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The anger that Oswald felt pumping through Jim’s fists filled him with delight. The rough backs of the detective’s knuckles scraped against Oswald’s too-pale skin, his starched collar crumpling easily beneath the force of those fingers. He could feel Jim’s breath against his neck, hot and baleful, and it took all of Oswald’s willpower not to laugh. He’d never been less afraid.
“I told you never to come back here!”
Oh, he had, yes. But was he really so naive? Did he not see the stormclouds that had begun to gather over Gotham? Jim was a good man, but that was only good for one thing: turning him into something to be used by bad men. Men like Oswald.
So Oswald snivelled and pleaded, trembled and begged for Jim to listen, for Jim to understand how useful he could be. Hitting the right notes had never been so easy; good guys were like clean sheets, ready to be torn and stained and hung out to dry.
“I should put a bullet in your head right now!”
No, Gordon would never kill Oswald. He’d missed his chance and now there was no going back. He’d taken lives before, but he wasn’t like the rest of this city. He wasn’t the kind of person who would do whatever it took to survive – not yet. James Gordon would compromise, lean a little left and a little right, trying to stay on the straight and narrow, and while he was busy looking at his feet Oswald would take the city right out from under him.
“I can be your secret agent.”
Oswald could see the gears working in Jim’s brain, trying to figure this out, trying to decide whether he could be a good man or whether it was worth becoming just as corrupt as the people he hated. He was still resisting, but his conversion wouldn’t take long – and Oswald would be there every step of the way. Every bloody, stumbling, limping step.