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Oswald tears yet another page free from his legal pad, wads it up, considers that Edward lives on the grounds, if not in the manor proper, then straightens the paper back out and rips it into shreds. He eyes the accumulated pile in the waste bin and sighs as he ambles over to the fireplace. It’s only the first week of October, not quite late enough in the season to warrant a fire. Oswald won’t be building one at any rate.
Instead, he stacks his bin-full of wadded papers within the hearth and strikes a match. It’s incredibly frustrating to watch hours of work literally go up in flames, but there’s nothing redeemable about the pile. At least, nothing he’s written seems to capture the essence of what he wishes to say.
Who knew writing wedding vows would prove the most difficult of all tasks?
“Destroying evidence?” Jim’s voice startles Oswald where he leans against the mantle, staring at the tiny blaze below.
“I guess you’ll never know,” Oswald teases, quickly regaining his composure.
Jim smiles as he comes to stand behind him, resting his hands over Oswald’s hips as he crowds up against his back. Oswald closes his eyes, leans back into Jim’s heat. He’s incredibly tired, all of a sudden, and finds himself yawning.
“What are you doing in here, Oz?” Jim asks, swaying them side to side, as he rests his chin on Oswald’s shoulder. “You’ve been at it since after dinner.”
“Longer than that,” Oswald confesses. “What time is it now?”
“Ten-thirty.”
Oswald sighs, lips curving into a smile. “Do you feel terribly neglected?”
Jim’s hands slide the smallest amount toward his back before his thumbs begin to rub firm circles over his sciatic region. Oswald groans at the touch, his little aches and pains from sitting hunched in his office chair all calling for attention, seemingly in hopes of the same treatment. Jim doesn’t disappoint, moves his hands up either side of his spine, forcing Oswald to brace his hands against the mantle.
“Startin’ to think you’re neglecting yourself, sweetheart,” Jim jokes, but there’s genuine concern just at the edge of his tone.
Oswald presses back against his kneading hands. “Impossible,” he replies. “You’d never stand for it.”
Jim chuckles. “What are you working on in here, anyway?”
He hesitates to tell the truth; worried Jim might be offended that Oswald—never at a lack for words—can’t seem to compose something suitable for their wedding. He’s improvised entire speeches, press conferences and a multitude of lies to suit his foes, and yet, despite how easily his feelings come to him, translating that into adequate phrases of devotion seems impossible.
Nothing written within the ashes of the fireplace quite captures the depth of his intent. How is he to explain the elation that comes with Jim’s presence, his touch, his voice, in those moments that are only theirs? How does he describe the sickening fear that churns in his gut whenever Jim is hurt or in danger? Explain that he would tear the world asunder if it meant Jim would be safe, and happy.
Oswald Cobblepot would die for James Gordon, but that isn’t exactly an eloquent thing to say on one’s wedding day now is it?
These are the most important words he will ever deliver, and he needs them to be perfect.
“Simply working out some final details for Saturday,” Oswald tells him. It’s not at all a lie; just not a very detailed truth.
Jim huffs. “You’re not nervous, are you?”
There’s something Oswald can’t quite name, hidden in those casually spoken words that sets him ill at ease. He turns around to face his fiancé, brow furrowed as Oswald looks him over. Jim shifts, clearly discomfited by the scrutiny, and it dawns on him that Jim is actually worried.
Oswald blinks. “Are you?”
Jim flushes. “What? No. I…a little, maybe.” He tugs Oswald into an embrace. “Not about getting married…just last time I got dressed up for a wedding, things didn’t end with me driving off into the sunset. Can’t help expecting something—anything—to go wrong.”
Oswald raises his hands to Jim’s face, thumbs smoothing the arch of his cheekbones as he gazes into Jim’s eyes and vows, “Nothing is going to go wrong on our wedding day.”
Jim presses his lips together like he wants to argue, but Oswald isn’t finished. “Do you know how I know that?” he asks.
“How’s that?” Jim asks, clearly expecting to hear some feeble words of comfort.
He leans in, trembling somewhat as he opens himself to Jim’s inspection. Rarely does Oswald allow more than a glimpse of what truly lies beneath the surface, adamant as Jim is that he accepts these parts of Oswald. He usually only feels comfortable shedding pretenses when the sex is particularly intense, and Jim’s own animal begs to see Oswald’s teeth.
They don’t speak about it after.
Now, Oswald’s mouth curves up at the corners into a sharp smile. He can see the moment Jim’s eyes widen with recognition, a subtle greeting to the cold, ruthless thing he possesses. Oswald slides a hand to the back of Jim’s neck.
“I know nothing is going to go wrong because I have promised a slow, torturous death to anyone bold enough to try it,” Oswald informs darkly. “So, you really needn’t worry, darling.”
Jim sucks in a breath, body gone still in Oswald’s half embrace. He is quick to release him, out of deference to Jim’s palpable unease. It’s odd, nowadays, to feel dejected in Jim’s presence but the sinking pit in his stomach as he turns away is all too familiar. Perhaps, he thinks, he overestimated the capacity of Jim’s acceptance. It would seem he’s overstepped at the very least. Married or no, maybe Jim will never be able to confront those parts of Oswald—the ones he knows exists, the ones that reign over the dark corners of the city—in the broad light of day.
Jim isn’t without his own shadows, of course, which is why Oswald sometimes forgets that absolute honesty between them will never be possible. It isn’t Jim’s fault; his darkness may as well be dawn compared to Oswald’s pitch.
“Well then.” Oswald swallows dryly as he plasters on a friendly front, smoothing Jim’s lapels. “I’m sure you’re tired,” he suggests, turning toward the door.
He doesn’t get far, whirled back around by his elbow as Jim pulls him against his chest. Oswald clenches his teeth, spine tense with anxiety, body trembling with a foreboding sense of dread. Here they are just two days away from being married, and he’s somehow managed to throw a wrench into their spokes. They don’t talk about Oswald’s work in detail, and it isn’t because Jim is a cop, not really. It’s that Oswald is a liar, a thief and a murderer—a blight upon Jim’s conscience if either of them stares too long or too hard at the truth of them.
“What are we doing, Jim?” Oswald asks, overcome by a sudden wave of intense anxiety. They can’t last. This isn’t going to work, not forever. Oswald could happily pretend for an eternity, but Jim can’t. He can’t possibly.
Jim huffs. “You know, that’s not the first time you’ve asked me that,” he replies, then confesses, “and it’s nothing I haven’t wondered myself.”
“It isn’t too late,” Oswald whispers, heart aching. “I won’t make you go through with it.”
“Goddamnit, Oswald.” Jim grips him by the shoulders, forces him back from the embraces so that Oswald is made to meet his angry stare. “You think I don’t know what you are? That I don’t know about the bribes, or the drugs or the punishments you dole out to those that cross you? You think I don’t know, every second of the day, exactly who Oswald Cobblepot is? That I’m gonna just wake up one morning and suddenly realize I’m in love with a monster?”
He knows Jim’s questions are rhetorical, but Oswald feels tears welling up, as he nods. “Yes.”
“We talked about this, Oz,” Jim reminds, and they did. They have. It’s just…
“You were afraid of me,” he says, “just now. You were frightened.”
“Well…” Jim flushes, reaching up to scratch behind his neck. “You’re a little scary sometimes, sweetheart.”
Oswald feels himself slump. “Jim, maybe we aren’t ready to—”
“I like it,” Jim blurts, clearly embarrassed.
Oswald blinks. “Excuse me?”
“I’ve always liked it,” Jim says. “You have to know it by now. I’m not…the sun doesn’t actually shine out of my ass, Oswald, contrary to popular belief.”
Oswald flushes. “It’s bad etiquette to repeat words uttered under the influence, Jim.”
“You know I don’t have any manners,” Jim returns.
“True.” He feels a hesitant smile tempt the corners of his mouth.
“The point is,” Jim continues, “we’re getting married in two days, and I need you to understand that I know exactly who you are, and that is exactly who I want. I’m not going anywhere, I’m not going to change my mind and I have no regrets.”
“I know,” Oswald says, because he does know, though he often wonders how they got here. “Everything is so changed.”
Jim kisses his forehead. “Only for the better.”
***
Finding the perfect words is an effort in futility, and Oswald has given up the endeavor by the time Saturday finally arrives. A part of him quietly urges that there’s still time, but he ignores it as he climbs out of bed and dons his robe. It took some reflection, but Oswald realized sometime around version 4,567, that if he truly wishes to speak from the heart, then he must do it as he always does: In the moment.
It is fortuitous that Jim volunteered to recite his first, and if nothing else, Oswald can simply respond to his declarations. It will be more authentic this way and, admittedly, far less stressful than worrying over whether or not what he’s written is too much or not enough. Perhaps he’d dither for a while longer, but he’s mercifully interrupted.
There’s a sharp knock against the bedroom door, officially signifying the start of this most wonderful occasion.
“Oswald?” Ed’s voice calls mutedly from the other side, urgent in his typical restrained way.
He takes up his cane, wanting to baby his leg as much as possible so that he isn’t in pain during the ceremony. He crosses to the door and pulls it open to find Ed already dressed, wielding a breakfast tray and a thermal carafe, which Oswald assumes contains his favorite tea.
“Good morning, sunshine!” Ed greets him, disgustingly cheery.
He responds with what he hopes is his most bland stare.
“Buck up, Oswald,” Ed says, undeterred, as he shoulders past and crosses the room to lay his burden onto the vanity. Ed doesn’t immediately return his attention to Oswald, however, head tilting in a curious fashion which is concerning on a good day. Oswald hastily makes his way over to see him picking up a bottle of nail polish.
Damn it.
Oswald feels heat creep up along his neck. Jim had bought it for him after he’d made an errant joke about getting a manicure before the wedding. He’d presented Oswald with a bag from Macy’s just yesterday. He’d felt equal parts thrilled and embarrassed, telling Jim he’d think about it.
The color itself is quite fetching, perfectly matching the deep shade of blue Oswald has selected for the roses, which adorn the centerpieces throughout the manor and the courtyard where the chairs and arch are arranged for the ceremony. Too, it would certainly pop against his tuxedo, which is entirely white. However, despite how few people they’ve invited to share the occasion, Oswald is uncomfortable with the idea of wearing it in front of anyone other than Jim.
Ed holds the bottle aloft, pinched between his thumb and forefinger. “Part of your outfit?” he questions, and it doesn’t seem mocking, but Oswald can never be too sure with Edward.
He sniffs, raising his chin as he prepares to tell Ed to leave well enough alone, though not quite so politely. He’s thrown from this course when Edward snatches up one of his hands and inspects his fingernails.
“We’ll need to trim these first, but I could paint them for you,” he offers, entirely blasé. “I used to paint models when I was in high school. Nails can’t be all that different.”
Oswald politely reclaims his hand, and sighs. “I wasn’t planning on wearing it, actually,” he says, taking his seat at the vanity and uncovering his breakfast. It’s light fare—eggs, toast and a small amount of roasted potatoes.
Edward furrows his brow. “Why not?”
“For the same reason I’m not wearing lipstick, Edward,” Oswald irritably replies. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
There’s a footstool that sits to the side of the armoire which Oswald uses frequently to don his socks. Edward hefts it up and brings it over to sit at the edge of the vanity. He’s much too tall for it, and Oswald has to tilt his head down slightly to look at him.
“What?” He asks when he’s finished his meal, and Edward’s contemplative silence edges too close to uncomfortable.
“It’s your wedding,” he says finally. “You only get to do it once—assuming you don’t get divorced, which is how forty-one percent of all marriages end, but that doesn’t mean you’ll ever get remarried, in fact most divorcées don’t—”
“I am not getting divorced!”
“Right,” Edward says, mouth clicking shut on the rest of his very unhelpful tangent. “Are you worried Jim won’t like it?”
“Of course not. Jim is the one who bought it,” Oswald admits without thinking. It’s sometimes hard to remember that Edward is not to be trusted. Too late now, he supposes. “I don’t want to embarrass him in front of his newfound family.”
“You’re being irrational,” Ed says, not unkindly, as he snatches up the nail polish. He stands and removes the breakfast tray, wisely leaving the carafe within reach. “Jim has no shame.”
“Excuse you?” Oswald demands crossly.
Ed sighs, as if put upon by all which surrounds him. Oswald takes offense to that—it was Ed who came here with nowhere else to go, after all.
“If Jim Gordon had an ounce of shame where you were concerned, he wouldn’t be marrying you, of all people, to begin with.” Edward holds up a hand, preempting any forthcoming rebuttal. “You’re Gotham’s reigning kingpin, Oswald, and he’s the Captain of the GCPD. There won’t be a day that your relationship isn’t scrutinized by the press, or his allegiances not called into question. Jim may only be of average intelligence, but he knows that. And yet…”
Edward gestures to the tuxedo hanging on the bathroom door. “Here we are,” he finishes.
Oswald tilts his head, considering. Edward is right—not about Jim’s intelligence, but the rest of it, certainly. And he knows it too—if the way he shakes the bottle of polish, as if its use is inevitable, is any indication. Jim did buy it with the implication that Oswald should wear it today. And, he does want to wear it; has for a while. He always takes time to eye the shelves of nail polish at Walgreen’s, always tempted, when picking up new supplies for the bedside tables.
He looks at Ed. “I’ll deny I ever said it, but…you’re right.”
Edward flashes him a reserved, but far more genuine smile than the one he’d worn at the door. “Of course.”
There’s an awkward moment of silence where they exchange expectant glances. Oswald breaks first, rolling his eyes. “I need to get dressed first.”
“Oh!” Ed startles into action, taking the breakfast tray up as he heads for the door. “I’ll just…uh…come back in an hour?”
Oswald nods sharply, following him to the door and locking it on his way to the bathroom. Luckily, Oswald’s only responsibility for the day is dressing up and meeting Jim beneath the old, brick archway in the manor’s courtyard. The rest is up to the wedding planner and the caterer.
Given the small, intimate nature of their ceremony, preparations have proven startlingly effortless. He and Jim had picked their colors, provided a rough description of their expectations and allowed the planner to handle the rest. Oswald is pleased with the results, having seen the stylish layout of the table for the reception, and the staging of the courtyard1 for the ceremony during their rehearsal the night before.
He’s giddy as he runs the taps for his bath, tossing in a handful of epsom salt and a cap of lavender scented bubble bath beneath the stream. He then returns to the bedroom to retrieve the bag containing his new lingerie from the bottom drawer of his armoire. He lays it all out neatly over the counter in the en suite bathroom.
He waxed yesterday, so really the only purpose to this bath is to soak his knee and relax. Once he’s settled in the tub, head resting against the towel he’s draped over the edge, he closes his eyes and allows himself to revel in a moment of pure elation.
Today, he becomes Oswald Chesterfield Gordon.
***
By the time Edward returns, Oswald is dressed in all but the jacket of his tuxedo. The material is white satin with a pearly embroidered brocade pattern. This shirt is silk, plain but for the coordinating design on its cuffs. He’s presently fiddling with the brooch, which he cannot, for the life of him, get to sit straight beneath his collar. It doesn’t help that his hands are sweaty, and his fingers only seem tangentially attached, unable to get a good grip between the pin and the lacy fabric.
Edward regards him with a huff, turning Oswald around by his shoulders and quickly correcting his work. When he’s finished, Oswald appraises its perfect arrangement in the mirror and frowns.
He wishes…
Harvey is Jim’s best man, and even if he weren’t, Jim has no shortage of options including his brother, attending with his wife and daughter—who has been recruited last minute as their flower girl. Jim will have someone to stand at his shoulder while he exchanges vows with Oswald. A show of support for his decision.
Conversely, Oswald will be exchanging his vows with naught but the wind at his back. He supposes he could have asked Butch, but Oswald abhors his girlfriend. And the moment an opportunity presents itself, he will be collecting his pound of flesh. In the meantime, he doesn’t wish to draw attention to his long-standing hatred, by insisting she not attend. So, Oswald has Butch working security for the day, keeping out any unwanted guests or intruders. It’s an invitation beneath the guise of work, and he suspects Butch knows this.
In an ideal world, Edward would be the next obvious choice, but asking him to be his best man would reveal a host of truths Oswald isn’t sure Ed can be counted upon not to abuse. The biggest of all being that, beneath all the strangeness that still lays between them, Oswald still possesses a great affection for the man. It isn’t in the same category as what he feels for Jim, but it isn’t the same as what he carries for Butch either, which Oswald likens to that of a bond forged by fire; where if it weren’t for outside forces pushing Butch and Oswald together, they would have nothing in common.
Edward, on the other hand, is cut from a similar cloth as Oswald himself. Not quite the same but holding similar beliefs and ambitions. Oswald would like to be able to trust Ed, but that is precisely what makes doing so dangerous. He wants his friend back, and if Edward knew just how much, a new vulnerability would be exposed between them. He simply cannot trust that Ed wouldn’t be tempted to poke at it.
Besides, Oswald still hasn’t forgiven him for what he did to his father’s remains. On days as important as this, he has a hard time not thinking about him, missing the warmth and acceptance of a father he only briefly got to know. He would have liked Jim; would have happily stood at his son’s shoulder to support his decision.
Oswald sniffs, eyes inexplicably wet and chest hollowed out by a sudden swell of loneliness. It’s ridiculous to feel this way—to vacillate so drastically between giddy excitement and despair—on what will undoubtedly be the happiest day of his life. Of course, Ed is there to provide Oswald with a box of Kleenex.
“Wedding day anxiety?”
Oswald snatches a few tissues, hastily swiping at his eyes and blowing his nose. “No,” he answers, but doesn’t elaborate.
Edward tilts his head, regarding him curiously for a moment before Oswald clears his throat and gestures to the vanity. Ed seems to snap out of whatever quandary he’d lost himself to, placing the Kleenex aside as he retakes his earlier seat. He picks up the bottle of polish and gives it a perfunctory shake.
Oswald remains apprehensive about painting his nails, small as it seems. It feels as though he’s preparing to broadcast something deeply personal across open airwaves. An irreversible proclamation. Then again, is that not what weddings ultimately entail?
He sits down at the vanity and places his hands, palms down, onto its surface. He watches, mutely, as Ed neatly trims and files each nail. His touch is gentle but detached and Oswald hadn’t realized he was worried about it until he isn’t any longer. He wonders now if Ed realizes that, strictly speaking, this isn’t a thing that men do for each other.
It’s a matter for another time, one that his precarious assistant will need to address eventually.
In the meantime, the man’s work is impeccable.
Not a single drop of polish goes where Ed doesn’t put it, though he’d brought cotton swabs and acetone as a precaution. Neither items are necessary, however, and soon enough Oswald has ten perfectly manicured and painted nails. Edward plugs in a desktop fan, angling it down toward his work and grins.
“What do you think?”
Oswald tilts his head as he examines his nails. He likes them very much and decides perhaps giving Edward praise where due will allay some of the remaining unease between them.
“I’m glad you changed my mind,” he admits with a genuine smile. “It is my wedding day, and this color is lovely. Thank you, Ed.”
“You’re quite welcome, Oswald. Now,” he says, as he crosses to where Oswald’s jacket is still hanging in its bag, “It’s getting close to time.”
Oswald stands, checking the dryness of his nails as he steps toward the mirror. He draws up short. Suddenly, he has to know. “Edward?”
Ed turns from where he’s fighting with the suit bag to free Oswald’s jacket. He regards Oswald with raised brows, silently inquiring.
“Did you really…are my father’s remains truly gone?” He asks, more hope in his tone than he would like. There’s no edge to his question, but Ed flinches as though Oswald has put a knife to his throat. “I’m not…angry anymore, Ed, and I suspect already that they are—”
Edward gives up his fight with the bag, advances the few steps that are between them. He expects him to calmly confirm or deny; possibly even issue a threat, and then leave altogether while the getting is good. Instead, the man opens his mouth, and there’s an apology written in his expression, but Oswald doesn’t need to hear it.
“I see.”
“No,” Ed roughly denies, stopping Oswald from walking away with a loose hand around wrist. “I didn’t throw them away.”
Oswald sucks in a breath, hairs raising along his arms, dragging against the soft fabric of his sleeves. “What?”
“I didn’t want to reopen old wounds,” Ed confesses. “And I wasn’t sure how you’d react to the truth, or how to explain.”
Oswald leans in, gripping Ed’s lapels with enough force to knock his bowler from his head. “What did you do?”
Edward’s face crumbles as he says, miserably, “I had him cremated2.”
Oswald doesn’t know how to react to this new information. His heart pounds in his chest, and he’s angry, livid even—that wasn’t Ed’s decision to make—but also relieved that his father’s bones aren’t in a landfill somewhere being desecrated over and over as more filth is piled atop his unfortunate resting place. Unless—
“Where are the ashes?” Oswald demands, his voice an urgent whisper. “Ed? Did you throw them—”
“No,” Edward interjects. “They’re safe, I swear. In a deposit box. At the Post Office.”
Oswald straightens, forces himself to breath in measured inhales and exhales. “Were you ever going to tell me?”
“I was,” Ed claims, fervently. “I just…didn’t know how. I thought I could have them delivered after we reconciled, but I worried they might get lost or damaged. I thought I could sneak them in, leave a note, but that seemed…worse, somehow. I…”
Ed’s watery gaze is wide and pleading as he says, “I’m sorry, Oswald. At the time, I felt I was justified but I…it wasn’t. I’m—”
“Enough.”
Ed’s breath is ragged when Oswald releases him. He then reaches out, discerning the barest of flinches, as he smooths Ed’s lapels and fixes his hair. His suit is, thankfully a rich dark blue, coordinated with the chosen colors, and a black silk hat. Oswald retrieves his bowler from the floor and sits it atop the man’s head.
“Edward,” Oswald says, squaring his shoulders, “I expect my father’s ashes to be returned by tomorrow.”
Edward nods. “Of course—”
“I realize it’s short notice and it doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you, I just…well, it’s my wedding.” Oswald presses his lips together into a thin line, debating with himself. This is a dangerous gamble, one that he may come to regret. And yet...
“My mother used to say that weddings and funerals are alike in that they’re both about endings and new beginnings. In the spirit of her memory, and my father’s, I—” Oswald breaks off, takes time to choose his words correctly.
“We can’t ever return to the way things were. We’re not the same anymore, and neither of us can forget the things we’ve done—” Oswald huffs. “What I’m trying to say is, Edward—for whatever else may come after—I would like for you to act as my best man today.”
Edward’s mouth has dropped open, his face blank with shock. He regains his composure with a blink and a minute shake of the head. Oswald doesn’t think he’s ever seen Ed blush the way he does as he accepts. “I would be—it would be an honor, Oswald,” he finally says, voice dropped to that lower register often used by his alter ego.
Oswald squints, “To which Ed?”
He is shocked when Edward throws his arms around him, bringing with him a wave of nostalgia so intense he could choke on it. He should push him away—he still hasn’t forgiven him, hasn’t begun to process this latest discovery—but in that moment, he is overwhelmed. His friend has returned, and Oswald isn’t alone in the way he sometimes feels when surrounded by ‘normal’ people. He raises his arms to return the embrace, sincere in a way it never was before, back when Oswald thought himself in love.
Ed sighs. “Both,” he assures. He backs away then, Oswald releasing him easily.
“Well, it’s only practical.” Oswald shrugs, smiling as he turns to approach the mirror. “You’re already dressed the part, after all.”
***
He meets Jim just inside the double doors which open out into the courtyard behind where all the seats for their chosen guests are placed. His niece, Barbara, is fairly glowing with excitement as she twirls around in her dress, hands sifting through the silk rose petals in her basket. She notices him first, stopping mid-spin to gasp at Oswald as he enters the hallway from the kitchen.
“Wow!” She exclaims. “You look like a prince!”
Jim snaps to attention from where he’d been slouching against the wall, staring into space, at Barbara’s boisterous declaration. His eyes immediately find Oswald’s before slowly slipping lower to appraise the rest of him.
“Jesus Christ,” Jim blurts, eyes finally returning to Oswald’s face. “You—you’re…you look—”
“He looks beautiful!” Barbara insists, skipping over to get a closer look at his cane.
Oswald feels his face heat, suddenly shy as Jim followers her over, but finds that he can’t look away. Jim’s eyes, so often shadowed beneath the furrow of his brow and muted by the dull colors of his standard suits, are a brilliant blue drawn forth by the rich navy color of his bespoke Italian tuxedo, accented with a slate gray vest and a brocade tie. Oswald had known, when he’d helped Jim select it, that the colors would play upon the man’s features, but this is absolutely absurd.
Jim bends in for a quick press of lips that lingers just a little too long. “I see you’ve found yourself a best man,” he comments, tilting his head toward the window, through which Harvey and Edward can be seen taking their places at opposite sides of the arch.
“Yes, well, I know he’s—”
“You don’t have to explain,” Jim interrupts. “I get it.”
Oswald exhales, shoulders relaxing. Jim slips Oswald’s top hat from his clammy hands and sits it neatly atop his head. He gives it a slight tilt to one side and grins.
“All you need now is a cigar and monocle,” he teases.
Oswald snorts. “I think not.”
He leans in, hand resting at the small of Oswald’s back. “You really do look like a prince.” Jim’s lips brush the shell of his ear, his hand slipping lower, as he whispers, “Can wait to see what’s underneath.”
Oswald slaps his arm away, and raises his nose, glaring at Jim from the corner of his eye as he teases, “This popsicle stand is closed until after you’ve finished buying the truck.”
Jim cackles, loops his fingers into Oswald’s jacket pockets and pulls him flush against his front. “Come on…you don’t have one more tiny, little free sample?”
Oswald flushes, and he would kiss him again, but the music queues up from outside, and Barbara squeals with delight.
“Is it time?!”
“Indeed, it is,” Oswald confirms, reluctantly putting some distance between them.
Butch arrives to open the doors, giving Oswald a wink. “Lookin’ good boss.” He glances at Jim. “Cap’n.”
Jim rolls his eyes, kneels down to help Barbara with her dress where it’s snagged on the wire of the basket. “Here,” he says, smoothing her skirts. “You look just like a princess.”
Barbara smiles, leans in and kisses Jim’s cheek. Her words are whispered, meant only for Jim’s ears, but entirely too loud in the way children often don’t realize. “I’m glad you’re my uncle. I promise I’ll do a real good job.”
Oswald is thrown by the adoring look that steals across Jim’s features. How quickly he has fallen in love with his niece, not that Oswald can blame him. Barbara possesses the same bright, determined spirit he recognizes as a trait within Jim’s family. Oswald had worried, when he’d secretly arranged their flight, but from the moment the two had met, Barbara and Jim had hit it off.
Now, Jim takes her hands in his and says, “I know you will.” He then whispers, “I’m really glad I’m your uncle, too.”
He really would make an excellent father, Oswald thinks distractedly, as Barbara throws her arms around his neck, almost knocking Jim square on his backside, before pulling away and taking up her basket. She’s out through the double doors and halfway to the arch before Jim is back up from his crouch. He watches her with a lopsided grin as she twirls along her path, tossing petals in dramatic swooping arcs.
“Cute kid,” Butch remarks with a chuckle, before turning to Oswald and handing over his boutonniere. The rose is dyed blue like the rest of the floral arrangements, with slightly lighter petals that darken at the end where they furl open. Oswald quickly affixes it to his lapel.
“Thank you, Butch,” he says, straightening as Jim loops their arms together.
“Ready?” Jim asks.
Oswald takes a deep breath, and nods. Butch opens the doors one more time, and he and Jim make their way to the arch, where Harvey, Ed and their officiator await. He is floating somewhere outside of his body as they take their positions, facing one another before their small gathered witnesses—Jim’s brother and his wife, Harvey’s on-again girlfriend, Scottie, Bruce Wayne and his butler chief among them.
The man goes on for a moment about love, acceptance and eternal unions until, finally, it is time to present and exchange their rings. Jim turns to collect his from Harvey—the one he’d chosen for Oswald almost a year ago now, already. He takes Oswald’s hand, thumb swiping soothingly along his knuckles before sliding it onto his ring finger. It’s only then that Oswald snaps back into himself.
Jim looks up from where he’s just placed the ring, smiling brilliantly. ‘Wow,’ he mutters under his breath, discernible only to those standing at the front. Harvey huffs a laugh, which he covers with a cough and an apologetic smile in Oswald’s direction.
Jim scratches his neck, bashfully, before he says, “I spent a long time thinking about what I wanted to say to you. I—well, we didn’t exactly get off to a great start.”
Oswald grins, nodding minutely. “One could say.”
Their witnesses chuckle, as they share a meaningful glance—an acknowledgement of their imperfect shared experiences—before Jim valiantly carries on.
“The thing is, I’ve never been great with words. Sometimes, I can’t think of a way to respond or by the time I do, I’ve waited too long to say it and the context is lost.
“Or, more often than not, I know exactly what I want to say but it doesn’t come across as I intended. It’s too brash, or my choice of words can be interpreted too many different ways. It sounds funny,” he says, when a few people in the audience chortle at his description, “but it isn’t, not when it hurts the people you love.”
Jim shrugs, somber as he ducks his head and Oswald bites his lip in sympathy. He knows this is difficult for Jim, entirely aware of his foot-in-mouth syndrome. He can’t imagine what possessed the man to agree to writing vows in the first place. Except that neither of them is particularly religious and they didn’t want to sit through an hour-long sermon about the sanctity of a union most interpretations of the Bible don’t support. He reaches out and takes Jim’s hand, squeezing encouragingly, until he raises his head.
Jim clears his throat, squeezing Oswald’s fingers in return. “That said, you’ll be shocked to know that the words I finally decided on contain very little prose.”
Harvey outright cackles, causing the rest of their witnesses to do the same. Oswald only barely manages to contain his own snort, sucking his lips between his teeth as Jim glares at him balefully.
“I just want to make it clear,” Jim starts, with that rough edge to his tone he usually reserves for interrogations, “in no uncertain terms, in a way that can’t be misconstrued,” and here his voice softens, sincere as he continues, “that I love you, Oswald Cobblepot. And for as long as you’ll have me, everything I am is yours. Everything you are, is all I’ll ever want, is everything I need.”
Jim’s lips twitch into a nervous, fleeting smile. “That’s all.”
Oswald refrains from throwing his arms around him and kissing him senseless, but only just. Instead, he sniffs wetly before clearing his own throat. Edward steps forward to hand him the ring, and he only trembles a little as he slips onto Jim’s finger.
“I confess, I too found choosing the appropriate words an impossible task,” he begins. “Still, I’m certain I can summon enough prose for the both of us.”
Surprisingly, he too is met with the easy humor of their guests, most of them here out of support for Jim. It puts him at ease, makes him feel accepted where he only expected to feel scrutinized. It gives him a certain courage to speak freely in a way he hadn’t planned.
He meets Jim’s gaze, thumbs running over the back of Jim’s fingers where he still cradles his hand. “I have been drawn to you since the moment I first saw you,” he confesses. Jim’s head lifts, from where he’d been focused on their joined hands, his expression sobering in an instant as Oswald tells him for the first time, before a crowd of the only people they care about, things Jim may have guessed at, but that Oswald has never openly admitted3.
Once he starts, he can’t seem to stop. “Even when we were at our most adversarial, I longed—” Oswald cuts himself off, shaking his head minutely, before he sniffs and says it: “I loved you.”
“I have been in love with you,” Oswald tells him, “secretly, if not entirely subtly, for years.” He averts his eyes, giving a tiny shrug. “I knew it was hopeless. I didn’t dare imagine that you would ever see me in such a way, I—”
Oswald risks a glance at Jim and is shocked to see him standing there, silently crying, expression filled with remorse. For what? Oswald wants to ask. Instead, he reaches up and wipes Jim’s face.
“Don’t cry,” he says. “It all ends quite happily.”
Jim huffs, and Oswald hears their audience do the same. He’s surprised to see that Jim is not the only one in attendance in need of a tissue. He ignores it all, pushing himself to continue despite how badly he wants to pull Jim aside and hold him; take his misplaced guilt and toss it into the nether.
He asks, “Do you know why I insisted on blue roses, Jim?”
Jim clears his throat, blushes. “Because I told you your eyes look like sapphires?”
There’s a resounding ‘awwwee’ among the audience, to which Oswald plays slightly. “It was a lovely compliment, especially coming from you,” he teases, “but no.”
Oswald unbuttons the rose from his lapel and holds it up between them. Jim furrows his brow, and his confusion is echoed throughout the courtyard by their guests who all seem to be eyeing the centerpieces and accent roses with fresh curiosity.
“Blue roses are often associated with mystery and secrecy,” Oswald explains, twirling his boutonniere slightly, “as it doesn’t actually occur in nature. You must dye white roses to achieve the desired effects. Lighter shades represent enchantment or love at first sight, which isn’t wholly unfitting of how I felt for you in those earlier days.”
The expression Jim adopts as comprehension begins to dawn gives Oswald the motivation he needs to complete his explanation. He didn’t want to invite ridicule for his choices, fearing that Jim would think him odd to attach so much meaning to such trivial details. He realizes now that his fear was born of habit rather than any real perceived chance of rejection. Jim never mocks him.
“The darker shades of blue, however, express the unachievable,” he finally reveals. “A dream one has that can never be realized, an object that is greatly desired but can never be reached.
“They’re about you, James Gordon,” Oswald declares. “You were my unattainable dream. A dream I dared not give wings lest it fly me into the sun.” There’s a chorus of sighs, and he adds, “It sounds dreadfully poetic, but really it just…burned.”
“I wasn’t going to tell you,” he confesses, seeing the way Jim’s jaw works against itself. “I thought you might misinterpret the gesture as something you should feel guilty over. But the reality is, I wanted to be surrounded by that dream on this day, of all days. So that when I tell you that being with you—hearing you return this love I’ve harbored for so long, is literally a dream come true—you would know it isn’t just prose or some exaggerated fancy.
“You said everything you are is mine, but Jim…you are everything to me.” He steps forward and cups Jim’s cheek as he asks, “For as long as I will have you?” Oswald shakes his head. “No. For as long as I live, James. I can promise you, I will never waiver in this.”
Jim doesn’t wait to see if he’s finished, or for their officiator to give them permission. He steps into Oswald’s space, wraps a hand beneath the base of his skull plants the other at the small of his back, then closes the distance between them entirely. He kisses Oswald roughly, emotions coming forth unchecked in the desperate press of his lips. Oswald opens to him, lets Jim have what he needs, returns it in kind until finally the desperation subsides, replaced with something achingly similar to reverence.
When Jim pulls away, he is humbled by the awe with which he is regarded. Then, Jim says, under his breath so that only Oswald can hear, “I’ve always seen you, Oz. There’s never been a time that I’ve been able to keep myself from looking.”
“Jim—”
Oswald is saved from having to formulate a coherent response by their officiator’s voice.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you, by the power vested in me through the great city of Gotham, James Worthington and Oswald Chesterfield Gordon.”
***
Once the photographer has finished harassing them for a multitude of poses in the courtyard, they all gather in the ballroom. Their guest list is short enough that they can all sit around a long table which has been set up just outside the dance floor, on the opposite side as the band and grand piano. They share a three-course meal, comprised of Cornish hens, dilled zucchini, mashed sweet potatoes and spinach salad.
The cake is brought out last, meant to serve their conservative gathering, set atop a columned stand away from the main table. The photographer insists upon a few different poses for it as well, until Jim ruins her set by flicking a decorative rose at Harvey’s obnoxious head for trying to start a chant of ‘cake and beer.’
Oswald compliments him on his aim, adding, “This is a dignified affair, Bullock,” before feeding Jim his slice with his fingers and allowing the caterers to distribute the rest. As they’re finishing up their dessert, Harvey taps a fork against his glass.
He holds up the champagne flute as he stands. “I’d like to propose a toast, to James Gordon, my best friend, and partner.”
Jim lifts his gaze to Harvey’s flushed face, equal parts intrigued and wary. “Take it away, Harv.”
“Jim, you and I haven’t always seen eye to eye and, I admit, when I first learned that the two of you were together, I thought you’d lost your goddamned mind.”
Oswald bites the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to remain calm, eyes cast somewhere to the left of his empty dessert plate. There’s a reason Oswald struck the option for objections from the script during the ceremony. Like hell was he going to invite outside opinion onto he and Jim’s relationship.
“Harvey,” Jim chastises immediately, tone dangerous, picking up on Oswald’s discomfort. He makes a point to twine their fingers together over the tabletop, a visible show of support.
“Just…let me finish,” Bullock demands. “The things is—anyone who knows your history woulda thought the same—that it’s crazy, for both of you.”
“Is there a point you’d like to make, Detective?”
“Oh, calm your tits, Ed, alright? Yes, there’s a point, jeez, I’m trying to be humorously candid here.” Harvey huffs, flustered. He looks to his date for support, who is making short work of her Chardonnay. “It always works out for those made-for-TV movies.”
“There’s a reason they’re made for TV,” Selina chimes in, palming her forehead.
“Fine. Look, Oswald,” Harvey says, waiting to continue until Oswald does physically look at him. “I was wrong, okay?”
Oswald blinks, Jim grinning widely in his peripheral.
“The two of you—I don’t care what anyone says. Jim was a miserable ball of fury when I met him, always leaping first and watching his ass second. He damn near got himself killed more than a few times, and sooner or later, someone would have succeeded.
“Now he’s got you, crazy as the paper might make it sound, it’s like he’s finally got a reason to stop being such a jackass. And so, here’s to you, Oswald Gordon, for giving Jim a reason, and saving us all a few premature grays.”
Oswald flushes, accidentally catches Roger’s eyes, and is shocked when the man raises his glass to him. “To Oswald, for keeping my dumbass brother safe.”
“Hey!” Jim cries indignantly.
Those gathered around the table ignore him, echoing Roger’s gesture by raising their glasses as one to cheer, “To Oswald!”
He and Jim are beckoned to the dancefloor soon after. The band begins to play the first few notes and Oswald smiles as he recognizes the tune4. It’s one of the songs they danced to on their anniversary date.
“Very appropriate,” he praises Jim, who grins smugly as he leads Oswald into the center of the floor. Though, if anyone has cause to be smug, it’s Oswald. He is, after all, the one who put Jim in charge of selecting their music.
“You remember it?” Jim asks, then rolls his eyes. “Of course, you do.”
“And I like it very much,” he reassures. The tempo of the song is slightly too fast to be considered a ballad, but not so quick that Oswald can’t easily follow Jim’s lead around the floor. After the first verse and chorus, they’re joined by Bruce and Selina, then Harvey and Scottie. Others filter on after, but Oswald scarcely pays them any mind. He’s too busy looking at Jim, and marveling that this should be their fate.
They’ve danced through another song by the time Jim’s niece seeks to cut in for a dance with her new uncle. When Jim asks, “Which one?”
Barbara grabs them both by the hand and jumps up and down. “Both, silly goose!”
Oswald can only sigh. It is quite possible that he too has been charmed by Roger’s incredibly sweet daughter. They dance in a circle, some variation of a three left-footed waltz, before Barbara dashes off toward Bruce.
“Me next!” She cries, voice carrying through the ballroom. She is at once very similar and very different to another child Oswald knows.
His heart suddenly aches for a little boy he once imagined as his own. He wonders if Martin ever thinks of him, or if Oswald is destined to become little more than a passing face in his memory. For his own part, Oswald will never forget him, hopes he is happy wherever he is—that he isn’t being bullied.
Jim catches him woolgathering, interrupting his wayward thoughts with a lingering kiss. “You alright?”
Oswald hums, before grinning mischievously. “Just wondering at what point it becomes socially acceptable to toss these people out so we can retire.”
Jim winks. “Worn out already?”
He quirks a suggestive brow. “Hardly.”
***
It’s become quite late by the time their final guests make their departures. Oswald excuses himself, letting Jim walk his brother, carrying a sleeping Barbara, and his wife to the door. He knows they are technically part of his family now too, but Jim has only just found his brother again. His husband may deny it, if Oswald were to state his opinions on the matter to him directly, but it feels inappropriate to insert himself over much while they become reacquainted.
Besides, he has his own preparations to make before Jim joins him upstairs. As much as Oswald adores this tuxedo, he is more than ready to peel it off and slip into something a bit sexier. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that Oswald’s choice of lingerie is also quite comfortable. The lace panties fit like a glove, and he’s not had a single issue with slippage or creeping all day.
Of course, the top is what makes the set, and he preens a little at his reflection when he finally gets it on. Its style is what drew him in, with a lace embroidered half-bodice that buttons like a corset to just below his pectorals. There’s a built-in brassiere, but its cups are removable for washing. It wasn’t made to be unisex, but it fits perfectly all the same. There was a time that fact might have put him off, but Jim has since convinced him that such things are trivial.
Besides, this thing was made for his figure. The bodice at the top gives way to long, flowing lace, which splits at the last button to hang open around his mid-drift and waist, gently brushing against his legs and feet as he walks. Jim won’t have much trouble unwrapping him this way, and Oswald blushes at the thought.
He smiles to himself, pressing knuckles against his lips. Jim is his husband now—he has a husband! He never thought this day would come, especially not after his blunder with Edward. Oswald had been certain, at the time, that he was meant to be alone. Even when he and Jim began sleeping together, Oswald never imagined he’d stay. He’d thought surely it was some passing itch for Jim, and he’d been happy to take whatever he could get.
Is it odd to be so nervous about something they’ve done countless times before? He knows every curve of Jim’s body, knows the practiced touch of his hand, the way his lips feel against every inch of his own flesh. There is no mystery to what they will share this evening, no real difference except perhaps the idea of permanence.
Jim is his to keep now. No take-backs.
Oswald wants to revel in it, just a little. But he’s also, maybe, the tiniest bit intimidated by what he’s been given. He feels a need to somehow prove himself worthy of Jim’s gift. To make certain Jim is satisfied with the exchange.
Turning away from the full-length mirror, Oswald takes a moment to comb the gel from his hair, letting it fall soft and loose, the way he knows Jim secretly prefers it. He considers dabbing on a bit of lipstick but can’t decide on a color so decides to forego it in the end.
When he finally emerges from the bathroom, Jim is uncharacteristically hanging his tuxedo jacket and pants back on their hangers. Oswald gasps dramatically, placing a hand to his chest and fanning his face.
“God, yes, hang those trousers,” he teases saucily.
Jim chuckles, turning his head as he says, “Ha, ha—holy fuck…” Jim does a double take, then abandons his task entirely.
He meets Oswald at the foot of the bed, still in his boxers and dress shirt, his tie loosened yet still looped around the collar. Oswald uses it to reel him in so that he can remove the knot with deft fingers, before sliding it free. Oswald admires it for a moment before flippantly tossing it over his shoulder.
“Not my silk tie!” Jim pretends to swoon, falling back onto the bed dramatically. “How will I ever repair the damage wrought upon it by a billion and one tiny carpet fibers?”
“Married for all of an afternoon and already the magic is lost,” Oswald laments, teasingly, as he pretends to turn away. “I suppose I shouldn’t have wasted the effo—ack!”
He is seized from behind, Jim’s arms wrapping around his waist and hauling him onto the bed as well. They collide with the mattress in an uncoordinated heap, air forced from his lungs with an ‘oomph.’ Jim cackles as he untangles their limbs, rolling Oswald onto his back and halting his protests with a kiss. Oswald melts into it with a groan, hands springing forth to tangle fingers into Jim’s wild hair.
The easy familiarity between them banishes Oswald’s prior anxiety. This is them.
When Jim pulls away, he leans up onto an elbow and slides his free hand up Oswald’s stomach until he encounters the buttons of the bodice. He then trails his fingers slowly back down, all the way to the elastic waist of his panties.
“I’ve been dying to get my hands on you all day,” Jim utters lowly, thumb dipping beneath the elastic. Oswald gasps when it grazes the edge of his cock, and his new name is whispered against his ear. “Mister Gordon.”
Oswald bites his bottom lip, face tingling with warmth. His stomach is twisting into knots, a question forming on his lips. “Did you know? Back then…” He licks his lips. “Did you know that I—how I felt about you?”
The question catches Jim off guard, his wandering fingers halting in their tracks as he finds Oswald’s gaze and sighs. His brows knit, as he considers the question before answering. “To an extent,” he finally says. “I knew you had a thing for me, but I figured you’d gotten over it after…uh, Arkham.”
“Which time?” Oswald chides, blandly.
“Ha. Ha.” Jim intones. “The first time. When I…fuckin’ left you there. Jesus.”
Oswald reaches up and caresses Jim’s cheek. “Oh, stop, or we’ll be here all night reminiscing about the not-so-good-old times, although I must confess…provoking you was half the fun.”
Jim snorts. “Was?”
Oswald gives a tiny shrug. “Very well. Is; I admit it, although…” He slips his hands up the bottom of Jim’s button up and undershirt, until his thumbs rest just below his nipples, gently smoothing over the skin there, back and forth. “I much prefer these new methods—certainly the results are far more satisfactory.”
Jim sits up for a moment, dislodging Oswald’s hands to remove his shirts rather hastily, one might say. Then, instead of laying back down immediately, Jim gives a nod toward the headboard and Oswald follows him there, so they can lay more comfortably against the pillows without their feet hanging over the edge.
Jim reaches the pillows first, sprawling slightly when he stretches out near the middle of the bed. Oswald climbs up beside him, grips his boxers by the waist and yanks them down and off. Jim gives him a wide-eyed look of surprise to which Oswald shrugs.
“As if they’ll be missed.”
“Yeah, what about you?” Jim asks, motioning to Oswald’s half-naked form when he lays down at Jim’s side.
Oswald runs the tips of his fingers down the bodice, pads catching on the buttons as he drags them lower, along the length of his exposed stomach before halting at the waist of his panties. Jim’s eyes track his hands unblinkingly, gaze darkening all the while, until Oswald cups himself through the lace and Jim licks his lips before lifting his gaze.
Oswald’s head is turned so that their eyes meet as he says, “I thought maybe you could make love to me with it mostly still on.”
Jim rolls over, hand creeping up Oswald’s thigh. “Yeah?” he asks, bending forward to nuzzle Oswald’s temple before kissing a path down to his jaw where he transitions from sweet, affectionate pecks to wet, open-mouth attention.
Oswald groans, raising a hand to the back of Jim’s head in encouragement as he tilts his neck to further accommodate him. The hand on his thigh slides up to grip the edge of his panties and Oswald assists with their removal as Jim pushes them down so he can kick them off.
He whines when Jim pulls away to retrieve the lube, but he can’t complain when he wedges himself between Oswald’s thighs a few moments later. Jim’s knees press up against the bottom of his backside, forcing his legs wide open before he braces himself above Oswald with one hand flat against the mattress. His other wraps around Oswald’s cock, giving a few firm strokes that set his teeth on edge before Jim’s fingers finally slip lower, over and behind his sack. His digits pad over Oswald’s entrance, smoothing the nerves in a caress before he begins to circle it teasingly.
Oswald observes him, from beneath heavy eyelids, trying to control his own breathing, running hands over Jim’s shoulders and neck. He gets a good grip around the base of his skull and gently pulls. Jim comes willingly, his skin soft and warm against his own as he lowers himself down to lick into Oswald’s mouth. Oswald breathes him in, eyes closing at the familiar, comforting scent of him.
Jim opens him up, slipping two fingers in to start. He smiles when he thinks of how it felt the first time, when only one finger seemed like a challenge. Now, Oswald’s body is much like the rest of him—forever changed by circumstance to fit around Jim specifically. He revels in the epiphany, overwhelmed by the intense wave of affection that sweeps over him as Jim lovingly prepares him.
“Jim…” he manages, stealing his husband’s attention from where he’d been sucking a mark onto Oswald’s shoulder.
“Hmm?” Jim hums as he lifts his head to meet his eyes. “Alright?” he checks.
Oswald huffs fondly, smiling. “Yes, I’m—hah—” he has to swallow when Jim curls his fingers, finally pressing up against his prostate. “Oh, God—distracting!”
Jim eases off with a remorseless snigger, and Oswald’s muscles relax slowly before Jim focuses on stretching him wider with another finger. “I’m sorry,” he lies, “you were saying?”
Oswald would glare at him, but he’s enjoying himself far too much to pull it off. Instead, he smiles up at Jim, reaching to smooth his unruly bangs away from his forehead. “I was just remembering the first time we did this,” he says. “You ruined me for anyone else.”
Jim grins lasciviously, leaning forward to rub their noses together. “Good.”
Oswald flushes, as he leans up to catch Jim’s ear lobe between his teeth. He smooths it after with gentle sucking, before he finally lets it go to whisper against his ear, “After that night…when I first came back to Gotham and you shoved me up against the wall in that alley, I fantasized about you fucking me for the first time. I fingered myself, wishing it was you—does that make me pathetic?”
Jim growls, resting his forehead against Oswald’s shoulder when he sneaks a hand around Jim’s cock. The three fingers he has inside of Oswald, slow to a glacial pace as Oswald continues to confess his past sins. “I wanted you so badly. I made up excuses to see you, I thrilled at your touch even when it was just to push me around or arrest me. I liked it. I liked your hands and your voice, and I wondered what your hair would feel like if I ran my fingers through it.”
Oswald pauses to angle his hips, bringing Jim’s cock to his entrance to hint at his readiness. Jim doesn’t hesitate, pulls his fingers free and lines up to push inside. He kisses the words out of Oswald’s mouth as he brings them together, groaning as Oswald buries his fingers back in his hair.
Jim breaks away, eyes boring into his own, as he says, “When you were mayor, I fantasized about bending you over your desk and fucking you until you begged for forgiveness.”
Oswald’s gasp has less to do with how good Jim feels, moving inside him, than the shock Jim’s words drive through him. Jim doesn’t relent, doesn’t speed up his pace or touch him more greedily. He makes love to Oswald more gently than ever, while he tells him about all the mean, dirty ways he used to think about fucking him.
“I used to picture it too, back in that alley, pushing you up against the wall and holding you there with my own body. I used to fantasize that you’d reach for me, grope me over my pants.” Jim licks his lips, exhaling breathily as Oswald arches up to meet his strokes. “I’d push you down onto your knees and use your mouth, let you suck my cock until your throat was too sore to run your mouth.”
“That’s…not how you touch me,” he manages to point out as Jim slows his pace even further, pushing in as deep as he can before circling his hips. Oswald’s eyes close of their own volition, rolling up into his skull in rapture. “You’ve n—never touched me like that.”
He can feel Jim’s breath against his skin, where his lips barely touch his neck. “Why do you think that is, sweetheart?” Jim asks, quietly.
“I don’t know,” he says, ending on a whimper as Jim finally, finally picks up the pace. “I d—don’t…fuck.”
“Yeah,” Jim replies eloquently as he moves to sit back on his haunches, looping his arms beneath Oswald’s knees and pulling him in closer. Jim’s head is thrown back, when Oswald manages to open his eyes, and he knows he’s close to coming.
He’s been patient, hasn’t begged Jim to touch him or tried to touch his own cock once, but Oswald can’t stop himself from wrapping a hand around his aching length. He spits into his hand and pulls himself off with quick, desperate tugs.
“That’s it,” Jim encourages, dropping his head to watch intently where their bodies join. “Touch yourself, Oz. Fucking come for me.”
He’s never been good at denying Jim anything. Oswald’s body tenses all at once, head jolting back against the pillows as his cock pulses in his hand. He feels it coat his stomach as he vibrates with the tension of his climax.
Jim doesn’t stop, pushes into him over and over, while Oswald moans through his orgasm. He’s on the verge of hypersensitivity, when he finally pulls free.
“Hold it open,” Jim orders, voice on edge.
Oswald doesn’t hesitate, grabs either side of his own ass, keeping himself spread while Jim strokes himself relentlessly. He’s too high from his own endorphins to feel embarrassed, licks his lips as he watches Jim find his own release.
“Oh, fuck,” Jim swears, barely audible as he places the tip of his cock at the rim of Oswald’s hole and comes.
Oswald is incensed, breath hitching as he whispers, “Push it in. Oh, my God. I want it inside me.”
“Yeah…yeah…” Jim does as he’s bid, using the head of his cock to gather his come and guide it into Oswald’s hole. They both groan with every push, oversensitive, but unable to stop. Jim uses his thumb to push the last bit inside, when his overstimulated cock makes him wince at the friction. He then lets Oswald’s legs down slowly, withdrawing his thumb before blanketing him with his body.
They simply lay there, breathing in a daze until Jim rolls off to sprawl at his side. He then takes up Oswald’s hand, threads their fingers together and brings it up to his lips to kiss his knuckles. He doesn’t let go, holds it against his mouth as they come back down.
Eventually, Jim says, “I was rough with you in my fantasies because I was angry at myself for wanting you. Every time I gave in to it, let my mind wander to you, it made me admit to myself things I wasn’t ready to accept.”
Oswald frowns. “I don’t understand.”
“I know,” Jim replies. “It’s…when I kissed you that first time, when you trusted me to see you, it felt like I was given something precious.”
“I’m not made of glass,” Oswald insists, “not even then.”
“No,” Jim agrees, turning onto his side and finding Oswald’s gaze. “But you deserve to be cherished.”
He feels his throat close up, averts his eyes when he feels wetness prick there. “Oh.”
Jim brushes fingers through his hair, places a kiss at his temple. “When I think of how I used to see you—how I used to think about touching you—I was…callous.”
“Jim, you can’t possibly have found a way to feel guilty for having fantasies,” Oswald argues, not unkindly. “It’s a natural coping mechanism—a way to experience desire without consequence.”
“I know that,” Jim replies, quietly, “but Oz, those fantasies I had, they weren’t—” he breaks off with a sigh, eyes dropping to where their hands are clasped between them. “I made you an object for my anger and when I thought about you and sex, it was always to gain the upper hand, to make you capitulate.
“And while I was getting off on how I’d use sex like a weapon, you were fantasizing about how I’d touch you, how I’d say your name, how I’d kiss you—what my hair would feel like? Oz…”
“Come here,” Oswald says as he scoots over and up slightly, so he can hold Jim against him. His husband comes quietly, winds an arm around Oswald’s waist and twines their legs together. Oswald presses his lips against Jim’s forehead, then rests his cheek there, cradles the back of Jim’s head with a gentle hand and soothing fingers.
“You’ve never made me feel like an object, Jim,” Oswald whispers. “I don’t care if your fantasies weren’t as…” he coughs, blushing, “sweet as mine. There’s plenty I did to you back then that was neither fantasy nor sweet, and yet, you’ve found a way to forgive me. Or, I would hope, considering I’m your husband now.”
“I have,” Jim quickly confirms.
“Good. Because I’ve forgiven you, and maybe we can’t forget but I, for one, wouldn’t want to.” He tilts his neck, so he can make eye contact, then adds, “I do think, maybe, it’s time to let it go. All that guilt—well, it’s all a bit moot at this point, don’t you think?”
Jim huffs, then smiles tiredly. “You’re right.”
“Alert the presses,” Oswald teases.
“Shuddup.” Jim snorts, then sobers. “I love you, sweetheart.”
“I love you, too,” Oswald replies easily.
There’s a beat of silence, relaxed quiet companionship, between them. Then:
“I honestly wouldn’t mind being bent over a desk, Jim,” Oswald confesses. “In fact, that’s twice now you’ve brought it up, I’m beginning to think—”
“Oswald—”
“I’m beginning to think,” he talks over Jim’s protests, “that this is one of those things one might put on a list.”
“It is,” Jim admits, face reddening. “I uh…you know…for our honey moon.”
Oswald leans back, regards Jim with widened eyes. “You made the list?”
His husband coughs. “Yeah.”
“And you expect to bend me over a desk on our honeymoon?” Oswald cheekily inquires.
“Maybe.” Jim’s face is scarlet. “There might be a few desk-related items on it, not just for the honeymoon.”
Oswald arches a brow as he gives a thoughtful hum. “There’s quite a few tall buildings with floor-to-ceiling windows on mine,” he confesses.
“We’re going to scandalize the entire island of Hawaii, aren’t we?”
“Only if they look up,” Oswald defends, then adds, “or down. Or, if they like the beach, or sit beside us on the boat tour, or—”
“Or if they have eyes, you mean?” Jim intercedes.
Oswald shrugs. “Life’s a beach.”
Jim groans, then chuckles. “Oh, God.”
“I got us matching t-shirts,” Oswald teases.
“What have I done?” Jim asks, rolling onto his back, looking ruefully toward the heavens.
“God can’t save you, darling,” Oswald says, cackling. “You’re mine now, I’ve got papers.”
Jim outright laughs, a gloriously unburdened sound he doesn’t make often enough.
“You’re mine too, you know,” he says eventually.
Oswald feels his nose sting as he exclaims, “We’re married, Jim!”
His husband—his!—regards him fondly, reaches out to brush the bangs from Oswald’s face.
“Yes, we are,” Jim replies softly.
As he’s falling into sleep, Oswald feels that familiar awe, lets it suffuse him. It is a miracle, after all, that they’re here. Together. He buried his feelings for so long, but the simple truth is that, for him at least…
It’s always been Jim Gordon.
And Oswald will always run toward him.
- Imagine this courtyard is decorated in blue and white. Also, even though we haven’t yet seen the back of the Van Dahl manor, from the ONE screenshot I could find…this totally looks like something they’d have back there.
- I feel like having the bones cremated would be the easiest way to transport and conceal them. No one at the post office or a bank is going to ask why you want to store a relative’s ashes. So, that’s the justification. I’m just stating it here in case we don’t get around to it in the fic from Ed’s perspective. Also, Oswald isn’t as outraged about it as one might expect because he isn’t religious, first, and second, he believed his father’s bones actual fate was much worse, so this comes as a relief, comparatively.
- We’ve hinted at Oswald’s long-standing CRUSH, in Monsters and Men with Demons, Jim’s perspective reveals that he was aware Oz had a ‘thing’ for him back in the day, but I don’t think he knew the depth of that THING. Also, there are some things in Oz’s speech that they discussed in the past, but most of it was new to Jim especially the stuff about the roses. And its’ one thing to have a personal revelation, and quite another to admit it or be told outright. This is just a disclaimer that yes, I know what I wrote and I’ve made every effort not to contradict myself. I went back and reread parts of the series to make sure I’m not doing dumb shit. Really wish certain writers of certain shows (like, so many shows) would do the same.
- So, Certain Things by James Arthur which I featured heavily in the anniversary fic seems to fit the first year of their relationship so well. Like, oh my God. And THEN, Sermon came on itunes radio this past week in between working on this entry and it just—PERFECT OMG! So, this is their wedding song, and I think the feel for this juncture of their story.
Again, commentary is wholly invited! I love sharing stories, theories and head canons and discussing elements of the process so if you have something to say or wanna talk about anything in the stories or about Gobblepot, hit me up in the comments. Or, if you’re too shy, kudos are love. <3
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