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Once again he wondered about it. What it would feel like. What Jim Gordon would taste like.
He thought whiskey as first, smokes - before he remembered Jim doesn’t smoke. He’s good like that. In every way.
A bit like his own opposite. Maybe that’s why he’s so fascinating? Aside from the fact that he saved his life. But that was some time ago.
Walking beside him like this, was sometimes freeing. So different from walking alone, or with henchmen, because there was never a time beside Jim that Oswald felt exposed, or afraid. Jim had that affect om his surroundings; he was a beacon of support, righteousness, force. There was nothing to fear, when you where beside him.
Unlike when you where opposite him. Oswald had been there as well. It had been frightening…ly interesting. Pushed up against a wall, in a dark alley, alone with no witnesses and the missus up in their shared flat. How many stories started like that? How many explicit stories…
He wondered if Jim knew. If he’d felt it, pressed against his stomach, the proof of Oswalds train of thought. He couldn’t remember if that had happened, exactly like that; endorphins and fear pouring through his system and his memories became tangled with ideas and fantasies. He didn’t remember if that had happened, like so. Pressed against a wall. Jim’s body against his, toned stomach pressed against his crotch, one knee pressing up between his legs. Tie loosened, neck and shoulder exposed, sweat and flushed skin down towards his chest.
Oswald was sure that hadn’t happened. He was sure Jim hadn’t paused, confused, shifted his eyes down towards his lips, licked his tongue out just enough to notice it before he pulled it back in.
He’d probably taste like righteousness, like sweat and sweet toxins of forbidden fruit.
Oswald coughed, glanced at his side; Jim strode on, like nothing, like he was unaware of any impact he had on his ’friend’, walking by his side.
Oswald smiled, because this was truly a friendship with benefits. Just not the usual benefits.
Suddenly, Jim tensed, stopping in his tracks. Oswald did the same, looking up at him, trying to trace his line of sight, looking at him again.
”What…?”
”Sch!” was the response he got. Os kept quiet.
Until Jim gripped him by the shirt and dragged him along in a hurried pace.
”Jim, is someone…?”
”Following us, I think so, now quiet!”
They took a wrong turn, turning into another street, more like a corridor between houses, filled with damp trash and painted doorways. Os hurried as fast he could, but Jim was faster and he felt the pull on his shirt beginning to rip it.
”Jim, my shirt…!”
”Hurry, I think they’re…” Jim looked behind him, at Oswald at first, but saw something behind him.
”Here!” Nothing more was said, as Jim pulled Os into a deep doorway, sealed off door on one side, deep concrete walls on both sides of it. Os kept quiet, as Jim pressed him into the corner, looking out carefully.
Os kept quiet, still, but Jim pressed him against the wall. And he was not prepared for this. He’d been prepared for most things, but Jim holding him up against a wall with his own body, was not one of them. Granted, it was only one knee, one arm, one hand holding hard onto his bicep, and one hip pressing against the cold concrete.
But he’d been mentally unprepared; or, in one way, way too prepared for this.
Still with fantasies and tainted memories in the forefront of his mind, this was not the ideal way to be dragged into reality, if he really wanted to keep their relation purely professional with a side of friendship.
Because he’d not had time to mentally clear his mind, and now adrenaline was rushing through him, pulling the thoughts closer to surface, and Jim’s knee was too close to his crotch.
He tried to breathe. Deep breath. Think of something else. Think of work: deals that needed to be made, debts to collect, he needed to talk to Nygma about their dinner, he needed to postpone it, but he could make it up to him. Maybe a nice bath and…?
Wrong turn of thought, this was not helping. And now Jim was back to paying attention to him.
Jim pulled back into the doorway, now fully in front of Oswald, still with one knee pushed up against his thigh. Gripping his arm ad shoulder a bit too tight for it to be… uncomfortable.
Os stared up at his face, desperate that he’d not move too much, desperately pleading that the goons following them would find them, that they’d be forced into a fight, that he could be let loose and fall to the ground, as before. He’d seen Jim in action; he knew Jim could take it, he could take almost anyone, two or three to one was nothing for him; that body could take on an army and still be as toned, as lean, only now covered in sweat and blood of his enemies, clothes torn and tattered with skin showing through in all the right places…
Wrong line of thought.
And Jim turned to meet his eyes.
”I think the didn’t see us, but I heard someone talking I think, it could have been… eh, Barbra is out to kill you, right? Eh, maybe…”
Jim noticed Oswalds face. The desperate eyes, desperatly trying to hide the fact that he reacted at all, that he thought about this, that this situation of being pressed against that body was anything other then friends and business partners hiding.
Jim lost his trail of thought. Os could see it. He could see the words leave his eyes, the ideas he had now gone, eyes clear and looking.
At him. Right at him. Deep into his eyes, down at his open mouth, down further to where their bodies where touching, and where they where not. The knee that pressed into Oswalds thigh, too high up. One move and he’d feel it, Jim’d feel it, and Oswald pleaded with all his might, wished that Jim would not move, would not press harder, not pull closer or he’d…
Voices. Footsteps.
Jim grabbed Os’s other arm, and pushed him further into the doorway. Which wasn’t possible.
Os pressed flat against the corner, Jim pressed flat against him. Hands holding each of his arms hard, and Os gripping at Jim’s elbows halfheartedly, trying to push him off, away, for Jim to not have done this. Not have noticed, pressed into the soft of his stomach, against his toned muscles, that Jim would not have noticed, not have given it another thought.
But as the footsteps receded back into the dark of the alley, never even coming close, Jim stood his ground. Oswald looking up into his eyes, pleading but without conviction, seeing nothing of how Jim’s eyes seemingly placed over. Until he noticed that his body was still pressed against his.
Stomach still pressed tight against him. The feeling of what was a belt buckle and something definitely not, pressed against his body. A knee, almost pressed in between Os’s legs, almost. Hands gripping his arms.
Eyes, looking over his face, down to where their bodies met, up again, pausing at his lips. Pausing. Still just looking.
Oswald saw it then.
He swallowed, hard. He could feel Jim’s breath on his face. Too close. Should he say something?
He made a sound, something that may maybe have become a word. But Jim pulled closer. Not touching, but if Os turned in any way, they would. Breathing getting mixed.
Os’s eyes was less desperate. But still locked into Jim’s, even though Jim didn’t return it. All he looked at was Os’s face. His lips. Bodies still pressed together.
Oswald didn’t think. Didn’t breathe, at first. Didn’t dare do anything, for a moment that seemed longer then it could have been. Nothing. He drew a breath.
A deep breath.
Which moved his head. Spread his lips. Nothing noticeable, unless you where too close.
Jim was too close.
Then he was closer.
Lips carefully pressed against Oswalds. Open mouth, not moving, just lightly pressed against each others lips, one breath that seemed like a sigh and the kiss deepened. Mouths pushed together, lips fully touching, the first taunting tip of a tongue stroking his upper lip.
Oswald felt an emotion from deep within him, rising through his chest in the form of a sound that was more akin to a whine then anything human. A light, intense whining sound, pressing up through his chest and throat and as it started, and continued, Jim pressed against him. His lips, mouth, face. His chest. His hips.
Oswald heard something akin to his own sound of distress, caused by too many feelings and built up tension, reverberate from Jim. A deeper kind, as he pressed harder; his hips moving slowing, pressing upwards, a growling sound from within him vibrating into Os’s own body, driving him to an edge he didn’t knew he had.
Jim’s hands held onto him so hard it just hurt. His lips tasted like unbrushed teeth, unspoken words, righteousness, tinged with something that pushed Oswald, hard. His hands tried to grip onto Jim’s elbows, fumbling and holding onto nothing, kept standing only by how Jim held him, pressed against him, his knee flush between his legs, was it rocking up towards him? Was he imagining it all?
Slowly, the force in Jim’s kiss reached it’s peak, his hands unable to hold harder, and Os could feel him stop there. At the peak, high on top, but not spillin over. Not letting the situation take hold of him.
He was a good man, Jim Gordon.
One of his few major faults.
As his grip slowly, slowly relaxed, his kiss did as well, dying off into a smooch, into breathing and nothing more, their foreheads touching lightly.
Oswald’s lips trembled. His whole body seemed to vibrate with need, with demands, and Jim was hearing it. Os could feel it, his body as tense as his own, as ready as his own. He could feel how hard he was. He could feel it.
But Jim relaxed. Deep breaths, calm, collected, and he pulled away. Eyes closed, stroking Os’s jacket, putting his feet down square onto the ground. A calm moment, the heat between them cooling off with help of the city air, Oswald still staring at him.
Another breath. Then a forced coughing, clearing his throat, and Jim let one of his arms go.
Oswald stood, still with one hand on his body, but now as more of a support for Jim then anything else.
Another deep breath. Exhaling as a tension-relieving sound.
”Who…! I think, eh… they’re gone, and, I’ll… just uhm, here, over, ehm…” Jim pointed halfheartedly off somewhere, and let Oswald loose with a pat on his shoulder. Like that would do anything.
Oswald was still high on chemicals, adrenaline and endorphins and so much else, his body not ready to leave this fantasy turned reality, but Jim didn’t wait for him. He was already out of the doorway, looking the way they’d come and back, standing tall and proud unless you knew him well.
Oswald could see the stress on him. The seems of his facade unraveling under constant pressure, held together by not much at all, more then force of will.
Oswald stepped forward, not letting him out of his sight. Jim heard him moving, turned around, met his eyes and immediately looked away, acting unsure, scratching his scalp.
”I’ll, eh, we’ll see each other, right? That thing, eh, I think that… Uhm…”
”I’ll call you.”
”Yeah! Yeah you do that. I’ll, eh… hm.”
Jim pointed off into the distance, and walked off. Their meeting was seemingly postponed. Nothing that couldn’t be handled, of course, this wasn’t a pressing matter, they could reschedule. It had been quite spontaneous, either way.
Oswald did have a dinner with Nygma to attend. No need to postpone that now.
Though they might have a different conversation then both of them thought.