Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7825210.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Gotham_(TV), Batman_-_All_Media_Types
  Relationship:
      Oswald_Cobblepot/Jim_Gordon, Oswald_Cobblepot_&_Jim_Gordon, Oswald
      Cobblepot/Original_Character(s)
  Character:
      Oswald_Cobblepot, Jim_Gordon, Original_Characters, Fish_Mooney, Butch
      Gilzean, Victor_Zsasz, Carmine_Falcone, Salvatore_Maroni, Alfred
      Pennyworth, Bruce_Wayne, Selina_Kyle, Leslie_Thompkins, Gertrud_Kapelput,
      Edward_Nygma, Theo_Galavan, Lucius_Fox, Harvey_Dent, Gabe, Tabitha
      Galavan, Nathaniel_Barnes, Hugo_Strange, Ethel_Peabody, Barbara_Kean
  Additional Tags:
      gobblepot, Underage_Prostitution, Underage_Sex, Sexual_Abuse, Murder,
      Non-Consensual_Drug_Use, Implied/Referenced_Rape/Non-con, Implied/
      Referenced_Torture, Self-Harm, Self_Confidence_Issues, Unrequited_Love,
      Unresolved_Sexual_Tension, Unresolved_Romantic_Tension, Alternate
      Universe_-_High_School
  Collections:
      Anonymous
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-08-21 Updated: 2016-11-08 Chapters: 3/? Words: 16848
****** For You I Am Blinded ******
by Anonymous
Summary
     Oswald is a master of words but Jim leaves him tongue tied. He always
     will come back for more no matter how time changes them.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
***** Chapter 1 *****
Oswald stares intensely at the window display of a local boutique. The inside
is draped in rose gold fabric along with wisps of silver and emerald. It was
the first thing that caught his eye as he made the long trek back home from
school. Opting to save his train fare for something better; a present for his
mother.
Two faceless mannequins on each side of the centerpiece are clothed in the
latest holiday party fashions. Rhinestones glitter throughout one satin A-line
dress and for the other a beaded flute dress pulled taut against the
mannequin's figure. He could not help but think of how his mother would love
both dresses. However, she would more so covet the centerpieces.
There is a pair of pearl and emerald earrings with tiny diamonds encircling the
other two gems dangling off of a small T-shaped satin post. Accompanying them
was a broach in the shape of a lily with petals of made of sheared pearl and
diamonds weaving throughout only followed by a short emerald lined stem.
The gold pin on the back was barely visible and certainly would not take away
from the beauty of the piece. There it sits, nestled snug with in its velvet
covered box with satin cushioning. The jewelry was classy and timeless, and
could definitely be worn anytime of year. Spring was just a skip away from
winter despite how long Gotham winters could last.
Oswald sees his inner desires in the opulence of the display. Success, power,
and money are the three things he feels that he is most deserving. Yet, where
he comes from there was never an opportunity to arise in order for him to
showcase his talents. Those being his superior intelligence (over his
schoolmates at least) and his quick cleverness.
He knows he does well in talking himself out of certain situations, usually
those involving the designated school bullies bombarding him with insults and
threats of bodily harm. Though sometimes they follow through with their threats
and leaves little room for talking once his head is shoved into a school
toilet.
But with this gift of gab Oswald knows he that he could spin it into
manipulation. He reads people well enough. And knowing what matters to them
most is something Oswald knows could be useful for his own gain. But no one
would spare him a second glance with him looking so haggard. He thinks of how
hard his mother is working, trying to balance two jobs to put him into private
school, wanting him to have the best education Gotham has to offer. But his
tormentors don’t know that, he is sure they wouldn’t care. They would laugh and
joke and finally know the reason why his uniform is ill-fitting, why his shoes
are too big and scuffed, why his shirt is mended with off-colored patches.
They would only feel better about themselves if they knew how difficult it is
for him and his mother trying to keep afloat over bills and tuition fees and
rent. Oswald loves his mother, but is constantly reminded by the look of
material things and some of his more well off classmates of his desire of
wanting more. He seethes as he thinks about how his bullies have everything
they could ask for and probably will never have the drive to do more with it.
They are the types who could squander their entire family’s fortune in a matter
of years.
So Oswald stares through the glass, his eyes following the swoops of fabric and
the curves of the beads, as he conjures a different reality where things
weren’t so hard and he was well liked and revered by his peers and his mother
was a socialite as well known as the Waynes. The drifting thoughts are a
welcomed reprieve from the chilling ache in his bones and the constant
throbbing of the newly formed bruises under his clothes. No, today was
definitely not a day where his cleverness could get him out of a beating.
 
There came the click-clack of heels on pavement a few paces away from him but
Oswald didn’t bother to look up. He was practically invisible in this part of
town, where the happy people shop with no account for money nor taste, they
could just buy things simply because they wanted it. But he was only shown how
to need something. His wants didn’t even register internally until he seen
other children with toys and clothes that never looked like second hand
purchases. The clicking heels stop short of him until the figure was side by
side with him also facing the window display.
Oswald side glances at the figure with a calculating eye. It is a finely
dressed man with a dark wool coat and matching flat cap that is settled nicely
on his head, only a sliver of black and grey hairs slips past the leather
lining. Oswald is taken in by the shine of his shoes seemingly untouched by the
murky slush covering the pavement.
The man stands beside Oswald following the boy's eyes as they linger on the
window display of fine women's dresses and bejeweled costume pieces. The
diamonds shine brightly despite the absence of the winter sun.
The man whistles approvingly at the display, "You have an exquisite taste for
the finer things I see.”
He turns to face Oswald, flashing him a congenial smile, “Tell me, is there a
special someone in your life that you wish to see in these beautiful jewels?"
The man’s accent has an Italian flourish but his English annunciation is clear.
Oswald can tell that the man is smart and has a silver tongue and though he is
very handsome being an older man, the way he is looking at him screams danger.
But Oswald has never been so keenly glanced upon, almost as if he was being
appraised by the man. He wasn’t sure if he liked being seen that way but then
no one has ever looked at him like that; the man seemed fixated.
The man’s eyes travels from Oswald’s face and down to his shoes and up again.
Oswald wonders if this is what being wanted looked like. The man gazes at him
as if he was something in the store’s window.
Oswald's heart pounded excitingly, rapid with each passing moment of time
between him and the handsome stranger. The cold dug into Oswald’s insides
despite the man's warming stare. The coat Oswald is wearing was threadbare and
tattered much like the boots that were too big on his feet with their thin
soles and cheap material. His shoes wicks the watery slush of dirt and snow
that is a constant for Gotham's winters. He felt small standing in the presence
of this sharply dressed man. How the man could ever look at him like he’s doing
now is unfathomable to Oswald.
Oswald glances at the man from the corner of his eye shyly, stammering to seem
meek, "m-my mother. She loves lilies, that broach is...it would look so nice on
her." He says with a slight smile and shrug, hunching over as he tries to hide
all of himself from the man’s scrutiny.
He feels naked dressed in his ragged clothes when this man is so neatly pressed
into his sleek overcoat and trimmed suit pants and his shiny shoes. This man is
the type of people Oswald has come to loathe so much because of his desperate
longing to become one of them. But this man hasn’t turned up his nose at
Oswald. He could probably say that the man seems kind. But Oswald could sense
something dark was lying beneath his pristine demeanor.
"It is a very fine piece, isn't it...," the man hums in agreement, touching his
gloved hand to his chin as if in thought. He draws closer to Oswald, fully
turning to face him, and though surprised at himself, Oswald does the same,
still hunched over.
"I'd like to get this broach for you. You can give it to your mother." The
man’s smile becomes all teeth and it forces the corners of his eyes to crinkle
with mirth. Oswald finds him even more handsome then, though he was envious of
how white his teeth were.
Oswald shakes his head in confusion, he feels a quick chill draw up his spine,
and he isn’t sure if it is just the cold breeze whipping around them. This was
probably his subconscious telling him to run away, never looking back. But
Oswald was stubborn and knew himself well enough to know that he would not
reason with his instincts this time. But he stands a little straighter, "I
don't...why would you do that?"
And the man raises a gloved hand to Oswald cheek, the backs of the man's
fingers warms his face in a soft stroke. Oswald does not flinch, but he can
feel himself flushing red all over. The leather of the glove was butter smooth
and smelled of cloves and evergreen. The man's cologne filled Oswald's nose
with the delightful scent.
"Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are...?" The man trailed off,
fishing for Oswald's name. In which Oswald was all too eager to tell him, no
matter how much his subconscious screamed for him to not indulge the man any
further and just run away as fast as he can. But rushing to the forefront was
his hidden desire for more, for power, for money, for anything this man could
offer him. To keep looking at him like that.
Heat pooled in Oswald’s belly, but not in regards to the man’s handsome face
and pretty words. Oswald wanted this man as a stepping stone to achieving his
dreams of wealth and power. His mother would be so proud of him. She always
believed in him and is the very reason why Oswald knows he can achieve anything
should an opportunity arrive. And so far, this man was the sailing ship and
Oswald wasn’t going to think twice about not boarding.
"Oswald." He says, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth,"My name is Oswald
Cobblepot."
The man just politely smiles and goes in for a handshake. Oswald takes the
man’s hand, he doesn’t miss the way the man’s thumb quickly strokes over the
back of his hand.
"Well Oswald Cobblepot let's get out of this cold and get your mother that
broach before someone else buys it." The man clasps a heavy hand on his
shoulder, steering him into the boutique.
The store clerk greets them warmly but stops short at Oswald’s state of dress,
his eyes must linger too long because the man clears his throat and brings the
store clerk’s attention back to himself.
"Er-yes, Mr. Zavini., how nice it is to see you again, and back so soon too, I
take it Miss Sheridan loved the pearl set. We do have a tiara that would make a
lovely addition. Just in time for those school dances going on, she would most
certainly be the envy of other young ladies when wearing this beautiful piece!”
The clerk waggles his brows for the upsell.
Mr. Zavini, with his hand still gripping Oswald's shoulder, smiles back and
nods, “Yes, she will love that too, I'll have my man come by for it later. But
for now I'd like that flower broach in the window display. This young man here
wants to present it to his mother for the holiday."
"Well goodness, what a lovely thought that is." The clerk says trying his best
to look at Oswald but failing. Oswald sees fear in the clerk's eyes now, it
confuses him. Mr. Zavini must be a very important man to make the clerk quiver
and babble on like an idiot.
Oswald smiles to himself and turns to Mr. Zavini, and trying for a coquettish
look, he says, “Those earrings before it would be a perfect addition to the
broach.” His look is baiting and the man eats it all up.
Zavini looks down at Oswald with something akin to awe. Whilst the store clerk
stares on at the pair of them nervously.
Oswald and Zavini gaze at each other and it feels that, to Oswald, they have
reached a mutual understanding. Oswald can play this game. If Zavini wanted
something from Oswald then the man would have to pay for it. He may be young
but he knew that only fools worked for free.
He had heard of some kids turning themselves out for money, he never considered
it before but here comes Mr. Zavini, with his tailored dark wool coat and
matching leather lined cap, calling him beautiful. And to Oswald no person in
their right mind would come to him for sex so Zavini must be desperate.
Oswald knew he was ugly and thin and much too pale and had a nose that took
over his face. The other children called him names well into high school and
haven't stopped since. But what would they say if they could see him now. In an
expensive jewelry and fashion store with a handsome older gentleman who’s got
stars in his eyes when he looks at Oswald. The thought satisfies him. How
wonderful it would be if his mother wore her new broach to work, to be the envy
of all the other women who worked alongside her.
The store clerk gapes at Oswald like a fish but Mr. Zavini hums happily once
the spell Oswald weaves is broken momentarily, "Well, you heard him, the
earrings too."
Zavini's hand strays from Oswald's shoulder to the back of his neck, his
leather covered thumb stroking at his nape. It's maddening , comforting, and
scary all at once. Oswald doesn't know how to feel but standing with Zavini at
the counter and watching the clerk ring up the five figured items and hand them
to him makes Oswald swell with power.
The clerk gave Oswald one more quick glance with a minute shake of his head,
the fear was still there in his bleary eyes. But Oswald turns away with a
smile, once more being led away with Zavini's hand on his neck. Once outside
they were met by a long black stretch car, the stout, compact man that steps
out of the driver’s side is in a suit and makes his way towards them to open
the car’s cabin. The driver’s eyes are hidden behind large dark sunglasses but
Oswald can feel them grazing him, head to toe. They settle inside with Zavini
sitting opposite of Oswald and the door closes shut behind them but they don’t
drive away just yet.
Oswald clutches the store bag to this chest, almost afraid Zavini may take it
back from him. Zavini did not seem like the type to drop thousands of dollars
on something only to go back to the store to return it. Hell, the man probably
bought new suits each time he wore one once and tossed away the rest. Oswald
didn’t care, his mother would have a nice Christmas this year. Now there was
the problem of conjuring a lie that seemed believable to her on how he could
come by such expensive jewelry. Oswald hated lying to his mother, but he got
good at it once he began coming home with bruises and scrapes that have shown
up since 1st grade and beyond.
Zavini smiles at Oswald for a moment longer, his movements slow and deliberate
as if not to scare the boy, as he pulls a large candied sucker from his inner
coat pocket and hands it over to Oswald.
Oswald feels his face twist in confusion, and is slow to take the candy but he
does it anyway, and Zavini never stops smiling. The car is still running but
it’s shifted in park from what Oswald can tell before the partition draws up
and he can no longer see the driver. Oswald can feel his skin prickle with
sweat. His heartbeat is picking up quickly, and he can feel his throat closing
up tight. He feels a sliver of fear, but knows he has to follow through with
this strange arrangement.
He’s never had sex before with a woman nor a man, and Zavini’s idea of foreplay
is certainly strange. And he hardly knew Zavini. They are in Gotham after all.
Well known for it’s breeding of seedy drug dealers, vicious thieves, and
ruthless murderers. Zavini could be none or all three. But he was definitely a
deviant man, adopting Gotham’s blurred lines of an age of consent policy.
Oswald was certainly taking a gamble here but the payoff would be a sweeter
prize than his virginity. And yet still, he was a bit afraid.
But Zavini raises his hands in a gesture of surrender, seeing Oswald’s bulging
eyes and sweaty brow.
“Please, Oswald,” Zavini says, a sound of sincerity in his voice,”I’m not going
to hurt you. The car door is still unlocked. I just wanted some privacy. We are
friends now, yes? No longer strangers, but new friends. I am happy to have met
you and won’t do anything you don’t want for yourself. I only ask…,” he trails
off, his gaze falling to Oswald’s mouth, “The lollipop...please eat it.”
Oswald doesn’t relax completely, but checks the door just once, and it is
unlocked. He eyes Zavini critically before closing it again. The man only
smiles, lowering his hands and folding them across in his lap. Oswald set the
package on the seat next to him and takes off his well-worn gloves and spins
the candy by its stem, his eyes still on Zavini.
Maybe the man was one of those particular fetish perverts. Maybe the man was
into food play before having sex. Oswald wanted to know all about it, all about
Zavini and his personal life. Oswald already knows that the man probably has a
daughter or ward named Sheridan who had to be around his age if she was going
to school dances at this time of year. He files away the information quickly.
He slowly unwraps the sucker. Watching every tick in Zavini’s face, his eyes
wide with what Oswald would call hunger. The man fidgets in his seat just a bit
when Oswald is about to bring the wine colored golf ball sized candy into his
mouth. The only thing Oswald cares about right now was passing this audition
and being let into the man’s kingdom. Now whatever all that entailed was
something that Oswald would have to navigate later. But this moment only
matters for now.
He gives the sucker a kittenish lick, tasting the grape flavor. He tries to
hold back a smirk when Zavini leans forward slightly. Oswald imagines he is
trying not to lose his composure. Oswald wants to prove the man wrong. That
Zavini most certainly could become undone by his ministrations.
Oswald was no stranger to porn. A neighborhood boy he knew long ago showed him
the dirty magazines the boy’s older brother stole from the local convenience
stores. He remembers the look the women had in their eyes, how they were posed,
he even remembered the ugly lingerie that hung off their bodies. Oswald didn’t
masturbate to the women, he didn’t get hard from looking at them. But being
with Zavini now, he still doesn’t imagine having sex with the man and enjoying
it.
He did not fancy being posed in a way like a prop to be fucked into like the
women in the magazines. But this powerplay he was having with the man, that’s
what gets his cock hard. Zavini has this helpless look on his face, licking his
lips like a dog sitting in front of a huge steak. His cool, affluent demeanor
watered down to that of a child being told ‘look but don’t touch’.
Oswald puts the full sucker in his mouth as he shrugs off his coat, and reveals
himself in just his off white uniform shirt and tie. He undoes the tie, not
even thinking right at this moment, just doing. He pulls apart a couple of
buttons, leaving his neck and upper chest exposed. Zavini’s breathing becomes
labored with each strip of skin Oswald reveals. But that was as far as Oswald
was going with undressing. Oswald had already noticed that Zavini’s intent was
dead set on him enjoying the hell out of this candy and making a show of it.
Oswald moans around the sucker, closing his eyes, his right hand stroking the
stem, whereas his left is gripping the seat. He leans forward and give Zavini a
better look for just a moment. Then he gets the idea to get onto his knees,
shuffling over to Zavini’s side of the car. The carpet floor was a bit damp
from their shoes as the knees of his pants got wet and chalked with bits of
rock salt.
He pushes Zavini’s legs apart and the man huffs, his mouth hanging open as
Oswald is met with his clothed erection. Oswald isn’t sure where his boldness
comes from but it's sprouting up like a spring, pushing him closer and closer
to the edge and wanting to drag Zavini down with him.
Oswald just looks up at him and sucks and licks at the candy, daring Zavini to
touch him again but knowing the man wouldn’t, not when he’s like this. A stroke
of the face or possible hand holding is all Zavini seemed capable off at this
point in his perverted life. Oswald keeps filing away every tell that the man
has. Zavini as he is now has lost his alluring luster, his otherworldliness; to
Oswald he was now just a man. A horny, perverted, old man who was too rich and
too bored, so spoiling young men seems to give him that spark of attention he’s
seeking. How lonely and pathetic he must be behind closed doors.
Oswald sees all of this, but this man has money and power and Oswald was going
to ride that wave to wherever it went if it meant a better life for him and his
mother. Even if it meant debasing himself like this, playing the wanton virgin,
willing to be defiled. Oh, how his darling mother would be mortified. But her
smiling face when she sees her new gifts is worth this. And if Oswald passed
Zavini’s little game he was sure the man would be coming back for another round
or several.
Zavini stares down at Oswald in wonder, his mouth still agape, shifting in his
seat to relieve the pressure of his erection in his slacks. Oswald mewls around
the treat, And Zavini gives into touching himself, grasping his dick through
his pants and stroking, a dark spot of wetness staining the slacks gathering at
the head of his dick.
“Oh, Oswald...you’re just so…,” Zavini’s train of thought goes off the tracks
as he watches Oswald’s purple tongue stick out to lap back up the spittle
trailing down the side of his own hand.
“Fuck..,” the man groans.
“Mmmm…,” Oswald hums quietly around the candy, drawing closer to the juncture
between Zavini’s thighs, way up until he knows Zavini can feel his breath on
his covered balls. Oswald can smell the musk of him, the scent of cloves and
evergreen is heady, mixed in with the slight unpleasantness of sweat and piss.
Oswald keeps filing away. Oswald blows hot breath against the man’s cock and
balls and leans in a way where he knows Zavini can see down his shirt and see
the expanse of pale chest and pink nipples.
Not surprising that that is all it takes for the man to soil himself. Zavini
lets out a hard groan as he comes, continuing to stroke himself through his
orgasm, eyeing him with what Oswald thinks could be bedroom eyes. Oswald
doesn’t care, he bites the rest of the candy from the stem, chewing on it
nonchalantly. He gets up from the floor of the car and settles back in his seat
and buttons his shirt and makes up his tie. He doesn’t look at Zavini until his
coat and gloves are on and his mother’s present is back in his arms.
Zavini taps the partition once and the car revs up and pulls off from the
store. “Where do you live Oswald?,” he asks breathlessly. “It’s obvious that I
can’t drop you off right at your front door but maybe a couple blocks away…,”
“Mayfield and 9th is fine,” Oswald puts on his best smile as he meets Zavini’s
eyes. The thrill of this encounter cannot be dulled by the man being a rich
pervert. He was going to own this man somehow. Blackmail seems the most basic
of tactics, anyone could blackmail someone. And in Gotham it rarely got people
anywhere, at least that’s how the Gotham Gazette paints it. In Gotham, most
blackmailers were killed or disappeared. Gotham was the best city that knew how
to tie up loose ends.
No, Oswald was forming bigger plans, but the stifling air of the car’s cabin
was muddling his mind. All he could smell was a sharp tang of come and cloves.
As if the man could sense his discomfort, he rolled down the window. The crisp,
cold air was certainly refreshing.
Zavini let the partition down to tell the driver Oswald’s directions then
quickly rolled it up again.. Then Zavini turned back to face the boy, “You
know…,”the man was trailing off again, like he couldn’t form words now.
Oswald was impressed with himself for rendering the man speechless, but also
mildly annoyed with him that he didn’t exceed Oswald expectations, whatever
those were when he met him. But Oswald did enjoy being desired for the first
time. Although, he began wondering if he was now considered a whore since he
did this thing with Zavini for some jewels his mother would like. Oswald shrugs
off the thought. He had been called many things by his tormentors at school,
things he knew he was not, at least in his own opinion. No, he was not a whore
by his own terms.
He was a newly appointed businessman and Zavini was a prospective sponsor.
Zavini kept smiling at him, dreamlike, and Oswald just lets him. He revels in
Zavini’s attention, and he figures the more he is accepting of it then Zavini
would like to keep him around. Maybe for simple company or for more encounters
of a sexual nature, whatever the man wanted, Oswald was willing to do for a
price. Anything is negotiable in Oswald’s mind, and while price didn’t
necessarily mean money or material things for him, he knew that he wanted to
take care of his mother first.
The car slowed down as it drew closer to the designated street. Oswald’s house
was only three blocks from the tiny grocery store the driver pulls up alongside
it. Zavini looks out the window at the nondescript buildings and disheveled
people walking, burrowing themselves further in their drabby coats, trying to
fight the frigid chill in the air.
The people barely glance at the sleek car. Their eyes catching a glimpse but
quickly turn away as if they knew that car’s presence was no business of
theirs. Oswald selfishly wanted them to look. To watch him exit the car and awe
that one of their own has ascended beyond their meagerness. Oswald was no
longer faceless and ordinary. That this fancy man found value in him and bought
him gifts that cost more than the rent for the entire tenement building he and
his mother lived in.
Zavini rolled up the window once he was done sightseeing. The poor and average
held no aesthetic interest for him Oswald surmised. But whatever the man saw in
him, Oswald did not completely understand. At least, not yet. Zavini reached
into his coat and pulled out a tiny white card with fancy black font detailing
the man’s contact info, handing it to Oswald.
Oswald took it with a sheepish smile, which seemed to please Zavini. Oswald
currently filed away the man being quite taken with him playing coy. Oswald
thinks of the times where he had to pretend everything was okay when talking
with his mother or to teachers about his scrapes and bruises. Maybe that’s how
he discovered that he can put on a show for Zavini and make it believable.
That, and him emulating those women from those porno magazines. He reads
Zavini’s card aloud, “Arturo Zavini, Zavini and Company Realty and Project
Development.”
Zavini seems to swell with pride hearing his very own name. Oswald tries not to
roll his eyes. He tucks Zavini’s card into his own coat pocket. “Does this mean
I can see you again…,” Oswald feigns his eagerness. And unsurprisingly Zavini
falls for it.
“Well, yes, my darling boy,” Zavini smiles too wide, “I would...I mean, only if
you want to, I would like to see you again...yes, we can be very good friends.
I would love to have you over for dinner. My personal chef can make every dish
under the sun, anything you want, you ask, he makes.”
Oswald nods, not quite pretending to not be interested because, yes, he needed
to be closer to this man. Zavini straightens in his seat with delight flooding
his face. Oswald begins to wonder if there were others that denied the man.
Zavini, even with his desire for young men seemed relatively harmless, at least
he does right now. Oswald would soon find out what the man was capable of
because he needed to know everything about him. “I’d love that.”
Oswald shuffles to Zavini’s side of the cabin and sits next to him. He is close
enough that the man began to squirm. Oswald nuzzles under Zavini’s arm and his
own arms come up to encircle the man’s middle. Zavini seems to have stopped
breathing, and Oswald’s face breaks into a grin the man can’t see because
Oswald’s face is burrowing in his coat. “Thank you for everything, Mr. Zavini,
I wish I didn’t have to leave you. I never met anyone like you...No one’s ever
made me feel so special.”Oswald mumbles into Zavini’s chest, sighing once the
man’s returns his embrace.
Zavini’s hand slowly travels down Oswald’s back and up again, it was almost
soothing to him. “How can anyone turn away from you. Seeing you there, among
the snow and the passersby, you looked like a little fallen bird, with not a
soul willing to help you up. Forgive me for telling you so,”
Oswald brushes off the comment full of pity, but files away Zavini’s need to
play the savior role. Did the man really think he was doing Oswald a favor by
buying him expensive things in return for some sort of deviant sexual act? That
defiles the definition of friends. But it didn’t matter in this moment because
Oswald didn’t have the luxury of friends.
“Thank you,”Oswald just replies, slipping from the man’s arms. “I..I’ll call
you.” He moves to the car door and steps out onto the curb, hearing a final
“Please do!” from the desperate Zavini as the car pulls away.
Oswald watches the stretch car pull away with a quiet rumble of the engine
huffing from the shifting gears as if the driver couldn’t wait to get out of
this dingy part of Gotham. Oswald feels the solid weight of his mother’s gift
in his hands, looking in the bag. The lovely velvety square box wrapped in a
beautiful rose colored ribbon. He closes the bag up again and clutches it to
his chest, he closes his eyes, mentally preparing a believable story to give
his mother about how he came to possess such expensive things.
“Heeeeeeey, Oddwald!!!,” comes a hiss over his shoulder that sounds far too
close and near out of nowhere.
A rough cold hand grasps the back of his neck hard, squeezing and jostling him
about, like he’s weak kitten. And he might as well be compared to these
belligerent fools. No. Aside from being bullied at his private school, the kids
in his own neighborhood give it to him doubled over.
The kids seem to think that Oswald thought he was better than them (and he was
in his own opinion) because he went to school on the other side of town. The
betters definitely lived beyond the red lined neighborhoods but that didn’t
mean that Oswald had become apart of them. But the guffaws coming from behind
his aggressor means that the bastard isn’t alone. And means bad news for
Oswald.
Oswald is suddenly spun around to face his attacker, certainly a familiar face,
a local boy named Tracy Dodd. The boy goes by “Trace” in his own social circle,
thinking it sounds cooler but it still means nothing to Oswald, just synonymous
with ‘idiot’ and ‘dickhead’.
Oswald says nothing to their jeers and taunts, waits for them to go down the
list of names they made up for him as they shove him about in a circle they had
now formed, like he was a ball being passed between them. Usually when Oswald
is silent and takes the beating they lose interest. But it doesn’t seem to work
this time because one of the less dimwitted of the boys notices the package in
Oswald’s folded in arms and tries to grab at it. Dread fills Oswald’s stomach,
no, he worked hard for this gift for his mother. He’d be damned if he let this
riff raff try to steal it from him. And as much as he is punched and pried at,
he hugs himself tighter and folds in.
They have him on the ground now, and the kicks to his side ache. “Just give it
to us and we’ll stop,” Tracy grabs at his now freed hair as his winter hat had
been lost in the frenzy. The pull wrenches his neck back in painful angle, so
much so that Oswald cries out loudly. He mentally cringes because he sounds so
weak.
It was almost funny that only mere moments ago he felt on top of the world
winning over Zavini’s affections. And now he is back to being gutter trash
undermined by the hands of these less than awful nitwits. Tears well up in
Oswald’s eyes, one burning as it was swelling from a previous punch, but the
back hand to his face from Tracy’s massive paw of a hand is hard and biting.
Blood and drool dribble from his mouth and onto the pavement painted with slush
and newly fallen snow.
“Let him go.” A new arrival comes, the voice is light and young, but there is a
toughness in it that Oswald’s attackers could only hope to achieve.
Tracy let’s go of Oswald’s hair and steps forward, “And what are you gonna do?
Go mind your own business before I beat the shit outta you too.” Tracy tries to
grab for Oswald again but nothing comes, just a blur and rush of curse words
and fists hitting flesh. Oswald slowly stands, seeing as he isn’t the one being
attacked. His mother’s present is still safe in his arms.
He looks up now and the scene is something that has only played out in his
dreams. But instead of this boy he has never seen before kicking the shit out
of his bullies, he is the one doing it. But Oswald likes this better. Watching
Tracy groan and cover his broken nose, blood gushing through his fingers.
The boy works over the other two with ease, but he takes their hits and returns
them with even more fervor. Tracy watches this with the same fascination that
Oswald does but for different reasons of course. Tracy probably can’t believe
he is being bested by some no-name. Oswald only feels gratitude but intrigue
exceeds all thought right now.
The others hightail it home, knowing they can’t compete with the boy’s speed
and scrappiness and how every hit they gave him did little to quell his spirit.
Tracy gets the message and trails after his lackeys, but not without parting
sentiment. “Fuck you, Oddwald, we’ll get you for this so you be ready to pay
up, fucker.”
The boy stranger looks like he is about to chase them down to finish the job.
His chest is heaving and his fists are clenched tight, Oswald imagines he can
see the other boy’s rage and adrenaline steaming from his body in heatwaves.
The boy turns to Oswald, eyes blazing with fury but the hint of concern in them
makes Oswald’s chest ache. He wonders if this is what it means to be the
‘damsel in distress’.
This boy, with his light brown hair--thick and shining a pleasing dimmer
blonde--and deep blue eyes and bloodied fists staring at him like he mattered.
But it was pure, not something squalid like with Zavini, who was now an
afterthought. “Are you okay?,” the boy asks.
It takes a moment for Oswald to answer, still puzzled by why this boy even
stopped to help. Rowdy fights on the street were a recurring theme in Oswald’s
neighborhood, no one cared if anyone got hurt, as long as it wasn’t them.
The boy bends down to scoop up tiny piles of freshly fallen snow. He compacts
it with his palms into an oblong shaped ball, he moves towards Oswald with
surety, authority-like. His young face betrays the harden look in his eyes.
“Here, this will help with the swelling,” He presses the icy ball of snow to
Oswald’s face who winces at the contact but the boy does not relent.
Oswald is taken by the boy’s eyes as they look over his face for more injuries.
He moves the little ball to Oswald’s busted lip. Oswald’s tongue flicks out
instinctively tasting the crisp snow, along with the salt of the boy’s
fingertips as they graze across his lips. The boy tracks the movement with his
eyes but then focuses on the gift Oswald is carrying.
“That must be pretty important for you to take a beating like that,”he
comments. And he isn’t making fun of Oswald, just stating the facts.
Oswald moves the boy's hand away from his face gently, “Yes, it’s for my
mother. I worked hard to get it.” He says it, accompanying guilt trailing his
words. Maybe now he was no better than Zavini.
But the boy just nods like Oswald is just another kid wanting to do right by
his family, “Then it’s worth it.” he drops the bit of snow and squishes it with
his boot to disrupt the awkwardness as they stand so close to one another.
After a moment the boy introduces himself, “I’m Jim. Jim Gordon.”
Oswald rolls the name around in his mind. He finds that it suits the boy. Of
course it was a variant of James. But Oswald likes it as is.
Jim just stares at him, brow quirked in question of Oswald’s silence.
Blushing at his aloofness, Oswald sticks out his gloved hand to Jim’s uncovered
one. Jim’s grip is firm. “Oswald Cobblepot,”he says with a smile, it makes his
cheeks hurt.
He feels giddy all of a sudden. But how could he not? Even with all his hurts
and bruises everything seemed better now that Jim was here. Jim, a person he
didn’t know and a person that didn’t know him. Jim was a blank slate and could
not make a judgement on Oswald because he didn’t know him. Jim seriously just
saw him as a person who needed help. It says a lot for Jim’s character. Maybe
he and Jim could be friends. Jim certainly seemed useful in defense anyway. But
more than anything he wanted to make Jim like him. No, he needed Jim to like
him.
“Are you from around here?,” Oswald asked as he let Jim’s hand go.
Jim shrugged, “Sorta, my mom moved us up here for a while, we live that way,”
Jim points behind him towards the city.
Oswald eyes widened, “You are certainly far from home then, not that I’m
complaining,” he laughs. “If it weren’t for you I’d be a stain on the pavement.
Seriously, thank you…,”
Now it was Jim who was blushing, “Don’t mention it,” he smiles, chin tucked
into his chest as he rubs the back of his neck to alleviate his embarrassment,
“Seriously, don’t. Nancy would kill me herself, if she knew.”
“Nancy?,” Oswald smiles in question, rocking back and forth on his heels,
trying to bring warmth back into his stiff cold legs.
“She’s my mom,” Jim says, tucking his hands in his pockets. “She’s the no non-
sense type.”
Oswald laughs then, thinking of his own mom, “She should meet mine then, all
she is is nonsensical. What a pair they would make.”
Jim grins, ducking his head again, “I should think so,” and he opens his mouth
to speak again but is drowned out by the siren of a police car, obnoxious
blaring down the street towards them.
The sirens are off once the cop exits the vehicle. His hand is resting on his
gunbelt and his hip is cocked out to the side in what Oswald would call a pose
meant for intimidation but comes off more as impatience if anything.
“Heard some punks were fightin’ out here. You two see anything?,” the cop’s
eyes are hiding behind reflector sunglasses but Oswald could tell the man was
looking at Jim
Oswald glances at Jim who now looks as murderous as he did when fighting Tracy
and his goons. “No officer, sir. No fighting around here. People keep to
themselves mainly.”
The cop turns his attention to Oswald, eyeing his mother’s gift bag like he had
X-ray vision, his hand twitching as if he is about to make a grab for it and
investigate the contents, no doubt wanting to confiscated it for himself.
Everyone in Gotham knew most, if not all of the GCPD was crooked and dirty. But
before the cop could even move his fingers Jim was in front of Oswald, standing
toe to toe with this baffoon in uniform “You got something you wanna tell me,
son,” the cop seethes at Jim.
“No, not at all, officer. We’re going home now.” Jim grabs Oswald by his elbow
and leads him away before the cop could even stop them. Oswald allows himself
to be guide, smiling to himself as Jim takes the lead.
“Please tell me this is the right way to your house, because otherwise we’d
look mighty stupid going back to where that dick was.”Jim lets his arm go, not
that Oswald minded the close contact.
“It is!,” Oswald laughs, and he can’t remember smiling or laughing this much in
forever as Jim laughed along with him, falling in step together until the cop
was nothing more than a pea sized man in the distance.
And the way back home brought nothing but warm fuzzy feelings in Oswald's
entire body. Jim told him some things about himself. What music he liked, where
he went for school, how many fights he been in. How many school suspensions.
And how currently he was due for tryouts for his school’s football team, tells
Oswald, of his time playing for his old middle school. Oswald found all of this
interesting, never knowing so much about a person his own age, even though Jim
was two years younger than Oswald as he was told. Jim was a freshman at a
public school, whereas he was now a junior at his private school.
Oswald didn’t mind the age difference. Jim was tall for his age and bigger than
him. But Oswald liked that aspect about him too. The only telltale of his age
were the cheekiness of his young face. It was honestly adorable. But more there
was more to it than that. There was a loneliness that would pass over Jim with
every changing story he told Oswald. As if he recited these things to someone
else over and over again. Oswald didn’t care to comment, just being seen by Jim
is more than enough. Maybe if they became friends officially, or however other
children became friends by declaration, then Jim would tell him what was
hurting him so bad. Oswald wanted to make that pain go away somehow.
They climbed the stairs to Oswald and his mother’s apartment. Oswald felt
nervous about letting the other boy see how they lived. His mother kept up the
house whenever she could but most of the cleaning fell to Oswald on one of her
longer nights at work. He was surprised that James came all this way. Was it
only to make sure he got home safe? Or was it that the other boy had things he
was also trying to avoid by being so far from his home in the city? Maybe he
and his mother didn’t have a good relationship?
Oswald knew it was impolite to dabble into the affairs of other people--the
things they didn’t wish you to know about--as his mother always tells him. But
even she tells him the little happenings with her co-workers, some of the
stories are too full of drama that she just has to tell someone. And she gets
this delightful look on her face when she tells him, like she just watched the
greatest movie and had to tell someone all the best parts. Oswald indulged her,
because, why not, she was his mother. But he had little interest in whose baby
was it really? Or who had the affair with whom. Or who was stealing all the
dressing materials that seemed to mysteriously disappear at night.
But Jim was nice and honest as far as Oswald could tell, he could wait until
forever for the other boy to tell him what was bothering him. Oswald takes off
his boots at the door and smiles a bit when he watches Jim do the same and
takes off his coat as well. He leaves Oswald standing by the door and ventures
into the living room as if there was something new to be discovered. Oswald
supposes there is, being that this was Jim’s first time here. Oswald watches
him for a time, noticing how the boy looks but doesn’t touch their things. Jim
seemed all about respectability. Oswald files away.
Oswald also notices Jim’s manner of dress. He is in formal attire. A fine but
too big suit jacket and matching dress pants, a slight tear in the knee, a
possible result from the fight. A wilting red flower is haphazardly pinned to
his breast.
“Were you going on a date?,” he begs to question
Jim’s back stiffens as he turns to face Oswald. His face is flushed red, ears
turning a brighter shade of pink.
“Er, no...well, yes…,” he begins, running a hand through his golden bronzed
hair, his bangs are flippant as they spring back. “Sorta, I guess. I took the
train to pick this girl up for a school dance...uh, the Yuletide or whatever.
My mom kinda forced me to go. And I just...Well there’s this girl that takes
the same train as me and I knew she went to my school, and I just kinda asked
her.”
James’ voice is a blur but Oswald catches on quickly, his brows furrow in, “And
she said no?,” he asks the other boy, wondering what idiot girl would see Jim
and tell him no. Oswald knows if Jim asked him to go along, he wouldn’t
hesitate.
But Oswald knew that was his own desperation talking. He wanted to be
everything to Jim, friend, boyfriend, girlfriend, whoever Jim wanted him to be,
whoever Jim saw that had value to him. Oswald wanted to be that person. Oswald
thinks that this is what it means to have a crush on someone or fall in love at
first sight. The romantic notions his mother only tells him about when she has
had too much cheap wine.
Jim huffs a small laugh as if he reads that Oswald is insulted for him, “Well,
she said yes initially, but when I went to pick her up she thought I wasn’t
being genuine. And well, I suppose I wasn’t because I didn’t wanna go anyways,
but she thought I was picking on her. Like I was just playing with her or
something, so I tell her it isn’t like that and she asks if I really do like
her, like in that way….and of course I tell her my mom is forcing me to go,
which is completely the wrong thing to say and so she starts crying and her dad
is suddenly in my face yelling and cussing, and it’s a really big guy so I just
run away as fast as I can in these lame shoes, and that’s when I’m in the
convenience store, getting something to eat for the long train ride back, and
I…” Jim pauses, looking embarrassed again.
“That’s when I heard you cry out...and just...seeing those guys kicking you
around...man...I…,” Jim just leaves it at that, and his eyes drift to the
floor.
Oswald only smiles coming over to Jim, “Well, you look an awful mess with that
tear in your pants, I can fix it for you. And this jacket is surely too big. I
can take that in too.”he says, taking the jacket off of the boy’s shoulders
even as he protests. “My mom taught me how to use a sewing machine, she’s
pretty adamant about men learning all manners of professions.”
Jim finally gives in with a shrug, “I mean, if it’ll be a better looking jacket
worth the price my mom paid for, go for it.”
Oswald is delighted that Jim acquiesces, but is even more surprised with the
ease and nonchalance when Jim strips out of his pants and also hands them to
him. He tries not to stare but Jim must certainly be measured properly. Oswald
takes the clothes to the small work station his mother has set up for mending
and making. She could mend well enough but her patterns weren’t the best, but
Oswald wasn’t going to tell her that.
He takes up the spool of measuring tape and drags out a wheeled body length
mirror, pulling it in front of Jim. He hand’s the tape to Jim to hold when he
goes to pull out pins to get the correct fit for Jim.
Oswald dares to look at his tanned skin. His eyes shifting to the long panels
of muscle of Jim’s sculpted arms and down to his undershorts covering the swell
of his bottom, and finally down to those thick legs, lightly dusted with hair,
matching his arms in toned strength. Oswald thinks about Jim in his football
uniform, how powerful he would look.
Jim doesn’t flinch when Oswald smooths his hands along his shoulders and down
his arms from behind. The only sound in the room is the is the rustling of the
fabric being pinned up to make Jim a better fit. Oswald leans in closer,
smelling the remnants shampoo and sweat clinging to the nape of the other boy’s
neck.
He wondered if this is how Zavini felt, on the cusp of perverted and
charitable. But Jim wanted his help although Oswald knew they weren't reading
from the same page.
Oswald huffs at that thought. He felt like a heartfelt fool. Jim would never
want him. Jim had had a now squalid date with a girl. Whatever preference
Oswald leaned toward had nothing to do with Jim but the boy definitely made him
question everything, asides from the stint with the older man previous.
“You’re too quiet.,” Jim says slowly as he cranes his neck over his shoulder as
Oswald fiddles with another pin to hold back the excess fabric to take in his
fit, who is on his knees now.
“Well…,” Oswald tries for words that won’t make him sound more pathetic, and he
finds none. “I’m not much for talking to anyone...usually don’t get the chance
because all the fists punching me in the face.” He says sheepishly, folding
another line into the jacket.
Jim says nothing after that but Oswald can tell that he’s thinking and then, “I
can teach you to fight if you wanna learn. It’s not hard.,” and the look on his
face is so determined and seemingly protective it makes Oswald quiver.
Oswald hand slips at the words and ends up sticking a pin through the fabric
and into Jim’s side. And on cue, Jim yelps and inches away quickly.
“Sorry! Sorry!,” Oswald is near hysterical. He wants to flog himself for ever
hurting the other boy. Jim was a friend now. You don’t hurt your friends. Not
even on accident in Oswald’s mind.
“It’s...It’s okay.” Jim says, pulling up his shirt and Oswald feasts on the
skin revealed. The near abs of Jim’s boyish body are beautiful. All of Jim is
beautiful. And that is when Oswald sees it.
A tiny pearl of blood welling up from Jim’s tanned skin. And then Oswald can’t
stop himself, shuffling awkward towards the other boy on his knees. “Let me see
it.,” he says slowly, looking up at Jim.
Jim holds his breath as he does it. His stomach is still.
Oswald presses his lips against warm blood and hot skin. Kisses it away all
soft and chaste. But the thought is far from innocent. He pulls back feeling
the red on his lips and he wonders if he looks obscene. Does Jim knows what
that looks like?
Jim gazes at him in some kind of wonder, his face is beet red and a little bit
sweaty. It just makes Oswald want to put his mouth all over him. But somehow he
wants to Jim to be pure. Not sullied by the likes of him. Not with the sordid
details of his time with Zavini fresh in his memory.
Oswald pulls back and away and that's when he realizes that he had his hand on
Jim's upper thigh the entire time. But somehow Oswald doesn't panic, he gets to
his feet, taking the measuring tape from the other boy's hand. “Sorry, again,
my friend,” he puts emphasis on the last word hoping that Jim accepts the
concept.
Jim is quiet for a while and they look on at one another with steady glances.
Oswald stares and stares with a bright look in his light blue eyes, whereas
Jim's eyes see through him as if he understands who he truly was. The look
leaves Oswald bare, feeling naked down to his very soul. He isn't sure if he
likes that.
“Put up your hands,” Jim says finally, stepping over towards the other boy,
“curl them into fists.” Jim”s face is still a little flushed but only a tinge
bit pink now as he strips off the jacket, taking great care to not disturb the
work Oswald had done.
Oswald thinks he is in love as he sets the pins and measuring tape off towards
an end table near the couch. He balls up his hands, feeling foolish but Jim has
a little smirk on his face so he doesn't mind much.
“Okay, so first you gotta get into a stance, put your right foot forward a bit
and move the left back.,” the other boy instructs.
Oswald knows he, himself, is blushing but he does as he's told. Somehow the
movement makes him feel a little bit tough already.
Turn your fists inward, thumbs facing yourself, bring them a bit close to your
face. This is so you got a chance to block hits to your face.”
“I think that's the most important part,” Oswald smiles brightly, and Jim
laughs.
“You're right about that. Head shots are the worst of it but you gotta protect
yourself from body shots too, so you gotta keep moving. Shuffle a little bit,
like you're dancing or whatever. Never stop moving. Bob and weave like buoy on
a stormy sea.” Jim says as if he is reciting things he learned himself.
Oswald shifts a bit, swaying back and forth and side to side, earning another
pleased smile from the boy. And he is so enamored by Jim's handsome face that
he doesn't notice Jim is in his own stance, mirroring him.
“Then jab,” Jim makes a hard punch to the open air between them. He makes a
heavy flurry of them before stopping. These were the moves used against Tracy
and his goons just earlier. It's amazing to see up close which left Oswald
beaming at the thought of Jim saving him. It was a show just for him.
And the plus side was Jim doing this in his underwear. The constant shift in
muscle of Jim's arms and legs were certainly distracting but it was the slight
bob in his shorts that drew Oswald's eye. It was difficult not to look. Jim
wasn't exactly small.
Oswald tried copying the punches Jim had demonstrated, he felt ridiculous but
it was Jim's nodding that told him otherwise.
“That's it, you look good, now a few more jabs.,” Jim praises him and Oswald
loves it. “You got it now.” He lets his arms fall to his sides, his breathing
is slightly elevated.
Oswald lets his own hands down, matching Jim breath for breath. The other boy's
words set something off in him.
“Will you show me how to get up if someone is on top of me? I mean, it's mainly
how I end up in fights,” Oswald says. “On the ground.”
Jim obliviously goes along with it. It should make Oswald feel disgusting but
he only feels selfish. He wants Jim surrounding him; he wants to meld Jim's
flesh to himself.
Shouldn't a damsel always reward the hero with a kiss or a touch? Oswald was
never one for fairy tales but he was all immersed in this one. Jim was his now.
His only friend. He would do anything in his power to make Jim think the same.
Even if it meant manipulating the other boy's feelings for him.
Jim nodded like it was a great idea, “Sure, that's smart. You might encounter a
guy bigger than you. Like those guys I beat up.”
“Yes, well, they are the self proclaimed bullies of this block. I run into them
far to much for my liking.” Oswald sighs, running a hand through his dark hair,
a grim look graces his face. But he turns playful then, trying to get on with
what they were doing. He quickly makes an exaggeration of falling over and
grins when Jim laughs aloud.
“Oh! Mr. Bully, you just knocked me down! Whatever must I do?!” Oswald puts the
back of his hand to his forehead and wilts.
Jim stands over him for a minute, trying to compose himself. He then steps over
Oswald and kneels. A thigh is perfectly placed over each of Oswald's own.
Oswald just bites his bottom lip, worrying it red as he awaits more
instruction.
“Okay, so if a big guy is on top of you, it's important to keep on hand
protecting your face and the other on his body. Attack his sides, hit him where
it hurts. Not bad to fight dirty. Bad guys always do.” Jim says, grabbing
Oswald's wrists to pull them into position. “Use your small body against him,
you will be faster and more accurate with your hits. Try to keep a level head
also, it'll be hard but it helps.”
Oswald lightly taps the outside of Jim's ribs, feeling along the defined
grooves of them. “It's good to hit here?,” he questions.
Jim falters in words, staring into Oswald's eyes with his face unreadable, so
he just nods.
“And you said to hit him where it hurts? You mean down there?,” Oswald grins,
shifting his hips up for emphasis.
Jim only shifts back a little but not completely. It is the only sign Oswald
needs, using the moment of surprise to flip them over, nearly knocking them
both against the coffee table. Jim is breathless as his back hits against the
floor.
“Or I could pin him down like this.,” Oswald smiles down at Jim in triumph,
fully resting his bottom against Jim's groin. He feels wanton as soon as his
ass brushes against Jim's soft member, the thinness of his cotton undershorts
details everything of Oswald. He feels everything.
Jim gulps audibly and blushes, raising himself up on his elbows, “Yeah, man,
you seem like you got it.”
“Only because I have such a great teacher.” Oswald says it like a fact, his
grin widens. “Your dad teach you how?”
Jim turns stone-faced then, slowly leaning back down, letting his head hit the
floor with a soft thunk. He was quiet for a moment, seeming to forget that
Oswald was still atop him, causing the other boy to panic.
“Oh...I didn't mean...you, well it's just that you know so much...I'm sorry to
bring it up if he's--,” Oswald stammers out but is suddenly cut off by the
other boy.
“No, it's...,” Jim begins, searching for words. “...It's fine...well, not
exactly. He...well, he, er...he died.”
Oswald doesn't fake pity for the boy, he never knew his own father, but he
loves his mother. Losing her would be devastating.
He raises a hand to touch Jim's soft, warm cheek, running it up to settle in
his silken hair. The tenderness takes Jim by surprise. Oswald doesn't miss it,
the slight widening of those maddening blue eyes. “I'm truly sorry, my
friend.,” he says, “If you are so like him, I know he was a great man.”
Jim turns quiet once more, but Oswald can feel him deftly leaning into his
touch. “He was.”
Oswald smiles softly, lightly scratching Jim's scalp.
This is it.
This is the moment that will solidify their friendship. This is what was
hurting Jim earlier and he chose to share that hurt with him. Oswald's heart
feels giddy. He wants to kiss the other boy but he that so much so fast would
be too soon. He didn't' want to ruin this. He wasn't going to ruin this.
Jim looked up at Oswald, going to put a smile on his own face like the other
boy's was infectious. He was even going to tell Oswald more about his life at
home, back when things were normal and put together and not taken for granted.
But the quick open and shut of the front door burned through that idea.
Oswald jumped away from Jim so fast he tripped over, falling a few paces away
at the foot of his mother's much covered shoes. He tried not to let guilt over
take his face. His mother definitely sees everything and Jim is still on the
floor.
In his underwear.
Gertrude meets Oswald's eyes at first, then Jim's, then back to Oswald. The
room is quiet for quite a spell, but for a moment the rushing smell of alcohol
spills from his mother's breath. Oswald can smell it even from his position on
the floor as she opens her mouth with a drunken smile.
“Oh, my little Cobblepot has made a friend!”
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Oswald doesn't want it to end; his time with Jim. His friend.
His.
Oswald's mother's appearance was not unexpected. Of course she would come back
from work. And liquored up, as she would wind down the day with a couple of
cheap glasses of wine and whatever else she and her co workers could get their
hands on before taking the train back home.
Oswald rises from the floor, turning an apologetic look in Jim's direction as
he goes to dote upon his mother, helping her out of her coat and taking her
hat. He hooks them neatly on the rack by the front door.
“Oh my sweet boy,” she always laments at him in a endearing slur of speech, as
she makes it further into the living room where Jim is now standing awkwardly,
still in his underwear. He goes to meagerly cover himself, shying away from
Gertrud's wandering eye. But Jim could be wearing a full-on clown costume and
Oswald's mother wouldn't think twice about it.
“Hi, Mrs. Cobblepot,” Jim offers lamely, looking at Oswald for direction. And
possibly his unfinished pants.
“Oh, no, no, it's Kapelput,” Gertrud says gently and moves to sit on the couch,
taking Jim's pinned up red jacket in her hand, analyzing it even in her stupor.
“Only my sweet Oswald is Cobblepot. Doctor could not spell the family name on
the birth certificate.” She preens at her son who gives her a wilted grin in
return and looks away. He doesn't want her to question his oncoming black eye
and busted lip. He keeps his head down as she continues to speak.
“No Mrs. either. Widowed long ago,” she sighs, turning a lingering eye on Jim
as she re-pins a fold or two.
Jim looks up sharply at Oswald, wondering. Oswald only nods, “I didn't know him
then. I was just a baby.”
And Jim gives him the most heartbreaking look, before turning back to Gertrud.
“I'm sorry.”
“No, sweet boy, though it hurts, it was quite some time ago. Here, I will let
Oswald finish your fancy jacket. I will make tea.,” her giddiness makes her
sober up more and she is up off the couch and into the small kitchen in a few
steps.
Jim watches her for a moment and then turns back to Oswald. “She's nice.,” is
his only comment.
Oswald didn't know he was wringing his hands, he forces them to his side. Jim's
acceptance of his mother relaxes him. He knew she was strange, her bright
spirit not touch by Gotham's darkness. Oswald treasured her for it. It was pure
nonsense for her not to accept their dim reality but it was a trait of hers
that kept them both going. He thinks Jim can see that too.
“Well, let me finish up this,” Oswald says as he takes the jacket in his arms,
bringing it over to the sewing station. He flips on a overhead light and then
comes a brightness that halos him.
Jim is unsure of what to do so he sits on the couch on his knees, hooking his
arms over the back of it as he watches Oswald work.
Oswald feels Jim watching him. It makes him feel naked—no, he wants to be naked
under his stare. The thought makes him falter with the coat, adding a few more
stitches it doesn't need. He curses himself silently, wondering where this
burst of hormones came from. Was it always there? Or was it a curse from
Zavini?
Oswald didn't believe he was sexually attracted to the older man. He wanted his
money and whatever power he held in his titles. But Jim was here. Making him
feel all sorts of latent things he never thought he could feel. Maybe love at
first sight was real. And the more Oswald thinks about it, the more he hates
the idea of it. Because what if Jim really didn't feel the same?
A wound blooms in his heart and it aches. What if Jim was simply doing the
right thing, sticking up for him in the fight with Tracy. Would it matter if
Oswald was another person? Just anybody on the street getting beat to shit and
Jim just happens to be there.
Oswald thinks not. And that is the problem. He wants to be the special one. The
only one Jim would go down fighting for. No one else should matter to Jim. Jim
was his now. He needed Jim to see that.
“Are you okay?,” Jim asks quietly, his eyes engaged with concern as he stares
at Oswald.
Oswald didn't even realize his hands had stilled on his work. His foot on the
sew pedal was frozen a few inches above it. He knew he could get lost in his
own mind but this was a bit ridiculous. Jim, all flesh and blood, was still
with him. Jim, who seemed to hold no interest of going home to his own mother.
He wasn't even rushing him to do the work so he could run out the door. Oswald
revels in it, he wants to keep Jim here as long as possible.
He shakes his head, “Yes, sorry, I'm fine,” he smiles, standing up from the
short work bench, all finished with the bright jacket, he sets it aside,
knowing his mother would tend to the torn suit pants, so Oswald figures they
should do something else. “Would you...like to see my room?”
Jim only shrugs, but he grins like it's a cool idea, “Sure.”
“Mother, we're going to my room,” Oswald calls out, beckoning the boy to follow
him down the short hallway.
“Yes, my darling!,” Gertrud's thick accent flows from the kitchen towards them
in a sing-song. And Oswald feels embarrassed completely but Jim just smiles at
him and gently punches his arm. The somber mood has left the other boy behind
and seeing the white of his teeth in that smile puts another flutter into
Oswald's heart.
Once they get inside his room he shuts the door softly, allowing Jim to be the
first person to ever grace the present area. The heat pools at his belly at the
thought of it. Jim being all his. Letting Oswald linger in his personal space,
fingers melding against the other boy's warm flesh. Oswald can feel his hands
shake. He wants to touch. He briefly thinks about Zavini's maddening gaze and
wondered if his own face read the same. Could Jim see his desire?
The other boy peers around Oswald's very modest room just as he had the rest of
the apartment. Curious and cataloging. Jim is entirely comfortable here, he
doesn't quite get why he is, but why question a thing that doesn't make him
feel bad. He looks over at Oswald's school books tossed over a frail looking
desk, some bound together only by string and duct tape. Jim doesn't even have a
judgment for that. Why should he? Oswald was nice and actually kinda cool. Him
being not as well off as someone else did nothing to diminish Jim's thought of
him.
An old record player sits near the tiny bedroom window, a flash of the setting
sunlight graces it and it catches Jim's eyes. He walks over to it in an
instant, running his fingers over the closed lid. “Cool,” is all Jim says.
And Oswald is quick to depreciate the comment. “Ancient.,” He smiles and
wanders over to the other boy's side. He reaches down below the record player
to open up a cabinet. Jim leans down onto his knees as there is a full stock of
albums, he pulls a stack out and sorts through it.
Oswald frowns because Jim says nothing. He knows that the boy doesn't recognize
anything current. There was no big hair bands or synthesized pop titles among
his collection. Most of it was jazz and blues and some things from his mother's
time. Oswald couldn't help but feel a little bit embarrassed.
But Jim surprised him once more. His blue eyes are clear and bright as he says
with mild excitement, “Can we listen to this?” He holds up a record and the
surface of it's sleeve is scratched and marred but Oswald can tell that it's
Nina Simone's I Put A Spell On You. Something he hasn't listened to in ages;
Oswald preferred just sounds than the lamented wailing of a beautiful artist
singing about things he's never experienced or felt.
Jim seems to take his hesitation as 'no'. He sets the record down with the
others. “My...dad.” He starts softly. “He would put this on Sunday mornings and
dance with my mother in the kitchen...when she was making breakfast...”
How awfully romantic, was Oswald's first thought. But he takes the album from
the boy's hands and sets up the player. The classic tune spills from the built
in speakers and floods the room with it's melody. It's sweet and seductive.
Oswald can imagine the faceless figures of Jim’s parents swinging about the
kitchen in a loving embrace as the tunes play around them and a young baby-
faced Jim smiling and giggling as he played spectator to their whimsy.
Jim watches the vinyl spin slow and steady for just a minute before closing his
eyes and embracing the sound. The sunlight brushes his face in a healthy glow,
spinning his hair in gold. Oswald thinks this is how angels look. But the look
in Jim's face is pure melancholy. It's beautiful.
Oswald tilts his head to his shoulder and ponders for just a moment. He
searches for the boldness he had blossoming in Zavini's car. He finds it just
simmering inside his heart when he puts an outstretched hand in front of Jim's
face. “Then let us dance,” Oswald says quietly, unsure of Jim's response.
Jim opens his eyes at the words, surprising Oswald with the brimming of tears.
He has a shaky smile and briskly wipes at his eyes with his shirtsleeve. He
takes Oswald's hand wordlessly because the moment borderlines on awkwardness
and sorrow.
Oswald emulates the same. Seeing Jim upset aches at his heart. He doesn't mind
pulling the boy closer to him. And there is no closer than the feel of another
person's heart beating against your chest. Jim is soft and warm and whole. It's
almost too much for him to handle.
'Ne me quitte pas' echos them, and Oswald has never felt this more. He doesn't
ever want Jim to leave him. So much has happened in the matter of a few hours
but nothing is more important than his meeting Jim. Jim eases the ache in his
body from his earlier violent tryst with Tracy and his flunkies. The scent of
cloves and evergreen from Zavini is washed away from his olfactory dictionary
and is replaced with Jim's smell of boy sweat and fresh soap.
Oswald lets his head fall onto Jim's shoulder and they are slowly moving in a
circle around the small room. His right hand is clasped in Jim's left, their
fingers interlock without either of them questioning it. Jim's stray right hand
found itself settled on Oswald's trim waist. The touch is electrifying. He can
feel the beat of Jim's heart rapping against him, which tells him that the boy
is just as nervous as him.
What they're doing is something beyond what either of them thought would happen
on this day. A stark surprise for them both but with them being like this now
seems like it is a welcomed one.
Oswald wants this to never end. The music plays on and Oswald whispers the
somber lyrics against the swell of Jim's strong shoulder. “Ne me quitte pas.”
“I won't.” Jim whispers back. It is so quiet that Oswald barely catches on, but
the words are solidified in Jim's touch as it tightens.
And with reluctance, Oswald pulls back because he has to look the other boy in
the face. He needs to know if Jim means it. The song blends into something more
upbeat but it doesn't cheer the room.
The hard look in Jim's eyes is enough to make Oswald's knees quake. Jim's gaze
tells no lies as it burrows into Oswald's. He feels guilty for thinking that he
should have to manipulate Jim into liking him. Why couldn't he see for himself
first that Jim could have already like him for who he is? Years of being
bullied will do that apparently. Oswald hadn't realized how broken he truly is
until he met the other boy. The fear is quick to wash upon him. How dare Jim do
this to him, make him so weak and needy.
Oswald pulls away entirely and he doesn't miss the way Jim's eyes seem to eat
up sadness like it permeates the air. Jim, whose dark blue eyes wring him dry.
A look that spills through the cracks in Oswald's darkened soul.
No.
This isn't going to work. Jim was pure. He didn't need the dirt and grime
Oswald believed himself to be made up of in his life. Besides, Jim just wanted
something to protect. To save. Because he couldn't do so for his own father. He
wasn't going to be that for him. Oswald knew he couldn't be that for him. He
didn't need reminders of his own weakness by Jim's presence. Oswald wanted to
use Jim but he was not going to allow himself to be used. Especially when all
Jim had to offer was friendship, whereas Zavini was seemingly rich and powerful
and had a thing for young men.
The older man was Oswald's golden goose and Jim was...well he wasn't anything.
Oswald felt guilty and stupid for letting his fantasies get the best of him.
Allowing himself to feel for the other boy who was a stepping stone into
commonwealth. Oswald didn't want any part of that.
Jim's face is full of concern and Oswald pities him. This boy is cursed with a
heart too big. Gotham will eat him alive.
“I'm fine. Just...tired, I guess.” Oswald says stiffly, and what more is there
to say. Jim shifts from foot to foot awkwardly as he tries to capture Oswald’s
eyes with his own, yearning to be seen.
Oswald only moves towards the record player and stops it, dousing the room in
utter silence. It’s unnerving as the tension winds up his spine. He doesn’t
face the other boy until his mother props open the bedroom door ajar, taking no
care to knock first. She beams at them both with a tray of biscuits and hot
tea. Oswald notices she has brought out the good silverware and porcelain tea
cups reserved for special guest. It makes him angry.
“Such beautiful music,” she smiles, setting the tray over Oswald’s messy desk.
“I rarely hear it these days.” She makes a playful twirl before landing a few
steps by Jim. “I was a dancer once, you know.”
Oswald is entirely embarrassed by her as Jim makes no comment. “Thank you for
the tea mother but Jim was just leaving.” He moves to usher them both out of
his room and he doesn’t miss the way Jim looks at him. Hurt and confused.
“Oh, how sad, I was hoping you were going to stay for dinner.,” Gertrud nearly
pouts as they all make their way back into the living room.
Jim gives a tight smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes but Oswald’s mother is aloof
to his expression as he rounds up his suit clothes. Gertrud had already mended
the pants, and whatever Oswald had started on the jacket was tidied too. It fit
him nicely. “Thank you, Ms. Kapelput, I gotta be home soon anyway.,” he says as
he bundles himself up in his winter coat, taking great care to now avoid
looking at Oswald.
Gertrud shows him to the door as Oswald trails meekly behind her. “Please come
by any time. Friends of my son are always welcomed.”
Jim nods and doesn’t flinch as she bends slightly to kiss both his cheeks. He
only dares a quick glance at Oswald who tucks his hands behind his back,
letting his eyes drift to the floor. Jim waves himself off and rushes down the
stairs in a huff.
Gertrud shuts the door after him, turning to Oswald, “What a nice boy.” she
preens.
Oswald only ignores her, bounding off to his room and slamming the door. He
makes his way over to the window and sees the tiny form of Jim at the base of
the apartment building’s main entrance. He watches him walk away with his
shoulders hunched either to protect himself from the cold or a simple display
of disappointment at what had just transpired.
And what exactly did happen? Oswald felt his face burn in shame. He just ruined
whatever had begun between he and Jim. Oswald didn’t have the luxury of friends
and then here comes this beautiful boy whose openness and honesty brings a
light to his sullen life. Even if it were just a moment or two they shared.
Oswald thought that by stopping this thing between he and Jim--rejecting the
other boy’s advances--before they could even blossom, that he was saving them
both the trouble of what could have been. And yet, what it still could be.
Because here Oswald sits staring after Jim, pondering over it all. And that’s
all it takes.
He rushes to play the record again. And the music fills the room once more,
ripping out the tension in Oswald’s spine and is replaced by a coiling heat. He
tries to ignore it but Jim is still in his sights, walking slow and lumbering.
Only a small strip of skin is exposed, the back of his neck is untouched by the
end of his winter hat and coat collar.
Oswald undoes his pants, roughly shoving a hand in his underwear, stroking
himself dry, not caring if it hurts. He thinks he likes it more if it hurts.
Jim was hurting him. Jim was making him so very weak. He miraculously gets hard
and it’s all Jim.
He imagines the boy’s hands on him, their play-fighting antics from earlier are
still fresh within his memory. And he presses his ass against the tail end bed
post, its roundness was not as yielding as Jim’s soft member had been against
him. But it strengthens the memory. He is leaking now, squeezing his head on
the up stroke. He is quiet. Only his breath is sounding evidence as it fogs up
a small spot on the window. He uses his other hand to wipe it away as it was
obscuring Jim from his view. And the boy is almost out of sight now and Oswald
is so very close. He gets on tip-toe widening his legs so the rounded bedpost
presses nearly close to his covered hole, almost grazing his balls in turn. It
feels surreal. He’s never done it like this before.
Oswald bites bottom his lip then, uncaring of the swollen split he got from
Tracy’s massive fist. He worries it until the skin breaks again from its
malformed healing process. And the taste of blood is silk to his tongue as he
thinks of Jim’s hot flesh under his fingertips and his tiny pearl of blood
welled up for Oswald to taste. And it’s done. He is spent, spilling all over
his hand and in the confines of his briefs. He wants Jim to turn back. To see
the mess he’s made of him. He thinks about being even crueler to Jim. Wants to
finish off Jim like he had done to Zavini. Make him powerless and wanting more
of him. He wants that control.
Would Jim like that?
Did Oswald care?
Oswald watches the boy slip from sight, and he wonders if he would be fortunate
enough to see him again.
Chapter End Notes
     Not as long as the first chapter. Hope you still enjoy it. feel free
     to comment, ask questions, or make suggestions. I will take it all.
     As far as the song goes it is the third track. I love it.
     https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nUZL6gsuAmQ
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Oswald wonders if part of the recurring torment and abuse was some sort of
divine punishment.
It wasn't likely.
He rarely believed in coincidences. But his thoughts did wander back to Jim and
that fateful day. Was the world trying to give him a helping hand by making
Jim's presence known? He knows Jim would have stopped this from happening.
Again. School was always unbearable for Oswald. Some days were better than
others but unfortunately today didn't count. He was on his knees in the boys'
restroom fishing his text books out of a toilet full of piss. They were the
only ones he had so it was unfathomable to just leave them. He eyes the soiled
pile of textbooks spitefully.
But a week has gone by with no contact from the other boy. Oswald knew that he
lived on the other side of town and went to a public school but Jim does know
where Oswald lives. Oswald can only blame himself for Jim's absence. It was him
who turned the other boy away. Like a coward, Oswald got scared of what was
becoming. But everyday since their meeting he has been thinking of him. The
weakness he felt around Jim had not left, the wound only got worse.
He dips his hand inside the toilet and pulls out the first book, its sloppy
binding is worn away by the onslaught of wetness. The marred cover rips from
the rest of the book and the bulk of it lands back in the piss water with a
slight splash. Oswald doesn't stop the cascade of tears from falling. It only
took an instant to get to this moment.
Oswald hears shuffling from outside his stall thinking that its his bullies
committed to his suffering coming back for more. He quietly leaps up onto the
toilet seat, balancing carefully to pretend he isn't here. The sound of a piss
stream hitting porcelain fills the silence of the restroom. Oswald shifts to
peak through the slit of the stall's door and conjoined frame at the newcomer.
A boy, obviously, but one he has rarely seen and never talked to. He watches
the boy silently finish up his business and ends with washing his hands. But
the boy doesn't leave. He seems to be contemplating something but Oswald just
wishes him away so he can wallow in self-pity alone.
The boy's back is still to him, and the sound of his voice causes Oswald to
nearly slip off his perch of a toilet.
“Mr. Zavini wants you to contact him immediately.,” The boy says, his voice is
elevated in annoyance.
Oswald's eyes widened at this. A kid from his school playing messenger for
Zavini? The man who he hasn't given much thought about since his dismal ending
with Jim. He still had yet to present his gift to his mother, having not found
the time to come up with a plausible lie, though it would be Christmas soon.
With that, his plans to keep the older man on a tight string had nearly
dissipated into an impossible dream. He figured that a man that bored could
have any young man on the street. Oswald felt that he was no trophy to be won,
Zavini had to have better choices. And that much was true given the boy outside
his stall was extremely handsome. Could this boy be just another one of
Zavini's playthings?
“How did you know I was in here?,” Oswald questions with a croak, wiping
hastily at his bleary eyes. He opens the stall door.
The boy, with his strong jaw and neatly combed auburn hair, stares at him for a
moment, clearly unimpressed. “Heard some kids talking about it, pissing on your
books and stuff. Knew it had to be you since you are the school's punching
bag.”
“I'm not.” Oswald shifts forward as if he was going to hit this boy. Jim taught
him how, he could at least try it. One person was a lot less threatening than
three or four.
“Okay, would you prefer, stress reliever, then? Or pathetic mascot?,” the boy
only mocks him with a laugh, “I can keep going.”
Oswald is seething, his sadness and rage are his only range of emotions right
now. “Shut up!,” he hisses, launching at him, pushing him with all his might.
The other boy just rolls his eyes, not at all threaten by Oswald's sudden
attack. The boy barely moves as he is bigger than Oswald and much more solid.
Oswald is furious, but he knows he can't fight this boy. Not with his mental
state in ruins and a weak body. He is tired. “Who are you?,” he demands an
answer. “What do you want?”
The boy smirks, tucking his hand in his pockets, glaring at Oswald. “I'm Fife
Wilkes. Zavini is my patron. His words, not mine. But like I said, you have to
call him. And because I'm going to tell you how this business works.”
Oswald takes a solid step back. “What business?,” his voice wavers still and he
hates himself for it, “ I haven't agreed to do anything..”
Fife shrugs, unfazed, dislodging his hands from his pockets to smooth down his
pristine uniform that rumpled under Oswald's hands, “You agreed to it once you
accepted his gift and got into his car.,” he pulls out a blocky cell phone from
within his uniform's jacket, dialing a number before handing it to Oswald. “He
is waiting.”
“Pronto?,” came Zavini's greeting, his accent is thick over the word, and he
answers so quickly that it startles Oswald.
“Uh...I, yes, hello.,” he stammers, his mind nearly blank. “This is Oswald
Cobblepot.”
“My dear Oswald,” Zavini sounds pompous and expectant. “How are you. I see you
have gotten my message.”
Oswald glares back at Fife. “Yes, I did. How kind of you.” He feigns his
excitement and the other boy just grins widely at him. He hates the other boy
already.
Zavini can't tell over the phone whatever is Oswald's tone. “I haven't heard
from you so I just had to send someone, you understand. I have been thinking
about you for quite some time.”
Oswald's belly flops a little in disgust but his mind tells him that he is the
one that asked for this. Now there had to be a follow through. What that all
entailed, he was soon to find out. As the other boy had said, he made his
choices as soon as he accepted candy from Zavini.
Fife's eyes were on him intensely like he was waiting for Oswald to mess up. It
led Oswald to wonder if this boy was his competition. Oswald's disgust slowly
began to morph into ambition. Zavini was a king that had yet to be put in
check. Fife and who ever else prosperd under the older man's thumb were just
pawns to do away with in Oswald's mind. Yes. He did want this. He could have
cursed himself for taking his time in contacting Zavini, but that may have
given him the advantage, if he played his hand carefully. He knew he had to
stop letting his mangled psyche get the best of him in this situation. He had
to remake himself anew.
Oswald wants to win this game. He needs to. He smiles into the phone, slipping
into the role he was born to play. “I'm sorry I haven't called sooner...It's
just that...well, I was too embarrassed. I had been thinking about you too.
Especially...well, before I go to sleep.”
Fife's eyes grew comically wide and there was only a hitch in breath over the
phone. Oswald gave the boy his own smirk.
“Oh, my dear, we must meet again then...so we can talk about it.” Zavini
whispers excitedly and loudly as if he was molding his face closer to the
phone's receiver to get at Oswald. Loathsome pervert.
“I would love too...,” Oswald trails off, knowing he should be the one taking
initiative. Zavini wants to be desired apparently, which makes its way into
Oswald's mental file for him. “Can I see you tonight? I would love to have
dinner with you.”
Zavini hums with excitement, “Yes, my boy. I will have my chefs prepare a feast
for you. And a car! I will have my man pick you up from where we dropped you
off...the last time.” he says quietly like it's only their secret.
Oswald smiles at Fife's disgruntled look as if he were being edged out. And
Oswald supposed he was going to have to be. No matter how many rent boys filled
Zavini's Rolodex, Oswald knew he needed to make sure he was the one at the top
of the list. And with Zavini being already smitten with him seemed like it
would make this job a whole lot easier. Oswald plumed in triumph at the other
boy before turning his back to him to face his forlorn textbooks wading in the
toilet.
“But first,” Oswald begins, sighing sweetly into the phone, “I'm going to need
something.”
“Anything you want, my boy,” Zavini says with adoration. “Anything you want. We
will talk tonight.” He hums, signing off with a heavy, “Ciao.”
Oswald flips the phone shut, tossing back to Fife who nearly fumbles in
catching it. Oswald can't stop the grin cracking his face. It all was a
welcomed break in the monotony of his tortured school life and meager means at
home, “So, tell me about this business, hm?”
 
 
 
 
His room was messier than how it was usually kept, but Oswald had no time to
wring his hands about the fine details. He's in a rush because it was only a
matter of time before his mother would come home. And he wanted to be out the
door before then. Writing a quick note with a scribbled lie on his whereabouts
was much easier than telling her in person.
His eyes grazes over the few outfits he laid across his small bed. The only
clothes that didn't seemed all wear and tear; outfits that Oswald either nearly
outgrew or much better suited for funerals. The black suit he wore nearly two
years ago to an actual funeral for one of his mom's friends seemed to be the
best fitting choice for his dinner with Zavini. The other outfits were well out
of style and he was not going to walk into the man's kingdom riddled with
embarrassment.
Oswald tries on the suit pants first, marveling at how tight they were. He
fashioned himself to be as thin a reed, but the reality is that he did grow a
little bit over those two years. He bends experimentally in front of the body
length mirror, and he hears neither a tear in cloth from his actions. A simple
but good sign. He dons the jacket next. The sleeves are a little high upon his
wrists but he isn't too picky about that either. Maybe Zavini would buy him new
clothes. New everything. (Though the gifts would be hard to explain to his
mother.)
Oswald just wants and wants. He wants badly. Fife gave him the basic details
about Zavini's operations but explained that more would be revealed over the
course of his meal with the man. However, Oswald was smart enough to know that
providing certain goods to well-off clientele was not all the man had a hand
in. And one thing is for certain, “goods” did include warm bodies.
He buttons himself in his shirt and fastens the clasp of the jacket. He wasn't
sure what to do with his hair. It just hung loose about his head, coming down
to the lobes of his ears, with his bangs settle along his brow-bone. His light
eyes, inquisitive and calculating. And he stares and stares until he can morph
his face into the sweet innocence that trapped Zavini in the first place and
suddenly it is there, and he bats his long lashes for good measure.
He smiles deceptively at himself, and slowly it graces into a frown. If the
smattering of obscene freckles along the defined hook of his nose were never
there, Oswald could say he almost looked beautiful. But the prominent beak like
feature was forever his curse. But did it matter what he thought about himself?
Zavini called him beautiful once so it was probably best to take the man at his
word.
He finally turns away from the mirror and out of his room. He gathers his
winter things by the door and meticulously puts them on. He glances at the wall
clock, seeing that it is twenty minutes from his pick-up time. He writes a note
for his mother, citing some banal after school activity. He locks up the
apartment and takes his time down the flights of stairs, wanting to careful not
to put a crease in his suit. He looks down at his shoes, seeing the light from
the stairways catch on the faint scuffs marks he worked hard to buffer out.
Oswald sometimes loathed his attention to the most minute detail.
Profoundly unaware of his surroundings, he barrels into another person on their
way into the building just as he is heading out. The mumbling chorus of “Excuse
me” and “Sorry” fills the empty main lobby. Oswald is bordering on contempt for
the oaf that bumped into him and he has the pettiness that allows him to stare
upon such a hapless being so he can make sure they will never cross paths in
the future.
But confounded surprise breaks down his petulant resolve when he stares into
the eyes of Jim Gordon, with his cheeks ruddy from the bitter cold and fluffy
snow crowning his winter hat. Jim is as wide-eyed as Oswald knows himself to
be. And they just stare at one another so intently, and the nagging ache in
Oswald's chest creeps upon him with each passing moment. No...not today of all
days.
Jim, forever seeming to be comfortable with himself, speaks first. “Hi.,” he
says, a slight tilt of his head and a bite onto his bottom lip has Oswald
feeling crushed. This boy...This boy he turned away so ruthlessly came back. To
him.
Jim was here. Jim was coming to see him. And of course he was only coming to
see Oswald because Oswald knew Jim knew of no one else on this side of town.
Jim is seeing him now. Jim wants to see him now.
Oswald didn't muck things up with Jim. He had Jim coming back for more. Oswald
is equal parts elated and indecent. Jim was still his.
“Hello..., friend,” Oswald tests his reply and is satisfied that Jim doesn't
seem bothered by the word. He is trying to be mindful of the time but...it's
Jim.
“I...,” and it seems like Jim is at a loss for words but he stumbles upon them
quickly. “I wanted to come see you...”
Oswald curses the boy for being so unwavering in his honesty, the confession
makes Oswald's heart sing odes to him. He nods, waiting for Jim to continue.
Jim's face is still reddened, but it couldn't all be from the frigid chill from
outside. It was warm in the lobby. “I just...never got your phone number.
Y'know, just in case you wanted to see me too.”
Oswald feels his own face heat up. With the tightness of his suit and the wooly
coat he donned he only felt what he could only describe as a nervous itch
prickling along his body, but he doesn't fidgit. Oswald knows he has the upper
hand. This is his side of town, after all. “And what would you have done if I
wasn't here?” He smirks despite his nerves.
Jim pauses like the question is a difficult riddle to be solved. “I'd come back
tomorrow.,” He says simply after a moment, and Oswald feels like he is
certainly being courted like a lady-in-waiting.
Oswald takes a step forward to the door, “Well, it just so happens that I have
an prior engagement., so it will have to be tomorrow indeed.,” He says
playfully, as he steps around Jim and opens the main door, allowing it to
billow fresh snow into the lobby. But he just happens to turn and meet the
other boy's eyes.
Jim looks at him with those beautiful, dark blues, laced with uncertainty.
Possibly wondering if he were being shunned again, Oswald wasn't going to do
that, not this time. Jim did make him a little weak at the knees but he knew he
could keep himself in check; to try not to succumb to his emotions as he had
the last time he was with Jim.
Oswald didn't believe in fate, but what were the true odds of Jim coming back
to him? Seeking more from him; whatever “more” was. No. Oswald was not going to
turn him away. If Jim wanted to be at his side then so be it. He wondered if
Zavini would be happy to have another guest. Jim's presence would be a definite
comfort in a new world of strangers.
But Oswald was going to make Jim his own. Zavini couldn't have him. Ever.
“Do you want to come have dinner with me?” Oswald asks with a change of mind,
out-stretching his gloved hand in Jim's direction.
Jim looks down to Oswald's hand, and then up to Oswald's smiling face. Whatever
hesitance Jim had is wiped away by a brewing trust connecting them. He
ultimately takes Oswald's hand, being lead away into the cold, evening air.
Chapter End Notes
     Hope everyone is well and thanks for sticking with the story. leave
     some feedback or if ya have suggestions or questions. holla. Thanks
     and much love.
End Notes
     first fic for the gotham fandom. There is never enough for me. So
     this is the story I'd like to see. I hope you all enjoy and will
     comment. I need help properly tagging things so I don't have much in
     the way of additional tags. So if you read and come up with tagging
     suggestions please leave it in a comment so I can use it just not to
     trigger others. So all warnings apply.
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