Chapter Text
Pain. Pain was all Oswald felt now. Pain when he moved. Pain when he spoke. Pain when he breathed. Pain had consumed his entire existence.
He opened his eyes to an unfamiliar room. The dim haze of city lights streamed in through a window to his right, but apart from that, the room was dark. He lied on a bed, a thick comforter tucked up to his chin. He tried to get up, but pain ripped through his left shoulder, making him cry out and drop back on the mattress, breathing sharply.
A sliver of light turned on under a door across from him and soon that door opened, letting in the full, blinding effect of tungsten lighting and Jim Gordon. What the hell was Jim doing here?
“I’m sorry about the light,” Jim said, squinting as much as Oswald. “Did you just wake up?”
His hair was tussled, dress shirt fully unbuttoned, showing his undershirt. Had he been sleeping in the other room?
“Where am I?” Oswald asked. His voice sounded gravely to his own ears.
“My apartment.”
Oh.
“I found your car—the car you stole by the side of the road. You were unconscious. I brought you here and had someone patch you up.”
“Someone?”
“A black market doctor. Not exactly my first choice, but I couldn’t take you to the hospital and I don’t want to involve Lee in this.”
Jim seemed to be having trouble meeting his eyes. Was that shame? Did saving the wanted murderer tax his conscience? Or was this all too awkward after he protected the man who killed Oswald’s mother? From him?
“How altruistic of you,” Oswald muttered, turning away. Tears pricked in his eyes like they had for days now. Since his mother had been kidnapped. Since—
His breath hitched, a sob bursting from his throat unbidden.
No!
He wouldn’t cry in front of Jim. Not again. He tightened his lips, swallowing the next sob before it could fully form.
“I’m sorry about your mother,” Jim said. “She seemed like a good woman.”
Oswald scrunched his eyes shut. Tears squeezed out.
“Thank you.” He wiped his tears off against the pillowcase. “But you know what would have been infinitely more welcome? If you had let me kill the man responsible for her death.”
“I couldn’t do that.”
“Why not? And don’t cite your precious law at me.”
But, of course, that was why he had. Why else? Even though he apparently already knew that Galavan was a monster.
“You know I can’t do that.”
“Then I don’t care to hear it.”
“I couldn’t let you shoot him. He’s turned the whole city against you. And no one knows what he is. He would have died a hero. Apart from the fact that it would be murder, but I know that you don’t care about that.”
“Then arrest me, Jim.” Oswald glared at him. “Lock me up. Because that’s the only way that you’re going to prevent me from killing him.”
Jim’s shoulders slumped in a sigh and he looked away. Yet he offered no rebuttal, no tiresome speech about the sanctity of the law. He simply said, “I’ll get you some food,” and walked out of the room.
Oswald dropped back on the bed, more tears pricking his eyes, the pain in his shoulder stabbing through his nerves. He looked down at himself. His torso was bare under the comforter, but his legs were covered in unfamiliar sweatpants, which stretched out past his ankles. Oh, look. He had made it into Jim’s pants. And this was obviously his bed. Hardly how Oswald had dreamed that it would happen, and obviously that wasn’t what was happening now, but it didn’t matter now. His mother was dead. What else could possibly matter? Another sob escaped his lips. He muffled it with his hand, furiously wiping off tears with his knuckles as he heard Jim’s footsteps approach.
“It’s fast food,” Jim said, reentering the room, a paper bag with “Arby’s” printed on it in one hand and a tall glass of water in the other. “Sorry about that. There weren’t a lot of places open at one in the morning. I got you a turkey sandwich. I figured that would be better than a burger.”
“That’s fine,” Oswald said, hating how his voice cracked.
Jim placed the bag and glass down on the side table while Oswald focused on keeping his breaths even and not bursting into tears again. Jim lingered awkwardly by the table. Oswald caught him looking from the corner of his eye.
“Let me help you sit up,” Jim said.
“I’m fine.”
“Oswald, I know you’re mad at me, but you need help.”
“I can manage it.”
Rolling onto his right side, Oswald propped his right arm under him and pushed himself up,, wincing as the movement jarred his injured shoulder. Jim stepped forward, but didn’t touch him, not until Oswald started pushing himself back toward the headrest with his legs and he gasped in pain. Jim picked him up with an arm under his knees and another at his back and carried him the few, annoying inches to the bedrest, propping up the pillows behind him so that he could rest against them. Oswald avoided looking at him, his breath suddenly heavy with more than sobs for his mother. He had lost hope so long ago that Jim would ever treat him with such kindness, that his friendship would be corresponded, yet now there were finally inklings of it occurring. Now. Why did it have to be now? It took the death of his mother for Jim to finally regard him like a human being and not just a tool at his disposal?
“I’ll leave you alone now,” Jim said, sounding almost apologetic.
Oswald let him go, let the steps grow further and further away out of the room and through whatever space lied beyond it. He wanted to call him back. He did. But he also didn’t. He wanted no part of Jim’s pity, knowing even then that he was being unfair to Jim, but he didn’t care. Everything in him hurt. Everything was pain and smoldering ash and he couldn’t see how he could ever be happy again. He grabbed the glass of water, gasping at the sudden motion, and guzzled every drop, tears starting to stream again before he could lower the container from his lips. His hand shook as he returned it to the table, almost dropping it as sobs ripped through him again. He pressed his hand to his face, but he did nothing to stop them this time, not caring if Jim could hear him through the closed door or not.
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Jim returned some time later to check on him. Oswald had slumped back down, curled onto his right side as much as he could be, the blanket hem moist with tears that he had dried off on it after the tissue box on Jim’s table had run out. Jim picked up the box, surveying the used tissues that Oswald had stuffed back into it.
“Shit,” Jim said. “I should have brought you another box. I should have thought of that. I’m sorry. I think I have one in my supply closet somewhere.”
He left, presumably to get the new box. Oswald hadn’t moved since he arrived, only glancing up at him. His tears were dry for now, but they would return again. They always did.
“Here,” Jim said sometime later, returning to the room, a full box in his hand. “New box.”
He placed in on the table next to the paper bag, which Oswald hadn’t touched at all. Jim opened it, frowning when he noticed this fact.
“You didn’t eat,” he said. “Aren’t you hungry?”
Starved. But what did that matter?
“I don’t want to eat,” Oswald said.
“That’s not what I asked. You were shot. You need food to recover your strength.”
Goddamnit. Yes, Oswald knew this was true. The sooner he recuperated, the sooner he could go and slash Galavan’s throat until there was no more blood left in him. but the thought of putting food in his mouth and swallowing it made his stomach heave.
“I’ll eat on my own time, Jim.” Oswald resisted the urge to tug the blanket tighter over his shoulders. “Now leave me be.”
“Fine. If you don’t want the sandwich, I can get you soup. I think I have a couple of cans in the pantry.”
“I don’t want anything. What don’t you understand about that? I’m tired and I feel wretched. Just leave me alone. Please.”
Oswald pushed himself onto his back, turning his head away from Jim. Jim stepped around the bed. Oswald turned his face away again, but Jim only followed him. Oswald glared at the man, his hands fisting at his sides.
“Could you please stop that?” he said.
“I’m not leaving until you agree to eat something.”
For fuck’s sake. Why did Jim insist on being so irritating?
“Why do you care?” Oswald asked. “Hm? If I don’t wish to feed myself, that’s my own business.”
“It’s my business when you’re in my apartment with a bullet wound on your shoulder that I paid a doctor who I should have arrested to treat.”
“That’s easily remedied. I’ll just leave and pay you back.” Oswald shoved off the blanket, kicking it off with his feet. “I’ll drop off the money in the afternoon.”
He pushed himself up, tossing his legs over the edge of the mattress, then stopped when a sudden weakness overtook his body, his injury flaring. He braced himself on the bed with his right hand, clinging on as the dizziness subsided, his breaths quick and deep.
The paper bag crinkled as Jim opened it. Jim held the wrapped sandwich out to him as he sat beside him.
“Oswald,” he said, softer than Oswald had ever heard it. “Please eat.”
Oswald’s resolve gave. He was too weak to object anymore. He took the sandwich, ripped the wrapping open, and forced himself to take a bite and chew. The salty tang of the deli turkey and tomato felt like glass shards, but he swallowed it down, clamping his mouth shut until it slid down his throat.
“Thank you,” Jim said.
Oswald said nothing, but he kept eating.
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Oswald barely finished the sandwich, but he made forced himself to so Jim wouldn’t complain again. He had remained by Oswald’s side the entire time, a silent presence. At first, Oswald had been pettily inclined to think that Jim was making sure that Oswald would finish his food, as if he were a child. But he had to admit to himself that he was very glad for the man’s company. He hadn’t expected any of this. That Jim would look for him, perhaps, but not bring him to his home and tend to his wounds. Or practically stuff food down his throat.
The last irritating piece of bread finally consumed, Oswald crumpled the wrapping and tossed it on the table next to the tissue box.
“Why did you bring me here?” he asked. “Why not arrest me and take me to the hospital?”
“It would be too easy for Galavan to get to you in a hospital.”
“Such concern for my welfare. I’m touched.”
Sarcasm dripped from his tone, but he was in no mood to temper it now.
“I don’t want you dead.”
“Yes. We both know how much you value keeping everyone alive, even those who shouldn’t be.”
“I’m not going to apologize for doing what’s right.”
“Do you have any idea how much death and destruction that man is responsible for?”
“You killed Janice Caulfield in cold blood.”
“To protect my mother.”
“She wasn’t the only one you’ve killed.”
“I am what I am. I will not apologize about it to you. I don’t care what you think of me anymore. I would do anything to protect my mother. Would have done anything.”
Past tense. Nothing more than wretched past tense now. Tears burned in his eyes again. Fuck! Not now. Not fucking now.
“Judge me all you want.” Oswald pushed himself up with his right arm, ignoring the weakness in his knees as he pulled himself onto his feet. “It doesn’t matter to me.”
Jim stood up with him.
“You shouldn’t be getting up,” he said, fake concern on his face. It couldn’t be real. He was probably just keeping Oswald around so that he could uncover Galavan’s plans. Although he was right about one thing. Oswald really should sit down before he fell down. His knees shook as he took a few tentative steps, but he didn’t want to be near Jim anymore, and kicking him out of his own bedroom would be weird. Now all he needed was to find his shoes, something to cover his torso, and his phone so that he could call Gabe to come get him. And not faint. That would also be splendid, but the dizziness assaulting his head was making that possibility more and more likely as he ambled through the bedroom door, past a bathroom, and onto a small living room. A fleece coverlet lied in a pile on the couch. Of course. With Oswald on his bed, Jim had no option but to take the couch. This was a one bedroom, by the looks of it. That couch looked really comfortable right now. No. No sitting. He had to find his shoes.
“Where are my shoes?” he asked, leaning heavily on the wall.
“In the closet,” Jim said.
He had been following closely since Oswald left the room, probably ready to catch him should he collapse. That didn’t sound bad, actually. Collapsing in Jim’s arms. Crap. The grief and blood loss had made him maudlin.
“This closet?” Oswald asked, looking at a narrow door besides the living room.
“No, the one in the bedroom.”
Shit. Scrambling against the wall with both hands, he turned around, only to find himself blocked by Jim, who was regarding him with that damned, pseudo concerned expression of his that didn’t mean anything because Jim didn’t actually care about him. If Oswald dropped dead right now, he would just be sorry that he lost a valuable witness against Galavan. Nothing more.
“Please let me pass,” Oswald said.
“Oswald, you can’t—“
“Why do you keep using my name?”
Jim frowned.
“Because it’s your name.”
“I’ve never heard you call me by it before.”
“I—I guess it just never came up.”
“Stop trying to be my friend, Jim. Not now that I’m grieving for my mother. It’s tacky. I wanted to be friends. You wanted to keep things cold and business-like. Well, you won that round, so let’s keep it that way, shall we?”
Now Jim did look sorry, but probably only at being caught.
“I would never use your mother’s death to manipulate you,” he said. “That’s not what I’m doing at all.”
Oswald’s right hand had slid along the wall until his forearm rested hard across it, his fingers trembling with the struggle of keeping him up, but Jim still wouldn’t move.
“Then why are you being so nice to me?”
“It’s called human compassion. I’m not heartless.”
“If I didn’t have information on Galavan that you so desperately wanted, would you have come looking for me?”
“Oswald, I—“
“Stop calling me that! Would you have?”
Jim closed his mouth and actually paid Oswald the courtesy of considering his question.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe not.”
Disappointment ached through Oswald. Not that he had been expecting anything different, of course. But it still hurt to have it confirmed.
“Finally,” he said, smiling as if he were chewing through glass. “A little honesty at last.”
“Look,” Jim said, placing his hands on his hips. “I’m a cop. You’re a criminal. I really don’t know what else you expect from me. It’s not like I’ve betrayed you.”
Dizziness crept at the back of Oswald’s eyes. The pain in his shoulder had doubled within the last minute, making his breathing raspy. It was just the wound, not anything that Jim had said. Not anything that would really hurt.
“Of course,” he said. “Foolish of me. If you’ll just let me get my shoes, I’ll be out of your hair.”
“You can barely stand. You’re not going to be able to walk out of here. Come on, sit down. You don’t have to come over to the bed. Just sit on the couch.”
Jim stepped aside and patted the couch’s closest armrest. It did look so very tempting. What were the chances that he would be able to walk out of here on his own two feet, anyway? Not high at all. And calling Gabe from the couch was fine. Gingerly, he pushed himself off the wall, and took the few faltering steps necessary to make it to the couch, congratulating himself on not slipping to the floor as his knees threatened to give way. He collapsed on it, the drop jarring his shoulder. He couldn’t help the wince that escaped his lips.
“Do you want a painkiller?” Jim asked. “It’s past the dosage time of the one that the doctor gave you.”
Oswald nodded., shutting his eyes as he dropped his head against the cushions.
“I’ll be right back,” Jim said.
“And bring my shoes, please.”
Oswald heard him swallow a sigh.
“You don’t have to leave,” Jim said.
“Just please bring them.”
Jim returned a short while later, shoes and a glass of water in hand, the pill bottle tucked under his elbow. He placed the bottle and glass on the coffee table and the shoes by Oswald’s feet before sitting beside him and opening the bottle.
“It’s two every eight hours,” he said, handing Oswald the pills. Oswald reached for the glass himself, but he winced as he leaned forward and Jim grabbed it before he could.
“Would you please let me help you?” Jim said, giving him the glass.
Oswald glanced at him before taking the pills, downing half the glass in one go.
“It’s true that I want you to help me catch Galavan, but I do want to help you. I don’t actually like seeing you hurt.”
“Truly? I recall you handcuffing me to a radiator and threatening to leave me there to be murdered by Maroni.”
Oh, look. Was that shame shadowing Jim’s face?
“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“No. Not a very nice thing to do. Especially you, of all people. I’ve forgiven many things from you, Jim, but there comes a point when I need to reevaluate whether I can trust you or not.”
“I get that. But you can trust me now.”
“Why? Because I didn’t wake up handcuffed to a hospital bed?”
“Well, yes.”
I’ve finally found someone I can trust, mother. A policeman.
He shoved the memory away.
“Trust has to be earned, Jim. I thought you had when you saved my life, but I guess I let my feelings cloud my judgment. You’ll excuse me if I take this new offer of friendship with a grain of salt, especially given the circumstances.”
“That’s fair.”
Oswald closed his eyes again. He was so tired. All he wanted was to sleep and dream of a world where his mother was still alive.
“Why did you trust Falcone?” he asked.
“What?”
“You arrested me, yet you tried to help him regain control of the city. I offered you friendship, yet you chose a man who wanted you dead.”
“He seemed like the least worse option. The city was in chaos. Maroni was too reckless. You… Well, if you want honesty, I didn’t think that you could hack it. You were inexperienced. And my father trusted Falcone. Maybe he knew something I didn’t.”
The fatherly connection. Right. Jim would be the type to go for that sort of thing.
“And he didn’t kill me when me and Harvey barged into his house. I never understood that.”
Oswald snorted. Oh, that was precious. Did Jim actually think that Falcone had spared him out of some sudden sense of mercy?
Jim narrowed his eyes at him.
“What do you know?” he asked.
“About what?”
“You know why Falcone didn’t kill me, don’t you?”
“Perhaps.”
“That’s a yes. Why didn’t he?”
“Honestly, does it even matter anymore? Falcone isn’t coming back.”
Jim turned further on the couch to face Oswald.
“If you know something, I need you to tell me.”
“Already making demands? Well, that didn’t take any time at all.”
“Oswald, please.”
His name again. For fuck’s sake.
“Fine. It was me. I asked Falcone to spare you. He thought that it was a mistake to keep you alive, that you would just cause more trouble down the road, but I begged him to as a favor to me. He was happy with the work I had done for him, so I had some pull. And I used it. For you.”
Shock froze Jim’s face.
“What?” he said.
Was that a hint of horror in his voice? Fear that he had been an ungrateful asshole to taunt Oswald and treat his life as a bargaining chip when Oswald himself had asked for nothing in return?
“Why didn’t you tell me this?” Jim asked.
“It wasn’t relevant.”
“Not relevant?”
Jim stood up and took a few steps away from Oswald, already seeking to distance himself from the truth before facing him again.
“How could this not be relevant?” Jim asked. “You could have told me at the hospital with Falcone. When I walked out on you after rejecting your deal to get my job back. Fuck, after I rejected your invitation to that party. You could have held it over my head. Why didn’t you?”
“Because I didn’t want to do that. Why would I? I thought, foolish man that I was, that we were friends. And friends don’t owe each other for saving their lives, now do they? They just do it because their friend must live. Because they can’t bear the thought of their friend dying. But don’t worry. I know you’re not my friend now. You only save me to assuage your conscience or to get help with a case. I don’t expect any better from you now.”
He slipped his shoes halfway on his feet and leaned down to fasten them, but the angle hurt his shoulder. He couldn’t manage more than to finish slipping on his shoes with his right hand, his left shoulder twisted away to prevent it from flexing as much as possible.
“Please don’t go,” Jim said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have treated you like that.”
“No. You shouldn’t have. But we’re not friends. So you can treat me however you like.”
He yanked the laces on his right shoe taut with his right hand, but he winced when he brought his left down to tie them.
“You’re hurting yourself,” Jim said.
Oswald ignored him. Jim rushed toward him, crouching down, and Oswald braced himself. Was he going to snatch his shoes away from him? Try to make him stay? Oswald would walk out of here barefoot, if he had to. But Jim didn’t do that. Instead, he grabbed Oswald’s laces and tied them.
“If you want to leave,” he said, “I’m not going to make you stay. But please don’t go. I’ll do better from now on, I swear.”
“You’re only saying that because you feel bad.”
He didn’t want Jim obligated to him, but, well, he had already taken that measure, hadn’t he? Making Jim collect that debt from Ogden Barker had been the only way to get Jim to at least pretend to treat him with a modicum of respect.
“I do feel bad,” Jim said. “Of course I do. I fucked up. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t want to rectify my mistakes.”
He looked sincere. But he couldn’t be, could he? Jim had only ever been sincere about his disdain for him. Yet the guilt in his eyes… It felt real. Such a far cry from the contempt that had glared back at him when Jim had reminded him of his glorious act of charity at the hospital. He shouldn’t give Jim another chance. Look how many he had given him, only to get burned every time.
“I understand if you don’t want to trust me,” Jim said. Done with the laces, he rested his right hand on Oswald’s foot for a moment before lifting it away. “Like you said, trust has to be earned and I’ve done a piss poor job of that. But you can. If you want.”
Oswald did. He really did. Being in Jim’s apartment, wearing his clothes, sleeping on his bed had been all he had ever yearned for once upon a time. It was still quite high on his wish list. And Jim kneeling at his feet begging him to give him a chance, well, it was quite lovely imagery.
Oh, fuck it. He was already here and if Jim meant to arrest him, he would have done so already. Not that he could without dooming himself, anyway. Technically, Oswald could still hold Barker’s murder over his head.
“Alright,” he said. “I’ll trust you. For now. A trial basis, as it were.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.”
Jim sat back up on the couch, watching Oswald closely without wanting to give the appearance of watching him, which he failed miserably at. Finally succumbing to the chilliness in the room, Oswald grabbed the blanket and tugged it up, jolting Jim, who was sitting on a corner of it.
“I’ll get that,” Jim said, standing up just enough for the blanket to come free.
“I can do it,” Oswald said, pulling it around his shoulders.
“You sure?”
“I’m not completely helpless.”
“Okay.”
Jim raised his hand in surrender. Oswald finished arranging the blanket around his torso as well as he could with his right hand. Jim’s help would have been welcome, but Oswald’s anger hadn’t fully abated yet. They sat for a while, silent. Oswald idly pinched at the blanket, resting his head back, trying not to focus on the pain. How long would Jim let this silence drag on? He was burning with questions. It shocked Oswald that he had been able to contain himself for this long.
“Do you mind if I ask what happened?” Jim asked.
There it was. The questioning had finally begun.
“With Galavan?” Oswald asked.
“With your mother.”
Oh.
“Gilzean told me some of it.”
Oswald’s hands clenched into fists at the name, his mouth tightening in fury. He was going to rip Butch’s guts out for helping Galavan kill his mother. His mother had been innocent. She had had nothing to with Oswald’s business. Nothing! She had been kind and sweet and she had even been kind and sweet to Butch. God, he should have kept her away from all this. She should have been safe, but he couldn’t put more security on her because she might notice and there were still times when she looked at him like she knew that Maroni’s vicious words had been the truth and Oswald couldn’t stand it, but living with her disappointment would be a million times better than this, because at least she would still be alive. God, it hurt so much.
“Oswald?”
A tear ran down Oswald’s cheek. He wiped it off with the heel of his hand, smearing it on his skin. He sucked in a deep breath, struggling to even them out, but another tear came pouring out. He wiped it with the blanket this time, keeping it pressed to his face.
“I’m sorry,” Jim said. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“Did Gilzean tell you how he led me to my mother’s death? How he just stood there and let them kill her?”
“No. He didn’t go into detail. He just said that Galavan kidnapped her to make you do his bidding. That he didn’t think that Galavan would go through with it.”
“Didn’t think—They snatched her from her home and caged her in a cell not fit for a rat. They are monsters. I’m going to kill him for that.”
Jim pressed his lips together, probably unhappy about Oswald professing the need to kill someone else, but he didn’t protest. Oswald’s breath thickened, the knot in his throat painfully tight now. He kept wiping tears from his cheeks, fighting to hold back the sobs, but he couldn’t anymore. He pressed a hand over his eyes as the sobs burst out of him, thick and loud and messy. Jim stood up and Oswald panicked, terrified that Jim would abandon him at a time like this, but Jim sat down at his right side and laid a hand on Oswald’s shoulder, his healthy shoulder. Oh. He resisted the urge for only a second before grabbing Jim’s hand, holding on for as if he would shatter if he let go. Jim let him, not speaking.
Oswald cried until it felt like there were no more tears left in him, but he knew that to be a lie. The blanket hem was moist. He kept sniffing.
“I’ll get you the tissues,” Jim said, getting up.
Oswald clutched his hand on instinct, not wanting him to leave, even for a moment. Even then he knew was being stupid, but he couldn’t help himself anymore.
“I’ll be right back,” Jim said, a sad, concerned gaze in his eyes.
Oswald let his hand slip away, but Jim returned as quickly as he had promised. Three tissues later, Oswald’s breathing returned to normal. Or what had become normal during the last twenty-four hours.
“Do you want some water?” Jim asked.
“Yes, please.”
Jim got the water. Oswald downed half the glass in one gulp. Jim sat beside him again. Oswald was so fucking happy that he was there.
“I need to ask,” Jim said after a bit. “You said that Galavan had plans for someone that I care about. Who is it?”
“Bruce Wayne.”
Jim frowned.
“Bruce? What does he want with him? Is he involved in the Wayne murders?”
“That second one I don’t know, but given the first one, I definitely wouldn’t rule it out.”
Oswald explained what Edwige had told him about the Dumas-Wayne feud and Galavan’s scheming to take over Wayne Enterprises. Jim listened with increasing concern. He rose quickly from the couch when Oswald finished.
“I have to call Alfred,” he said, walking towards the kitchen.
It took Oswald a second to make the connection. Alfred Pennyworth, the child’s guardian.
“It’s not even dawn yet,” Oswald said, peering at the city night through the window on the wall opposite.
“He’ll want to wake up for this.”
A short while later, Jim’s hushed tones carried over to the living room as Jim he spoke on the phone in the kitchen. Oswald listened to the conversation, resting his eyes. Jim mentioned confronting Galavan after the election party, a fact that he had failed to tell Oswald. That was cause for worry. Galavan would surely be gunning for Jim now. He would probably send Barbara after him. She would rattle his cage while lowering his guard enough for him to get caught. A pang of worry twisted in Oswald’s stomach. Last he knew, Barbara loved Jim, but it had been a while since he had bothered to stay informed about her and he had detected no indication one way or another during their brief second meeting. Would she really hurt him? How deeply did her resentment run?
“I trust him,” Jim said, still on the phone.
Oswald opened his eyes and twisted his head around to the left to try to see Jim in the kitchen. He only caught half his head hidden behind a column of drawers, but the one eye that he could see was looking at him. Oswald backtracked, remembering pieces of the conversation that he had half heard while worrying about Barbara. Jim had spoken of an informant. Oswald himself. Jim had admitted to trusting him to someone else. Oswald’s pain receded in that moment. Only the smallest amount, but it was enough to bring a smile to his lips.
“Alfred’s going to keep Bruce away from him,” Jim said, returning to the living room, closed phone in hand. “I’m going to tell Barnes what I know. See if I can convince him to go after Galavan.”
“You know I won’t testify.”
“I know. And I know that you have other plans for him, but I have to continue doing what I need to do.”
“Yes. I understand.”
He didn’t expect any differently from Jim, despite his earlier outburst. Jim was a man of the law, even though his strict adherence to it had been chipping away since his promotion to detective. The first one, of course. Oswald had never held his principles against him. How could he? He owed his life to them. Jim was a precious diamond who shone brighter than anyone else in this city. But he also had edges as sharp as one, and, well, Oswald could hardly be faulted for wishing that one day those edges would turn in his favor rather than against him. Arresting Galavan might be the only option that Jim could accept right now, but one day he would learn that men like that couldn’t be held down no matter how many prison bars you wrapped around him. He had to die. He must die and die bloody under Oswald’s fingers or he’d never be able to sleep well again. As it stood, sleep felt odious to him, nightmares all that awaited beyond it, only marginally less horrifying than the ones assaulting his waking thoughts.
“He’s going to come after you, too, you know?” Oswald said.
“I’ll be ready for him.”
“Are you sure? Pardon me for pointing this out, but you can be rather reckless sometimes.”
The man let his emotions rule his actions so often that he was going to get himself killed one of these days out of sheer stupidity, and that was not acceptable. He loved Jim, but even he had to admit that he wasn’t the most sensible of individuals.
“I’ll be careful,” Jim said.
Doubtful, but Oswald could hardly make him promise to take better care of himself. Any such promise would be forgotten the instant that Jim smelled the possibility of danger. The man was like a moth thinking that it could rush toward the pretty light without getting its wings singed. A beguiling quality at first, but right now it preyed on Oswald’s nerves, making him wish that Jim would just listen to him for once and not rush stupidly into destruction.
Jim stifled a yawn behind a raised hand. He looked dead on his feet, had looked so for a while now.
“Have you gotten any sleep?” Oswald asked, suddenly realizing that he couldn’t have had much time to between looking for him and tending to his wound.
“I got a couple of hours,” Jim said, rubbing his forehead.
“I should let you sleep some more, then.”
Oswald pushed himself to his feet, stopping for a moment as the motion pulled at his shoulder, making him lightheaded. He breathed slowly, breaths shallow. Jim rushed to his side, wrapping his left arm around Oswald’s torso.
“Let me help you,” he said.
Oswald didn’t protest this time.
“The bathroom first,” he said instead.
His bladder had been bothering him for a while now, but he hadn’t cared, not while crying and reconciling with Jim. Jim led him to the bathroom, then waited outside the door for him to emerge to help him to the bedroom. He even crouched down to remove Oswald’s shoes while he sat on the bed. How much of this kindness was prompted by guilt? A lot of it, no doubt, yet he had done plenty this night before Oswald had confessed that he had been the one to save him from Falcone. Perhaps trusting him again wouldn’t go wrong. Maybe this time it would be okay between them. He could finally have this one thing even as his heart broke apart.
Once he was settled on the bed, Jim started to leave, saying, “I’ll see you in a couple of hours,” and Oswald almost called him back, terrified of being alone with his pain again, but Jim needed to sleep. That was the whole reason why he had returned here. And was Jim supposed to do? Sleep in the bed next to him? Wonderful thought, but Jim would never accept. So he let Jim close the door behind him, comforting himself with the smell of Jim in the sheets wrapped around him.