Chapter Text
Jim was resigned to it, to this. Whenever he would rather do anything besides think about someone, rather forge ahead and never look back so he can hold onto his own sanity, someone always suggests it.
The last time it has been a call from his mother, summoning him to a memorial for his uncle and father. It was intended to offer closure, he knew the reason behind it. Such things were not really for the dead, but for the living.
This time it had been Lucius that suggested holding something of a memorial for all the lives lost, for all the missing, and even the injured of what once was Haven.
It was too calm the people, offer them closure in the only way there was to offer loved ones of the bodies they could not even find, or worse, the pieces of those they did. The people needed it, needed something, anything to ease the pain.
It was a good idea and might help, not perhaps lift spirits, but offer that sense of closure they would not get otherwise. It was a good idea, even a helpful one.
Jim hated it. Hated the idea of it, hated the fact that he would have to lead it without getting sick all over some makeshift stage. He felt his insides shaking at the very idea even if he could not see the shaking in his hands. He was desperately good at controlling reactions like that, at bottling up what he had to.
He had agreed with Lucius, of course, of course, because it was best for the people. He agreed with Harvey that he should speak as, even now, he still held a strange sway over what was left of the Havenites, which was precious few. But he was secretly begging anyone, even though Oswald had essentially withdrawn that bounty he placed on Jim's head, to just take the shot.
Not that part of him wasn't afraid to die, but part of him would have been terribly relieved and gratified. But he had too much to do, of course, such as getting justice for the fallen and atoning for yet again cheating death when it rightfully should have claimed him.
Thus, he sat in the crumbling remnants of his former hope for the city, watching the stubborn bits of smoke that lingered to waft over the air. Sitting there, only a day and a half after the explosion, starring into space, he felt so very numb even as he held the dirty reminder of his failure to keep a promise in his hand.
The metal of his badge was warm where his fingers repeatedly rubbed at the new scratches in the surface of it. Subconsciously he might have been trying to smooth them away to erase his sin. His breath shook terribly on his exhale when he let his eyes fall on the silver shield. It meant nothing in a forsaken island the mainland abandoned, but he'd held onto it doggedly until he'd offered it as a token to his new young friend.
Harvey kept telling him, again and again, that Jim gave the people hope, that it had counted for something. In the end, he hardly saw how that mattered to anyone, especially not the dead. Harvey had been the rumpled angel on his shoulder even before Haven, whispering encouragement as well as suggestions to sleep in Jim's ear, and that had not changed. He was almost mothering at this point, causing Jim to wonder what might have happened if Harvey stayed with that girl and ran that bar. He wondered too if Scottie was still alive or if he'd cost his partner that too.
How had Harvey ever forgiven him?
The unstable gate, the sound of a shuffle coming his way tipped him off to the fact that he was no longer alone. He'd also learned the sound of that walk years ago, memorized it, and could pick it out even if a cane or umbrella was not a side item. The brace Oswald recently acquired did not change it enough to keep him from recognizing the sound.
"Have you found anything new?" Oswald asked as he closed the distance, angling in at Jim's side.
They both knew he hadn't, both knew he had no idea why it happened or how to stop it from happening again but it was an opening question all the same.
Jim took a moment, afraid of what his voice might sound like when he answered, and even then he only dared utter one word. "No."
Oswald's voice was very light, venturing, with a deliberate ease, "I heard tomorrow will bring a memorial held at the precinct for those who lost their lives in the explosion."
"Yes." Jim confirmed tightly.
"I believe my people and myself will be in attendance, if you don't mind? We can also act as something of a deterrent against any of the other gangs trying to cause problems during the ceremony."
"That's fine." Jim suddenly felt rather cold, like the wind might have begun to blow in over the water.
"Is it a black tie event or should we all strive for white tie?" Oswald persisted.
"Whatever you like." Jim said.
Oswald sighed in exasperation, "Are you actually listening to me? Or should I assume you actually want me to wear a tuxedo and carry a bazooka?"
Jim closed his eyes and let his chin fall to his chest. He was too tired to be talking logistics with the Penguin. His eyes felt so heavy, his fingers twitching with the desire to fall slack.
"I suppose it would make a statement." Jim's addled brain finally offered.
Oswald snorted slightly in a moderate laugh, "That it would." The former kingpin landed a tentative, feather soft hand on Jim's shoulder, "How long has it been since you've slept?"
Jim had no idea, so he simply redirected energy from speaking to shrugging.
"Allow me to take you back to the GCPD, my friend. You need your rest."
"No." Jim said simply, unable to explain how he dreaded the thought of sleep and dreams more than the burning of his dry eyes.
"Jim." Oswald said his name like an admonishment.
"I can't." Jim offered quickly, his mind too cloudy to offer anything much better as he widened his eyes to keep them open.
That hand on his shoulder began to rub, "You must." Oswald urged even as Jim's eyes crossed. "It's obvious you're exhausted."
"You been talking to Harvey?" Jim groused.
Oswald let go a chuckle at that, something a little dark, but genuine in amusement, "Perish the thought! However, I have the sense we might agree on this one subject, if likely no other."
"You're both wrong, I'm fine." Jim pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, squeezing his eyes shut to offer himself some relief from the stinging.
"I beg to differ. I'm never wrong." Oswald said.
Jim could not muster up a laugh even though he wished he had it in him to try. It would have been simply too much, more effort, more energy than he had ready. He felt lost, drained, sinking lower by the minute into something he wished he could surrender to. Oswald and Harvey always seemed to catch him when he'd hit rock bottom and was getting ready to sink down even farther into the sands of that dark ocean.
His eyes snapped open again when he felt Oswald sit down on the slab of a former brick wall with him, their arms touching in the proximity. His eyes closed again, more of their own will than a decision he made. His mind still more focused on what he would be forced to do, the speech he would have to give in front of all the people he could not fulfill his promises to.
"I'll be speaking at the ceremony." Jim said it like a confession.
Oswald's response was quiet and simple, "I heard. I'm sure you will do a fine job."
Jim found that doubtful.
For several long minutes there was nothing but the silence and Jim nearly fell asleep right there. Wakefulness came swift and harsh, like a punch to the stomach that made him gasp.
Oswald blinked rather owlishly at him, head cocked to the side just like a bird, the badge he had plucked from Jim's limp fingers resting innocently against the black leather of his fingerless gloves.
Seeing Oswald hold it was almost terrifying because he wondered, he really wondered, if the badge itself wasn't cursed.
Breathing became difficult, and he gasped against the tight band constricting his chest. His heart beat a fast, terrible drum inside him, like madness seeping in. He could not explain why he could not breathe, though there was the trained, logical part of his brain that supplied the likelihood of him suffering the onset of a panic attack, but he could not focus on rationality.
Oswald seemed to panic with him, eyes wide as he immediately deposited the badge right back into Jim's hands as if that might fix the problem.
Jim's jaw began to tremble, clicking his teeth together helplessly and his hands began to shake. He could feel the world begin to spin and he did not resist when Oswald circled both arms around his shoulders, holding him steady even as the world shook.
He thought of that day the world exploded behind him, how he'd picked himself up off the ground and let every single bit of training kick in to allow him to simply react as the good soldier he was. Panicking had not been an option, no one needed a panicked leader, they needed one to take charge. He could not even remember now which of his people he had shaken out of a stupor of shock, but he wondered deliriously if he'd just been holding his own off until all the terror he pushed aside could come back to wreck him.
Sweat had already begun to make his hands clammy, the hair on the back of his neck was damp and several strands of blond hair were stuck to his forehead but Oswald let him lay his head on the perfect tailoring at his shoulder anyway, much as he had the last time Jim more or less lost his sanity over a memorial service.
"It's going to be alright, just breathe in slow, Jim." Oswald crooned.
It was good advice if only Jim could flow it, but he couldn't. Each breath came faster than the next, sharp and too shallow to be even close to what he needed. His chest was burning, and fluttering, and so tight. The closest he got to answering was a pitchy whine produced from his throat.
Oswald tried to maneuver Jim's head down to put it between Jim's knees but he resisted, to afraid he wouldn't be able to breathe at all if he moved. He shook his head frantically but that only made him more dizzy and he clung to Oswald's jacket for dear life, burrowing closer as if it would protect him because he couldn't make it stop on his own.
Oswald relented, switching his hold to something more like a hug, "Shhh... it's going to be alright, everything is going to be alright."
It was not long after that, his head buried in the other man's neck, that Jim found himself blacking out. Maybe he passed out from exhaustion or maybe from the attack, or even a combination of the two. He did not know much for sure, only knew he was so tired, so swept up in a black sort of nothing that felt too heavy to resist. He could not move his arms and he forgot to even try to move his legs. His body felt as if all the connecting writes to his brain had been cut, leaving him aware of his body but unable to control it.
It was not the first time he had felt the disconnect, it had been there through many injuries, many occasions he'd been drugged, and he hated each time. He was vulnerable in that state, unable to snap awake as he usually would. He was stranded in his own body and anyone could hurt him.
Jim struggled desperately to speak but in the end, he achieved nothing until he stopped trying, and only then did his vocals produce a sound that was hardly human, just foreign. It earned him a response though, a response of a hand petting his head. It sent him under again, almost instantly.
It was strange then, to filter back to awareness and realize he could move again, had control of his body again. The realization had him barreling into a sitting position, hands clutching at the bedsheets around him before he'd even fully opened his eyes.
"Easy there, tiger!" Oswald chimed from across the room, sounding oddly pleased as he looked at Jim from over his shoulder.
Jim starred at him before he began to take stock of the rest of the room. Just the sight of all the dark marble around him was indication enough of where he had ended up, if the rest of the opulence did not give the citadel away, or the fact that the bed was considerably nicer than a cot. It should have been more disconcerting to awaken not only outside the Green zone, but in gang territory.
If Oswald planned to kill him though, he could have done so while he was helpless. Also, the white and tan bulldog panting happily at him from the foot of the bed just lacked the general sense of menace pending doom usually would.
Jim had to ask anyway, "Why did you bring me here?"
Oswald turned from what decidedly looked like a mound of jewels he was examining so he could properly emphasize the expression of incredulity to Jim with that arched brow, "You mean you wanted to let them see their knight in shining armor in that state rather than continue to let them only see a Bastian of strength?"
That felt like a blow, a lash from a whip, and Jim lay back down, turning over onto his side to face away from the other man. He noticed his badge then, the silver shined up and lacking the dirt it sported the last time he had seen it. The sight of it made him curl in on himself, knees almost to his chest as he studied the sheets instead.
Oswald sighed from his end of the room and hobbled over, coming around to Jim's side of the bed. He sat down, hand falling to rest over Jim's ankles and rub at the bone though the blanket. The dog, seeming to decide it was the clear thing to do, waggled over behind Jim and settled a thick chin on his head. Oswald smirked at what must have been a truly ridiculous sight.
"I suppose you plan to drool in my hair?" Jim asked Edward, not expecting an answer, but the dog huffed at him as if it knew the question had been aimed at him.
Oswald leaned over in order to pet the dog's head, putting pressure on Jim's head by proxy for the duration. "He must like you."
"I bet he likes everyone." Jim muttered.
When the dog wiggled farther up until his chest was resting on Jim's head and his face was ensconced in stubby dog legs, Oswald took pity on him. He patted the bed and Edward left Jim only to perch anew over his feet where he was in perfect range to be pet by his owner.
They fell into silence, Oswald petting the dog, and Jim starring into space. It was not exactly uncomfortable but it was silence all the same.
Jim was the one to break it, "I promised to keep them safe."
Oswald said nothing, probably waiting Jim out, which did work.
"I promised him that no one would ever hurt him again. I wanted... to believe I could protect him. That brave little boy..." his voice cracked, forcing him to clear his throat, "he'd already been through so much. He didn't deserve that! Oswald, he didn't deserve that..."
There was a slight glassy look to the mobster's eyes until he blinked swiftly, "Will was a remarkable lad, he deserved to grow up and live happily ever after... but life doesn't always do what it should."
"I kept hoping he survived at first but once they found my shield, I knew he was gone. I gave him my badge just before it happened." Jim said.
Oswald's eyes instantly flew the the nightstand, to the newly polished silver and sadness crept up into his expression.
"I told them that we won, that things were going to get better. Some of them actually believed me. And I wanted to be telling the truth. Deep down I secretly knew, no matter how many times I begged, no one was coming to help us. But I kept telling them all, hinting that if we just held on long enough things would be fine. I wanted to believe there was hope even though I knew there wasn't.
"I knew we couldn't keep it up forever, that none of us would make it, that we're all... dying slowly. I wanted to believe I could offer them something other than a short time of peace before they died; I wanted to believe it could make a difference... that holding on might let me save some of them even if saving all of them wasn't... plausible. All my pretty words don't mean much when even I don't believe them though, do they?"
"Jim, we've all just been... holding on. We've all been doing the same."
"Not you. You never pretended anyone was coming, you have been realistic from the beginning. You never expected help to swoop in, you knew all along we were on our own and you embraced it." Jim offered, slightly bitter, but not enough to bite into the words. "Built off of what existed, not what could be."
Oswald seemed suddenly tired, "A lack of faith on my part doesn't mean it's wrong to offer hope to others, or to hope yourself. I may be both an opportunist and a realist but that doesn't mean I don't hope to be proven wrong. Your faith in what might be is what offers a light to the rest of us... just like that light you turn on every night. Whether we agree with you or not, believe in knights in shining armor, or otherwise... what you created offered us all a bit of light.
"Without you and the Green zone, the thought that someone out there will still fight, people might just give up entirely. We need bullets and guns, realism, practicality, yes... but we need light, dreams, and hope for something better too. Don't you remember what I said almost at the beginning? You're light and I'm darkness, and we need each other. Each of us serves a purpose, has a place here. It's balance."
"What good does that do now? They're all dead, everything is gone." Jim muttered, forlorn.
Oswald massaged Jim's ankle again, "Not everyone. We lost a great many, but not all of them. There are still some left that need your help."
"Do you think we can make it, Oswald?" Jim asked earnestly.
"James Gordon, " Oswald admonished, "you are the singularly most stubborn man I have ever met in my life! If anyone can make the mainland listen, if anyone can pull it off, it's undoubtedly you! And... I'll help you till then, we can keep together what is left."
Jim closed his eyes for a minute, not meaning to fall asleep, not aware he had until he opened his eyes again to find the windows dark and nothing but one lamp on in the room. Oswald was reading something in the light of the lamp while his dog snored into Jim's shoulder.
"Why did you let me fall asleep?" Jim rubbed his eyes, still shockingly tired in a body more than willing to sleep longer.
"Because you're half dead, Jim." Oswald replied, only seeming to pay mild attention. "You can't be Gotham's hero if you pass out on whatever podium they stand you on in the morning."
"I'm hardly the hero anymore." Jim's vice was low with sleep.
Oswald looked up, almost predatory, " Be careful, Jim. If you aren't their hero, I will be. You better decide which of us you want them to look to."
Jim was taken back by the shift in Oswald, the dark fire in his eyes, and he wondered when Oswald had left and Penguin took his place, "What is that supposed to mean?"
Penguin leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, "It means, step up. I will usurp you if you don't. I'd rather work with you, but if you won't play, I'll have little choice."
Jim was too tired to follow along with the change in the mobster from when he fell asleep to when he woke. "If that's a hint to get out of your bed so you can get your beauty sleep, I get it. I'm going. "
The badge slipped easily onto it's usual place on his belt as he crawled out of bed. He hit a snag when he resized he did not have any idea where his shoes were.
"By the door." Oswald, ever the clairvoyant.
"Thanks." Jim tried not to snap.
Edward was still sleeping, flopped upside down, tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth. He looked so content and happy it might have made Jim smile if he were just a hint happier himself, but he could not smile just now. Jim impulsively flicked the blanket over his stubby body before he padded over to the door in his socks.
"Jim," Oswald sounded softer again, less snappish, "let me take you back to the Green zone. It's dark out, you will need the use of the car if you want to get there alive."
Jim shot the man an incredulous look, "Because they won't notice headlights more than one man walking?"
"True. Perhaps, if you wish to live, you should stay here."
Jim snorted, "I don't see a couch, and I'd be terrified if I deprived you of your beauty sleep."
"I would sleep in my own room, you dolt!" Oswald hissed, "This isn't my room, I was only working in here to be sure you didn't suddenly expire unexpectedly so I could dump your body promptly should the need arise."
Jim found it in himself to chuckle and it surprise him, though it might jade been gallows humor, "Yeah? Then who's room is this?"
Oswald's face soured, his lips puckering like he'd eaten a lemon, "My former chef of staff... but as Mr. Penn no longer has need of it, you might as well use it."
Jim took in a long breath through his nose and let it out, "I'm sorry about Penn."
The tightness in Oswald unwound just a notch, "I'm sorry about Will Thomas."
Jim turned away and put on his shoes, "I'll be fine. I can find my way back easily enough. It's not the first time I've gone out."
"I wish you would reconsider that, my friend. It's far from friendly outside my walls. Besides, the bed is not currently filled here as I'm sure is not the case where you're headed."
"Thank you for helping me, but I can't stay away any longer." Jim admitted, "Harvey and Lucius might think I was in danger and do something stupid, like look for me."
"Well, we can't have that, I suppose." Oswald agreed, though he sounded far from worried.
Jim made to head out the door but stopped when Oswald called to him. He turned around to face the man again and after a long few minutes of starring at each other he said; "You'll be marvelous tomorrow. I have no doubt you'll have them eating from your hand. We all do what we must in these times."
After the words of encouragement, he promptly threw one full clip, then another at Jim. Once he'd caught both, he gave them a glance, not particularly surprised they were the right caliber for the gun in his holster.
"For the trip back." The gangster told him simply before he retreated into the next room, leaving Jim alone to do the same.