This is season 4, episode two, but before Jim tries to talk to Falcone. Like, if there was a nice span of time where Jim let things go and took some time to think before acting on a really bad idea.

I wrote this for myself as a way to get past my own recent experience with this kind of travel dread, had a breakdown before going to see family.

Jim Gordon dragged his feet every step he took, dread a heavy stone around his neck. He went through the motions, locked the door, and put his keys on the counter. He pretended to look through his mail, starting blankly at the white envelopes, incomprehensible words blurting in his vision as he didn't bother reading anything. All he did was stare for at least five minutes before getting around to putting the bundle down.

It was all nothing better than stalling, staving off going to his pitiful bedroom to confront what was waiting for him there. Going in there was inevitable, and so was facing what was coming, but he still found ways to stall himself.

Getting himself a drink was one of those things, only then, he couldn't bring himself to drink it. There was an awful itch under his skin, ants and bugs crawling just under his epidermis, scurrying around like mad all over his arms and legs. Drinking would either help or make it much worse. Starting into the amber liquid, he finally decided to risk it and downed the glass in one go. He repeated that process three more times before he trudged down the dark hallways.

There was no personality to his apartment. He never hung pictures. There was never much in the way of bobbles or memorabilia lining his shelves. He had a few things, sentimental items, gifts from people he couldn't ever bring himself to get rid of no matter how many times he moved. As far as valuables, he didn't have much anyone would want to steal. In Gotham, that was for the best.

He opened the door to his room the way most people approached a bomb and stopped on the threshold, feet so heavy. Eventually, with more effort than should have been necessary, he walked to the closet to select a dress shirt and matching pants.

A week or two had passed since his mother called, telling him he needed to come back for a few days.

It's only a two day ordeal. Someone in the family decided to hold a memorial type event to celebrate the lives of both Peter and Frank Gordon on the anniversary of Pete's death. Things being what they were, distant family hadn't even known about Frank's death until recently. The Court of Owls originally kept it rather quiet, and since he had infiltrated them at the time, Jim could not exactly do much about that.

Because of that, they wanted to hold something now and they were traveling in for it. It would not be held in Gotham as few in the family had any desire to be anywhere in the city, however, it was taking place only a short distance over the Bridge.

He could not very well say no. Harvey desperately wanted him to take time off anyway to keep the rest of the precinct from giving him another beating or killing him. The city was "safe" now and most of the department liked it that way.

Most weren't even opposed to the idea of being on Penguin's payroll. Even if only in secret, under the table.

Jim walked into Arkham and foughts off dozens of inmates on his own. Even Harvey had drawn his line, which hurt far more than Jim would admit. The city was probably more corrupt now then they had been when he moved back so long ago.

But crime was down. Crime was under control. Clearly. Gotham was safe under the Pax Penguina. No one wanted Jim Gordon to mess that up, not even Harvey, their acting captain.

There was no excuse not to go to the memorial. Harvey wanted him to go, "at least take the time off" even if he offered to cover for Jim and say he made him work. "Just go, unwind, you need it, buddy!"

He starred at the half packed suitcase for an inordinate amount of time, listless, void of emotion. When he picked up the dress pants, folding them neatly, ready to put it inside, that was when the emptiness decided to go away. Suddenly, everything was rage, indignation, rebellion, and more rage.

He didn't want to go! He did not want to go. It was horrible and selfish, and he knew that only too well. Even so, he did not want to go. He did not want to hear them all talk about how much they missed them. He would face down the whole of Gotham's syndicate with one bullet to his name with less trepidation than his upcoming trip.

He couldn't handle going but he couldn't get out of going either, no matter how many times Harvey said; "if you hate going so bad, Jim, just don't go! Tell them something came up, it's an emergency, so you can't make it."

Harvey was a good friend, even now, after everything. But he did not understand the finer points of obligation, the part of it that drove Jim to do things because of duty alone, and only for the sake off duty, because it was right. Doing things not because he could get something out of it or couldn't get away with something, but just because it had to be done by someone at some point, so he inevitably stepped up and volunteered. He couldn't remember not having that drive in him.

Survivors Guilt, someone told him once.

He survived a car crash. He survived the army. He survived Gotham when so very many people fell a around him. He survived, so clearly he had to make up for every single life lost, all the candles snuffed out, by burning brighter himself and burning from both ends.

But he did not want to go. It was horrible, it was wrong not to want to go to visit what was left of his own family. That did not make that knot in his chest go away and it did not magically make him want to go.

To some extent, he did not want to stay either. Part of him wanted to run away from all of it, everything! He'd done it once, handed in his badge, so he could do it again. Over half the force would cheer for that.

Jim set his pants into the suitcase methodically, trying to stave off the urge bubbling up inside him so forcefully. He did not succeed.

With a shriek of rage he'd been holding off a very long time, he grabbed the case and threw it across the room where it slammed into the wall by the door with a loud bang. That only spurred him on to do it again several more times before he decided he might as well do an impromptu, sudden reorganization of the contents of his closet, decoration his room with clothing.

While he was aware that it would only make things worse, give him a mess to clean up in addition to packing. Even so, he could not stop, it felt like a hurricane was swirling inside him and it needed to destroy something or it might never go away. Throwing his clothing seemed like the least damaging thing he could do. The table tipped over in the chaos, shattering the lamp he kept there, which only gave him another reason to roar in anger.

Breaking something though, apparently broke the spell, deflated him until he sank to the floor and propped himself up against his bed.

It was a considerable shock when his bedroom door flew open without any hint of warning to reveal one panicked looking Penguin, though immaculately dressed as always. Wide green eyes took in the detective and the state of the room, handgun drawn and ready.

His state of mind must have been particularly apathetic towards his own well-being as Jim only starred up at the mobster passively, "Great timing! Being dead is a considerably acceptable excuse not to go on a trip."

Oswald blinked at him, utterly confused, totally baffled and out of his depth. He did, however, take clear note of the suitcase overturned near his shiny black shoes.

"They can celebrate three Gordon's then," Jim continued his thought, "rather than two."

Those wide eyes swimming with bewilderment were so noteworthy Jim almost wanted to immortalized it with a picture. "Excuse me," Oswald snapped, "but what in all the holy hell is going on in here?"

Something suddenly occurred to Jim, and those drinks must have been catching up with him if he just noticed the obvious, "Did you just break into my house?"

"James!" Oswald used that dangerous, warning tone he wielded with the accuracy that had most people jumping to fall into line, "What happened?"

Jim took a cursory look around him at the mess, "I was packing."

"Packing?" Oswald parroted back, but with dripping condescension so palpable it bled into the forced smile the man put on.

He had seen that smile and heard that angry, sardonic tone a lot lately and he was not a fan of it. "Yeah. But I don't want to pack."

Oswald shut his eyes, shoved his gun back in its hiding place and balled his fists, "Really?"

"Yeah."

The other man opened his eyes again, revealing the hidden fire burning there, "Let me get this straight? You, a grown man, were throwing a temper tantrum, and that was what all that noise was?" His jaw clenched hard and he flapped his arms in typical Oswald fashion, his voice getting pitchy with fury, "I thought you were being murdered in here!"

Jim let out a dark chuckle, "That why you broke in? Didn't want someone else to beat you to the punch?"

Oswald did not bother with words, he only snarled in reply, teeth barred and clenched.

"If you want, my gun is in the top right drawer in the dresser," Jim slurred a few words in there, "It's probably easier for you. You could just say I shot myself and no one would look at you for it, probably; least not just you since I've got a long list of candidates wanting me dead. Just leave a watch or a metronome here and they'll think it was a Tetch thing." He offered helpfully, "That sounda like your sly style. Unless I'm next on the list to get brain cancer asking to be frozen and be another centerpiece at the club."

Oswald made a face at him, crinkling his eyes and pointed nose, "Very funny, James! Your sense of humor is maudlin and uninspiring at the best of times but fortunately I didn't come here tonight for your wit!" He was still furious.

"Why did you come then? To help me pack?" Jim asked, leaning his head against the bed to make it easier to stare at Penguin.

"As a matter of fact, no, I did not!" He was using the patronizing tone again, "I came here in the vain hope that we could talk over our differences like mature, reasonable adults even if that hope was clearly to no avail whatsoever as you are a philistine in more than fashion! Fighting and bickering never gets either of us anywhere, and if you haven't noticed through our history, we both do exponentially better when we work together. Gotham in general does better when we're not at odds, however long we manage not to be at each other, though you'd never admit that."

The curiosity got to Penguin though, slipped in past the anger, and in the end he asked, "Where exactly are you going anyway?"

Jim's posture hunched and shrank inward at the question, and the other's sharp eyes latched onto the tell of insecurity.

"I take it that you are not keen on the venue of this sudden vacation." He tilted his head, eyes searching, avian the way he usually was. "Don't tell me Harvey finally found his backbone and forced you to take time off after your recent debacle? I didn't think he could make you do anything, even with his elevated rank!"

Jim shook his head, a sick sort of smile finding it's way to his lips, "Harvey isn't making me," it was a little harder than usual to enunciate but he managed to get his tongue in order, "though he's only to happy to see me out of Gotham."

"Out of Gotham?" Oswald sounded startled, even worried, though he covered it in pompous, haughty bravado, "I assume you don't mean permanently, James. I trust you to be more stubborn than that, of course. After all, whatever would any of us do without your incessant, boy scout nagging?"

Maybe Jim needed to drink more often around the gangster to be so easily able to read him and his moods. It was interesting to know he was worried Jim might have thrown in the towel. Some part of him wondered who Oswald would have left at this point.

"It's almost the anniversary of my father's death," Jim told him, oddly compelled to reassure the other that getting rid of him permanently was not as easy as that, "and since a lot of the family couldn't make it to Uncle Frank's funeral... they decided to have something like a memorial. Celebrate them both in one go."

Oswald's eyes widened, the guarded nature of his look dropping, falling away, exposing the younger Oswald that used to mean it when he called them old friends. "Oh. I see."

That prompted the man to look around at the mess again, seemingly with new eyes, something like dawning realization sliding over his face and through his entire posture.

While Jim was positive the great Penguin kept an extensive file on him the way he surely did with all his enemies, complete with notable dates or events, the Pax Penguina had kept him rather occupied of late. He had likely lost track of the coming anniversary, not even noting it as a time to strike when Jim might be emotional. Or... a time to cut him more slack.

"I don't want to go." Jim confessed a little helplessly.

The usual tightness of Penguin's expression melted further into something much softer.

"I don't want to go there and look them in the eye when I know... I know things they don't. I don't want to hear them speculate about why it happened. Whatever they believe, I know it's wrong. I know they're going to ask me questions I don't want to answer about Frank's state of mind, what we talked about. They're going to want to pick my brain to help them understand why he took his own life... and the funny thing is, I've got all their answers but I can't tell them anything."

"Sometimes we... have to keep secrets from those we love in order to protect them." Oswald offered gently and Jim knew he was thinking of his own mother.

"My family was full of secrets. Secrets and more secrets." He starred at his fingernails a second before he said something he knew was foolish, " It wasn't an accident, you know. The Court of Owls hired Michael Ness to act like a drunk driver in order to commit vehicular manslaughter and cover the hit. My father was a member but he realized they weren't acting on behalf of Gotham and he was trying to take them down from the inside, together with my uncle. They figured him out."

Oswald's eyes widened that much more, comically expressive in his shock.

"I joined them too, pretended I was on their side, pretended I didn't know they were responsible. I put on the mask and I pretended I agreed with them. As if I would ever forgive them for that night, sitting there in that car, crushed in on all sides, blood everywhere, watching my father die slowly, his skin getting gray the more blood he lost, wondering if I was going to die too. Like I'd forgive the nights my mother cried herself to sleep and..." He cut himself off, not letting the rest fall out.

Oswald lost his mother. He could not tell him about the days, about his mother drinking herself into oblivion so she forgot to pick him up from the hospital, or from school every day. He could not tell someone that no longer had a mother that he dreaded seeing his own, could never wait to be as far away from her as possible. Oswald would give anything to see his mother and Jim would do anything to avoid his. He avoided her because she had never looked him in the face since they pulled him out of the car.

Oswald did not need to hear how she never forgave him for living in her beloved Peter's place. She could have had another child, she drunkenly told him once, but she could not replace her husband. Though Jim looked just like his father, everyone said so, and she hated him more for that.

Jim moved out and joined the military when he was seventeen and she drunkenly kissed him like a lover when he came home, calling him Peter. He'd nerve stayed under the same roof with her again. But now, with very little contact beyond Christmas cards between them for years, she called.

It's a little pathetic that he, a grown man, still jumps to action at his mother's command. Like a dog. After everything, all the imposed distance, the resentment, the anger, he still can't bring himself to do anything that might upset her. He's still trying to earn her forgiveness for surviving.

Jim can't stop the helpless laughter that bubbles up, subtle at first, but soon turning hysterical.

"How much have you had to drink, Jim?" And there, he'd dropped the 'James'.

"No idea." He said blithely.

Oswald leaned his shoulder against the door frame, no doubt trying to take pressure off his bad leg. "You paid them back for what they took from you. That counts for a lot, you know."

"Not really. I failed to do most of what I intended to... my uncle died to give me a chance to stop them, and I failed. They sent him to kill me that day, wanted us to fight; only one of us could survive and have that seat. He told me he thought I could do it, finish what he and my father couldn't..." Jim put his fingers to his own temple, remembering the last things Frank said to him, "I wouldn't have let him, but he... just did it before I could stop him. To save me."

"Oh! Oh, Jim... I-I didn't, I had no idea..." Oswald babbled a little, taken by surprise, likely by the unexpected honesty, understanding without Jim spelling it out.

"Lee tried to get Harvey to call it a homicide, she believe I did it. She wasn't totally wrong."

It wasn't the Penguin in the room anymore, nothing left of him, now it was simply Oswald, "Jim, no, that's-"

"She also buried my alive in a casket in the woods with a walkie, a flashlight, and the virus in my pocket as the only way to survive. So there is that."

Oswald gaped, "That's... how you were..."

Jim nodded, "I wasn't going to take it. I didn't want to turn into Barnes... but then I realized where the bomb was and I thought I could actually stop it. But I didn't, of course, stop it."

"I always assumed you were infected by the bomb, that you contracted it there, once I found out you had it. But it was...really..."

"Pine box. She said I could either take the virus or let it be my final resting place." Jim started laughing again, "Which is funny! She should never have banked on me taking the virus after Barnes had to chain me up just to keep me from killing myself when Tetch was around."

The sheer horror on Oswald's face made him laugh harder, "That is not humorous!"

"Of course it is. It's called irony, or something like that." Jim countered smugly.

"Jim..." Oswald closed his eyes, clearly exasperated beyond what he could stand. "Speaking as someone who's been subject to my share of death traps, I know they aren't ever particularly amusing. Especially not when you were put there by someone you thought you could trust."

He knew who they were talking about now too. Edward Nygma, the man that once was both their friend, but now was neither of their friends. The sweet kid with glasses and a crush died when the Riddler was born, he'd known that for certain that day in the snow, staring into those crazed eyes past the barrel of a gun. There was nothing left of the real Ed, Jim had seen that more than once, and wished desperately he'd been able to save that innocent kid before any of it went to hell. Jim had no love at all for Riddler.

"I tried to tell you about him. I trusted him once too, went to him for help because I thought..." Jim shook his head smirking, "I got electrocuted."

There is a little more Penguin in him now, stiffer posture and darker expression, "He's cost us both a great deal at this point, I suppose." He said with a sniff.

Oswald had never once brought it up, never prodded the wound, never tried to use it. Even so, Jim knew the mobster knew what happened to the baby. He had been the first to know about it besides Jim himself the night Lee made her hasty confession. He could have used it many times, used it to cut, but he never did, even avoided going near potential related topics. It was a kindness, a conscious choice.

"I saw you, you know. When Tetch drugged me with the Red Queen, while I was dying, I had hallucinations. You were in one of them. You and I were on the front together, bullets flying. I couldn't get out of the way of the bullets, I was pinned. You tackled me to the side, behind some cover."

The keen interest was piqued in those expressive eyes, "Then what happened?"

Jim instantly wished he'd never brought it up, not drunk enough for it since he was good at holding his drink, and he wished he could take it back, didn't want to tell anyone what Oswald said as he knew what it meant, "I don't know, it's fuzzy now. It was either the car crash, or everyone at the GCPD dying." He didn't want to tell him about Bruce either.

His tongue got freer when he drank but not so free a you admit certain secrets. Not unless he was drunk out of his mind.

He didn't look at the man as he got to his feet, shaky and unsteady, pushing past him to head for the kitchen. It took a few minutes of fruitlessly searching around the cupboard before he remembered he never put the bottle away, just left it on a different counter. He served himself a few fingers worth and started to drink it before a hand settled on his arm.

The voice was gentle, soothing, "How about we make you some coffee instead?"

"I don't want coffee, " he replied petulantly.

Oswald didn't fight him further, just watched him down the glass and set it down almost hard enough to crack it. Something disconnected in his mind made him pour out another glass and slide it over to his guest to be polite. Jim then headed for his couch, suddenly too tired to think of cleaning the mess he'd made in the bedroom. Boneless, he dropped onto the couch like he'd been thrown there.

Oswald followed him but did not sit down, again opting to lean against the door frame to study him, "When you said they could celebrate three Gordon's, did you really think I came here to kill you?"

Jim's eyes fell closed as he lolled his head back on the cushions, "Why not? You have every reason to. I'm surprised you've never done it. All these years, all those chances you've had, and you still haven't done it. You have no reason not to."

"You mean chances like right now? When your throat is barred and your eyes are closed?" Oswald laughed, irony and irritation wrought through it, "Someone might mistake your current posture as trusting, even though you just accused me of visiting you in order to murder you in your sorry excuse for a residence."

"I don't trust you." Jim stated easily, catching the way Oswald's breath stuttered, something like he'd been stung, even after all the times Jim had rebuffed his friendship before, "But... I also trust you a lot. I know that doesn't make sense. I've always trusted you, gambled on being able to depend on you. You betray me a lot, but you also... don't. You protect me and turn on me five times a day, but you... you're there when I need you most, loyal beyond reason on some things. I've never quite understood how your mind works."

"You mean, I keep your secrets, like Galavan." Oswald almost never brought that up, not in anything but the vaguest insinuations that could be interpreted multiple ways.

"Yeah," Jim agreed, trying not too fall asleep, "and you've never killed me. Not even when I think you've wanted to, when it would have been easier. You've never done it. You never shot me and tossed my body into the river."

"Oh, Jim, my old friend," it was the words as well as the near jovial tone that made Jim open his eyes and look at the man, "you clearly don't understand. There are few people in this world I wouldn't stab for cutting me off in traffic, however, if those select few ever do vex me enough for me to want to kill them, it certainly would not end in some mundane way." Oswald was grinning at him almost playfully, "No, if I want you dead, you will indeed be developing brain cancer and be placed in a prominent location at my club. Though, I would unquestionably ensure you were wearing something far more tasteful than your usual, uninspiring wardrobe. If I ever randomly ask you to put on a tux, then you can worry."

Jim starred, his mind whirling over too many different things and emotions. Guilt the predominant one. He never understood why Oswald hasn't gone after him after Arkham with the same ferocity he had Fish. He expected Penguin to come for him, to drive a blade into his flesh and bathe in his blood; Jim practically begged for it, pushed the other man for it on multiple occasions to feed the same exact need Jervis later tapped into.

It didn't make sense that the knife never fell. Jim kept expecting it to for quite a while after he found himself out of prison. Then again, somehow, Penguin and Fish made up in the end too.

Oswald's smile turned sadder the longer he looked at the detective but the words regained playful. "I could never put you on display looking so drab."

That was apparently what it took to break Jim Gordon, shatter him into pieces. The laughter punched it's way out of his chest and rolled over him like a truck. It's was funny, but not so funny that his whole body should be shaking with the force. He folded over, draped over his own legs to bring him close to the right position in case he started to hyperventilate. When that did not help, he let himself tip over and rest his forehead on the arm of the couch in surrender.

He could not stop the laughter and it began to sound frantic, manic, or maybe panicked. It was not long before his chest hurt and His head swam. His eyes were watering and they would soon spill over judging by just how much was welling at the waterline. It was then that the couch dipped beside him and a hand began to run tender circles over his shoulders.

"Shhhhh, you're alright." Oswald whispered to him.

The laughter hitched, morphing into something more like desperate sobs until his eyelids lost the battle against the rising salt water to let those traitorous tears spill form his eyes. It was then when Oswald tugged Jim over to rest his head on a bony, expensively clad shoulder.

Oswald always had been rather free, even liberal with his physical shows. He never shied away from touching people. It was a trait Jim sometimes wondered if he picked up from being around the mob so much.

There was so much clouding Jim's mind, so many regrets, so many things he'd rather forget, all of them vying for attention, boiling to the surface like a volcano.

He'd never cried. Not about any of it. Screamed, ragged, punched wherever was nearest, but he never cried. Not even for the baby he never got to see. He shut everything down so well most of the time, covering it over with copious amounts of anger exactly the way Lee had buried him under plenty of dirt.

He never cried. He never remembered seeing his father cry so he... Even now, the tears felt like a betrayal to everything he was supposed to live up to. Big boys weren't supposed to cry. It wasn't allowed. He would disappoint...

Those thoughts only made his sobs louder, more impossible to hide. It was an ugly sound, broken and pitiful, ragged, offensive to the ears. His body was shaking, wracked with his weeping.

He felt out of control, vulnerable, low, and weak while he leaned against Oswald as the only solid thing to catch him. The crying was so bad he felt himself drool, felt a little snot coming out of his nose. A little drool, though hopefully nothing else, had made in onto that extensive suit jacket.

Swiping subtly and quickly at the spot, hoping against all hope that Oswald had not noticed, Jim pulled away. He jumped to his feet and turned sharply so only his back would be visible to the other man as he tried to erase all evidence with his sleeve. His breathing was labored but it was calming with some concentrated effort to exert control again. He had to get control back, he could not fall apart.

"Sorry." His voice sounded bad too, like he'd gargled sand.

"Do not apologize, Jim. I'm glad you actually let some of that out." There was a hand on his shoulder, light pressure, "You hold it all in and build up those walls so high no one can touch you, reach you. You're human too, you know, flesh and blood. There's no shame in being made of flesh and bone rather than granite."

"Aren't we supposed to be rivals? You're not supposed to let your rival cry on your shoulder." Jim tried, still blinking the water away from his vision, "Isn't this bad for business?"

"We both know I break the rules, and we're both a bit unconventional. I hardly think this sort of behavior between us is going to break anything now."

Jim drew in a shaking breath threw his nose, realizing he never pulled away from the slight pressure of fingers on his shoulder, "I..." he had no idea what he wanted to say. What came out was not planned, nor was it even what he'd wanted to apologize for the most, but her could not speak of that place, of Strange. "I'm sorry about Fish, I never ment to kill her, I really didn't..."

The fingers tightened reflexively before easing. "I know. I remember that frightened, confused look on your face when you dropped the knife. You weren't even in your right mind. It's a testament to your stubbornness that you didn't kill considerably more than Fish and a few ninja. I wondered at the time how you managed to so easily eviscerate trained killers... but then, of course, I found out."

"I'm sorry I haven't lived up to what you thought I'd be in the beginning. I'm not the good man you used to think I was."

For a long while there was silence, but eventually that quiet, wise voice surfaced again, "None of us are perfect, old friend, no matter how much we strive. You're still a good man. I wild still be the first to say so, even if we are usually at odds."

"You don't have to say that. We both know I'm... not. You know better than most, and you weren't wrong. I am a monster."

"You are not a monster, " Oswald shushed him, "You aren't prefect, you aren't all good... but you try. That's what really counts, Jim. It's why I came to talk. I know you've always rebuffed it when I've said it in the past, but our interests aren't as different as you think, and I am your friend. Even if we are rivals at the end of each day."

Jim could have argued, but instead he allowed his tongue to stay silent in favor of wiping another tear away. He should not have been crying like a fool, particularly not in front of anyone, adding insult to injury. It felt like shamefully distracting himself, he'd been trained you control himself better.

"As your friend, not your rival... I want you to know that you can come to me, day or night. If you need to talk. You've suffered a great deal and you don't have to muddle through it alone."

For some reason, that reminded him of Harvey even though Harvey would never have said it like Oswald. Harvey would have taken him out for drinks and offered words like, "I'm here for you brother, but you've gotta pull yourself together." His friends were very different from each other. But they were his friends all the same.

"You suffered too, and I had a hand in some of it." He didn't have to be specific, they both knew all the answers to insinuated questions, "I don't exactly have the right."

"Friends help each other, regardless of circumstances. I never asked you to live up to my standards, I only asked you for your friendship."

Which, of course, Jim had always denied him.

"Why don't you sit down a minute?" And that probably was a good idea considering her was still shaking just slightly.

He simply allowed Oswald to maneuver him onto his couch, even let him guide his body down flat to lie there like a log. When he went to walk away, Jim panicked and graded his wrist in a silent plea.

"You need to rest, Jim, you're exhausted. Things will look better if you just close your eyes for a like while."

Jim obediently closed his eyes, could not have keep them open long anyway with the way they stung to be closed, but he could not bring himself to let go of they thin wrist. His clinging made the stone cold mobster relent and sit on the edge on the couch. When fingers softly began to work though his hair Jim was lost, unconscious in nothing but a few minutes under the soothing sensation.

When he woke, it was to a pounding headache and a spinning room. He did not even hesitate to down the pill and glass of water waiting on the table for him, not so much as sparing a thought to the origin of the pill.

Jim called the other man's name even though he doubted very much he was still there. The returning silence was confirmation enough, and he let his head sag in silly disappointment. He had not wanted to be alone with his own mind again, worried he might simply break down again. He should not want company for that though.

When he nearly fell asleep sitting up, he climbed to his feet, determined to crawl into bed and sprawl over the top of his suits if needs be. Getting to his room and finding it clean, bag immaculately packed, and his clothes not only hung up but color coordinated was a bit of a shock. He crawled under the blankets anyway.

Later, before his trip, he stopped in at Oswald's club for a drink, hoping to see the man himself.

Surprisingly, Oswald not only found him but sat beside him at the bar, "I do hope you're not planning to drive if you're drinking that."

"Taxi." Jim told him simply. "I don't trust myself not to turn back otherwise."

"You'll be fine, Jim. Think of them as suspects in a case you're investigating."

"I still don't want to go." Jim made the quite, wicked confession again, one he'd only put into voice with the mobster.

"I know." Oswald whispered back, a sympathetic downward curve to his lips, "But you're going to do it anyway. That's how you are."

"You packed my suitcase." Jim said.

Oswald shrugged, "What are friends for?"

Jim slid off the bar stool, surprised when it didn't squeak the way the ones he usually sat on would have, "Thank you for..." everything, he should say.

"Of course." Oswald allowed him to leave it hanging.

"And I'm really sorry for..." again, he couldn't bring forth the words to encompass enough of what he should apologize for. Words of apology were never his strongest aspect no matter how he sometimes wished they were.

"You are a lot more verbose when drunk." Oswald observed with a smirk.

Rather than muddle through words, Jim stuck out his hand. Oswald looked at it a second or two before he gripped it in return, shaking it gently, unlike he had in front of all the cameras.

"We should talk when I get back."

"Of course, Jim. We always have much to discuss." He raised his glass companionably, "You know where to find me, old friend."

There was a great deal they need to work out professionally, and likely privately too. He doubted the mobster could honestly have forgiven the past, wondered sometimes if he was simply playing the long game of revenge, but sometimes he believed Oswald to be genuine.

Heaven only knew why Harvey or Oswald forgave him for living as he generally turned everything he touched to ash. Lee certainly couldn't forgive him. But then, he'd killed the man that managed to put Lee back together when he'd broken her. He was not sorry he'd killed what Mario became, he was sorry he got a decent man turned into a monster.

But Gotham turned everyone into a monster. Maybe it was inevitable. The Pax Penguina wouldn't solve that of course, it would make it worse. But maybe Penguin's motives were partially altruistic, though never fully. Still maybe it was an honest effort, misguided though it was.

"See you around, Oswald."

Jim was not yet back to himself. He still felt like a scarf being pulled apart at both ends and seeing his family would only unravel him further. However, he did feel better, for now, and he had a glimmer of hope that an accord could be reached. If he unraveled a bit more when they spoke again, at least Oswald was good at keeping his secrets.

Family gatherings are hard. I thought Jim deserved to have a shoulder to cry on after what he'd been through. Because, just one of those things on their own are enough to mentally ruin a person for a long time! Like being buried alive! Watching his uncle shoot himself! That's intense life therapy right there but he just keeps pretending he's totally fine.

Also, if something like this happened, if they'd bothered to talk to each other rather then at each other, maybe Jim would have had the forethought not to go to Falcone. Would have considered that going to Falcone would be a fatal mistake. Sofia might still have come to get revenge, probably would have, actually. But I never understood how Jim ever thought that could go well.