Chapter Text
Jim’s mother used to knit when he was very small; socks, scarves, the occasional embarrassing holiday sweater. She was quite prolific, and the delicate clicking of her needles were a kind of meditation for her. And him. The clinking of the ice cubes in his bourbon brings him back to that time, although equating his drink to his mother is hollow, and a little wrong if he thinks about it too much. He doesn’t.
Leslie – no, Lee, he kicks himself – had left about an hour ago. As much as she tries, he knows she’s not happy with his current, meagre accommodations. The fact that he only has a single bed really doesn’t help, though she’d tried weakly to protest to him before that it’s “cosy”. He snorts a bitter laugh at it, because it’s barely more than a crappy frame and a thin mattress, barely more comfort than what he was afforded in the army. Real comfort is her warm, welcoming apartment. Real comfort is even Barbara’s palatial clock tower penthouse. Not this. Never this.
He likes Lee, he really does. She’s strong, smart, forthright. Something Barbara never really was. But he’s beginning to think her taking the job at the GCPD was a mistake for their blossoming relationship. Mixing romance and work doesn’t gel with him at all, and the fact he’s had to pull her up on it several times now is beginning to grate on his nerves. There’s just something... off about their relationship at the moment. He’s trying not to dwell on it, and as he takes another sip of smooth, chilled whiskey, his train of thought moves to Barbara.
Beautiful, blonde, comfortable Barbara. With all the neuroses that come from being a neglected rich kid. He’d always cleverly ignored the heavy drinking, the casual drug use. When she was on form, she was perfect in every way. But her flaws made her feel real; he’d soothe her pain with soft words, the promise of masculine protection, and incredible, passionate sex. But even then, after everything he’d tried to do to keep her safe, he’d failed. And failed miserably at that.
Which brings his thoughts full circle back to his mother’s knitting. You see there is a small, carefully crafted knitted square floating in the very back of his subconscious. No colour to it, just a test piece if you will. His mother’s fingerprints are all over it, but there’s something not quite right. Along the bottom is a loose thread, like an irritating hangnail, like something that needs sanded down. It rarely bothers him, but lately someone else has reached through and has been teasing that thread, threatening it to unravel. It’s something Jim has buried so deep that he’d thought it was gone completely.
He stands, goes to the window and stares out in an attempt to clear his head. It’s not working. Fresh air it is then, he convinces himself. He gulps down the last dregs of his drink, thumps the empty glass down heavily on the counter and grabs his coat on the way out. The snowy Gotham night awaits.
********
The club may be quiet now, but the sound of the hollow aluminium bat across his shoulder blades is anything but. The clanging echo drowns out the sickly-sweet sounds of The Nutcracker that his mother had left playing on the ancient phonograph before Gabe took her home, leaving only harsh static ringing in his ears. Maybe he does deserve this; a little reminder that yet again he’s been getting too big for those beautifully pointed, well-crafted shoes he’s wearing.
Another blow, this time against his spine, and he buckles just a little. He’d laugh in their faces, but he knows they’re only toying with him, playing out Maroni’s frustrations in a rather pathetic parody. That fucker’s not ever here! Oswald feels offended that this puppet show is happening without its intended audience, but he sucks it up nonetheless, smiles sweetly at his aggressors with crimson-stained teeth. Besides, the bat is Fish’s weapon of choice. It’s all been done before.
A heavy crack to the back of his thighs has him sprawling face-first on the floor, coughing and grimacing at the taste of his own blood on the recently cleaned carpet. Ugh, again? Blood is such a bitch to clean. This wouldn’t have happened if he’s been quicker; if that tall, ugly one hadn’t repeatedly caught him across the face with meaty fists minutes earlier.
There’s murmuring above him; tempered laughter and hissed whispers for a moment. Then silence. Oswald tries to kid himself they might be finished, but there’s no way that could be true. Not yet. Inevitably, he’s proved right.
It’s aimed perfectly; square across the back of his right knee. He can’t keep the agonised scream inside this time, the pain wending its way up his thigh and back and into his brain, creeping like acid along his nerves. Instinctively he curls in to a whimpering ball, eyes squeezed closed hard enough to force out a single tear that runs down his cheek and pools against the corner of his swollen, bloody mouth.
He’s only vaguely aware that one of them is behind him now, bent down close to his head and giggling like an idiot. He manages to crack open an eye and catches a glint of silver before his head is wrenched back, thick fingers in his black hair, pulling at the roots. A knife is at his throat, pressing hard enough to break a long line of skin. Oswald attempts to plaster on his trademark grin, nerves making him swallow unconsciously, the blade carving just that little bit deeper.
“Listen up, Penguin! Don Maroni sends his warmest regards. Oh yeah, and he also says if you try and pull shit like that again, he’ll come by and personally serve up your little snitch head on a platter to Falcone. I’ve heard he’s an excellent butcher in his spare time.”
Oswald swallows again, wincing at both the mistake and the thousand ways his frail body hurts right now. “I-I can assure you fine gentlemen that I hnn...had no involvement in the sting at the warehouse! If you had done your research, you would know it was s-someone else entirely.”
There's chuckling from above, but somehow Oswald manages to keep his face straight. That, and the fact most of it is numb.
“Yeah, someone else connected with this club. Your club, am I right? Don’t be so fuckin’ obtuse, Cobblepot. It all falls on your shoulders.”
There’s a sudden commotion at the door, and a foot connects to his stomach; a final good-will gesture from Maroni’s men, and it’s hard enough to force him both back into a ball and the air out of his lungs. The knife slices neatly across his collarbone as the guy behind him clumsily moves to get up and Oswald hisses loudly at the sting. He’s left, a twisted mess on the stained carpet, gasping in his winded state.
He can hear Gabe’s voice now, low and aggressive. There are some raised voices, the door slamming, then... nothing. The quiet descends once again. Only the tinny strains of Tchaikovsky and his own wheezing breaths settle into the surroundings.
********
Jim wanders aimlessly for a while, kicking at the slush with his well-worn boots. Collar up against fresh flurries of snow, hands shoved deep into wool pockets, his feet aren’t cold enough to make him stop yet. He passes by the gaudy neon lights of Chinatown with not much thought to his own safety; little eateries and hole-in-the-wall bars doing a brisk business on this night. In fact, no one even seems to give him a second glance, something he’s entirely grateful for.
And so, as Jim trudges forward he finds himself outside a fairly nondescript building in a back street off the main strip. The only identifying feature of it is a violet-coloured neon umbrella by the door. Looking at it makes Jim’s eyes hurt. He has no idea why he’s here, especially at this time of night, and he’s about to walk straight past when the door bursts open almost hard enough to rip the hinges off. Four burly men are shoved out in quick succession, complaining loudly and followed by Cobblepot’s stout rent-a-goon. Gabe, is it? Yeah, that’s him. Jim’s hand automatically moves to his hip out of habit, though he doesn't have his gun on him. Heated words are exchanged before they prowl away down the alley by the fire escape. Gabe takes a good long look around, and Jim curses as he’s spotted. Fuck.
Gabe beckons him over, and Jim is rooted to the spot for a moment, his brain searching for an escape route. The beckoning continues, more insistent now and Jim’s stomach drops. Warily, he slinks across the road, keeping a safe distance from the hulking brute. Gabe says nothing, just holds open the door and Jim reluctantly enters. The door slams closed behind him, making him jump to his dismay, and Gabe ushers him into the main room, past the empty bar.
The unmistakable tang of iron is what hits him first; he’s smelled enough of it in his time to know it before he even sees red. On the floor at his feet is what appears to be a crumpled heap of clothing, albeit shaking slightly. It only takes a moment to put two and two together and come up Cobblepot.
Jim kneels down, reaches out and gently rolls over the shivering figure. Oswald squeaks in pain; a quiet, strangled sound, as though he’s trying to keep it in to save face, and Jim’s eyes widen at the not-so-pretty sight. His lip is swollen and split, nose still bleeding and eye sockets rapidly starting to resemble that of a panda. There are several gashes at his neck and throat, shallow it seems, but oozing blood into his once white shirt. And that’s just what’s visible.
Oswald panics and scrabbles at the floor, trying to drag himself away when he realises it’s not Gabe. Jim almost has to hold him down, but when his eyes finally focus he exhales in surprise.
“Jim?! W-what are y-”
“What happened? Who did this?” Jim’s gruff voice cuts him off, underlain with simmering frustration.
Oswald splutters, “It... It’s nothing, just a momentary setback. A minor a-altercation I can assure you!”
“That’s not what I asked!”
To the point, as always. Oswald just shakes his head as best he can. Jim looks away, disgusted, aiming his gaze instead at the silent giant.
“There anywhere to clean him up?”
“Boss’ private rooms are upstairs.”
Well that’s just great. “Is there an elevator?”
The big man doesn’t say anything. Instead he sidesteps Jim completely, swooping down and scooping Oswald’s limp body up in his arms like he weighs nothing. He turns, surprisingly light on his heels, and heads for the stairs. Jim’s about to follow when Gabe speaks again.
“First Aid kit’s in the kitchen.” He nods to his right.
Jim pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. He’s in half a mind to just leave, let the big lug deal with it. It’s that odd, tugging feeling in the back of his mind that has his feet moving for the kitchen door before he’s even conscious of it. He swings the door open, grabs the kit on the wall and makes his way back through the club and up the stairs, but not before he has the presence of mind to pick up an ice bucket from the bar on the way past. Walking up the stairs and to the left, he follows Gabe until he ducks into a doorway. Jim reluctantly does the same.
The large room is modestly furnished; a king sized bed in the corner, a desk, a drinks cabinet, and a few comfy looking chairs by a mock fireplace to his right. Beyond that is a spacious looking en-suite. The décor seems a little too modern for Oswald’s seemingly bizarre tastes, although Jim quickly realises he’s probably not gotten around to redecorating up here yet.
Oswald get put down and left to perch gingerly on the end of the bed. Gabe steps aside and lets Jim get closer as Oswald waves a hand stiffly.
“You may go now Gabriel. I won’t need your services for the rest of the night.”
“Boss, are you s-”
“Just... Make sure the place is locked up. Wait by the front door and let Detective Gordon out when he leaves.”
Oswald sighs heavily and Gabe leaves without another word. There’s an awkward silence as the door clicks shut, both of them staring at the floor. Jim manages to wrestle away the surrealness of the situation long enough to pipe up.
“Can you get your jacket and shirt off?”
“I think so, yes.” Oswald answers weakly.
“OK, good,” Jim clasps his hands together. “Lemme get some things from the bathroom.”
Oswald starts struggling with his clothes and Jim heads for the bathroom. It’s spotlessly clean. There’s a large tub and an even larger shower, and the floor and walls are decorated in bottle green and white tiles. Jim grabs some towels and damps one down in the sink. When he exits, he's presented with a thin, bare-chested Oswald, staring at the floor and slumped uncomfortably. The blood from his nose and mouth is congealing with the fresh blood at his throat that still trickles slowly down his surprisingly hairless chest. Jim sucks in a deep breath and looks away, taking his coat off and hanging it over the back of one of the chairs.
He sits carefully next to Oswald and inspects the damage. Most of it is superficial, but painful; large welts across his back and shoulders, blooming into spectacular blue and purple bruising. The cuts at his throat aren't as bad they look, apart from the one on his collarbone, which is too deep and awkward to close without a stitch or two. That's going to be a problem. Jim gives a towel over and instructs Oswald to put pressure on his neck for now. Another he fills with ice and ties the corners. He'll need it later.
It's the older, faded scars Jim spots that get his attention. Here and there are raised, knotted marks even paler than Oswald's sallow complexion. Some are clearly knife wounds, but others are spidery, almost like burns. Jim knows all too well what a city like Gotham can do to a person. He starts to realise why Oswald might be like he is, to sympathise even, but he also knows he can't ever use that as an excuse to forgive him for what he's done in the past, or what he will almost certainly do in the future. Jim focusses on the narrow here and now, and opens the First Aid kit.
Oswald flinches a little at the sting as Jim starts cleaning up his face, and Jim finds himself grabbing his arm to keep him still. He's so cold that part of Jim just wants to sit there and warm him up, but he shakes off the thought and continues. He removes most of the blood from his face, treats the grazes on his cheek and his split lip, and exchanges the towel at his throat for the makeshift icepack, telling him to hold it to his jaw while he gets a better look at the cuts.
“This is probably a stupid question, but you don't have a sewing kit, do you?”
Oswald won't meet his eyes, but quietly answers, “My mother... She gave me one, just in case. S-she always says I should look my best. I've never used it. It's in the cabinet.”
Jim gets up and goes to the drinks cabinet, opens it and picks up the sewing kit and a small bottle of vodka. It's a quick and dirty solution but it'll have to do. He's stitched before in the army, and this isn't any different. That's what he tells himself at least.
“Lie down,” he instructs. “This is going to hurt, but I'm pretty sure you won't go to any hospital, so...”
“It's fine, I've had worse,” Oswald asserts, laying back on the bed with some difficulty. Jim tries not to think about what that could mean, and definitely doesn't help him swing his twisted leg up onto the bed. He douses the needle and thread in the vodka, then pours some over the wound. Oswald grits his teeth against the pain, sucking in a breath and holding it as Jim digs the needle into his flesh.
Jim manages to sew him up with some skill considering his hands are shaking. Four neat stitches are what he's left with as he ties off the last of them. He dabs away the remaining blood, applies antiseptic and dresses the wound.
“OK, good. Do you take anything to help with this?” Jim gently taps his fingers gently on Oswald’s bad leg, “It might help, you know, in general.” Oswald nods. “On the bedside table. I don’t use them often; they have a tendency to put me to sleep.”
Jim reaches over and grabs the small, nondescript bottle and the glass of water sitting next to it. There’s no label and as much as he wants to, he thinks it’s probably best he doesn’t ask what the hell they are, or where they come from. He takes two out and gives them and the water to Oswald, who hesitantly sits up, swallows them down and hands the glass back. Jim notices the remaining water in it is stained red.
“Are you going to tell me who did this?” Jim pushes, but he already knows he's not going to get a response.
“Were you going to tell me what you're doing here so late?” Oswald counters, laying back down as best he can. The both look away in silence. Jim busies himself by clearing up and packing the kit, dumping bloodied towels and spent gauze in a pile on the floor at the foot of the bed. Someone else can deal with this now.
“Get some sleep.” he mumbles, getting up quietly and grabbing his coat from the chair. When he looks back, a fragile-looking Oswald is passed out cold on the bed.
Jim lets himself out.
********
He walks brusquely home through the heavy snow, crashes hard and dreams of pressing hot, wet kisses into scarred ivory skin. And when he wakes he definitely doesn’t spend an extra five minutes in the shower purging those thoughts until his mind is a clean slate again.
********
It’s been almost a month. Jim hasn’t seen hide nor hair of Oswald. Outwardly he’s thankful, but inside his stomach churns with unwanted concern. He’s gotten surreptitious reports of scant sightings at the club, of course. He's not a detective for nothing after all. Then there was the small matter of the unsolicited note he found on his desk last week. The one he still has stashed in his drawer; a small envelope containing an old-fashioned card with a seasonal picture of a Robin on the front of it. On the back were just two words, handwritten in copperplate script.
Thank you.
Otherwise it seems he’s laying low to recover. Probably for the best he thinks, as Harvey approaches his desk looking grim. Well, grimmer than usual.
Jim runs a hand over his face. “Christ, what now?”
Harvey sighs “Bodies. Lots of bodies. Get your ass in gear, this is a doozy.”
********
They pull up at Arkham Bridge around ten in the morning. Ed's already there, looking disgustingly gleeful as usual. There are three bodies laid out on the ground, in the process of being poked, prodded and zipped up in bags.
“What's the story, Nygma? Harvey grumps. “And please, cut the bullshit, OK?”
Ed huffs, but grins nonetheless. “Well, we have four bodies. Oh, they're just hauling up the last one now. Have you guys heard of the Hangman Paradox?”
“Ed,” Harvey warns. “Stick to the facts.”
Ed coughs and continues. “So, all of them where hung off the bridge by their feet. All were severely beaten around the face, shoulders, back and legs, and all had their throats cut. They bled out over the river. Isn't that just delightful?!”
Harvey ignores his disturbing enthusiasm. “Was it all done here?”
“Not 100% sure yet. Buuuuuut, in my admittedly superior opinion, they were beaten first, then brought here for slaughter. I'm sure the lovely Dr Thompkins will agree with me. However it happened though, they were all certainly surprised.”
Harvey just looks at Ed like he's just sprouted an extra head, but Jim stumbles back a step despite himself.
“Y’ok there Jimbo? You look like you seen a ghost.”
Jim wrenches his gaze from the bodies, looks at Harvey with a grimace. “Yeah, I’m fine. Had a late one.” Harvey pats Jim on the back. Hard. “I bet you did, partner. Attaboy! Ed? Let's get some ID on these poor saps. I need breakfast.”
********
It doesn't take too long for Ed to work his peculiar brand of magic. All four men worked for Maroni. Jim stares at the printout of their mugshots, feeling the unease settle in his stomach like lead. He'd stayed at the precinct late, even blowing off a guaranteed dinner-and-sex date with Lee, hoping to allay his fears. But now he has the evidence in his hands it's all too real. He's equal parts furious and disappointed, although being disappointed seems moot and frankly ridiculous at this point. It's nearing 1am, and he knows he should go home, curl up around a bottle of cheap whiskey and deal with this in the morning. But he can't; he has to deal with this now. Whatever the consequences.
********
Jim storms into the club and up to the bar, elbowing the last of the drunken patrons out of his path and trying to ignore the way Oswald lights up like one of his obnoxious neon umbrellas.
“Jim! Old friend, this is a pleasant, if tardy, surprise. What can I do for you? A drink, perhaps? On the house.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Well of course, anything-”
“Now,” Jim hisses. “In private.”
Jim’s expression is like thunder and Oswald’s face falls for a split-second, before his gathers his composure and puts the smile on full beam once again.
“Yes, yes. This way, please.”
He whispers something to Gabe, and then guides Jim upstairs, limping with practised ease behind. As soon as the door to his room closes, Jim wastes no time in airing his indignation. Reaching into his coat, he pulls the printout from his pocket, unfolds it and shoves it in Oswald’s direction.
“Recognise these four men?”
Oswald barely glances at the faces and shakes his head.
Jim takes long strides from the door, so they’re almost face to face. “No? Are you sure? Well isn’t that convenient? We found them this morning, suspended on ropes from Arkham Bridge by their feet. Faces messed up, throats slit, just here.”
Oswald’s eyes go wide and he sucks in a surprised gasp as Jim jabs a finger toward him, pressing it against the thin, raised red scars still fresh on Oswald’s throat. He swallows, hard, and Jim just glares at him.
“I-I don’t appreciate what you’re insinuating, Jim.”
“These are the four men who attacked you. Don’t even try to deny it, I fucking saw them that night!”
Oswald looks away for a moment, eyes closed as though rethinking his strategy. Jim can wait though. He’s got all the time in the world right now. When he returns his gaze, Jim notices he’s got the gall to look genuinely upset.
“L-look,” he stutters, “I-I may have mentioned offhand to a staff member or two that I was... I was disheartened with the way things happened that evening. B-but you have to trust me! I did not kill those men. I don’t have it in me! You know that!” Oswald raises his arms, palms out in supplication. “My hands are clean.”
Jim laughs bitterly, infuriated by everything. He reaches out and grabs Oswald by the collar, shaking him roughly.
“Don’t lie to me!”
Oswald stalls, limp in his grip. His voice cracks in desperation. “I would never lie to you! I’ve never lied to a friend! How could you even think that?!”
“Fucking Bullshit!” Jim snarls. “You’re no better that the rest of the scumbags out there and you know it. You’ll do anything to worm your way up the food chain, morals be dammed! I should’ve shot you when I had the chance.”
Oswald’s icy blue eyes become watery, and Jim loosens his grasp a little as cold, delicate fingers wrap around his wrists, clinging on for dear life. Jim watches as Oswald’s formally shocked expression morphs into something harder, that steely look he gets when he tries to mask his feelings. Jim lets go, pulls himself away and moves for the door. He can’t take this anymore.
“Well if that’s the way you feel then I suggest you leave immediately, James.”
Oswald spits out his name as though it were poison and Jim stops cold, his hand trembling on the door handle. So that’s how it is. Something finally snaps in him, shattering into a million pieces, that tangled thread unravelling completely and he can’t control the way he turns, furious, stalking back toward the smaller man like an untamed animal.
“No. No, no, no. You don’t get to do this to me. Not now, not ever.”
Jim bears down on him and Oswald clumsily backs away until he hits a wall, wincing as the back of his head cracks on plaster. He’s hemmed in now, Jim’s hands planted either side of his head and Jim makes sure there’ll be no escape by roughly shoving a knee between Oswald’s legs, pinning him. Jim shifts slightly, deliberately pressing his thigh up, and Oswald chokes on a gasp. Jim is somehow not at all surprised to find him hard as a rock.
They’re nose to nose now, Oswald panting rapidly against Jim’s lips, eyes wide and wild. Jim’s brain is awash with ringing static and he doesn’t even know what he’s doing. It’s a terrifying, yet oddly liberating feeling that worryingly, he could really get accustomed to. Bending his head, he whispers low against Oswald’s ear.
“Promise me you weren’t involved.”
He pulls back and fixes Oswald’s gaze; clear-eyed and startlingly honest. “I promise you, Jim. I didn’t kill them.”
Jim nods slowly, seemingly satisfied despite it still not exactly being a straight answer. He drops his hands away from the wall and backs off, and for a moment Oswald thinks the ordeal is over. He opens his mouth to speak again, to say anything at all to smooth things over but Jim lurches forward suddenly, cupping Oswald’s face in his rough hands, tilting his head back and crushing their mouths together. Oswald’s whole body stills in shock, unable to do anything as Jim nips hard at his bottom lip, then soothes it with his tongue.
A high-pitched whine erupts from Oswald’s chest as his mind and body finally start communicating, and Jim finds him swiftly kissing back like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do, all teeth and tongue and awkwardness. His fingers claw at Jim’s broad shoulders, at his back, and Jim just lets him; lets him struggle with his jacket and shirt, lets him place those cold hands and warm lips over his chest and neck, and just holds him, lets him take control for a precious few minutes.
Jim manages to remove Oswald’s tie and undo all of the buttons his layers have to offer with only one casualty, the sound of it pinging on the hardwood floor before bouncing away. Jim shoves aside the material, exposing Oswald’s paper-white skin, and rocks his thigh up between Oswald’s legs again. Oswald keens and falters, giving Jim the opportunity to lean forward and press his mouth against the scars on his neck, slides lower to the one on his collarbone. The one he stitched himself. Oswald inhales sharply at the feeling, his fingers tight in Jim’s short hair.
Jim sucks hard on cool flesh, inhaling the odd, addictively smoky scent of Oswald's damp skin until his hands eventually reach his belt and clumsily unbuckles it, wrenching down his fly at the same time. Oswald bucks his hips as he slide a hand in, past the waistband of – oh God – silk underwear, and he wraps his palm around Oswald's leaking cock and squeezes. The noise Oswald makes is obscene, and Jim's own throbbing appendage jerks in it's confines. He knows this is about as wrong a decision as he's ever or probably will ever make, but right now he couldn't care less as Oswald whimpers deliciously beneath him.
“Jim,” Oswald starts, gasping his name and clutching tight at his waist. “Wait, wait, please. I don't... oh fuck, I don't know what I'm doing.”
You and me both, Jim muses, but it never occurred to him that Oswald might not be as experienced as his persona projects. In any other situation, he'd be stunned, considering. This is definitely not the time though. Instead he makes a decision for both of them. Using his free hand, Jim unzips his own fly, pulling out his aching cock. He manoeuvres Oswald's pants and underwear down enough to press his hips forward and against him, capturing both their cocks in a firm grasp.
“Here, it's fine, OK? Just go with it.”
Oswald shuts his eyes, mouth hanging open on a choked off groan, and Jim kisses him again. The feel of his own cock sliding wetly against another is shocking, and he can't get enough. He starts slow, gauging Oswald's tremulous reactions, but soon picks up the pace, stroking with hard, relentless pressure. This isn't going to last long, both of them too wound up, too delirious. It's hot and filthy and Jim knows he's lost his fucking mind; that carefully crafted thread spooled ungainly on the floor forever.
It’s the desperate little sounds Oswald makes when he comes that tip Jim over the edge, both spilling endlessly over his fist. He presses his forehead against Oswald’s and they moan into each other’s mouths. Jim keeps pumping, wringing them both dry until Oswald’s fingernails dig painful crescents into his skin. He stops, chest heaving and eyes closed and after a few moments feels Oswald’s hand on his wrist, tugging gently.
Jim opens his eyes and takes in Oswald’s devilish little smirk, the high flush on his cheeks and he can’t help but groan as Oswald lifts Jim’s hand to his lips and begins licking their combined release from his fingers. Jim’s spent cock twitches at the sight, and the feel of Oswald’s mouth and tongue wrapping around each digit in turn and sucking has him whispering obscenities into the heated air between them.
“Jesus, Oswald... I thought you didn't know what you were doing?”
“I don't. First time for everything though, right?” He shrugs, a genuine smile on his face, and Jim's heart sinks. He tries to ignore the feeling by kissing Oswald again, lapping their taste out of his mouth. It's a good distraction, but ultimately doesn't help Jim's post-orgasm regret. He pulls away and Oswald makes a disappointed noise.
“Stay.” Oswald pleads, reaching out and placing a hand on Jim's arm.
“You and I both know that's a bad idea.”
“We won't be disturbed, I made sure of it.”
Jim is taken aback. “Wait...You mean, you knew this was going to happen?!”
“I didn't know. I hoped... I mean, I just... Please Jim, stay.”
Jim finds himself agreeing, despite the rational part of his brain screaming at him to get as far away as he possibly can; that this is, by far, the most monumental error he could ever make. But a good sleep in a warm, wide bed should clear his head, and it's too late and too cold to leave. That's what he tells himself. It's all fine. It's absolutely fucking fine.
“Wonderful!” Oswald claps. “Make yourself at home. I'm just going to take a shower. Please help yourself to a drink. I'll be back in a few minutes.”
Jim watches Oswald limp off toward the bathroom, dishevelled and laughing to himself.
Jim pours himself the biggest glass of whiskey he can manage and sets himself down in one of the chairs by the fireplace. He doesn't think about what comes next. He doesn't think of anything at all. For the first time in his life, his mind is entirely quiet.