Chapter Text
When the trunk pops open, Oswald throws both his hands up in self-defense, begs, “Please, please I beg of you…”
“Shut up!” Bullock snarls. The cop turns his attention away from Oswald, looks to Jim. “This is the fool that snitched to Montoya and Allen. Falcone wants you to walk him to the end of that pier and put a bullet in his head. Then everybody knows you’re with the program.”
In a low, angry voice, Jim growls, “And if I don’t?”
“Then I’m supposed to take you out, and him too. And here’s the thing Jim, I like you. I might not have the stomach to do it, but I’ll try. Cause if I don’t, someone will get to you quick enough. Then they’re gonna get to me, and probably Barbara as well. Who knows what you told her.”
“I told her nothing!”
Oswald shakes at the violence in his tone. Oh God, what if he’d misjudged Detective Gordon? What if the man really was going to kill him?
“You think Falcone cares?” Bullock snaps back, startling Oswald from his worrying. “Come on. You’ve killed people before.”
“That was war!”
“This is war! We’re at war with scumbags like him! Sometimes in war you’ve gotta do a bad thing to do good, right? So do you do this bad thing, or do you die, and maybe your girl dies? I might be lackadaisical, but that’s not a tough call.”
Oswald’s still shaking when Jim pulls him from the trunk, lifts him like he didn’t weigh an ounce. He pulls Oswald closer to him, and there’s something in his eyes… a look. Oswald doesn’t know what it is, but his eyes seem to… flash? Between brilliant blue and red, and Oswald, already scared out of his mind, drops his eyes to the ground and tips his head to one side.
Jim inhales. The sound’s loud in the sudden stillness. Jim shakes his head once and takes a gun from Bullock’s hand. He growls, “Walk.”
Oswald limps towards the end of the pier, grabbing his broken kneecap, struggling to keep his feet. He pleads, “Please, Mr. Gordon! Just let me live!”
Gordon walks him right to the edge of the pier, leaves no space between them when Oswald reaches the water. “Listen to me,” the Detective growls in his face. “I want you to offer me a blow job. Now. Your life depends on it, hit your knees.”
Oswald makes an embarrassing squeak, blinks at the detective with wide eyes. What did he just hear?
“Now!” Jim snarls, and this time… this time his eyes really are red, Oswald is not hallucinating this, he’s not, so what in the name of God is going on?
He doesn’t have any other options, so he hits his knees, sobbing at the pain of the impact. “Please! I’ll… I’ll do whatever you say, I’ll be your slave for life!”
Gordon grabs him by the throat, chokes the breath out of him. “You will, will you? Hey, Harvey!” Gordon calls. “I believe your snitch wants to make me a counteroffer.”
“Jim…”
Gordon grins, and it’s a slow, sexy, evil grin that has Oswald wanting to run as fast as his crippled legs will take him. “Give me ten minutes, and then come back. I’ll wait to kill him so you get to see it.”
“Are you serious?” Bullock voices the question that Oswald can’t get out. “Jim!”
To further shock Oswald’s delicate sensibilities, Gordon rubs his thumb across Oswald’s mouth, and Oswald can’t help but moan at the rough treatment. He gives the digit a kitten lick, tasting gunpowder and feeling the rough texture of calluses, and oh God, what is wrong with him? He’s going to die, but Gordon’s manhandling is turning him on?
“Good boy,” the detective rumbles. “God, you’re going to respond beautifully, aren’t you?”
“Jim, we don’t have time for this,” Bullock says.
“There’s always time for this,” Gordon says, and laughs. “And if you’re going to ask me to kill people for you, Harvey, then you’ll have to indulge me in a few personal quirks that go along with executions.”
“Jesus fuck,” Bullock says. “Fine. Ten minutes.”
Gordon tips his head to one side as Bullock leaves, closes his eyes, seems to be… listening to something? “He’s far enough away,” Gordon says, releasing Oswald’s throat. “Good boy, for listening so well. Now get up and unbutton your shirt. Hurry. You have to trust me.”
“I don’t understand…?”
“You don’t need to understand,” Gordon says, yanking him to his feet. “You just need to follow orders. Now get up.”
Oswald struggles to his feet, unbuttons his vest and shirt, exposing his pale, hairless chest to the detective. “God, you’re gorgeous,” Gordon says, and Oswald blinks: no one’s ever told him that under normal circumstances, why is he hearing it now, when he’s about to die?
“Oswald, you need to listen to me very carefully.”
Oswald snaps his gaze to Gordon’s. “I don’t have time to explain this well, but in a minute, I’m going to bite you. And it’s going to hurt worse than any pain you’ve ever had, worse than the broken knee you’ve got. Do you understand?”
Oswald nods frantically, already terrified. “Okay. And when Harvey comes back, you can cry, you can beg, but you’re going to limp your way to the edge of the pier and never stop facing me. Harvey has to see your face at all times. All right?”
“O…Okay?”
“Good boy. I want you to keep all of this in mind, because when we’re done here, you’re going to have to find Barbara Kean. I command you to find Barbara Kean immediately. Go to the Kean Gallery. It’s your only job. Do you understand?”
“Not at all,” Oswald says. “But I’ll find her, detective, I promise.”
“Good. Oh, and last thing.”
“What?”
“Don’t be afraid.”
“Why would I be… Holy Mother of Christ,” Oswald shrieks, because he’s no longer looking at the face of a man.
He’s looking at a monster.
Razor sharp teeth, wide jaws, snout, hair… and it’s coming straight at him, holy God. Oswald tries to step back but he’s immediately caught in a superhuman grip. The… the creature that is Jim Gordon leans in and bites down on his chest, directly over his heart.
Oswald tries to scream but a hairy paw slaps over his mouth, muffling his cries. He turns his head, waiting for the thing to finish him off, but there’s…
There’s…
Strong arms gripping his shoulders, shaking him. “Oswald!”
Oswald opens his eyes, looks directly into Jim Gordon’s handsome face. “Pull yourself together!” he snarls, wiping Oswald’s blood off of his mouth with the handkerchief that had been wrapped around the gun. “Close your shirt, hurry!”
Oswald obeys, closing his shirt, but cannot help shaking and questioning, “W…What…? W… Why???”
“Later. I promise.”
With that, he helps Oswald button his vest, pushes Oswald back to his knees and rubs a hand across Oswald’s mouth to make it look wet and irritated. “Lick your lips,” Gordon says, and Oswald obeys.
Oswald obeys, though he sobs in agony.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry it had to be this way,” Gordon says, cupping Oswald under the chin. “Harvey’s coming back, so let’s show him those tears. It’ll be okay. Remember: after all of this is over, you find Barbara Kean. She’ll take care of you.”
With that, he falls silent. The next voice to speak is Bullock’s. He says, “Jesus, Jim, he’s a mess.”
Gordon shrugs as though he doesn’t care, zips up his fly (when had he lowered it?). “We all have needs, Harvey. Why do you give a damn about the wellbeing of one soon-to-be-dead snitch?”
Bullock looks as shocked as Oswald feels. But before Oswald can give it further thought, Gordon’s pulling him upright and walking him to the edge of the seawall. “Remember,” he says. “Promise me. Barbara Kean.”
“I promise,” Oswald whispers.
Gordon nods once and then, before Oswald can react, Gordon shoots him in the chest, center-mass, so that he goes sprawling into the sea. So this is what dying feels like, he thinks, hysterically, as blackness overtakes him. What good was that promise for?