouthed at Oswald’s lips. Again: denied. But between the sensation coiling deep in his belly and the sight of Oswald getting off on his little power trip, Jim was done playing.

Swiftly, he grabbed Oswald by the back of the head and forced their mouths together, his teeth catching Oswald’s lower lip as he made to pull back – accepting the sharp tug on his cock as punishment, just as he accepted the surrender that followed a second later, Oswald’s mouth parting, his tongue finding Jim’s in a fierce and greedy kiss.

From that point Jim’s thoughts gave way to his senses. The breathless urgency of their kiss, the way his fingers curled in Oswald’s hair and that tug and roll and … Jim’s eyes rolled back behind his eyelids as Oswald found the sweet spot below his head … and he knew . Jim felt the smile on the other man’s lips and groaned into his mouth as his hand worked Jim’s cock, the sensation in his belly was coiling tighter, growing stronger…

“I’m close,” Jim murmured into Oswald’s mouth.

“I know.”

That arrogance … Jim panted his next couple of breaths, turned on beyond belief.

And then they were no longer kissing, Jim drawing breath from thin air a moment before he realized what Oswald was about to…

“Fuck.” Jim’s hips canted up as Oswald swallowed him down in one wet, eager gulp, drawing his cock right the way in with no hesitation. There was the press of the back of his throat a moment before he drew back and Jim watched as the Mayor of Gotham, the king of the underworld pulled his lips from Jim’s cock and ran his tongue around the head, eyes flashing up to meet Jim’s.

Reaching out, Jim ran his fingers up Oswald’s jaw, rested his thumb lightly on the hollow of his cheek as Oswald closed his eyes in what looked like bliss as he went to town, sucking, licking, winding the feeling in Jim’s belly tighter still, bringing him so so close…

And then he was beyond close, as if his soul had left his body to touch god  a second before his orgasm ripped through him, forcing him back into his body as he came in Oswald’s mouth, losing all other senses to the feel of that tongue lapping at him, teasing every last drop from his dick.

Insensible, buzzing, Jim groped for Oswald’s collar, pulling him up for a kiss, tasting the trace of his pleasure on the other man’s tongue.

“Happy, Jim?” Oswald whispered, sensing the smile on Jim’s lips.

“Yup. Yes. Fuck yes.” Jim shifted round. “Get on the table and I’ll show just how happy you made me.”

Chapter Text

OSWALD

Oswald basked in Jim’s gaze a moment, hypnotized by his own feelings as every last inkling of desire he’d ever felt crowded into his mind – into his treacherous, wilful heart.

“What are you waiting for?” Jim’s question was a growl that thrummed through Oswald’s blood, urging him to obey.

In a miracle of movement, Oswald made the journey from bench to table pushing their empty plates out of the way to sit facing Jim, because for all he’d enjoyed the show they’d watched from the restaurant floor, he wasn’t yet prepared for something so explicit. After a second’s consideration, he swung his right leg round so that Jim was perfectly positioned between his thighs. He looked good from this angle. (From every angle.) Shirt open, the fading stripe of scratchmarks that Oswald had scored down his chest. He’d tucked himself away for now, but Oswald knew what Jim’s cock felt like – in his hand, in his mouth – knew the taste of him and the sound he made when he came. And he could call it all to mind in an instant.

Summoning the bravado he’d felt as Jim had tensed beneath him, Oswald raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

Jim licked his lips and reached for Oswald’s belt, unhooking the clasp, opening his pants…

“A little help here…”

Oswald lifted up from the table long enough for Jim to draw his pants and underwear down to his thighs, then his knees, then he was unlacing his shoes – a thunk, thunk  as each hit the floor, then he’d pulled Oswald’s clothes free completely.

“I like the view,” Jim said, not taking his eyes from Oswald’s crotch, running his hands up, then down his thighs before his right hand swooped gently back up, catching Oswald’s cock, wrist rolling gently in a way that Oswald had come to think of as uniquely Jim.

He pressed his teeth together a little harder, forced his breath through his nose and tightened his grip on the edge of the table.

And he watched.

A new angle, a different sensation, and yet it was Jim – again – and Oswald reveled in the sight as he felt Jim shift on the bench a second before he pressed his lips to Oswald’s knee, then his thigh.

He watched as Jim kissed his way up his leg, concentrating on the feel of his lips on his skin, the caress of his breath and the occasional scrape of his teeth. By the time Jim reached his destination, Oswald felt faint from holding his breath.

A second later he felt faint from the sensation of Jim’s tongue, licking a slow, luxurious swipe up the length of his cock, a gentle flick beneath his head and then he was gone, swallowed deep, a moan forcing its way out of his mouth…

How? How could something he’d thought about a thousand and one times feel so much better  than he’d been able to imagine?

But it wasn’t just the sensation, it was everything: the edge of the table biting into the back of his legs; the heat of Jim’s mouth and the brush of material against his inner thighs; it was the sound of Jim’s breathing; the pressure of his hand, gripping, shifting, below the line of his lips; the shadow of his lashes a second before his eyes flicked open to look up at Oswald.

Oswald hesitated a second, fingers curling tight around the rim of the table, then he reached out with his left hand, ran his fingers through the longer hair on the top of Jim’s head and was rewarded by a growl that reverberated through every cell in his body, the sucking and licking increasing in fervor.

“Jim…” But tugging at his hair only served to make things worse, to increase the pressure. “Slower.”

He felt Jim smile, saw the glint in his eyes, but his instruction went unheeded and Oswald was forced to fight with everything he had to hold himself back, to eke out the sensation second by second…

Jim pulled away for a moment, head tilted up, hand still working its magic.

“Come for me…” His gaze didn’t waver as he returned to lapping persistently just below the head of Oswald’s cock, then taking him again, deep – so  deep – in a riot of sensation that had Oswald throwing his head back to be blinded by the lights, half aware of where they were, half so far gone that he could have cried out…

But all he permitted himself was a muffled gasp as his stomach, his buttocks, his thighs tensed before he felt the rush of release, hips thrusting up, pushing his cock further into Jim’s mouth as he came.

JIM

Jim swallowed, once, twice, then pulled back to lick every last drop of Oswald’s cum, greedy yet gentle, aware of the way Oswald’s grip had softened to something less commanding, more tender, fingers combing softly through Jim’s hair. When Jim met Oswald’s gaze – a glimmer of blue beneath eyelids heavy from the comedown – he caught the hint of a satisfied smile at the corners of his mouth. Pulling Oswald from the table and into his lap, Jim met his mouth for a kiss, the fury of the last few minutes fading into a slow, dangerous intimacy that had Jim wishing they weren’t doing this on a table in a restaurant, but somewhere private, their acts performed for an audience of two.

Oswald pulled back from their kiss, shifting gently in Jim’s lap. “So, James Gordon, tell me. Am I the most fuckable man in Gotham?”

“Yes.” Jim dug his fingers into Oswald’s ass.

“Does that mean you’re thinking of what it would be like to bend me over that table and fuck me?” Oswald carried on riding Jim, a subtle shifting of weight in his lap. “Do you want to bury that beautiful cock inside me?”

God yes. So much.

But again, that niggling awareness of where they were, who might be watching, and why.

“Might need a little recovery time,” Jim murmured, stalling.

“Really?” Oswald snaked a hand down between them, palming Jim’s crotch.

“Keep riding me like that…” Jim reached up, tilting Oswald’s head back so he could kiss his throat and mutter into his skin “…won’t take long, believe me.”

Because fuck it: if this was the only way to have him, Jim would take it. He would pin Oswald to that table, one hand on his neck, the other holding his hips in place, and Jim would let loose all the pent up desire he felt for this infuriating weasel of a human being. It had been what? Nine months? A year? Since he’d feigned indifference to a man whose existence burned beneath his skin and haunted the depths of his desire. Jim might hide it from everyone else, but Oswald saw – Oswald knew. Their love of Gotham was two sides of the same coin, minted in darkness and determination. For all he might resist, like called to like and the darkest parts of Jim Gordon pined for the man sitting astride him.

“Tell me what you want, Jim,” Oswald said, voice low, breath rasping as Jim trailed his lips up top Oswald’s ear, sucking the soft flesh as he gathered his thoughts.

“I want you naked, and compliant and lying face down on my bed.”

A faint whimper broke in Oswald’s throat.

“And I want to lick my way up your thigh and part those cheeks so I can run my tongue all the way up, from the crease of your balls to the base of your spine – once, twice, get you wet and panting…”

“Oh my god.”

“He won’t help you. There’ll just be me, teasing you until you beg me to lick your hole – and I will. I’ll lick you, push the tip of my tongue into you…”

Oswald, who’d slowly been losing any grip he had over himself, covered Jim’s mouth in a kiss, his body a restless squirm of desire so intense he had to pull back from their kiss just to breathe.

“Do it.” Oswald pressed his forehead to Jim’s. “Do it now.”

“Here?”

“Now.” His pupils were a black void and his voice a command that Jim oh-so-nearly obeyed.

If it weren’t the perfect opportunity to bring a little balance to proceedings.

“I reckon our tab is covered,” Jim murmured, running one hand up behind Oswald’s head. “So no, I won’t do that to you now.”

The rage that flashed across Oswald’s features was a thrill and Jim’s fingers snarled in Oswald’s hair, jerking his head back so he could bask in the full force of Oswald’s fury. This was the man he wanted. The petulant, arrogant, criminal who’d kill to get his own way. And there was nothing that turned Jim on like thwarting him.

Albeit not for too long…

Jim waited a beat longer, then, “If you want to know what it’s like to get tongue-fucked before I slide my fingers inside you, give you the most mind-blowing orgasm and fuck you through the mattress, then I suggest you put your clothes back on, and we get a car back to my place.”

Fuck. If the look on Oswald’s face wasn’t everything Jim craved, the way his lashes fanned out over wide, wild eyes, the flare of his nostrils and the dark smudge between lips parted to draw breath.

“I can agree to those terms,” Oswald conceded with a surprising amount of composure. “Provided you deliver.”

“It’s a promise.”

That was enough for Oswald to shuffle off Jim’s lap to reach for his underwear and pants –and as he did, the lights in the booth dimmed and there came a polite, “Excuse me, gentlemen,” from the opening into the main room.

“Yes?” Clothes bunched in his lap to hide his dignity, Oswald nevertheless managed to sound both supercilious and irritated.

“I’m afraid we’re asking our patrons to gather themselves and leave the premises as swiftly as possible. These are the lockboxes assigned to your table, if you’d like to retrieve your phones and make your way to the front desk…”

“Why?” The question spring from Jim’s lips before the waiter finished his sentence.

“We’ve had a bomb threat. Quite tame by Gotham’s standards.” The waiter gave them a bland smile. “Last month we had to send everyone who ordered the chablis to an anti-toxin clinic after someone injected the corks with a slow release poison. I’ll give you a moment.”

***

They took a different route out of the building from the one they’d entered by. This staircase led to a pair of double doors, from which the guests spilled out into a darkened parking garage, where the good and the great of Gotham dispersed, keen to get away before the police arrived to see how they spent their Saturdays. As the crowd in front of them thinned, Jim saw a tall, familiar figure standing next to a sleek black limousine.

Oswald murmured a somewhat breathy, “Ed…” and made directly for his car, forcing Jim to follow.

“Good evening, Oswald.” Ed opened the back door. “The restaurant called. I thought you might want a discrete exit.”

Glancing at Jim with a look of uncharacteristic confusion, Oswald nodded. “Of course.” Then he ducked into the backseat of the car and out of view.

Jim and Ed stood there a moment, each as impassive as the other.

“Really, Nygma? A bomb threat?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jimbo.”

“And I’m sure you do.” But as Jim made to follow Oswald into the car, Ed stepped in front of him.

“I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to be seen leaving with the Mayor.” Jim’s eyes flicked to the tinted glass that would hide anyone inside from view. Not that it mattered. This was just another way for Ed to assert his power. An interesting development. And, as far as Jim was concerned, an unwelcome one. Not that he’d show it.

Jim flashed a meaningless smile. “Guess I’ll walk home.”

“I’m sure one of your former colleagues will give you a lift,” Ed said, before slipping inside the car, the door clunking shut as the car rolled away, taking Oswald and Ed with it – and leaving Jim standing in an empty garage, the flicker of police lights and the sound of sirens bouncing off the concrete.

Chapter Text

Gazing out the car window, Oswald watched the neon lights of the downtown bars zip past. Who were all these people? Where were they going, what were they doing? Did they even care who ran the city so long as they could get from the end of their working day to the start of the next via any means necessary? Not that any of the answers mattered. Not to him and probably not to them. Or it didn’t matter right now. If a scandal broke tomorrow about Gotham’s Mayor, they’d care then – and for all he’d have been happy to let Jim take him home, perhaps it was best that they’d left separately. Discretion might be the order of the day inside Libertine  but Oswald had plenty of enemies at the GCPD, and he doubted they loved Jim Gordon more than they'd love a couple of hundred bucks for selling him out to the papers.

Love was a danger to all of them.

Oswald shifted his focus to the reflection in the glass, catching an echo of Ed’s features from where he’d been sitting in silence. As if sensing the scrutiny, Ed cleared his throat.

“How was your evening?”

“Good,” Oswald replied, turning away from the window. “Excellent, even.”

“Mm.” Ed’s lips formed the tightest of smiles.

“Tell me, Ed, exactly when did the restaurant call you?”

“As soon as they received a tip-off about a bomb, I’m sure.”

“It’s a half hour ride from the mansion,” Oswald said. “Jim and I vacated the building within ten minutes.”

“Lucky I was in City Hall. Working late.”

“On what?”

“Filing.”

“Important work.”

“Very.”

There was a silence then, each taking a moment to regroup.

“I presume you knew what kind of establishment Libertine  when you booked the table?”

“It has a certain reputation – and I hear the food is excellent.”

“It lived up to its reputation.” Oswald flashed Ed a knowing look as he added, “The meal was exquisite.”

“Yes, well.” Ed fussed in his lap a moment, picking an imaginary piece of lint from his trousers and smoothing the material flat. “It seems I was wrong about Jim’s intentions.”

“It seems you were.” Oswald remained still, watching his friend, reading him.

“Oswald, I—” Ed fidgeted some more and Oswald waited, eyebrows raised in an expression of mild curiosity. But Ed shook his head, let out a hissing little laugh. “Never mind. It’s nothing.”

Turning back to look out the window, Oswald permitted himself a small smile. Their plan was working.

Chapter Text

Five days in and things were going to plan – to a certain extent, at least. Their little performance had certainly got Ed’s attention. Never had Oswald felt quite so cherished by his friend, who attended to Oswald’s every whim and lingered in the door before every departure (even just to cross the outer office and fetch something from the printer). Truth be told, it was suffocating – and uncomfortably reminiscent of living with his mother.

But, as Oswald’s only measure of what it felt like to be loved, he could accept it.

Although…

Since the night before last (since before then, perhaps), Oswald was beginning to wonder if love was enough. The point of this venture with Jim had been to make Ed want him. For him to see Oswald as Oswald saw him, someone he yearned to touch, to hold, to kiss, to fuck. This overly attentive manner was nice enough, but it felt sanitized. Sexless.

So very different from Jim, with whom every second came loaded with an insatiable hunger.

Oswald checked his phone. Nothing since their exchange after the restaurant: Oswald’s Ed's jealous ; Jim’s That should make you happy.

Oswald hadn’t known what to make of that. Pleased as he was that Ed was starting to pay attention, Oswald was very aware of how differently the night had promised to end. A promise that would have played out in the privacy of Jim’s bedroom.

Which, now he thought about it, was an interesting development.

Reviewing their previous dates: the kiss at the gallery; the “private” displays of affection captured by Kathryn Munroe’s security measures; and the tacit exhibitionism of Libertine – each and every instance, even the night Oswald stayed over, there had been someone watching in some capacity or other. An audience to convince. But no one would have known where Oswald and Jim had gone, nor what they might do when they were there.

When Oswald had asked Jim what he wanted, his answer had been "you".

Oswald closed his eyes, let the memory of Jim flood his senses, the timbre of his voice, the pressure of his body against Oswald’s… the things he’d described doing and what it might feel like for those to come to pass…

A savage twist of want  cut him in half.

“Oswald?”

At the sound of his name, Oswald glanced up, vision so fogged by lust that his hand was already reaching across the desk, before he recalled where he was and for whom he was reaching.

Ed looked a little startled as Oswald gave his lapel a rather savage brush and mumbled something about dust

“Just reminding you of this…” Ed slid an invitation across the desk. The Gotham Benevolence Fund cordially invites the Mayor of Gotham... “The gala is tomorrow and I’ve just had a call from the event manager to confirm the names of the people attending.”

Something in Ed’s delivery had Oswald go very still.

“And what names did you give them?”

“I gave your name … and mine.”

Ed’s expression was inscrutable, but – just for a moment – his gaze darted guiltily away from Oswald’s.

“I believe there’s a name missing from that list,” Oswald said, impassive.

“The invitation arrived last month and I RSVPed for two tickets.”

Oswald released Ed from his gaze and shrugged as he reached for the dagger in his pen pot, gently running a thumb along the blade. Eyes still on the blade, he said, “James Gordon will attend as my guest.”

“But—”

Oswald swept the point of the knife down to pierce the thick card of the invitation. Knuckles tensed white around the handle, Oswald flicked a glance up at his aide.

“I suggest you contact the Gotham Benevolence Fund to correct your mistake.”

A moment of mutiny, Ed’s eyes flashing darker than dark behind the lens of his glasses. Then a clipped, “Of course.”

Chapter Text

The event manager hadn’t exactly been pleased to add another name to the list – until Ed brought up the matter of an out-of-date noise license and a reminder that with an additional guest came an additional donation. Leveraging his position for Jim irked him, but the alternative was to let him go in Ed’s place and that… well that was not an option Ed was prepared to consider. His relationship with Isabella might have been distracting of late, but Ed’s place was at the Mayor’s side, and he was keen that Oswald, and Jim ‘GCPD’ Gordon, remembered this.

All the reports he had back from Libertine  – from the ‘security’ he’d paid to watch the Mayor and the couple he’d blackmailed into spying for him – indicated that things with Oswald and Jim were intimate, leading Ed to conclude that the threat Jim posed to his friend was much more serious than he’d anticipated. Oswald’s heart was wilful and easily won, which meant that once Jim cast him aside, the fallout would be… significant.

And Jim would  cast him aside, just as soon as he got whatever it was he wanted.

All Ed had to do was run interference until he figured out Jim’s plan…

There was a brisk knock at the door to the outer office and Ed looked up from the golden pool of light illuminating his desk, surprised to see just how long he’d stayed back. Isabella would be waiting. Calling for the cleaner to enter, Ed stood up to tidy away the papers he’d been checking.

“Edward Nygma?”

The voice had him looking up sharply, rapidly composing his face into a bland mask that gave nothing away.

“Valerie Vale, Gotham Gazette.”

“I’m aware of who you are, Miss Vale. Unfortunately you seem unaware that office hours are over, if you’d like to make an appointment to see the Mayor—”

“It’s not the Mayor I’m here to see.” Vale kicked the door shut behind her and strode across the office with the kind of confidence Ed despised. “And since it’s hard to find a time when you’re not glued to his side, I think I’ll take advantage of this opportunity to speak with you.”

She settled in one of the chairs, legs crossed at the knee as casual as if she worked there.

“Miss Vale, I assure you whatever information you’re after—”

“Actually –” Ed loathed that this was the second time she’d interrupted him – “if you’ll listen, I think you’ll find I’m the one with the information.” She must have seen his scepticism. “About a certain bounty hunter?”

She arched a brow in question.

“Proceed.” Ed sat back down and waited as Valerie got her phone out and held it up for Ed to see the photo that had been reproduced in the Gotham Gazette .

“Six nights ago.” She swiped across to show him a photo of the two in an embrace outside what he believed to be Jim’s apartment building. “Four nights ago – and from another source on the same night.” Grainy security camera footage of two men in a poorly-lit corridor – if it weren’t for the distinctive cut of Oswald’s tailcoat, it could have been anyone. “And this was the day before yesterday.” Jim and Oswald once more, waiting outside the entrance to Libertine.

“I’m perfectly aware of the Mayor’s movements.”

Vale raised her eyebrows, lips quirking in a smile. “Are you now?”

Ignoring her, Ed countered with, “What information is it that you think you have?”

“I know James Gordon and you know the Mayor, and you’re telling me that this is just…” Vale shrugged, “… the ways things are between them? That a former detective from the GCPD and a criminal kingpin – a pair whose interests have clashed on more than one occasion – have decided to put aside their differences and date?”

“Formerkingpin,” Ed corrected her.

Vale rolled her eyes, “Sure ‘former’.”

“I’ve yet to see anything that constitutes information,” Ed said, making as if to get up. “Now if you’ll excuse—”

“Fine.” Ed envisioned his hands around her throat as he throttled her for interrupting him again  before pushing the idea away in alarm and concentrating on whatever she was reaching across to show him. “This is Jim’s bank statement. That payment there? See the date?”

“Six days ago,” Ed murmured.

“Recognize the account it came from?”

Ed frowned, running through the numbers of every account he had access to before growling out a frustrated, “No.”

Silence, for once, and Ed looked up just in time to see the disappointment flash across her face. “Dammit. If the payment didn't come from the Mayor's office...”

“Then someone’s paying Jim to get to Oswald.” Ed felt the rasp of anger in his voice.

Valerie’s eyes were bright in the gloom of the office. “But who, and why?”

Chapter Text

Jim sat in the back of the limo wearing the most exquisitely tailored tuxedo he’d even seen, let alone tried on. Even the goddamn shirt felt like it had been woven from cotton specially engineered to flatter the contours of his body. For tonight, he’d finally splashed some of Oswald’s money on expensive black brogues and tidied up the haircut from last week.

With only had six more days to enjoy the all-expenses-paid ride, why not make the most of it?

As the car’s engine purred lazily in the downtown traffic, Jim took his phone from his pocket and read back the conversation from yesterday.

You will attend the Gotham Benevolence Gala as my guest tomorrow. Black tie, car at 7pm.

The casual command in ‘You will’ was concerning. The power see-sawing between them currently weighed heavily in Oswald’s favor: the low lights and high stakes of their encounter at Libertine had lured Jim into a confession he should never have made, and Oswald, sharp as ever, knew it.

So Jim had bitten back a little with his reply: I will, will I?

Need I remind you of the terms of our agreement?

I don’t recall agreeing for you to order me around.

He’d intended for it to be playful. A little flirtation to wrest back a little control. But the reply had cut Jim down to size.

I’ve paid for two weeks of your time. I expect to get my money’s worth.

The queue to pull up at the entrance of the Elliot Grand was slower than Jim had patience for. Signaling for the driver to drop him round the corner, Jim checked his reflection in the panes of the fire exit and strolled round to the gaudy rococo front of the hotel where the sweep of red carpet glittered with a constellation of the great and good of Gotham. Flashlights bounced off the brilliance of the diamonds at their throat and the whites of their smiles, and James Gordon, first through the door on a mission, the man who’d brought the monsters of Indian Hill to heel, hung back at the sight.

No one noticed. All anyone was interested in was who might be in the next car and Jim, like everyone else, watched as a car pulled up to the kerb and, from the shadows of the back seat, in all his glory, emerged Oswald Cobblepot, Mayor of Gotham.

Jim’s breath stilled at the sight of him.

This was the man the city had seen on the campaign posters, groomed to perfection, teeth tamed, skin smoothed, hair coiffed into a style that passed as respectable.

Yet Jim saw, even now, every iteration of Oswald he’d ever known: half naked, drunk on desire as he straddled Jim’s lap; the softness that settled on his features as he slept; his blood-splattered profile as they drove from the scene of Galavan’s murder; the magnanimous King of Gotham who traded in threats and favors. He saw the greasy, flustered young man who’d begged for his life and been the bane of Jim’s ever since.

And then he saw Ed.

Nygma touched a hand to Oswald’s elbow, guiding him up the stairs, staying just far enough away that no one would mistake him for someone important, yet close enough that he’d be captured in the frame of every shot. He looked sharp and suave, and his smile brought to mind that of a shark the second before it might bite.

“James Gordon, what a pleasant surprise.”

Jim allowed himself a rueful smile a moment before he turned to where Valerie Vale was standing. “Something tells me it’s not a surprise at all.”

“Maybe not…” She ran an appraising eye up and down his outfit. “… but it is pleasant.”

“Likewise.”

Vale always looked gorgeous, but tonight she was stunning, dressed in sleek gold lamé, slashed to the top of her thigh, hair gathered up into careless curls above a halterneck that exposed most of her back as she turned towards the stairs.

“Care to accompany me?”

Jim glanced at where his date had disappeared through the double doors. “Sure.” He flashed a smile. “Why not?”

Neither stopped for the cameras, although Jim heard his name called out a couple of times and a “I thought that guy was with Penguin?” as he passed a gaggle of onlookers crowded round the ropes by the entrance.

“Well, are you?” Vale asked.

“Mm?” At the door, Jim showed the invitation the Mayor’s office had forwarded to him and waited for Vale show her press pass before entering. “Am I what?”

“With Penguin?”

Across the crowded foyer, Nygma leaned to whisper something in Oswald’s ear and Jim murmured a resentful, “Supposed to be.”

The look Vale gave him was hard to read, but before Jim had chance to question her, she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and nodded towards the doors through which Oswald and Ed had walked. “Shall we?”

The walls of the Grand Ballroom were swathed in rich silks and huge, exuberant flower arrangements sat atop pedestals between each of the sash windows. The music of the band onstage added a pretty melody to the murmur of the guests and Jim surveyed what must have been a couple hundred people draped in clothes and jewels worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, his chest tightening in frustration at seeing so much wealth put to so little purpose.

Sure, the proceeds from auction at the end of the night went to multiple grass roots charities across the city, but if anyone here paid even half the taxes they owed…

“Bar.” Valerie steered him firmly towards the sleek marble bar lining the back of the room. “I don’t know about you, but this leaves the kind of bad taste in my mouth that can only be washed away with a good whisky.”

She slipped her way easily through the crowd and within minutes Jim was holding a tumbler of smoky golden alcohol that tasted as expensive as his tux.

“Cheers.” Vale clinked her glass to his and took a sip.

The two stayed near the bar for a while, Jim adjusting to the ease of being with her: the light-hearted quips and the sense that nothing they said really mattered. A dynamic devoid of power and pretence. Yet through every smile, every laugh, every playful touch, he was counting down the seconds until he could walk away.

After the third time he’d looked over her shoulder, Vale raised a finger to his jaw and guided his gaze back to hers.

“You’d really rather be with the Mayor than talking to me?” Her eyes glittered with mirth, brows quirked in a disbelieving arch.

“I’m here as his guest,” Jim said.

“Evading the question, your honor.” Vale’s expression shifted from playful to professional. “Look, James. I’ve never seen the Mayor attend so many events as he has in the last week with you. Some might say he was flaunting your relationship, others might think it worth digging a little deeper.” She had his full attention and she knew it. Carrying on, she said, “Someone paid a large sum of money into your account the same day you attended the Gotham Modern Art Gallery and I’m trying to figure out if someone’s paying you to soften Penguin up, or…”

“Or what? You think I’m some kind of gigolo?”

Vale pulled a face. “What is this, the 1980s? The term you’re looking for is ‘sex worker’. And yes, I think someone is paying you to spend time with Oswald Cobblepot. I’m just not sure who, or why.”

“Stay out of it, Vale.”

“So there is something worth finding out.”

“I didn’t say that!”

Jim glanced around them, then, taking hold of Vale by the arm, he guided her swiftly out of the ballroom and into a darkened corner of the foyer.

“You need to stop,” Jim said, voice low and urgent. “Stop asking questions, stop following me. There’s no story here—”

“Sure.” Vale crossed her arms. “That’s exactly what your behaviour implies.”

“The payment you’re referring to – which you’d had to have broken the law to find, by the way – has nothing to do with Oswald. It’s the balance owed by a client whose case I closed last month.”

“What case?”

“A private one. That I investigated. Because that’s my job.”

“And all this?” She waved her hand at his suit, their surroundings. “You expect me to believe it’s for real?”

Her face said it all. There was nothing Jim could say that would convince her to back off. Arguing with Vale, pushing her away, only ever served to drive her harder towards the truth. Sighing, Jim made a snap decision and, pulling her deeper into the shadows, he murmured, “Have you heard of something called the Court of Owls…?”

***

The order of events for the evening according to the invitation was drinks and mingling in the ballroom, then dinner next door rounded off by a charitable auction. If one were to consult Oswald’s imagination on the other hand…

First he’d hoped for his date to walk in, cross the room with the kind of purpose only Jim Gordon possessed and lay claim to him, maybe with a kiss to the cheek or a more understated hand to the lower back. Then, perhaps, a chance to duck away from the crowd long enough to steal a kiss behind one of those curtains, forcing Ed to come look for him when they were summoned for dinner. A meal of unspoken intent – a generous bid on a commission from one of the city’s leading portrait artists – and then Oswald would take Jim back to the mansion for a nightcap that would last into the morning so that when Ed turned up after a tawdry night with his so-called girlfriend, he’d find Jim at the breakfast table and there would – could – be no mistake as to what Oswald meant to a man who could have anyone he wanted…

At least, that was the idea.

If Jim ever shows up...

Oswald checked his phone where Gabe had replied to confirm he’d dropped Jim outside around the same time Oswald had arrived. So where was he?

“Champagne.” Ed materialized at his elbow and presented him with a flute. “Although according to the wine list it’s from a vineyard in Bourgogne, so technically this is a crémant.”

Oswald didn’t care. Jim’s absence had become an itch he’d resorted to scratching by incessantly scouring the crowd and Ed’s doting manner teetered on the verge of annoying.

“You seem distracted, Oswald.”

“How astute,” Oswald sneered, impatience making him cruel.

“If it’s Jim Gordon you’re looking for…” Ed didn’t so much as flinch at the derisive look Oswald fired his way. “… then you’ll find him over there, by the bar. The woman with him is Valerie Vale from the Gotham Gazette.”

Ed directed Oswald’s gaze to the far end of the room where, as he finally picked Jim out from the crowd, he saw the reporter touch a hand to Jim’s face. She smiled, charming, flirtatious and then – as if she’d unlocked something within, Jim was closing a hand round her upper arm and steering her swiftly through the crowd and out of the room.

The glass in Oswald's hand shattered beneath the pressure of his grip, crystal splinters slicing the skin of his palm.

“I’ll get you another,” Ed murmured, magicking the pocket square from this jacket and pressing it to Oswald’s fingers.

He made no move to stem the blood that beaded from his skin, no move at all, in fact. He merely stayed, rigid with rage as he stared through the double doors. Oswald had been dragged enough places by Jim Gordon to know what followed. Ed returned. Oswald became dimly aware that Ed had summoned a member of staff to clean up the glass as he was guided to stand next to one of the pedestals of flowers where Ed set down a fresh glass of champagne and bid Oswald show him his hand.

“How are you feeling?”

Oswald’s reply was a petulant snarl. “On top of the world.”

“I meant your hand.” Ed nodded to the bloodied pocket square.

“I’m fine. ”

But Ed had never been one to take a hint as he uncurled Oswald’s fingers and inspected the cuts with a medical examiner’s precision, dabbing the blood with a clean napkin. “You’ll live.”

How ironic that it felt as if a part of him had died.

Ed was standing close, forever incapable of reading the boundaries of personal space, Oswald’s hand still in his. “About Jim Gordon…”

“Tread carefully, Ed.”

Ed huffed a quiet breath and ducked his head as he smiled. “You are my best friend and I just… I think you should know—” between one beat and the next, Oswald’s heart healed itself with hope— “that someone is paying Jim to seduce you.”

Oswald’s surprise was genuine. Mouth open, eyes wide with shock, his words tripped over each other as he tried to form a sentence.

“I… what… why would you … who—?”

“I’ve seen record of a payment made the day you attended the opening night of the exhibition. I tried tracing the account –”

Oswald’s heart ricocheted up his throat and into his mouth.

“– but whoever sent it knows how to stay hidden.”

The relief nearly knocked him out. The insult of Ed refusing to countenance that Jim’s affections might be real was nothing compared to the humiliation that would come from him learning that Oswald was paying for Jim’s ‘services’ himself. Hurriedly pushing away the acknowledgement that this was precisely  what their arrangement was, Oswald focused on damage control.

“Ed, that is a lot   of speculation based on evidence that is circumstantial at best.” He gave Ed a condescending smile. Leaning on his cane with his good hand, he gave Ed a patronizing pat with the other, careful not to get blood on his sleeve. “Just the other day you were convinced Jim was trying to get his old job back. Why–” Oswald poked Ed’s arm playfully – “are you –” another – “so determined –” and then “– to discredit him?” Each syllable punctuated by a mocking little prod.

When Ed met Oswald’s gaze, the way the light fell behind him cast shadows across his face and the lens of his glasses flashed briefly as he titled his head to fix Oswald with eyes so dark it was walking into the night.

“Jim discredits himself. Attending as your guest and disappearing with someone else.” Oswald’s jealousy flared at the reminder, but Ed was reaching for Oswald’s shoulder, his thumb rubbing circles on the velvet as he held Oswald’s gaze longer than felt natural. “You deserve better than a man who can’t appreciate what’s right in front of him.”

“And what do you see when you look at what’s in front of you?” Oswald murmured.

“I see the man who inspired me to discover who I really am. The only person who came to visit me when I was locked away in Arkham and who used his power to free me.” And still his thumb rubbed a slow, firm circle on Oswald’s shoulder. “I see a friend I care about more than I have any other. I’m just looking out for you, Oswald.”

See me… want me… The words rang so loudly inside Oswald’s skull they were giving him a headache.

“Your concern for my welfare is, indeed, flattering,” Oswald said, squeezing the handle of his cane so that he wasn’t tempted to reach for Ed. “But I trust that James Gordon would not sign away his integrity for something as sordid as money.”

A sentence that tarnished Oswald’s tongue with the bitter taste of a lie. Had Jim not signed away two weeks of his integrity for a sizeable sum and the promise of a few nice dinners?

Ed’s expression had taken on a smug kind of amusement as he said, “A contract signed in faith and measured in facts that, once broken, can never be mended.”

“What?”

A smile, quick and warm, then Ed repeated the riddle, “A contract signed in faith and measured in facts that, once broken, can never be mended.”

“A heart?”

“The answer is trust, Oswald. The fact of the matter is that your faith in Jim Gordon is misplaced. You can’t trust him. Not with your friendship.” The way he looked at Oswald was as if he were scrying for the truth. “Not with your heart.”

Ed held Oswald’s gaze for one moment more before he squeezed his shoulder and let his hand fall away.

“I really should go and talk to the President of the Community Wellbeing Board and remind her that her application to redirect all Arkham’s funding to outreach services to expect will result in a spike in crime…” He took another flute from a passing waiter. “I’ll leave you to wait for your guest to return.”

***

The guests were being ushered towards the dining room by the time Jim finally found his date. The haughty tilt to his chin and the brooding angle of his brows was enough to ward off anyone unwise enough to attempt small talk and Oswald stood alone by one of the flower arrangements, three empty glasses resting precariously on the pedestal, the glass he was holding halfway there already. As ever, his interpretation of the dress code erred on the creative and Jim felt an urge to brush the back of his fingers down the rich burgundy velvet of Oswald’s dinner jacket as he tugged on the crimson silk of his bow tie and pressed a kiss above the high collar of his black dress shirt.

“Oswald…” Jim said, watching for the appreciative flare of his gaze that Oswald tried so hard to hide. But that was all he got. No up-down sweep of appraisal, no smile.

“How kind of you to join me.” Before Jim could respond, Oswald bit out a belligerent, “I know you’ve been with that reporter. Gale or whatever her name is.”

Such a child. “Do you make a point of getting a woman’s name wrong when you feel threatened by them?”

“Why would I know her name?”

“As Mayor it’s your business to know the names of the senior journalists across the city’s newspapers,” Jim reminded him.

“Do not presume to tell me my business, Detective.”

“Oh. ‘Detective’.” Jim edged closer, chasing the high of the storm. “You really are angry. Too angry to remember that’s not my job title.”

A mutinous glance flickered across Oswald’s features and Jim’s hand twitched as he resisted the urge to catch him under the jaw, to force his chin up and steal a kiss.

“Of course,” Oswald tucked his chin back and studied the contents of his glass a moment before firing a look up at Jim. “I forgot. You’re just the guy who’s pretending to fuck me.”

And dear fucking god , the way he said it, the look that accompanied those words… Jim felt his cock twitch in anticipation of what he’d come here to get and he took a step closer, eyes roving across Oswald’s face, trying to take in every inch of that spiteful scowl.

“Pretending?” Jim murmured, ducking his head a touch, eager to taste—

“At least, you’re supposed to be.”

Jim paused. “Huh?”

“It seems you have forgotten what job I’m paying you for.”

“What exactly  is it you think you’re paying for, Oswald?” Jim crowded in closer, not giving Oswald a chance to evade the question. There was barely a sliver of air between their bodies – and yet he held back from touching him.

Oswald looked up, blue veiled beneath black lashes. “I’m paying you to convince Ed of his own feelings.”

“And that means what? That I can’t talk to anyone else?”

Oswald snorted. “Talk. ”

“Fine.” Jim felt his own temper rising, the words spilling out before he considered where they might take him, “You think it means I can’t fuck anyone else?”

Oswald’s expression said exactly that.

“When we made our agreement you told me you could be convincing. That we could sell Ed on the idea you actually wanted me.” A pause, the intensity behind Oswald’s gaze increasing for a moment, maybe remembering what they’d done the last time they were together – what Jim had promised would follow... “As it is, he’s convinced you’re up to something. That you’re either trying to woo your way back into the GCPD, or someone’s paying you to make me weak.”

“Do I?”

“Do you what?”

“Do I make you weak?” But when Jim searched Oswald’s face, he found nothing but bitter determination. Pride moulded into strength, guarding the man who’d yielded to Jim’s touch two nights before.

“No one  makes me weak.”

“Except Ed.” A confession Jim didn’t want to make and – judging by the tension in his jaw – Oswald didn’t want to hear.

“The point is –” Oswald leaned in, the tip of his nose touching Jim’s – “Your behavior tonight is far from convincing. You took my money now do the job.”

***

For one, long moment, Oswald swam in the deep blue of Jim’s gaze before the other man blinked, a mirthless little laugh escaping as a hiss between his teeth.

“Have it your way.” Jim stepped back. “Let’s go eat.”

Shifting his cane to his left hand, Oswald took the arm Jim offered and, much to the relief of the lingering staff, allowed himself to be guided through to the dining room. No words passed between them, and Oswald could feel the tension radiating from his companion in much the same way he felt his own rage simmering beneath his skin. Regret wasn’t something Oswald entertained, but perhaps he had been… hasty, in reminding Jim so savagely of what he was there to do.

Yet as they crossed the room, Jim’s posture softened, relaxing by the time they reached their table, where Ed was deep in conversation with the people already seated.

Although not so deep that he didn’t notice their arrival.

When Jim pulled the chair out, he leaned in, pressing his face into the side of Oswald’s head, his voice a brush of lips against his ear and a low rumble that hummed across Oswald’s skin. “If you want this to work, then stop looking for him. I’m the one you’re with tonight. Remember?”

And Oswald fought back a wince as Jim nipped painfully and yet so pleasurably at Oswald’s ear before pulling away and gesturing for him to sit.

Naturally they weren’t seated next to each other, but Jim said something to the woman on Oswald’s right – something flattering and persuasive given the way her hand fluttered to her chest, her smile brightening a moment before she moved to take the empty seat next to Ed, leaving hers free for Jim.

As he sat, Jim hooked Oswald’s hand from where it rested on the table and kissed it, before tucking it beneath the tablecloth to rest on his thigh.

“Don’t take your hands off me unless you absolutely have to,” he said beneath his breath, then reached for the wine. “Red, I presume?”

It was hard, doing as Jim said. Hard because Oswald had yet to forgive him, and because of the overwhelming temptation to look across the table to see if Ed was watching. Still. There was a perverse pleasure to be taken in having Jim dote on him, his manner so different from Ed’s – a subtle attentiveness that saw his wine topped up and the butter magicked from two seats over before he’d had chance to ask. And then there was the way Jim sat back, elbow resting on the back of his own chair, hand stretched out just enough for him to trace patterns on the sleeve of Oswald’s jacket.

Few words passed between them, but there could be no doubt that they were here together.

And, inevitably, with every small gesture, every touch, every glance, Oswald felt his resentment ease, a tender hope gaining strength within his chest. Although hope for what, he wasn’t sure. That Ed was watching, that he would finally see Oswald framed in a new light as the center of someone else’s attention? Or was it hope that his night was back on track? That Jim too felt a mounting desire for which the only conclusion was that finally finally they would get as far as someone’s bed and Jim would make good on the promise he’d made when they last dined together?

Oswald wasn't sure he wanted the answer.

The starter was pleasant, the main came and went, the wine flowed and conversation pattered along amiably enough and the only time Oswald’s hand shifted from Jim’s lap was when he was required to wield his cutlery.

After their plates had been cleared, Jim reached across and ran Oswald’s lapel through thumb and forefinger, leaning in to talk.

“We have his attention. Now what do you want to do with it?”

Glancing down at the ruby glow of his wine, Oswald pursed his lips, then turned to look Jim in the eye. Ignoring the way his heart hiccuped at the sight of him – the smell of him – Oswald replied, “There’s a limit to what we can do at the dinner table…”

“… so we leave.” Jim was decisive. “You go first, give me a minute to make it clear to Nygma what will happen once I find you and then I’ll follow.”

Oswald struggled to get up and walk away without looking at Ed and, just as he gathered his cane, he permitted himself a glance across the table … and met with a look so cold it sent shivers across Oswald’s skin. He gave Ed a fraction of a shrug and turned to weave his way through the tables towards the foyer.

The restrooms at the Elliot were as grand as everywhere else, a circular room with vaulted ceilings. A font stood in the middle, the rim studded with brass taps that trickled down to marble trough that encircled the base, and Oswald wondered how many drunken guests has mistaken it for a urinal. Paneled cubicles lined the wall, and there was a full-length gilded mirror, as wide as Oswald was tall, opposite the door. Rather than succumb to his impatience, Oswald checked his hair in the mirror and brushed his dinner jacket so the velvet settled in the same direction. When the door opened, Oswald glanced at the reflection and watched Jim stride in, allowing himself to appreciate how good the man looked in a well-cut tux.

“I don’t know why you’re preening in a mirror,” Jim’s voice was rough, his manner cool. “The point is to return to the table looking undone, not buttoned up. Here.”

He turned Oswald to face him and tugged at the knot of his bow tie, then undid the first few buttons of his shirt.

“Your hair should look like I’ve been running my hands through it…”

“There are easier ways to make it look like we’ve been fucking.” The suggestion slipped out and Oswald flicked a glance up at Jim.

“And what would those ways be, Oswald?”

He clenched his jaw. His mood might have mellowed, but Oswald wasn’t about to beg.

“What is it you really want? Hm?” Jim stepped in closer, the threat in his voice enough to force Oswald to back up against the mirror. “So far this evening, you’ve chastised me for not paying you enough attention, reminded me twice that I’m here on the clock and demanded that I somehow convince a man who hasn’t shown the slightest bit of interest in you that he’s down to fuck.”

Oswald rallied with a scowl. “I want you to do the job I’m paying you for.”

“Correction: that would now be three times you’ve reminded me that I’m under contract. So tell me…” Jim set his arms either side of Oswald’s head, palms flat on the mirror, chin dipped down so their eyes – their mouths – were level and Oswald felt his scowl slip into something a lot less certain. “… how exactly is fucking in an empty bathroom, with not a soul to bear witness, part of the job description?”

“I – well –” Oswald squirmed beneath the scrutiny of Jim’s gaze.

“Is this the kind of attention you think you’ve bought…” Jim brought his body hard up against Oswald then, thigh pressing between his legs, as Jim ground his hips against Oswald’s, hands still planted on the mirror, caging him. “Or perhaps this…” Jim reached down between them and rubbed Oswald’s cock through his pants.

“Jim. ”

“Because that’s not where we started out and I’m having trouble keeping up.”

Between the pressure of Jim’s hand, the way he shifted his weight against him, Oswald was struggling to breathe let alone think of anything sensible to say.

“Where’s the line between what you’re paying me to do and what you actually want ?”

Oswald squeezed his eyes shut, pressed his lips together… and then that wasn’t what he was doing at all, because his mouth was open, on Jim’s, the hands he’d kept fisted by his sides reaching for Jim’s hips. He could feel the cuts from earlier splitting open as he grasped at Jim’s shirt, tugging it from the waistband of his pants so he could dig his nails into the warm, smooth flesh of Jim’s body.

Trailing his lips across Jim’s cheek, Oswald bit and kissed and licked his way up Jim’s jaw until his mouth was at Jim’s ear. “Who said there had to be a line?”

But then Jim was no longer kissing him: he was pulling away and when Oswald reached for him, Jim was faster, catching him by the wrist before his finger so much as brushed the cotton of his shirt.

“I say there’s a line.” The grip on Oswald’s wrist was so tight his hands felt numb. “You’re paying me to make Nygma jealous, not fuck you.”

“Can’t it be both?”

Wrong answer. Oswald knew it from the look in Jim’s eye, the pitiful shake of his head. “No, Oswald, it can’t.”

That look – Jim’s pity was a match to the fuse of Oswald’s rage.

“Why not? Two nights ago you wanted to take me home. Remember? As I recall you planned to give me the best orgasm of my life before fucking me through the mattress. So what changed? Why so coy?”

Jim relaxed his grip on Oswald’s wrists and stepped away.

“For someone so clever, you can be profoundly stupid.” Jim sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “When I fuck you, it’ll be for pleasure, not payment. I can’t do this any more.”

“What? No, Jim—” But he’d already turned toward the door and Oswald lunged for him, grabbing him, pulling him back round. “Are you serious?  You cannot walk away from this.”

“Oh but I can.” Jim tried to disentangle himself, but Oswald was tenacious.

“We made a deal."

“Goodbye, Oswald.” Jim finally shrugged him off and made it as far as the door, then, as he opened it, he paused. “Ed’s the one you want anyway, right?”

When he looked back over his shoulder, there was something in Jim’s expression, something precious and fragile.

Something Oswald could break.

“Yes,” he said, eyes ablaze in defiance. “He is.”

Chapter Text

Two days after the gala, a package was delivered to the Mayor’s office strictly for the attention of Oswald Cobblepot: An envelope neatly stuffed with hundred dollar bills and an invoice from Benvolo Junior listing the items Jim had purchased with ‘Paid in full’ next to the balance. On the other side, scrawled in Jim’s handwriting, was a note.

I used 60% of my fee to cover my expenses. Keep the change.

Oswald spent a long time staring at the note before he took a lighter from his desk drawer and set fire to the paper, watching it burn until the flames licked his fingertips and Jim’s words turned to ash.

***

Two days after that – a day that Oswald had opted to work from his study at the mansion – Ed walked into the room with the Gotham Gazette  under his arm and a smirk on his face.

“Yesterday’s guess becomes today’s truth and tomorrow’s trash. What I am?”

Oswald sighed, pressing his fingers to his temples. “News. The paper under your arm is somewhat leading.”

“Correct!” Ed slapped the paper down on the desk and pointed to a small column that ran down the side of the front page. “It seems our friend got what he wanted after all.”

A ‘HERO’ RETURNS James Gordon might have a checkered past, but he’s putting all that behind him as he returns to the GCPD, telling the Gazette ‘All I’ve ever wanted is to serve the city I love.’ Gordon, a name made infamous for his questionable involvement with the suspected murder of Theo Galavan, has gained favor with citizens of Gotham after his six-month stint hunting down the monsters terrorizing the city and, it seems from recent events, with our city’s Mayor – a subject on which Gordon declined to comment. The Captain of the GPCD, Nathaniel Barnes said, ‘For justice to triumph, we need men of the highest moral caliber and I, for one, am pleased to welcome one of the best detectives out there back to the GCPD.’

“What makes you think I care to know Jim’s employment status?” Oswald said, flipping the paper over and looking for the stock reports on the back page.

“I thought—”

“A week ago you thought I was the one who’d get him reinstated. I can assure you, this had nothing to do with me.” Even concentrating on the columns of figures wasn’t enough for Oswald to block out the way Ed was looking at him, his expression a mixture of pity and jubilation.

“I know he hurt you,” Ed said, his voice so soft that it made Oswald want to scream. “It’s not like you to accept such treatment. So I’ll be here, ready, when you decide to enact your revenge.”

Oswald kept his mouth shut and his eyes on the paper and, eventually, Ed took the hint and left.

***

On Sunday – on what would have been the last day of Jim’s contract – Oswald sent a courier to the GCPD with strict instructions to make a lot of fuss about handing it directly to Detective Gordon. If Jim were to open in the precinct, there was a chance that someone might catch sight of the bright purple envelope from Oswald’s personal set, an umbrella embossed on the bottom corner. On the front, in silver ink, Oswald had written As per our arrangement and inside were the same bank notes Jim had sent earlier that week.

It was a petty, vindictive thing to do and fantasies of Harvey Bullock mouthing off to the whole precinct, teasing Jim about what kind of arrangement the money referred to, or Barnes hauling Jim into his office demanding to know why he was accepting bribes from the Mayor, sustained Oswald through the afternoon and on into the evening.

Well… that and the thought of the other things he’d set in motion that day.

By the time he went to bed, Oswald Cobblepot felt very satisfied indeed.

***

Monday was miserable. The weather, at least. Oswald’s good mood from the day before carried him on through the morning as the rain beyond the window of his office in City Hall lashed down on those unwise enough to venture outside. Occasionally, he would take a break from his desk to stand by the window, hands behind his back, surveying the street below or reading the latest update from Ed as it buzzed through to his phone.

His friend had been preoccupied at breakfast. The girlfriend had not, it seemed, read the message Ed had sent the night before. At Oswald’s suggestion that the novelty of sending each other goodnight messages on the rare occasions they were apart had become a tiresome bit of sentimentality, Ed had primly set his cutlery down and told Oswald he wouldn’t understand. Nonetheless, his agitation had increased in the time it took for them to drive into the city and when they pulled up at the office, Ed had said that he had personal matters to which he must attend and asked if he could have the car.

Towards the end of the day, the papers on Oswald’s desk bathed in lamplight as he made notes on a draft of a policy proposal, Ed’s name lit up his phone once more.

Still no luck finding Isabella. Do you need the car?

Smiling smugly into the phone, Oswald replied, I’ll get one of the staffers to arrange a lift back to the mansion. Take all the time you need, my friend.

Thank you, Oswald. Your support is appreciated.

Oswald chuckled to himself as he put his papers in order, turned off the lights and summoned Tarquin – the blond staffer forever at Ed’s heel – to find him a ride home.

The mansion would have been cold and uninviting were it not for Olga’s diligence in pulling the drapes shut and lighting a selection of lamps throughout the hall and landing. She’d keeping a fire going in the hearth of the drawing room, where Oswald took his supper on a silver tray, half an ear on the radio and half an eye on the french windows, where he’d pulled back the drapes so he could watch night fall with the rain.

After she’d cleared his things, he told Olga she could retire to her own quarters for the evening.

“No Mr Nygma?” Oswald swore there was delight mixed in with her surprise.

“Ed is otherwise occupied,” Oswald replied. “I don’t expect he’ll be returning tonight.”

“Not… sad?” She gave him a keen look.

“Not this time, Olga.” Oswald studied his wine with a thoughtful smile. “Not this time.”

Once she’d retired, Oswald unbuttoned his vest and loosened both his tie and the top few buttons of his shirt before flicking back through yesterday’s paper to read the articles he’d missed the day before, savoring each sip of wine, the sound of the rain beyond the window and the warmth of the fire.

After a long read on why every attempt at regenerating The Narrows had failed and scathing review of a gig at The Sirens, Oswald’s phone chimed with a call from the front gate. Frowning, not sure why Ed would need buzzing in when he was the one who’d reset the code, Oswald opened up the camera on his phone.

Not Ed.

The car was unmistakably that of the GCPD, and there, scowling up at the camera from the driver’s seat was none other than James Gordon.

Curious...

“Can I help you, detective?” Oswald watched Jim react to his voice coming from the intercom.

“Let me in, Oswald.”

“Do you have a warrant?”

“I’m not here on police business.”

“We have no other business.” Oswald cut the call.

Jim tried another couple of times before he grew bored and drove off, the easy victory leaving Oswald with a bitter taste in his mouth that he tried failed to wash away with a fresh glass of wine. And then another.

Just as he’d settled into staring broodily into the fire, his phone went again. This time from the buzzer by the front door. In a flash, he called the camera up and, once more, found himself faced with a glowering James Gordon, hair plastered to his head, sodden clothes clinging to his chest and shoulders. His scowl had deepened with his discomfort.

The bell rang again and Oswald deigned to activate the intercom.

“Yes?”

“Open the door.”

“Say please.”

Jim stared up at the camera, then, “Sure.”

And a second later the image blacked out.

“Jim?” Oswald snarled through the intercom, but there come no reply and rage propeled Oswald out of his chair and down the hall, so that he was yanking open the front door before he’d even…

The security light illuminated nothing but the empty step and a halo of rain beyond. No sign of the man who’d stood there a moment before. Stepping out in his slippers, Oswald peered round the front wall, searching for a clue as to where Jim had gone, before retreating, growling in frustration at the frayed wires on the back of the camera.

“You’re not welcome here, James Gordon!” Oswald snarled out into the night, scouring the shadows around his home one last time before he went back inside, putting the chain on the door for good measure.

Unsettled and irritated, Oswald fetched a bottle of scotch from the kitchen on his way back to the drawing room. Setting the bottle on the drinks tray next to his chair, he felt the air stir, a cool breeze caressing his cheek.

The french window was open, a sliver of fresh air making its way into the room, as if the mansion was drawing a careful breath.

Slowly, Oswald walked over to the window, noting the watery footprints that glistened on the varnished wood floor and the damage done to the latch. Using the hem of the drape to wedge the frame shut, he turned around and went to sit back in his chair, facing the doorway into the hall.

“Forcing entry to someone’s home is a criminal offence.” Oswald kept his voice cold, his words clipped.

“Good job there’s an officer of the law here to take your statement, Mayor Cobblepot.” Jim stepped forward from where he’d been waiting behind the door, pushing it shut with a thunk .

“You and I have differing opinions on what constitutes a good job.”

Jim shortened the distance between them. He must have parked somewhere on the perimeter and walked through the grounds up to the mansion. His clothes were soaked, white shirt translucent beneath the folds of his jacket, mud flecking up from the hem of his pants. Droplets of rainwater gathered on the tips of his hair, lashes clumping above eyes the ominous blue of an oncoming storm.

“On the matter of a job not done, I came to return this.” Jim took a familiar purple envelope from his inside pocket and placed it on the drinks stand next to Oswald’s chair. “Again.”

He took the scotch from the tray to pour himself a generous measure, and Oswald watched the way the light from the fire gilded Jim’s brow in molten gold, throwing his eyes and the hollows of his cheeks into shadow.

“I fear making yourself comfortable may be a mistake, since you’ll be leaving right away.”

“If you say so,” Jim said, acting every bit to the contrary as he took a sip from his glass and cast a glance about the room. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

“It was nicer when the windows shut properly and there wasn’t someone dripping all over the silk rug.” Oswald pursed his lips. “Now leave.”

Jim flashed a mirthless smile. “Say please.”

“That’s not a word you’ll here me say.”

“We’ll see about that.” The look Jim gave him provoked an unwelcome reaction from Oswald’s treacherous libido.

“You seem to be laboring under the illusion that you’re welcome here, detective.” Oswald poured as much spite as he could into his voice, drowning out the desire. “Given that the last time we saw each other, you reneged on our deal and abandoned me halfway through a very public event, you should consider yourself lucky that you are not bleeding out on the parquet flooring.”

Jim took another sip from his glass. “I’m hearing a lot of threats.” His eyes flicked to Oswald. “Not seeing much action.”

“Is that an invitation to stab you?”

But Jim just smiled and drank his scotch. Well, Oswald's scotch.

“Why are you here?” Oswald asked.

“I told you. I came to return the money I owed you.”

Oswald rolled his eyes. “I don’t want it.”

“I don’t care.” A flash of steel in the way he said it. “I’m returning it because I don’t want it hanging over me.” Jim knocked back the rest of his drink and picked up the bottle, concentrating on pouring himself another drink as he spoke. “Tell me, Oswald, if we’d fucked that night – like you so clearly wanted – wouldn’t a little part of you always wonder if it was for the money?” He glanced up, catching Oswald by surprise. “So,” Jim put the bottle back, and gestured to the purple envelope. “Here’s the balance. Whatever happens next, you’ll know for certain money’s got nothing to do with it.”

“Next?”

“That depends on you.” Jim made no move to pick up his glass, but moved closer to Oswald until he was standing over him, forcing Oswald to look up from where he was sitting. “Tell me: how are things going with Ed?”

For the first time since he’d seen Jim on the security camera, Oswald remembered the reason why he was here alone in the mansion.

Carefully maintaining eye contact with Jim, he replied, “Things are progressing.”

Jim bent over, bracing his hands on the arms of the chair and leaned in close.

“Progressing?” His brows twitched. “But not … progressed?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“And I’m sure you do…” Jim leaned in closer still, tipping his head to the side to bring his mouth within a whisper of Oswald’s left ear. “He still the one you want?”

Say yes.

But it was hard to force the word out with the smell of fresh rain on warm skin, and the heat of the scotch filling his senses.

“You’re taking a long time to answer a simple question, Oswald.”

A drop of water fell from Jim’s hair and trickled down Oswald’s throat and along his collarbone.

“It’s distracting, having you dripping all over the place.”

When Jim laughed, his breath flowed down Oswald’s neck, following the same channel as the raindrop. “My apologies.”

Then he stood back up and shed his jacket, his holster and his shoes. Oswald’s gaze followed Jim’s hands as they tugged his tie loose and hooked it over one of the finials in the paneled fire screen. Hands back at his collar, Jim undid the top button of his shirt, then the next, and the next, each button worked free by strong, sure fingers until the folds of Jim’s shirt fell open to expose the undershirt beneath. Shrugging the shirt off, Jim hung it over the fire screen, then removed the police badge from his belt, tucked it into his pocket and with maddeningly slow purpose, undid the buckle of his belt and the zipper of his pants.

Jim folded his pants – and his socks – over the fire screen with the rest of his clothes and, once more, turned to stand in front of Oswald in boxer briefs and a white tank. When Jim ran a hand through his hair, he shook free a final shower of raindrops.

“Now that I’m not distracting you…” Jim hooked a thumb over the waistband of his boxers. “Perhaps you can answer the question. Are you sure it’s Nygma you want?”

The firelight softened the boundaries between light and shade that played across Jim’s body: the tight curve of his bicep and the shallow trace of muscles beneath the ribbed cotton of his tank top; the deeper shadows that fell from his jaw and punctuated the line of his clavicle. Even the burnished curve of Jim’s thighs and calves was a sight to behold.

“You still seem distracted.” Jim’s hand shifted, fingers running down the front of his briefs.

Oswald could almost feel his pupils grow wider as if to take in more. His blood thrummed hot beneath his skin and it was an effort to keep each breath slow and even.

“Who are you thinking about, Oswald?” Jim curled his fingers around the erection growing beneath the cotton of his briefs.

The truth was that even when Ed was in the room, Oswald’s thoughts would turn to Jim, but when confronted with Jim … Ed may as well cease to exist.

Swallowing, Oswald looked up through his lashes. “Take off the rest of your clothes.”

A smile nudged the corner of Jim’s mouth, but he made no protest, just hooked his thumbs over the elastic of his waistband and pulled his underwear down in a swift, efficient swoop. When he stood straight once more, Jim took his tank off by tugging the hem up and over his head in a move so masculine that it made Oswald feel faint with desire.

Standing there, naked, Jim allowed Oswald’s gaze to rake over him before he took his cock in his hand and gently began to play with himself, his breathing deepening an octave, lids hanging a little heavier over his eyes as he looked down. He was the embodiment of confidence and Oswald wanted him all the more for it.

Giving up the pretence, Oswald leaned in to lick the tip of Jim’s cock, once, twice, before parting his lips and drawing him in, tongue messily catching Jim’s grip, his own hands reaching to pull Jim closer. Oswald groaned in – desire? Relief? Gratitude?  – at the taste, the feel of his own breath, blowing back hot against his face.

“Fuck, you feel good.” Jim’s words, his fingers raking through Oswald’s hair, the note of approval in Jim’s voice spurred him to suck harder, push further trying to satisfy a need that ran too deep to be sated. A moan and an appreciative, “Clever little bird…” and Oswald pulled Jim deep into his throat, encouraging him to fuck his face, those low, whispered words of encouragement a turn on like no other.

“Stop.”

A short sharp tug on his hair. When Oswald showed no sign of obeying, Jim pulled him away. He crouched down, eyes level with Oswald’s.

“Tell me what you want.”

Oswald tried to catch Jim’s mouth in a kiss, but the other man laughed and shifted out of reach.

“Oh no…” The light in his eyes, and the smile on his lips were delectable. “I know how persuasive that tongue feels, but I want to hear  it. I gave you the money back, now you pay with the truth. Is it Ed you want? Or is it me?”

For a moment, Oswald resisted, fought back against releasing the truth he’d kept sealed tight since the moment Jim Gordon had walked into the alley outside Fish’s club. But Jim was in front of him, naked, and temptation made him weak.

“I want you .” Oswald met Jim’s gaze in an agony of hope and then…

Then.

The tender violence of a kiss. A world-shattering sensation of wanting and being wanted, teeth pulling painfully at his lower lip until his mouth gasped open and then tongues and breathing. Jim’s hand, caught the back of Oswald’s head, nails snarling in his hair and Jim was half clambering into the chair, thigh pressing insistently between Oswald’s legs, bare chest forcing Oswald back into his seat, even as he lunged forward into the kiss.

“What do you want me to do?” Jim’s question came breathlessly between one kiss and the next.

“Everything.” No hesitation.

“That’s very vague.”

Jim pulled Oswald’s hair, forcing him to look up to see Jim’s hair falling in messy, damp spikes, his breath coming in heavy waves, same as Oswald’s, those deep-blue eyes turned the near-black of unadulterated lust.

“Be more specific.” Jim’s other hand gripped Oswald’s side, thumb digging into the hollow above his hip bone, then a little deeper…

“I can’t,” Oswald confessed on a groan. “I want it all.”

“From me?”

“ Yes .”

The hand on Oswald’s side shifted to his belt, his zipper, and he was lifting his hips as Jim pulled his pants and underwear off, but then Jim stood up and stepped over to where his jacket hung and took out a slim silver tube.

“I’m going to make you come without touching your cock and then I’m going to fuck you until you come again, is that clear?”

“Yes.” Although a frown of frustration played across his face – he was harder than he thought possible and the thought of not being touched…

Jim reached over and swatted Oswald’s hand from where it was creeping down his body.

“You want everything, you get it the way I’m prepared to give it or you won’t get anything at all.”

Oswald directed a mutinous glare at the man in front of him as he lifted both hands and rested them with exaggerated precision on the arms of his chair.

“That’s better.” Jim squeezed some lube onto his fingers and braced one arm against the chair, nudging Oswald’s legs wider with his knee, his other hand sweeping unerringly up Oswald’s thigh, and Oswald curled his spine under, tilted his hips up and felt the cool, slick touch … gentle circles at first, then firmer, more insistent…

“Look at me, Oswald.”

Opening eyes he’d been squeezing shut, Oswald met Jim’s gaze once more, took in every feature of his face as the pressure increased.

“This OK?”

“More…”

Oswald’s hips shifted a little and Jim was pushing a finger inside him, smoothly pulling back and teasing a little further and Oswald clamped his teeth down on the moan that broke in his throat. Reading it right, Jim shifted his body closer, wrist pushing in, finger going deeper … slowly, steadily, the sensation tight and intensely pleasurable.

Jim caught Oswald in a quick kiss, murmuring, “Another?”

A nod, and then two fingers and Oswald tensed before his body relaxed into the sensation, Jim’s fingers as sure and steady as when he’d unbuttoned his shirt. His rolling, self-assured rhythm felt good – so good – but then a more intense, more promising nudge and a gasp broke free.

“There we are,” Jim murmured, hand twisting again, fingers crooking just so and on the next gasp Oswald was sinking his teeth into the top of Jim’s shoulder in bliss and drawing a soft, “Ow.”

But there was no recrimination in his voice, and Oswald couldn’t help himself, mouth open, teeth scraping across warm skin, his nose, his mouth, his face, pressing into Jim with every firm thrust, the sensation unbearable and exquisite.

He’d tried before, cautious and doubtful, but he’d never … this wasn’t…

The pressure radiated throughout his body, a steady rhythm, a tide swelling; his body a bruise against which Jim was pressing, a sensation he wanted to squirm away from even as he yearned to bring it closer, to make it last…

“ Oh …” He hadn’t realized he was rolling his hips in time with Jim until the movements met in perfect harmony, his body a star on the cusp of imploding. Sensing some hesitation, Oswald’s right hand broke free from its grip on the chair to clutch Jim’s arm. “No, don’t stop, please…”

“Thought that wasn’t a word I’d hear you say?”

“Shut up.” Oswald grunted into Jim’s neck and the rhythm returned, his eyes rolling back, panting now, restless with anticipation of something unimaginable, something he wanted, something he craved .

And then … then … the pressure spilled over, legs twitching in uncontrollable spasms, body throbbing with pleasure, muscles pulsing impossibly tight around the fingers inside him and he lost himself in the fire burning through him, something brighter, longer, hotter than anything he’d felt before. And Jim was still there, stoking the fire, sending Oswald deeper into the flames, murmuring encouragement, meeting his mouth as Oswald grasped for a kiss…

And then, as the feeling ebbed, Jim gently eased free, the movement stirring the embers of that same fire so that whimpers of pleasure broke through Oswald’s breathing once more, and then Jim was pulling him close, kissing his cheek, his jaw.

“You doing OK, there?”

But it was all Oswald could do to breathe and he surrendered himself to Jim’s care, allowed himself the comfort of being held so close that he could feel the pulse of Jim’s heart where his cheek rested on the other man’s chest.

As his senses sharpened, the room coming back into focus, Oswald grew dimly aware that he was still hard, that he was pressed up against Jim, skin so sensitive that when the material of his shirt tail shifted against him, he nearly saw stars.

“We should go to my bedroom,” Oswald murmured, not entirely sure whether he had strength enough to stand.

“Should we?” Jim’s fingers swirled lazily through Oswald’s hair and he planted a kiss on the top of his head. “Why’s that?”

“More comfortable for you to fuck me.”

“Oh yeah?” Another kiss, then Jim, was standing, pulling Oswald with him. “Come on, then.”