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There's a second before, when Jim sees Jervis Tetch, his face contorted into a snarl of hate, before there's a beep, cold and impersonal, and a cloud of red gas encompasses him. Instantly, his guard is up- Tetch's usual modus operandi is powder, à la Red Queen, but he's teamed up with Crane- Scarecrow.
Jim has come in contact with Crane's fear-gas, and, needless to say, though that was a mere prototype, it wasn't pleasant.
Dread fills him, growing as the seconds tick by, and nothing happens, save for him losing sight of Tetch in a coughing fit that occurs as soon as the gas hits, and he feels his heart-rate spike. In his experience, the longer something takes to affect you, the worst, and longer-lasting, the effects are.
However, after he counts out four minutes, and nothing happens, his guard lowers slowly, heart-rate returning to a resting rate of sixty beats per minute. He lets out a sigh of relief. It must be a prototype that failed, or Tetch's powder nullified the effects of whatever gas Crane used, he thinks, picks up his phone, and goes to call Ed to let his boyfriend know that he's fine, standard procedure when Jim takes on the more risky criminals-
and stops cold. There, the numbers on his wrist, the numbers that denote Ed's death, read, 0:0:15:02, then 0:0:15:01, then 0:0:15:0. Fear seizes him- Edward Nygma, his boyfriend, his soulmate, has fifteen minutes to live. It's his worst nightmare come to life, and he breaks into a sprint, the phone already ringing, racing to get out of the maze-like building, back to Ed.
"Jim?" Ed picks up, puzzled, "Are you okay? What's up? Are you okay?"
Jim wants to laugh, hysterical- Ed's going to die in twelve and a half minutes, and he's more worried about Jim. "No, I'm fine, but Ed," he stops, at a loss, and there's so many things he wants to say, but all he can croak out is, "I can't let you die."
"What?" Ed's puzzled, "Jim, what on earth-? What do you-?"
"I can't- I'm sorry- I- I," Jim's hyperventilating now, mind frenzied, and no, nononono, NO, Ed can't die, not now.
"Jim? Where are you?" Ed asks, and now he sounds scared, "Jim? Tell me where you are- please, darling, tell me where you are- I'm getting scared, Jim," and that's what does it. Jim can't bear to have Ed scared- never.
He takes a deep breath, tries not to fall down the rabbit-hole of panic, because, ten minutes, "I- I'm on the second story," he croaks out, and he can hear Ed's footsteps in the background as he comforts Jim, instructs him to sit on the floor and breathe, in, out, in, come on Jim, breathe in with me, and it almost distracts Jim from the rapidly decreasing numbers, five minutes.
There's a patter of footsteps, and Ed's getting closer to Jim, and then there's a gunshot-
pain. Pain, radiating from his left shoulder, and then another, and Ed falls, falls, falls, lands in Jim's lap, the blood, crimson and wet and metallic, seeps over Jim's skin. Ed's eyes, so bright and excited, are dull. Jim lets out a wild howl, pain, rage, fear-
"-Jim, Jim!" Someone's shaking him, and he bolts upright, eyes wide.
There, shaking him to wakefulness, is Edward Nygma, hair tousled, expression worried, and Jim lets out a gasp of disbelief, and lets out a laugh of disbelief. "It was a hallucination," he whispers, once, then, again, louder. "Oh, Ed, it was a hallucination!" He buries his head in the other's shoulder, little gasps and shudders wracking his frame.
"Hey, hey, hey, it's okay," Ed comforts, "what happened?"
"Nothing," Jim replies, muffled, and, checks, discreetly, his wrist. 29200:40:5:6. "Nothing's wrong at all."