Chapter Text
Jim drags the man, Oswald's would-be vanquisher, to the hole in the ground and throws him in. Jim's white shirt is stained red with blood, a mix of his own, Oswald's and the dead man's. Meanwhile, Oswald stands by the newly dug grave and dabs at his bloody nose with a pure white handkerchief, frowning at the body that clunks crudely against the hard earth.
He let's Jim bury the man, and they then go back to Oswald's mansion and slip inside the French doors, into the drawing room. The weather is dark and foreboding, and soon an orchestra of stormy weather is likely to begin. Oswald limps to the fireplace and starts a fire, looking back over his shoulder at Jim halfway through his task. "Take off those clothes and I'll burn them," he orders. "One of my old staff members probably left some clothes in your size in the servants quarters that you can go home in. If not… well, you'll have to go home in your birthday suit. You certainly can't go back with this evidence all over you, Commissioner."
Jim looks at Oswald with a hardened glare, eyes narrow, unapologetically fatigued with the constant repetition of their criminal unions. Setting his jaw tightly, Jim unknots his tie like he's ripping through ropes to save a victim, and then he throws it on the ground by Oswald.
In response, Oswald snarls with high dudgeon, infallible in his detestment of Jim's attitude.
Next comes the shirt, unbuttoned with precise movements and that too gets thrown next to Oswald.
"Manners!" Oswald shouts.
Jim makes eye contact with him and kicks off his shoes, unbuckles his belt (throws that on the pile), unbuttons and unzips his trousers and peels those off (adds them to the pile) and then crosses his arms, all very defiantly.
Oswald casts his eyes down Jim's body and pointedly looks at Jim's crotch. "What, Oswald? Does getting me into this shit get you off? My eyes are up here, dumbass!"
Oswald smirks and looks up at him from under his eyelashes, holding the gaze suggestively and sultry for a moment. "As pleasing a specimen as you are, James, your pitifully low opinion of me renders any inclinations of carnal intent void. And besides, it's your thoroughly blood stained boxers I was ogling, not whatever you think is interesting enough for me to lust after underneath."
"Fuck you," Jim snarls, and he tugs his socks off, throws them on the pile and then takes his boxers off and does exactly the same.
With arms folded and that steely defiance in his eye, he looks at Oswald and waits for him to comment on anything, anything, because if he says anything else cocky, Jim's going to lose his shit.
But Oswald only rakes his eyes down Jim's body from head to feet, spending brief moments on Jim's groin, before shrugging. And that infuriates Jim more than if Oswald had said anything about Jim's nakedness.
"Servants quarters are down the hall and through the kitchen. I'm sure you'll find towels and clothes there."
"I'll burn all that," Jim tells him. "Can't trust you to hide it somewhere, tell me it's burnt, and then blackmail me with it."
Jim stalks away.
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When Jim returns in his stolen clothes, Oswald's on the sofa fast asleep. Jim isn't shocked to find him so; Oswald had been awake for three days. The pile of clothes is still there, waiting to be burned, and so Jim takes the task and kneels by the fire to place each item in the flames, one at a time.
It's almost an hour before he's satisfied everything has burnt away and the evidence of his involvement has been erased. Oswald still sleeps, head against the back of the sofa, quiet breaths bathing him in a peaceful mien; even if Jim knows for a fact Oswald is a brute (small and petite though he may appear), seeing him now is deceptive and for a while Jim just watches, steals this moment of Oswald's serenity for himself.
When the lightning starts snapping outside, Jim stands and quietly, almost on tippy toes, walks to the door with the sole intent of leaving the Van Dahl mansion and never, ever coming back. He makes it half way when Oswald says sleepily, "Off so soon, old friend?" and his tone is mocking and provoking.
"Don't call me to help you out again, Oswald."
"I didn't call you. You came of your own volition," Oswald contests. "You could have sent anyone, Jim! But it had to be you, didn't it? You're not a cop anymore, Jim. Remember that. You're the Commissioner, and yet you still keep creeping around like no one knows you're hot for this stuff."
"I'm warning you," Jim snaps, turning on Oswald, "You have to stop turning me into a criminal."
Oswald laughs bitterly. "Yeah, Jim, keep thinking it's me that makes you so criminal."
"I don't want to hear from you ever again, Cobblepot. Understand?"
"You don't get to dictate to me whether I choose to correspond with you," Oswald spits, standing up. "I've helped you out more times than you can count and every time I've called on you for help, every time I've needed you, you've never been there. I have bruises on both my knees permanently from all the begging I've done, just to get you to help, or be a friend, or even just recognise me as an equal. All you do, James, is take."
"That's bullshit and you know it."
"And you never say thank you!" Oswald continues, advancing on Jim as thunder rolls above them. "Oh, I forgot your little quip of 'Gotham thanks you'. Ha ha. Let's not forget that gracious posturing of your gratitude.
"And whilst we are on the subject, you never say please, either. Do you? You only barge into my life and upend it with demands, and then slither out of it to let me pick up the pieces!"
"What do you want me to do, Oswald?" Jim hollars, getting into Oswald's personal space in that old familiar battle of wills they're so used to having. "You want me to come to you and be a sweet lil' debutant and mind my ps and qs whilst I ask humbly for a murderers help?"
Oswald barks a laugh, loud and high. "Perish the thought you might actually think of me as a human being, Jim!"
"You're a murderer. A calculating psychopath."
"And you're not a murderer?" Oswald bites back. "You forget that I've seen you murder people. Galavan, for one. And I'm sure you remember burning the evidence of your most recent slaughter in my fire a short time ago!"
Jim is heaving breaths in, vibrating with rage. Oswald stands back and observes him, scans his body with a loathing appraisal. "I do what I want, when I want, and you need me to be this way."
"You're fucking insane, you know that?" Jim asks in exasperation.
"You need me Jim! Admit it! You need me to be this way so you have a quick in and out into the underworld, because you know I'll go to almost any lengths to protect you, Jim! You use me. You always have. I said I'd be your slave for life if you spared me but I never thought you would take advantage of that so carelessly. You have me wrapped around your little finger. You've made a tragic soul out of me, Jim."
Jim curls his lip. "You disgust me."
Oswald tuts. "You're so cynical it makes me want to shoot myself," Oswald says defeatedly. "Please leave my house. And don't come back."
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