In a rare departure from Megamind, I came up with this fanfic about Gotham. (Still neck-deep in the Megamind fandom, but I've really been getting into Gotham lately, and there really needs to be more Gobblepot.)

Now that Oswald had made it to the top of Gotham's criminal underworld, he was damn well going to stay there.

If only his victory didn't feel so hollow.

He wished Jim Gordon would come around once in a while, to accept an invitation to one of Oswald's parties or, hell, even to interrogate him about a crime, something. But ever since the Ogden Barker incident, Jim Gordon might as well have fallen off the face of the earth.

Oswald had been sure once he'd cooled off he'd be okay with how things had gone down with that disrespectful piece of shit Barker.

He'd accused Oswald of using him. Well...yes, but... Jim had used Oswald, too, to get his job back, and Oswald hadn't even had to kill the commisioner to do it. People pulled strings, called in favors, asked for help, everybody did it. It was just business, what was the big deal?

He tried not to let it bother him. Tried to shrug it off.

So Jim didn't want to be friends. Fine.

It surprised him how much that stung.

Then one night, after a particulary difficult meeting with some cronies of the late Don Maroni, which had been resolved in a very satisfactory manner thanks to Victor Zsasz (my God! What a rush that was, to have a killing machine like Zsasz at his command), one of his men was driving him back to the club, when they drove by Jim Gordon's car.

Heading home probably, after a late night at the police station.

Oswald had to resist the urge to hunker down in the seat.

Jim stared steadily ahead, concentrating on maneuvering the car through the streets grown slick with rain.

Oswald followed him with his eyes, until the other car passed by and disappeared into the night.

Jim didn't even notice.

Oswald clenched his hands around his umbrella and felt his exultant mood came crashing down around his ears.

Well, what did he want anyway? For Detective Gordon to pull them over and ask what they'd been up to recently? Oh, nothing, detective. Certainly not disposing of some of Maroni's disgruntled henchmen or anything like that.

Back in Fish's old quarters above the club, he splashed cold water on his face and regarded his dripping features in the mirror.

Mouth turned down at the corners, eyes full of unhappiness, a drip of water hanging from his beaky nose, his expression matched the dull ache in his chest.

"Oh no," he whispered.

He'd been so careful. For his entire life he'd brutally squelched any hint of desire that cropped up, until he was sure he'd conquered all but the lust for power.

He was no fool. He rubbed elbows with homophobic thugs too often, he saw what happened to people they targeted. It was safer for Oswald to...just not. Not anything. Don't look, don't reveal, and most especially don't feel. He was a little proud of that little ditty, actually, it rhymed.

Hiding became force of habit. The brutes he socialized with might sneer at his mannerisms, make fun of the way he walked, or become enraged by his betrayals, but at least Oswald never got his ass kicked for being gay.

Over the years, the situation for the gay citizenry of Gotham had gotten marginally better, but Oswald was firmly entrenched in his ways by then.

Love. Who needed it? Certainly not Oswald Cobblepot.

Despite his caution, he slipped up, only once. Shortly after securing employment with Fish Mooney, he went to a porn theater late one night, in an act of tremendous daring. And wouldn't you know it, Victor Zsasz was there too, and spotted him.

Oswald darted away as fast as he could, and tried to convince himself that Zsasz probably didn't even recognize him. Oswald was a nobody in the organization at that point, a mere go-fer for Ms. Mooney, so yeah, it was all good. Probably.

Zsasz was employed by Don Falcone, who held some very old-fashioned views, and Fish Mooney was one of his top lieutenants.

He lived in dread for an entire week, and just when he began to relax and entertain hopes that he was in the clear, Ms. Mooney summoned him for a little talk. He had to stand in front of her like a misbehaving schoolboy while she lectured him, with her bodyguard Butch watching with an amused expression in the background.

"Oswald, do you know why Don Falcone tolerates Victor Zsasz's..." She shrugged delicately. "Dating habits?"

"No, Ms. Mooney," he mumbled, clasping his hands together to stop them from shaking, hating her and Victor and Butch and everyone in the universe.

"It's because Zsasz is discrete. He respects Falcone's views. As do I." She fixed him with a cold gaze. "No matter our own personal views on the matter, we all have to toe the line. Be a little more discrete, Oswald."

He was King of Gotham now, but his habit of extreme caution (okay, fine, suppression, denial, whatever) remained. It was familiar, comfortable. Safe. No one near to his heart meant that no one could use it against him.

He'd been so damned careful. And it happened anyway.

He'd fallen in love with Jim Gordon. An actual, goddamned police detective.

So he was glad Jim didn't come around, after that harrowing realization. Oswald wouldn't be able to humiliate himself further with any more adoring gazes or pathetic invitations or declarations of friendship.

Friendship! Jesus! His adoration was so obvious in hindsight. He just had to hope Detective Gordon hadn't noticed.

So long as the detective stayed away, the heartache would pass, eventually. Hopefully.

Oswald plastered a triumphant smirk on his face for the sake of his underlings, and went about his business.

The very night he secured the allegiance of the Beale Street Gang, which allowed alcohol to once again flow freely into the south side, he walked into the pulsing noise of the club to find Detective Gordon perched on a stool at the end of the bar, nursing a beer mug.

Despite the crowd, Oswald spotted him immediately, the familiar profile, the angle of his head, somber demeanor as he ignored the laughing partiers that jostled him.

As if he sensed his presence, Jim looked up and met his gaze.

Oswald tore his eyes away and busied himself with taking off his overcoat, tossing it at the nearest hovering waitperson.

"What's he doin' here?" Butch grumbled. "Wish I could throw him out."

"Like that wouldn't look suspicious," Oswald snapped.

Butch's big pink face wrinkled. "Didn't say I was gonna. Said I wished I could."

"Oh. Sorry." Silently he kicked himself for apologizing. Butch was his henchman, even more obedient than the average thug, thanks to Zsasz and his unique brainwashing techniques. And yet Oswald could never quite forget that Butch had once been loyal to their old boss Fish Mooney. Whom Oswald had betrayed.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Oswald was waiting for Butch to revert to form and attempt to twist his head off.

Oswald glanced at his current problem, namely Jim Gordon, watching him with that stone-faced expression all police officers must learn in the academy. "He must have questions about something or other. I'll deal with him."

Oswald fixed a bright smile on his face and made his way to the bar, leaning close to be heard above the noise. "Jim, my friend. How can I assist the GCPD this fine evening?"

Jim lifted the half-full mug. "More of a social call."

"Of...of course." The beer mug. He'd been too rattled to realize Jim must be off duty. He never drank on the job.

Oswald twiddled his fingers and opened his mouth to ask, So why are you drinking here, then? or What happened to your other friends?, both of which sounded rather rude, so he shut his mouth again.

Jim Gordon never simply 'dropped by,' not without wanting something.

If he was trying to throw Oswald off balance, he was doing a great job.

Jim leaned close, and Oswald's stupid heart beat faster at the scent of aftershave. "You got an office?" Jim asked, forced to almost shout. "Kind of hard to talk."

"Of course, detective. This way," Oswald said, managing to find a smile, and led the way to the stairs.

Internally he was screaming. A social call. Like hell it was.

Up the stairs and across the carpeted hall, with Butch trailing them and, as Oswald began to close the door, Butch gave him a little nod, to assure him he'd be right outside in case of trouble.

It...actually made him feel a tiny bit better.

Oswald closed the door, shutting out most of the raucous noise, though the heavy beat of the band made the floor vibrate.

"Drink?"

"Nah, I think I've had enough."

Oswald poured a shot of Wild Turkey for himself. "Bottled water?" He opened the mini fridge. "Or..." He peered into it, caught sight of the fifty thousand dollars worth of unlaundered twenties he'd stuffed in it when Mother came in unexpectedly, and, snatching a bottle, slammed the fridge shut. "Um. That's it! Just water," he said quickly. "Really must restock this sometime."

A nervous giggle threatened to burst out but he fought it down. God, he had to keep it together! Not fall apart just because Jim and his handsome, stern features were shut up here with him in this wretched room that felt as if it was shrinking and getting too hot.

One eyebrow went up on the detective's forehead, but he merely said, "Water, then."

Oswald handed him the bottle and retreated behind the desk.

"I want to talk about the favors," Jim said. "Can we..." He looked around the room as if searching for inspiration, tapping a forefinger on the armrest. "Start over? Stop doing these favors?"

Oswald swirled the whiskey in his glass. I knew it. It's business after all. Wants off the hook. "Well, that's a rather difficult thing to ask, Jim, as I'm fairly certain you still owe me."

"I went to see Ogden Barker. And that favor wasn't as easy as you made it out."

"Oh, I knew you could handle him." Oswald waved a hand irritably.

"You knew he'd get violent. You were counting on it so I'd be forced to defend myself." Jim's face was hard. "I'm not one of your hired guns."

Oswald glared back. "Okay. Fine." He shrugged and crossed his arms. "Next time I'll be upfront. The whole scoop, let you decide whether or not to take the job."

Jim groaned and fell back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. "I don't want there to be a next time. I thought if we could have a clean slate. No favors, no one owing anybody anything, it'd be better if we're not 'friends'." He made air quotes with his hands.

Oswald let a dry chuckle come out, though he felt his insides sort of shrivel up and die. "Is this some kind of friend break-up? When people want to stop being friends, there's not usually a formal announcement, Jim."

He smiled mockingly, madly, treating Jim to the full force of his disdain.

Why was Jim doing this? Rubbing it in his face that he hated Oswald so much he didn't even have the decency to simply fade from Oswald's life, no, he had to come here and tell him. God, why not just stab him in the heart and be done with it?

Jim leaned forward on his elbows. "Lee and I broke up."

"Oh." Oswald deflated a little. "I'm...I'm sorry to hear that." Maybe this was why Jim was acting so oddly.

"Are you?"

"Well, yeah," Oswald snapped, feeling more exasperated than ever. "As in, sorry you're experiencing an emotional upheaval, sorry for Dr. Thompkins, she seems like a nice person so..." He shook his head and shifted his weight irritably. "It's the kind of thing civilized people are supposed to say, Jim."

Jim looked at the floor. "Wow. I am really bad at this."

"At what? At socializing? I'll say." Oswald gulped the rest of his drink, feeling it burn all the way down, and it wasn't even fricking working, he couldn't get a buzz going.

He got to his feet and hitched his bad leg around the desk, the limp worse than ever in his agitation, and went back to the drinks cabinet. "Don't want to be friends, yet you seem to be looking for a shoulder to cry on, honestly I don't know why you had to come here, shouldn't you be out drowning your sorrows and boozing it up with Detective Bullock? That's what he's there for."

"It was over two months ago. The break-up." The chair creaked as Jim stood up.

Oswald searched the liquor bottles, trying to find something with more kick. "Oh, really?" he muttered.

"I wanted to be sure."

"About what?" He poured more whiskey into the shot glass, some of it splashing onto his cuff. "Oh, fuck."

"Sure about my feelings for you."

Oswald fumbled the bottle. With extreme care he set it down among the others without breaking it, then turned cautiously.

Jim took a few steps closer, and stopped. "I wanted to be sure," he said, his eyes steady. "I thought that...having this whole 'favors' thing hanging over us would be..." He grimaced and rolled his eyes. "Awkward. Um. I should have said I wanted to be more than friends. All that came out wrong." He smiled apologetically.

Oswald clutched at the table for support. Jim had never smiled at him like that before, a real, honest, open smile, not at all like the forced smiles he plastered on when he was trying to be polite.

"Oh," he said. It came out as a squeak. The conversation had switched tracks so fast his mind had gone blank. Jim had feelings? For him?

Jim tilted his head as Oswald continued to gape at him like an idiot. "And I think you feel the same way about me." He paused. "Am I wrong? I don't think I am."

A distant crash and a burst of laughter from the ground floor suggested that someone had fallen off a bar stool, to the merriment of their friends.

The club seemed very far away as if in another world. Oswald felt as if he and Jim were in a bubble of quiet, and that sense of quiet built as Jim waited for Oswald's answer.

"N-no. Not wrong," he whispered, and shut his eyes.

That had not been a smart thing to say. He should have denied it. It was the kind of honesty that could be used against him. Truth could be wielded like a knife to wound, to maim, to destroy. Detective Gordon must have an ulterior motive, he must, and if Oswald could just get his head to stop spinning he could figure it out.

Could one of Oswald's countless enemies have set this up somehow? Maybe Butch? Butch knew he was gay, but how could he possibly know about Oswald's feelings for Jim Gordon? How could anyone?

Besides, Jim Gordon was impervious to bribes and blackmail.

Oswald's glass trembled in his hand and he held it close to his chest to stop it. He couldn't handle this. Any moment now the real motive for Jim's visit would emerge, and Oswald's heart would crack. And he just. Could not.

Jim stepped closer. "You don't believe me."

"Wanting something to be true isn't the same as it being true." As if under the control of magnets, Oswald's gaze flickered to Jim's mouth, down to his collar with the top button undone to show the hollow of his throat. He made himself meet Jim's gaze again and that might have been a mistake because he was immediately sucked in.

Jim was close enough so he could feel the heat of his body and Oswald hated the spark of hope that leaped in his chest.

He stood up straighter in a last attempt at self-preservation. "You're trying to get information. You are, aren't you?"

Jim's lips quirked into a smile. "Seduction isn't really part of usual police procedure."

Oswald felt like his ears were about to catch fire. If a hidden camera popped out he'd be mortified but not exactly surprised that...

He snapped his fingers. "You're wired. You're wearing a wire, aren't you? This is a prank. Did Bullock put you up to this?"

Jim scoffed, his smile widening, and even that was too damn sexy. "I'm not wearing a wire. No recording devices. Nothing." He lifted his hands. "You want to search me yourself?"

Oswald felt himself hovering over the abyss, felt himself giving in, he wanted so badly to believe this was true, even though it couldn't be. If he chose to believe Jim, he was opening himself up to a whole new possible world of pain.

"Don't toy with me," he whispered, half pleading, half threatening.

The amusement faded from Jim's face as he realized that, to Oswald, this wasn't the least bit amusing. "Sorry. I thought a little humor might help. I'm not toying with you, Oswald. I promise."

Jim stepped closer and gently took the glass from his fingers, setting it to the side. He cupped the back of Oswald's head, sliding his fingers into his hair, and pulled him close, pressing their lips together.

Oswald did his best not to hyperventilate. Tentatively he placed one hand on Jim's firm bicep and the other on his elbow. He had no idea how to kiss, so he followed Jim's lead, maintaining light pressure, keeping his lips soft and pliant, and basically just tried to lose himself in the moment before Jim came to his senses.

Jim's nose brushed against Oswald's cheek and the little puffs of his breath reminded Oswald to remember to breathe.

Somehow Jim's other hand had gotten under Oswald's suit coat, trailing up and down his side, catching briefly on his waistcoat before getting under there, too. His hand seemed to burn through his shirt as it smoothed over his ribs.

Jim's lips parted slightly and closed again, capturing Oswald's' lower lip.

It wasn't safe, someone might see...

Oswald flinched.

Jim took his hand out of Oswald's hair and let it rest on his shoulder, and he drew back, though his other hand still lay on Oswald's waist. "You okay?"

Oswald swallowed hard and drew a shuddering breath. "Never been kissed before."

Jim's gruff eyebrows came together in a frown. "Never? This is all new to you, then."

"Well, duh. I'm not a catch, Jim," he said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "Even now, with all my considerable influence and power, I'd have to pay someone to... to do what you're doing. Besides, it's not safe."

"Safe?"

Oswald clucked his tongue. "You know what I mean. Gay bashing is still kind of thing, Jim. Especially in my old neighborhood." He briefly squeezed Jim's bicep. God, he was muscled.

"But you own this club," Jim said. "You can do what you want, right?"

"I guess so," he muttered. He glanced at the door, thinking about Butch lounging in the hall, waiting to escort the detective out.

Jim was silent for a moment. "Want to go somewhere else? More private?"

This was a bad idea. A cop and a gangster. Bad, bad, bad idea.

Within the warm circle of Jim's arms, Oswald silently told his common sense to fuck off.

He looked into Jim's face. Well, was Oswald the boss or wasn't he? And Butch had to obey him. "There's an apartment upstairs. I sleep there sometimes."

He buttoned his suit jacket up and strode out into the hall, or as near to a stride as he could get.

Butch straightened up from where he'd been leaning against the railing of the stairs that went down to the main floor.

"We're going upstairs," Oswald announced.

Butch blinked. "Upstairs?"

"Upstairs. And we're not to be disturbed."

Butch's mouth fell open. "But...he's... him?" he said, clearly scandalized.

"That'll be all for tonight," Oswald said imperiously, and went to the next staircase, back straight.

Even Jim seemed a little surprised by Oswald's bold move, but he recovered. He nodded amiably at the befuddled henchman. "G'night," he said, and followed Oswald up the steps.