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In Harvey’s defense, he didn’t even protest the punch to his face, but then he didn’t have much of a defense in the first place. Jim really should have suspected a trap; Harvey had pestered him too much about those little Pengy-shaped hearts in your eyes, partner, to leave well enough alone. The whisky's unexpected taste should have clued him in, but Jim, the trusting idiot, had blamed it on low quality and downed his glass without a second thought.
This was a mistake he wouldn't make again.
“Let me get this straight,” he ground out, more angry at the betrayal than at his actual predicament. “You drugged me-”
“-helped you through medical means would be more accurate.” Harvey rubbed at his sore jaw with a wince. “Wow, you really pack a punch-”
Jim flexed his arm again, and Harvey took the hint, shutting up. “Then you brought me here.” He waved angrily at the glowing blue letters on the façade of the building visible through the car’s window. “Like you get to make that kind of decision for me.”
Harvey made an annoying little gesture supposed to convey, Jim supposed, the wish to talk. Asking Harvey to stop running his mouth was like asking Zsasz to give up his life as a trigger-happy hitman and pick up gardening, so Jim relented half-heartedly, if only for old time's sake. “Fine. But be careful about what comes out of that trap of yours."
Harvey lifted both hands in surrender. “I only did what I did to help you out, okay?” The come on, be reasonable subtext was crystal clear. “I brought you here because you two definitely to talk this out, and without my express help, buddy, you’re going to be another corpse in the Narrows by the time you get your weird priorities straight and jump that-”
Jim’s temper finally snapped. “I don't ever want to see your f- Go to hell, all right!”
“Can’t say anything you don’t truly mean, eh?” Harvey grinned. “Attaboy. I guess this thing was worth a week’s salary... Thank me after you’ve got some, will you? But for the love of God, no details.”
“Go. To. Hell.” Jim really wanted to knock that grin off Harvey’s face, but his friend (did that mean anything anymore in Gotham?) already had a shiner, and it just wasn’t in his nature to hit someone who wouldn’t defend themselves, even his best friend in mingling asshole mode. “What’s stopping me from kicking you out and driving back to the station, uh?”
Harvey smiled that crooked little smile that drove Jim mad on a good day. “Well, I might have told poor little Pengy that his dear old friend wanted to meet, so he’s waiting for you very impatiently. Come on buddy, you know you’re just delaying the inevitable, so stop beating around the bush and get in there, for fuck's sake!”
Jim gave him the finger and stormed out of the car. His partner might not deserve the Best Friend Award right this moment, but he wasn’t wrong about one thing: Jim had better get his act together before another ‘accident’ happened. After all, life was short and sweet in Gotham (mostly short), and its criminals always willing to turn a fellow citizen into target practice. He could die anytime.
Either of them could be dead come sunset.
Jim stood stock-still on the sidewalk. After years of running on adrenaline, he would have expected a minor case of nerves, not a full riot of butterflies. But this was about Oswald, Gotham's wildest card, the unique variable Jim could never quite predict.
He hadn’t felt this nervous since that first kiss back in high school.
What if a single confession destroyed the fragile friendship, this unique, explosive relationship he treasured above all else? What if he never got to see Oswald again after tonight?
Wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers, he thought back on all those close calls when he’d almost let something slip…
… not that there was much hope of something, anything, not slipping tonight.
Chin snapping up, he glared at the blue letters of Oswald’s club, angry at Harvey, and angry at his own pathetic self. Oswald often kept praised his courage, his determination, even his recklessness (when it didn’t put himself directly in the line of fire). Where was his courage now?
The rumble of the motor fading in the distance, and the wide door opening on a familiar face, sealed his fate.
Fuck.
If only the knot in his belly could loosen up a bit.
If only he had better friends.
If only he could know for sure that both four-letter feelings he harbored for Oswald were reciprocated, even just a little.
“Hey, Oswald.”
I'm so screwed.
On this ominous self-prediction, he gathered the scraps of his courage and walked through the door.
*
“Good evening, James."
God, this was really happening, wasn't it? Feeling Oswald's eyes on him (a swift caress that raised his self-awareness a few notches), Jim bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. Perhaps the pain would help distract him from the urge to pour his heart out.
Oswald's closed the door himself. There was not a single henchman in sight. "What can I get you, my friend?”
Cheeks reddening as the many answers to that question, all equally truthful, crossed his mind, Jim averted his gaze at the last moment. The urge to speak up was like an itch he couldn't scratch.
An urge he had no will to fight.
“You,” he bit out... and promptly devolved into a coughing fit as those startling blue eyes widened dramatically. “You- You can get me the usual,” he rasped huskily.
“Of course.”
Oswald’s brow furrowed in perplexity, but he let Jim be and busied himself behind the bar, every motion efficient and purposeful in spite of his limp, his eyes shrewd and considering, thoughts multiplying at genius speed in their depths, and wasn’t Oswald’s sharp mind precisely one of those turn-ons Jim really shouldn't think about right now? The mobster’s attire, an expensive three-piece suit devoid of any wrinkle or speck of dust, sinfully form-fitting in all the right places, didn’t exactly help him in that regard. As for the hair… It was artfully slicked back like usual, and Jim, like usual, itched to mess it up while he lovingly ravaged Oswald’s body with single-minded focus.
(Abort. Abort. Abort.)
Jim fought a full-body shiver as Oswald came to stand at his side, poised as you please. The crystal tumbler in his grip highlighted the fine bone structure of his hand, long pianist fingers that could order, kill or save, and Jim found himself salivating at the thought of sucking those delicate digits one by one, licking the mob’s greed and the pang of death off Oswald’s skin to get at the unique taste beneath, all the while moaning and hollowing his cheeks, hinting not-so-subtly at businesses of a more legal nature…
Would Oswald's composure break then? He appeared relaxed now, those pretty features of his ready to shift into yet another mask, but not for Jim, never when they were alone together, and Jim could only imagine (so often, so fucking vividly) how Oswald's jaw would drop in wonder, how he would say his name a little breathlessly, magnetic blue eyes darkening as Jim lathered his fingers with saliva...
… and of course now he was staring like an idiot. He shook his head like it would help clear his mind, but the buzz that Oswald’s mere presence built under his skin only grew stronger as the electrified inches of polite distance between them shrank some more. Fidgeting with his tie seemed the best thing to do lest he lost it and pushed Oswald against the bar for a thorough kiss. Fucking regulation clothes. Why was it so hard to make a Windsor? Perhaps if he checked that tutorial again-
“James?”
A hint of worry laced his name, reflected in Oswald’s eyes. Heat flared in Jim’s chest, part shame, part excitement. Silence stretched on, the seconds ticking by slowly like so many challenges, the moment fraught with a tension Jim stumbled to break.
The drug punched the truth out of him.
“I really like it when you call me by my full name.”
As soon as the words were out, he pressed a hand to his mouth, quietly horrified.
(Aborting didn’t seem like a viable option anymore. Breaking off into a run still was, but there was something about courage he ought to remember.)
(He was so going to demote Harvey back to traffic duty for at least a month. Or send his ass home without pay. The embarrassment alone warranted it.)
(He refused to consider the oncoming heartache.)
“James, are you quite all right?” Oswald’s cheeks were dusted a light pink, but the worry bled through the words clearly enough.
Jim kept his hand right where it was before he could do the stupid (honest) thing and admit how cute he found that habit. The way Oswald so obviously cared made him warm all over and oh no, why was Oswald pulling on his hand, and more importantly, why was Jim not putting up a fight?
“I don’t have to leave,” he said as soon as the words ‘I have to leave’ crossed his mind.
Oswald’s concern took on a sharper note. Leaning more heavily on his cane, he lifted his free hand in Jim's direction, but a handful of seconds passed, and nothing happened.
Jim’s guts tightened in want.
Oswald indicated the stool between them, as if he'd meant this gesture all along. “All right… Have a seat? Detective Bullock said that it was of the utmost importance.”
Jim sucked in a sharp breath. “I think you already suspect.”
And that, apparently, was a truth Jim had himself ignored.
Oswald blinked rapidly. The concern had given way to something else, something Jim didn’t dare try to understand, and fuck, why couldn’t he simply crawl into a bottle and stay there for a couple of decades? As soon as Oswald’s suspicions morphed into conviction… Jim could feel the blush returning with a vengeance just anticipating the questions… if Oswald didn’t simply rescind his invitation to his club and stopped answering his phone-
“Thank you for the drink." He stared at a point across the bar, shoulders hunched. “I really appreciate all of-”
Oswald plucked the tumbler from his hand and downed it, Adam's apple bobbing enticingly. Jim’s fingers went limp even as the rest of his body sizzled spectacularly.
“James, talk to me.”
Oswald set the glass down. He stood so close now that Jim could smell his perfume, something warm and floral with heady notes of sensuality. God, but he wanted to press this man against his own bar and nuzzle his neck, lick and kiss all that skin usually covered in too many layers, expose the scent always trapped underneath them all, sweat and musk and something uniquely Oswald… He would do terrible things for a taste of that expensive whisky straight from those shiny lips, and he was most definitely half out of his mind with the need to lay Oswald down somewhere comfortable, straddle him and jerk off like a bitch in heat, watching Oswald watching him, until he got to paint that pale belly with cum, spread it over the smooth expanse of his pale chest and the throat that begged a mark, smearing his own scent over every inch of Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot so that the whole of Gotham would know that he was his.
(He. Was. Fucking. Gone.)
Jim ground the heels of his palms into his eyes, but the fantasy had turned his inner thermostat up to almost unbearable degrees. His pants were so tight the constraining fabric bordered on painful, and the buttons at his collar, the amateur Windsor knot of his tie, felt like a vice around his throat.
“I- I can only speak the truth,” he ground out, and cringed.
“You can only speak the truth,” Oswald repeated after him, as if to make sure he’d heard correctly. When Jim didn’t correct him, he went straight for the jugular: “Were you drugged?”
Jim tried to swallow past the lump in his throat. Failed. Tried again, with a little more success. His heart was doing its best imitation of Zsasz’s best machine gun. “Yes.”
Oswald hummed, licking those shiny lips in a thoughtful way that sent Jim’s thoughts crashing into each other in a perfect imitation of a Friday evening's traffic jam. “Do you… Would you like for me to order you to leave, until the effects recede?”
There was a reason (among many, many other reasons) why Jim had secretly loved the king of Gotham’s underworld ever since he’d gotten his head out (at least partially) of his own ass.
“No,” he replied honestly, and saw the curiosity in Oswald’s eyes bloom beautifully, tinged with… could it be hunger? “Ask me,” he requested, no, demanded, voice rougher, the need to spill it all out and the embarrassment stemming from the possible (probable) rejection making his head spin, and somehow, his cock fill some more, too. As if he got off on being humiliated.
(He could probably get off on Oswald humiliating him. The exception to the rule.)
(It may or may not have to do with the sheer intensity of Oswald's scrutiny.)
Jim cleared his throat. “You know you won’t get another occasion like this.”
“You think I could take advantage of you that way?” Oswald countered, arching a brow at Jim's failed attempt at casualness.
Jim grabbed the edge of the counter. “You’re not denying that you could, or that you will,” he retorted just as easily, and let out a nervous laugh when Oswald’s faint flush from earlier returned. “I told you: I can only speak the truth, and if I say you may indulge your curiosity, I mean it.”
“How about a truth you know would please me?”
Jim’s belly clenched. Yes, Oswald suspected all right; the heat in his gaze, the throaty quality of his voice… All of it should have soothed Jim’s nerves, but what if he was reading it all wrong? Still, that dangerous truth spilled from his lips, untouched by self-censure.
“How about the fact that whenever I come here to see you, or can detach myself long enough from a case to think of something else beyond blood and violence, 90 % of what goes through my mind has to do with me, you, and sometimes your desk upstairs, and there are not many clothes involved by the time we- fuck.”
He meant the last word as a curse, but Oswald probably heard the verb instead (which was the simple truth, too).
The silence that followed this little confession, or rather, that polite request to smack him good, seemed to suck all the oxygen from the room. Jim sat stiff as a board, bracing himself for something that he equally wanted and feared. When Oswald reached for him once more and took hold of his shoulder this time, he drank in the contact like he would never get such a precious thing ever again.
(Maybe he could get away with killing Harvey? Temporarily? People died and came back to life all the goddamn time in Gotham.)
He curled onto himself as a thumb found his chin and traced the line of his jaw, half afraid to look up and see distaste, half afraid he’d lose what little self-control he had left and jump the other man like it was open season on Oswald’s pants. Still, he let the finger tilt his chin up. He let Oswald see him.
Let their eyes met.
Fuck.
The relief he experienced at seeing no disgust, nothing beside an intense, raw interest, crashed through him like a train wreck. He exhaled shakily and awaited the next question with trepidation. He’d started that game willingly, and he had every intention on letting Oswald decide of the moves.
“You chose to stay,” Oswald said at last, pitching his voice lower. The resulting purr never failed to stir Jim's desire. “So tell me. What exactly would happen in this office of mine, James? What do I do for you, in your fantasies?”
There was definitely hunger in Oswald’s expression, and that inquiry, articulated oh so politely, blasted through the haze of Jim’s shame until only want remained.
“Fuck.” As if in a trance, Jim spread his legs and dug the heel of one palm into his clothed dick. The instant relief brought about by the friction drew a whimper from his parted lips. Blushing furiously for more than one reason now, he let the fresh wave of embarrassment wash over him, embraced it even, because it was such a small price to pay to get Oswald to watch him like this.
To have Oswald’s eyes rake down his body and zero on his hand rubbing none-too-gently at his cock.
To have Oswald lick his lips like he wished to replace that hand with his own.
“I get so hard when you lick your lips like that,” Jim blurted out, and moaned wantonly when Oswald dragged his tongue over his lips again. The words wanted out, and out they went. “I picture you bent over your desk, and I- fuck, I’m fingering you open and taking you from behind, and you beg me to-”
“Are we naked?” Oswald inquired, still drinking in the sight of him. Still licking his lips like watching James Uptight Gordon masturbating through his uniform really did it for him.
“I am; you’re not,” Jim panted. He canted his hips up, just a little, rubbing more frantically at his hard-on in spite of the embarrassment getting worse, because the embarrassment was getting worse, maybe, and Oswald’s expression turned positively feral, cheeks reddening furiously, eyes blazing with heat. “But your wrists,” Jim found himself uttering between helpless gasps, “… I tie them up in your back with one of your ties. This one.” He watched his hand reach for the silky blue fabric. Oswald let him. “It matches your eyes. God, I love your eyes. So fucking pretty, just like the rest of you.”
“James.”
This time, his name didn’t sound like a question, and the hand grabbing his wrist didn’t feel like a request, either. Overcome by the constant shift between arousal and embarrassment, doubts and more arousal, Jim couldn’t quite walk in a straight line, but Oswald was steady enough for two as he steered him towards the stairs. He always was graceful in a way, limp and all, as if he was one step away from a ballroom, and Jim had no idea where that thought of blowing Oswald the dancer came from, but he was sure thinking about it now, kneeling at Oswald’s feet, yanking up a blue tutu and pulling down see-through thighs just enough to get his mouth where he wanted it the most, fitted around the other man’s cock covered in silk panties-
The lock turned loudly, wrenching Jim away from his fantasy and calling him back to a world that was so much better, because everything was real.
"You look faint, James."
"I'm fucking embarrassed, 's all," Jim mumbled, taking in his surroundings. Nothing had changed, but then he doubted he would have noticed any difference in his current state.
"Don't be."
"Oswald-"
Jim felt his knees go weak at the sight of Oswald strutting towards him, eyes warm in dark in spite of their clear, ice-blue hue. Splaying a delicate hand in the middle of Jim’s broad chest, he pushed, the touch gentle but firm, and Jim stumbled backwards willingly, following Oswald's lead until the back of his thighs hit the desk of his aforementioned fantasy.
Oswald leaned into him like they’d done this dance plenty of times before, his lips brushing the shell of his ear. “What about my mouth?”
The tongue teasing the soft spot just below his ear created plenty more chaos in Jim's thoughts; not that Jim had to think to reply. “It looks like sin.”
A growl built in Oswald’s chest. “And?” He nudged one knee between Jim’s thighs, the sudden pressure a heady relief against his erection. The delicate hand bunching up his cheap tie tore a needy gasp from his throat. “I know you want to say more, James.”
The sudden pressure at his throat caused Jim’s hips to snap forwards on their own accord. The answering hardness of Oswald’s cock against his belly made his own erection throb.
“F-Fuck.” His nails scrapped a hip. He wanted to apply bruises there, dark red letters of a signature only they would read for what it was. But he’d been asked a question, and Oswald’s right hand was suddenly right where he wanted it, palming at the bulge in his pants, fondling his dick in firm, slow circles. Jim threw what little pride he had left through the window and undulated his hips wantonly. And set the truth free. “Your mouth, I- It would look so good on my cock.”
A decadent smile tugged at the corner of Oswald’s lips. “Should I beg for the privilege, our would you rather shove it in?”
“Fuck, Oswald,” Jim whined, and swore again as the tie went deliciously snug against his windpipe. He enjoyed this, he realized as more heat pooled low in his belly. He told Oswald as much, and felt the flow of air thin further as a result—a reward. Oswald’s lips ghosted over his own, sweet and wet, his breath hot hinting at mint and expensive whisky.
“You need to be in control at all times.” The tip of his tongue drew a line of fire all over Jim’s bottom lip. “And it feels good to let go, doesn’t it?”
Jealously struck Jim out of the blue. “You let others… do this to you?”
“Oh, James.” A hint of sorrow crossed Oswald’s features. The press of his lips against Jim was almost chaste, but a promise all the same. “There are no others.”
It was Jim who surged forth for a proper kiss, and if Oswald didn’t deny him entrance, if he licked into his mouth in turn with little whimpers and moans of pleasure, the oddness of his previous statement still gnawed at Jim, enough to distract him from the expert hand massaging his cock.
When Oswald pulled back for air, Jim seized the opportunity. “What do you-”
“Turn around.” The undeniable authority of Oswald's tone had James complying before he was even aware of the motion. “Put your hands on the desk and part your legs, if you please.”
“I fucking please,” Jim uttered brokenly as he did precisely that.
“You do live to serve,” Oswald chuckled, but his amusement sounded just a little off.
Jim tried again, but it was getting very hard to focus while Oswald’s deft fingers fiddled with the fly of his pants. “Oswald, what-”
“Now, Jim, let me focus. Good work needs concentration."
Jim found himself unable to formulate a reply. Perhaps because Oswald was very swift in divesting him of his clothes. He knelt to remove his shoes, socks and pants, and that new position, no matter how mouth-watering, must not be good for his bad leg, but Oswald told him to be quiet, Jim, so Jim shut up, and soon enough all of his clothes lay in a neat pile at the corner of the polished desk.
As for Oswald, he shouldered off his own jacket, but that was it; he was still mostly clothed as he returned his attention to Jim, the luxurious fabric of his suit brushing against Jim’s naked back, his buttocks, his thighs, a tease of textures. Only when Oswald took hold of his tie again did Jim realize that the mobster had left that single piece on.
And then he resumed talking.
“I was thinking, you see. Why should I reward you today…” Oswald kissed his way down Jim’s nape, open-mouthed, dirty kisses that shot straight to Jim’s groin, his cock a steady pressure against Jim’s lower back, “… when you’ve kept me waiting for so long?”
Jim fumbled for a clever comeback, but a helpless whimper came out instead. The line of Oswald’s body against his own stoked his arousal, but he wanted more, needed more, and he tried to get some friction against the desk, but Oswald’s fingers covered the tie already taut over his throat and pulled sharply. Jim’s knees bucked, and his vision blurred for a couple of seconds of exquisite pleasure.
“Oh fuck.” God, he wanted his hands on that man, his mouth on his throat, his ass, his cock. He made a show of struggling against Oswald just so that the hand over his pulse point would press harder and bring their bodies flush together. There was no clever hand jerking him off, not even the hard wood of a desk to rut against in desperation, and yet his balls were tightening, and more words spilled from his lips. “I want you, fuck, I need-”
“How do you want me, Captain?”
Jim reached for Oswald blindly, panted in relief as his right hand landed on a bony hip. Oswald’s body lit up every square inch of skin it touched. Jim's nerve endings tingled just from the fact that Oswald had taken control of the fantasy, made it theirs so casually. “I like it when you call me that, too,” he slurred.
“Do you, now? What a surprise.” Oswald didn't sound surprised at all. “You are an open book to me, James.”
Jim arched his back, and felt his asshole clench as Oswald’s splayed the tie leisurely to cover more of his throat. “Then why- didn’t you say- something-”
“Why didn't you?”
“O-Oswald-”
“Tell me and I might let you come.”
Jim gritted his teeth, but Oswald didn’t relent, tightening the tie as he licked up that sensitive spot behind Jim’s ear.
“Tell. Me,” he growled.
“God.” Jim’s hips stuttered, and Oswald pressed a knee in the back of his thighs, trapping him against the desk, preventing him from moving. He snarled in agony. “I- I was afraid-”
“Of what?”
“You-”
Oswald’s lips trailed down his neck, brushed his naked shoulders. Goosebumps rose in their wake.
Jim squeezed his eyes shut. “You are not an open book to me, god damn it.”
“Oh, James,” Oswald said, and he sounded almost angry with himself.
Between one heartbeat and the next, Jim was properly bent over the massive desk, leaning on his elbows, hands clenched into tight fists. The tie at his neck was gone, replaced by Oswald’s mouth, sucking bruises and planting kisses all over his shoulders. With a firm grip on Jim’s left hip, Oswald went for the cleft of his ass, trailing a single digit down his crack until the pad slid across his rim. Too turned on to be embarrassed, Jim parted his legs as far as they went, displaying himself like spoils of war, and the sharp intake of breath that followed felt almost as good as the thumb massaging his entrance.
“P-Please.”
Jim didn’t beg as a rule, but Oswald deserved every part of him, all the secrets that made him vulnerable, and not merely because Oswald himself thought to bare himself for Jim, and Jim alone.
“Fuck, Oswald, just fuck me already,” he ground out, asshole fluttering. "I want you in me-"
“I know you mean it,” Oswald said in a strangled voice, “and I'd love to, but I'm afraid I'll have to take a rain check, as I won’t last long enough to make it worth your while today.”
Jim’s huff promptly turned into a moan. Oswald's touch set his whole being on fire, and he wanted that cock inside him yesterday, wanted Oswald to own him inside and out. “I don’t care-”
Oswald tutted. It sounded more breathless than it was probably meant to. “Well I do, so let’s compromise, shall we?”
That tantalizing thumb breached him at last. Jim rested his brow against the hard surface of the desk and focused on relaxing his breathing. God, he’d thought he was close earlier, but that was before Oswald touched him like that.
“Did you fantasize about this as well?” Oswald prompted as he eased his thumb inside him, slowly reverent. “Me, fingering you while you urge me to take you properly, James?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” Oswald crooned, thumb sliding in further, until his palm was flush against Jim’s rim. “Oh, but would you look at you, James Gordon: absolutely perfect. So very handsome in that uniform of you, and absolutely mouth-watering without a stitch on.” Another finger probed at his rim, tugged at it playfully.
Jim snapped back his hips as hard as he could, and gasped in shocked delight as his asshole swallowed the digit in one smooth glide. Oswald’s squeezed his hip with his other hand.
“God, James, you are so eager to take it."
"You, Oswald." Jim rubbed his cheek against the wood. His own skin felt too tight. “Only you.”
Oswald stopped moving entirely, but before Jim could protest or ask what was wrong, Oswald pulled his fingers back halfway, rotated his wrist just so, curled his fingers and yes, that was his prostate all right.
Jim cried out.
“So responsive.” Awe laced Oswald's words. “I could pleasure you like this for hours. You would let me, wouldn’t you? Allow me to worship that gorgeous body of yours while I praise your brilliant mind. You are a delightful creature, James Gordon, and I cherish every facet of you.”
Jim couldn’t help himself: he preened under the praise. And Oswald was that good at reading him, because he chuckled affectionately and started rubbing harder at his throbbing walls, hitting his prostate every now and then, stretching out the pleasure brought about by this new intimacy between them, all the while feeding him a series of heartfelt compliments that turned Jim into a whimpering mess.
“… so bloody perfect, James... I'm so lucky... Such a good boy…”
Perhaps it was the good boy thing that did it, or the combination of Oswald’s voice and the mind-blowing drag of his fingers against his prostate, but all too soon Jim clenched hard around three of Oswald’s fingers, semen shooting from his slit all over the pristine wood. A hand found his own on the desk and laced their fingers together.
Still basking in the most formidable afterglow of his life, Jim needed a few seconds to make sense of the world around him, and when he did, he almost came all over again,
Oswald was rutting against his backside, mouthing frantically at his nape, breathing hot and ragged.
Jim made to twist around, if only to give Oswald a helping hand, but the mobster let out a wanton James! and sagged against him.
“I wanted that in my mouth!” Jim blurted out as soon as Oswald creamed his pants. "Although I must admit, that was hot as hell."
Oswald sighed, and then chuckled affectionately at Jim’s clumsy attempt to help him up on the desk to rest his leg. “I’m fine, James. Sit with me.”
Jim hopped on the desk none too gracefully, avoiding the wet spots. Their hands remained linked, and so did their eyes. Blue and blue, different and complementary, two sides of the same coin, an improbability in Gotham... A perfect match.
“There shall be other occasions to… savor each other. That is.” Oswald ducked his head. “If you want to.”
Jim just looked at him like he’d grown a second head. Shaking his head in disbelief, he cupped Oswald's cheek.
The mobster revealed a little smile that was also a grimace, one corner of his lips lifted up, self-depreciation bringing down the other, shadows crisscrossing all over his face. Jim set to caress Oswald’s cheek, willing the tenderness of the touch to rub the doubt away, smooth the lines of tension into nothingness, and bring forth such joy that it lit up all of his features.
“I want to,” he replied confidently. “I really do.” He rested his brow against Oswald’s, thumb pulling at his ower lip. “I’m sorry I waited so long.”
“You felt insecure about my intentions towards you.” Oswald lapped at the tip of Jim's thumb, then sucked it in. He released it with a frown, the faint pop a little distracting in spite of the seriousness of the exchange. “If you must know, so was I.”
Jim carded his fingers through Oswald’s hair, chest light. If he couldn’t see his own butt attached to the desk so clearly, he could have sworn he was floating. “I love your hair. I love you.”
It came out so easily that Jim might have felt indignant at his own ability to sneak past himself, but Oswald nuzzled his neck and brought their linked hands over his own chest. The strong thud-thud of his heart reminded Jim of all those times he’d thought he’d lost him, and he pulled the smaller man into a fierce embrace.
“I love you more, you idiot,” Oswald confessed, voice thick with the very same feelings Jim had been struggling with for so long. “From the first time I laid eyes on you.”
“I am an idiot,” Jim agreed wholeheartedly, and smirked at the laugh he got in return. “You always say that I’ve got courage in spades, but the truth is, I was terrified to lose what we had. If Harvey hadn’t-”
“So he’s to thank for our little tête à tête?”
Jim didn’t let the words fool him and listened to the tone instead, picking up a discreet note of rage. “I’ll deal with him. Thank him… and punish him the way I see fit.”
Oswald hummed contently, seemingly satisfied with that plan.
“Should we clean up? I would like to point out that my shower is very spacious, darling.”
Mumbling, Jim buried his face in the crook of Oswald’s neck, past pretending he didn’t ache to roll into the other man’s smell, past caring Oswald knew he was blushing like a fucking traffic light stuck on red.
“What was that?” Oswald inquired gently.
“I like that,” Jim groaned.
“‘Darling’?”
Jim purred as a hand cradled the back of his head and just held him, firm and possessive.
“Yeah,” he half-whispered. “I like a lot of things about you, Oswald.”
“So do I,” Oswald crooned, his lips brushing the top of his head. “So do I, darling.”
*
The bottle wasn’t top of the shelf, but Jim could hardly afford that, and besides, he really hated being manipulated, even for his own good. Which was exactly what he told Harvey.
“You’re welcome,” Harvey replied smugly, pouring himself a generous inch.
It was only three in the afternoon, but Jim let him, because of what he knew would come next.
“Don’t ever think about drugging me again,” he threatened politely, taking a page from Oswald’s book. “And since you asked so nicely, let me tell you that Oswald ruined me for anyone else. Those fingers of his-”
Harvey spit out his mouthful of whisky and cursed a blue streak.
Jim leaned back against the Captain’s desk, thumbs hooked in his belt, very satisfied by the horrified look on his best friend's face.
“You’re welcome, partner.” He grinned at him as he wiggled his fingers, and leaned back to pick up the next folder on the pile. “Come on, time to get back to work.”