triplenegative
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Jason hacked up something - a furball, Salim quipped internally - and after a moment of closed-mouth grimacing, he turned his head and spit a glob of black mucus onto the floor. Not a furball, that was for sure - though why Jason was coughing up black slime was another matter. Salim turned to him, incredulous.
“You refuse to eat on the bed, but you will spit on the floor?”
“Hey, if I’m not sleeping on it, anything goes.”
Salim glanced over at the mucus again. “... Do you know why you are coughing up black slime?”
“Nope.”
“... I see.”
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Yesterday evening, the hazmats had come and taken Jason away – who had cursed and fought the whole way out - and as of yet, he still hadn’t returned. Today they were taking another blood sample from Rachel - what they needed it for, Eric had no idea - so now here he was, sitting in the old briefing room that had been turned into a pathetic attempt at a common area for the semi-disgraced quarantined Marines, playing cards with Nick. Awkward.
“Got any sevens?”
He glanced down at his hand, even though he already knew he didn’t.
“Go fish.”
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"I keep having this dream,'' Oswald murmured, his face strangely somber. "I keep dreaming that you're saving my life again, but when I fall in the river, you've tied cinder blocks to my feet and I can't swim."
Jim furrowed his brows, confused. Oswald continued.
"It's almost funny. I get so overwhelmed with relief and gratitude, only to find that instead of sparing me, you've sentenced me to a slower, crueler death," he paused, an odd smile crossing his sharp features. "But you wouldn't do that, would you Jim?"
set vaguely during season 3
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It was a stupid idea to open the letter The Penguin sent him. Because when he opened the letter, there'd be some kind of taunt or hint or riddle inside to entice him into doing Penguin's bidding, and he wouldn't be able to resist it. Penguin had him figured out that way– he couldn't not follow a lead. It was honestly kind of annoying how every villain in the whole city seemed to know exactly how to play him like a damn fiddle.
But hey, Jim Gordon had a lot of stupid ideas these days.
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Michael didn't say anything. It felt like the ocean was suddenly roaring in his ears, his senses on high alert for no reason. It was all so much to process alone on a beach miles away from home.
Well, almost alone.