Chapter Text
Oswald is deeply pleased with himself. His bright idea of 'gentle persuasion' aimed at a few of the bars and businesses in the vicinity of the club seems to be paying off. 'Gentle persuasion' being a generous, if pushy, protection racket; he's not resorting to extortion just yet, he's too new and untested for that. Besides, he doesn't even need to, all four businesses he's visited today have taken him up on his offer, not happy with the way Maroni or the woefully incompetent GCPD are handling things in the area. Promoting a positive image is a good start, and there are plenty more targets to choose from. Don Falcone will no doubt be pleased with his initiative, and if at some point along the line he can use the situation to his own advantage, well that's just his business, isn't it? As his mother once told him, you have to speculate to accumulate.
Four is good enough for today though. Oswald likes the number 4. It's a rounded, comfy number; balanced and safe. He shuffles lightly onto the sidewalk outside his latest success and leans heavily on his umbrella, still a little stiff from Jim's remarkable show of athleticism this morning. The snow has stopped falling, and while it's still cold there's a change in the rapidly darkening air that indicates rain, and lots of it. Oswald's happy with that, and he smiles to himself at the prospect. An old umbrella boy's habits die hard, apparently.
As he makes his way slowly back to the warmth of what's fast becoming his new home, he's so distracted with his own glee and the triumphs of the day he doesn't notice the black sedan with tinted windows slowly creeping up behind him, doesn't notice the two hefty guys who get out with surprising stealth and it's only when he feels the curious pinprick in his neck that he reacts at all. Too slow though, as usual; not even enough time to reach for his blade. Got to work on my reactions, he thinks to himself and his vision starts to dim and he loses all feeling in his limbs, allowing them to quickly and efficiently manhandle him into the back seat like he was nothing more than a rag doll.
He has one last, upsetting thought before losing consciousness.
Where's my umbrella? Mother gave me that! Oh... She'll be so disappointed.
********
Despite showering and changing into clean clothes as soon as he’d arrived at the precinct, Jim can still smell Oswald on his skin and it’s driving him crazy. Listlessly, he stares at the mound of paperwork in front of him, idly playing with the pen in his hand, torn between rising waves of crushing guilt and vivid visual and auditory flashbacks of what transpired earlier that morning every time he closes his eyes. It's utter hell, and it's only when Lee taps him discreetly on the shoulder and leaves her warm hand there that he breaks out of it, just for a few moments.
“God, Jim? Did you stay here all night?”
Jim looks up at her with tired, glassy eyes. “Uh, yeah... I thought... Thought I was on to something with this case. Turns out it was a dead end,” he smiles tightly.
She huffs a inappropriate laugh at his turn of phrase, but concern and curiosity soon wash over her features. “So, what did you uncover, or you know, not?”
“Ah, they all worked for Maroni. That's pretty much all we know right now. And there's no evidence so far. It could be one of a thousand people holding a grudge. Just another four of the city’s casualties.”
Jim distinctly sighs, and Lee's hand tightens on his shoulder.
“You need to get some rest. Have you even eaten? I'm sure Captain Essen would give you at least a little time off; you've been working yourself into the ground lately. I know what you're like, Jim. You need to look after yourself.”
Jim fixes her gaze, trying to look authoritative at least. “It's fine, Lee. I know what I'm doing.”
Harvey decides it's the perfect time to roll up to his desk, coffee in one hand, some god-awful looking pastry in the other. “Wow... Jim you look like shit warmed over. That's the look of a man who's had one hell of a ride!”
Jim prays that he doesn't colour at the poor choice of words and bites out a grouchy “shut up” as best he can. Harvey just chuckles and slumps down in his chair.
Jim gets up, leads Lee away from his desk and Harvey's prying ears. “Look, I'm sorry. I should've been with you last night. It's just-”
“No need to apologise, Jim. I know your job. This is going to happen, a lot,” she laughs freely and Jim feels the tsunami of guilt and regret engulf him again. “I'd rather it be that than nothing at all. But as a Doctor, please try and get some sleep now and again. And food. Food is good,” she smiles, and Jim nods obediently.
“Now I have a job to do too, I want to check over those bodies again, see if we missed anything. I'll see you later.”
She glances around before she leans in and kisses him softly. Jim kisses her back, but all he can think about is Oswald.
********
It’s dark when Oswald awakens. His head throbs and his mouth is dry but otherwise he seems intact. He appears to be in some kind of pantry, and a cursory glance around confirms to him that he's in the back of Bamonte's. Damn it. All those theatrics, only to be dragged back here? Inefficiency at its best, he thinks as he rises stiffly to his feet. He's half-expecting that some dimwit has left the door open as he tries it, but alas, it's firmly locked.
Checking his pockets, he finds his phone and knife gone, of course, and curses his lack of vigilance. He's rolls his eyes to the empty room, more angry at himself than his current predicament. There's water on a shelf, and he eagerly finishes off an entire bottle before readying himself for the next step. Shouting.
He shuffles back up to the door, banging on it as hard as he can.
“Hello? Hello?! I think there's been some kind of misunderstanding here! If I could just talk to Don Maroni, I'm sure we can clear things up.”
No response. Oswald huffs impatiently and tries again. “Hey, I know there's someone out there! Can we possibly discuss this like rational people? I don't appreciate being treated this way! Perhaps we can come to some kind of beneficial arrangement...? Don Falcone will be very displeased when he hears about this!”
Oswald hears laughter behind the door, and it makes his blood boil. There's footsteps, then the lock clicks and the door is shoved open, groaning on its rusty hinges.
“Fuck's sake, will you shut up? Maroni's not here, yet, and Falcone won't give two shits about what happens to you anyway.”
Two porcine men come into the room, red-faced and surly and Oswald lets out a nervous laugh, palms up, submissive. “Please, I-I'm sure this can all be worked out in a reasonable manner. Just let me go and we can pretend this unfortunate incident never happened. I'll be more than happy to compensate you if you acquiesce.”
The two men look at each other for a few moments until one shrugs. “Sure, go ahead.” They both step away from the open door. Elated, surprised and more than a little relieved, Oswald takes a couple of steps forward, smiling just that bit too hard at his captors. He's almost out of the door when he clocks his mistake.
One grabs his arm, wrenching it halfway up his back to immobilise him, while the other pulls a fearsome looking syringe from his jacket, brimming with neon-yellow liquid. It's ineptly jammed in his neck, but it still does the job and Oswald drops like a stone. They drag him back to the corner of the room and leave him locked away in the dark.
********
Two remarkably uneventful days go by, and Jim settles a little. Time away from Oswald means more time to do his damn job, and less making terrible mistakes. He's decided he's putting to down to alcohol, anger, and frustration; all perfectly good reasons for him ending up in bed with a fast-track mobster. It was nothing more than that. Just a hiccup in his otherwise normal routine.
Keep telling yourself that, Gordon. One day it might actually stick.
They've gleaned nothing more from the bodies, other than the fact that Ed recognised the knife was serrated and readily available, and used with heavy-handed and clumsy brute force. Oswald didn't technically lie when he said he didn't kill them, but Jim's not stupid. He knows he was involved, but other than the fact they beat him bloody, there's nothing to tie him to the crime that would hold up in court. Not that it would ever get that far anyway. This case goes on the back burner, like so many others.
Jim's scanning another case when Harvey gives him a swift kick under the desk. “Looks like your hot date's here, Jimbo.”
“Yeah, you're real funny.”
“I'm serious! I can hear her, she's asking for you!”
Jim lifts his head, swiveling around in his chair. Oh no, this is exactly what he doesn't need right now. He gets up from his desk and traverses the walkway to greet his not-so-welcome guest who smiles brightly when she catches sight on him.
“Mrs Kapelput. How can I help?” he says with a tight smile.
“You are Gordon, correct? Please, call me Gertrud.” Her accent is thick, thick enough to think she over-emphasises it on purpose. He can clearly see now that Oswald has her eyes, and it takes a hefty amount of willpower not to look away.
“I am, yes,” he nods. “We've met.” She beams in acknowledgement. “What can I do for you?”
Gertrud waves a hand in the air. “Maybe nothing, but... My son, I know he's a busy man, and the people he works with are, shall we say, a little unrefined? I fear someone may have taken advantage of him.”
“What do you mean?” Jim frowns, nervous.
“It's just... ah, I'm sure I am worrying for nothing. I visited his club earlier, I do so love that place, so beautiful and stylish... but they say he's not there. They say they haven't seen him for two days now. That he went out on important business, and well... He's been so good at keeping in touch after the last time, long was he gone...” She tails off, her expression sad and distant, but Jim urges her to continue.
She lays a hand on his arm. “He tells me he trusts you. I don't trust policemen, always corrupt, but Oswald? He sees something in you, I'm sure he's not wrong.”
Jim almost snorts a laugh at that. “Did they say what kind of engagements he was attending to?” he angles, knowing they would lie to her, or sugar-coat it at least, but it's worth a try.
“The nice man, Gabriel, said he was visiting local business. Introducing himself. He likes to make a good impression, I'm sure you are aware of this.”
Aren't I just, Jim reflects.
“I just have bad feelings. Mother's instinct. Do you think you could investigate? Put my mind to rest?”
Jim doesn't really feel good about this either, but he's not about to show it, especially not in front of Oswald's mother. And Harvey, apparently, who is hovering around in the background, a little too close for comfort. Jim ushers her back toward the exit.
“Leave it with me Mrs... Gertrud,” he corrects himself as they walk. “I'm sure this is nothing. Let me see what I can do.”
Gertrud stops and turns back to him, hope in her large eyes. “Thank you my dear. You are good soul. I can see why Oswald holds you so high as a friend.”
Jim gives her another rigid smile as she practically floats out of the station, and Harvey's upon him like a hungry dog.
“Wow, you sure know how to pick the pretty ones. Who the hell was that?”
“No one, forget it.”
Harvey pauses and Jim can see the cogs working until realisation dawns. “No way. Was that... Was that the little weasel's mother? Holy shit, did she just crawl out of a grave or somethin'? No wonder he's such a freak.”
Jim ignores him, brushing past and grabbing his coat.
“Hey, where you goin'?! Jim, come on!”
Jim holds up a finger. “An hour, that's all I need. Stay put, drink some coffee. Do some work, even.”
“Don't you need me to drive? It's raining!”
“I've got legs, Harv. Rain's not gonna kill me!” Jim shouts over his shoulder as he heads out.
********
Oswald comes round slowly, odd sensations coursing through his brain. His eyelids flutter and he can feel his eyelashes brush against something, and when he finally opens his eyes he finds he can't see at all. But then the bag on his head is suddenly wrenched off, and he winces at the change in brightness. He tries to move, but quickly realises his wrists and ankles are zip-tied to the uncomfortable chair he's sitting on. His tongue and fingers are numb, swirls of colour dart across his field of view; the drug in his system clearly still in effect. The only upside to this is that he can't feel the pain in his leg right now. Small mercies and such. His coat, suit jacket and vest are gone, and he shivers a little at the cold that’s seeping through his sodden, grubby white shirt.
Strangely, he finds that if he holds his breath, his hearing gets much better, though his vision fades to barely anything. So he does. He listens carefully; heavy rain, quiet but familiar industrial clanking sounds. He can hear water too, sloshing against concrete in the distance. He surmises he's in a warehouse close to the docks. Makes sense, these idiots are so clichéd. Somehow he forgets to breathe out again and his whole world shrinks down to the desperate, rhythmic pounding heartbeat in his head and throat. It startles him enough to let the air out of his lungs in a rush and suck it back in violently, coughing and groaning loudly as he does so.
“How you doin' there Penguin, hmm? You doin’ okay?” a familiar voice echoes though his skull and Oswald starts laughing hysterically. He can't stop the noise bubbling up from his chest because everything is suddenly fucking hilarious until he gets backhanded across the jaw, and even then the taste of blood in his mouth doesn't really do much to dampen his spirits.
A filthy hand clasps around his mouth, forcing his head up and back, and Oswald reacts on instinct, wasting no time at all in sinking his teeth into the fleshy palm of his assailant. There's a yelp of pain, a punch to the face, and Oswald defiantly spits red.
“Jeez, how much did you shoot him up with? Give him some more time. I want him to be sober for this,” the voice asserts, somewhere off to his left. Is it his left? Maybe it's the right. Maybe it's from everywhere. Who cares. He laughs again, a little more subdued this time and gets yet another slap for his trouble. Whatever happened to people's sense of humour?
He's aware of the movement though; a line of people file out of the space around him and he's left alone with his fragmented thoughts, only the quiet drip-drip-drip from the rain through the broken roof of the warehouse to keep him company.
Oswald grins to himself like the devil.