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"You’re a naive fool, Jim Gordon. And you know nothing."
Jim knew it wouldn't last. That's all the cop can think about as he stares at the box full of his possessions. It's a small box, one of those things office workers use to clear out their desk, and it surprises him how little there is to fill it with. Ten years tapered down to a few stray belongings that meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. A dress shirt here, a pair of slacks there. A spare umbrella-- the usual black of course-- and a few timeworn books are all that there is to prove someone else was ever there, sharing his life. On impulse, Jim retrieves one of the more handled books from the box, leafing through it absent mindedly.
"How can you read the same thing over and over like that?" Jim asked. He'd been watching the news, simultaneously rubbing Oswald’s bad knee where it lay elevated on his lap, but the constant turning of pages had diverted his attention.
"It's good," The mobster murmured distractedly. It was only after he'd finished his current page that he looked up at Jim, grinning. "No matter how many times I read it, the ending still manages to surprise me."
Jim placed the book back into the box a bit rougher than intended. He'd known it was a mistake. The first encounter on that rainy day, the first kiss...the whispered I love yous.
“What are you doing to me?” Jim murmured against soft lips.
Oswald peered up at him through half lidded eyes.
“Do you want to stop?” He panted softly, tongue sweeping across his lips. Jim’s eyes followed the movement.
“...No.”
He knew it could-- would-- only end one way. To hope for anything else was the musings of a fool. And he had been a fool. Why he’d allowed himself to entertain this farce of a relationship for so long was beyond him. Maybe it was the loneliness; that’s all they’d been really. Two lonely people pretending that the inevitable would never come; that this whole thing wasn’t doomed from the start. The front door of his apartment shuddered as locked tumblers were released from the outside.
"It's no big deal," Jim said, trying to sound casual. He thinks it'd be more effective if his eyes weren't flitting around the room, resting on every possible surface besides the man in front of him. "I’ve got a lot of late shifts coming up, and it's just more convenient if you can let yourself in."
Gordon holds up the key, looking directly at the small piece of brass as long, pale fingers slowly take it from him. The cop shifts uncomfortably, eyes once again traveling the length of the club.
"Ok."
When Jim finally manages eye contact, he's met with one of the most sincere smiles he's ever seen on Oswald’s face. His stomach flips, and he’s still uneasy with how often the mobster manages to evoke that sort of response from him, but he thinks he's coming to terms with it.
"Thank you."
He doesn't say anything when he walks in.
Jim's not actually facing the front door, but he can hear the uneven footfalls. They take their time, slowly making their way to the small dining room table he’s situated himself at. When Oswald finally lands in his field of vision, Jim sees that he’s wearing his usual black suit. And even though the mobster isn’t looking directly at him, his eyes are colder than the cop ever remembers them being. His face, almost always hinting at the beginnings of a smile, is grim. It bothers him.
To his chagrin, Jim realizes that Oswald is carrying a box about two sizes bigger than the one on his table. The cop supposed he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t spent most of his nights in the room above Oswald’s club.
‘He must’ve had a hard time getting that here,’ Jim thought absently. The mobster set the box down, and they both stayed there in the silence, as if waiting for the other to say something. Neither speaks. There's nothing left to say. Oswald's key makes a silent clang on the table, near booming in the quiet.
There's another pause, just as long as the first. It goes just as unanswered. Oswald finally leaves, the smaller box holding his own possessions in hand. The front door closes with a resounding click, and Jim closes his eyes.
'Jesus'
He puts a hand up to the bridge of his nose and pinches it tightly. He doesn’t know how long he sits there, but eventually he stands from his chair. The sudden movement causes his weight to shift, and the forgotten chain around his neck slides against his skin. He pulls at it until the heavy ring weighing it down comes into view.
"You want me to buy a ring that I’m not gonna wear?” Jim’s eyes narrowed, questioning.
“Not just you. We’d both buy a ring that catered to our own personal preferences and styles,” Oswald explained as they walked into the small jewelry store. “And then we’d switch with each other. The idea,” he began as he leaned against a transparent display case. “Is that even when we’re apart, we’ll always have a piece of each other to hold on to.
“It’s supposed to be good luck.” He finished sheepishly. “It's just an old German superstition; Something to ensure that we’ll always find our way back to each other.”
Jim looked at Oswald carefully. The cop had a suspicion that this ran a little deeper than a passing superstition. These last few weeks had been difficult for the both of them; one of many attempts had just been made on the current king of Gotham’s life, and Jim had been having his own share of close calls at work-- a lot of which being directly related to the enemies of a certain mobster. As Oswald’s power grew, more and more stress was landing on the GCPD. They’d always fought about it, but lately the arguments seemed to be more and more frequent.
“You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to,” Oswald said quickly upon seeing the searching look on Jim’s face. “It’s not really that imp-”
“That one.” Jim pointed directly to Oswald’s left.
“What?” The mobster said, startled. Jim moved closer to the display case that his lover was leaning against, placing his finger directly above a simple gold band.
“I would wear that one,” he said softly, suddenly unable to look Oswald directly in the eye. And though he snapped out a gruff “you happy?” there was no real bite to it.
“Yes.”
Jim didn’t need to look to see the smile on Cobblepot’s face-- he could practically hear it. But for once, he didn’t balk from the warm feeling spreading through his stomach, and he felt himself smiling in turn.
Jim held the ring Oswald had given him in the palm of his hand. Even faded from years of wearing it without giving it a proper cleaning, it was still beautiful; far more complex than the simple band he’d chosen. It was big and silver, with intricate designs that ran along the sides and joined in the center around a small black stone. It looked exactly like something the mobster would wear.
He supposed that there was no reason to keep the trinket now; it held no significance to him anymore. But instead of reaching around his neck for the clasp, he found himself letting the ring fall back to it’s original spot underneath his shirt, just above his heart.
Against his better judgement he began to fish through his returned box of things, first moving the objects aside, then throwing them carelessly around the room behind him. He tore into the contents of the box as if compelled, his peripheral temporarily obscured by blurry flashes of clothes and dvds and case files.
“Thank you,”
Jim looked up at Oswald from the chair he’d placed next to his hospital bed. Three days ago another attempt on the mobster’s life had been made, and even though the bullet had only grazed his temple--
The grip he had on Oswald’s hand tightened; it had been a difficult three days. The mobster had continually been in and out of consciousness. Now though, he seemed fully lucid. He was even smiling softly, underneath all those head bandages, and somehow this put the cop more at ease than the doctors who’d assured him just yesterday that Oswald would pull through. He returned the smile with one of his own before clearing his throat, voice hoarse from disuse.
“For what?” he said softly.
“For loving me.”
He didn’t stop until the entire box was empty. Even then he flipped it over, shaking it with all his strength, just in case.
But the ring wasn’t there. And he hated himself for feeling so relieved.