Jim rubbed his mouth as he regarded Oswald curled up on the floor. The man didn't even have a blanket or pillow with him, but had laid right down on the carpet.
The hum of a microwave and voices from the kitchen area made Jim look over his shoulder.
Tiff giggled as Lovey pressed a kiss to her neck before they drew apart to gather up plates and cups to sit at the table.
Jim looked down at Oswald again. Well, he shouldn't be sleeping on the floor, that wasn't right. Couldn't be good for his leg, either.
The smell of coffee was just enough to overcome Jim's awkwardness about intruding on a private moment. He didn't know what the personal relationship between the three assasssins were and he didn't particularly care to intrude, but they were going to be in close proximity for some time, so he was probably going to find out whether he wanted to or not.
Jim sat up and carefully stepped over Oswald, who continued to slumber.
The floor plan of the basement was open, the living room blending into the kitchen. As Jim approached the life-giving coffee machine, he passed through a cloud of scents as he went by the table, of stale cigarette smoke and hard liquor. Tiff and Lovey had been out partying.
Lovey had her head propped on one hand with her eyes closed, a breakfast sandwich untouched on her plate, a cigarette smoldering unheeded in her other hand resting on the table. Tiff, who apparently had a stronger stomach, was wolfing down a burrito.
"Ladies," he said by way of greeting. He opened random cupboards, finding a mug on the second try. "Victor around?"
"Went home," Tiff said indistinctly around a mouthful.
Hard to think of Victor Zsasz as having a home, but supposedly he had to live somewhere.
Jim took a fortifying sip of coffee, then tackled the first issue. "I don't want you smoking in here."
Lovey opened her eyes a crack. "Pay our fee and I'll think about it."
"Oh, yeah, the grocery bill," Tiff chimed in. "Came to three hundred forty."
Jim was taken aback. "For groceries? What'd you get, caviar?"
"Had to stock up. Includes drinks."
"I'm not paying for you to get drunk!"
Tiff tsk-ed. "We won't get drunk on duty, officer. Just for, you know, on occasion, a little aperitif."
"No. Absolutely not. No booze. We need to talk about a budget."
Lovey uttered a curse under her breath. "Shut. Up. My head. Tiff, be a dear and shut him up."
Tiff patted her forearm. "Can't do it, sweetie, he's the money."
Jim's cell, lying under one of the couch cushions, burst out with a sprightly tune.
Oswald flinched and sat up, propping his arm on the couch.
Jim shot a final scowl at the assassins over his shoulder as he hurried over to the jingling cell phone, digging it out from under the cushion. Snatching it up, he swiped his finger across it to turn off the alarm.
Oswald was seating himself stiffly on the couch, rubbing his thigh. After he assured Jim he'd slept very well, thank you for asking, Jim wanted to tell him he really shouldn't be sleeping on the bare floor, but wasn't sure how to bring it up without sounding like he was scolding.
For Oswald to come out of his room all on his own must have taken a good deal of courage, given his current frame of mind. Besides which it had been an actual decision on Oswald's part, a trend that Jim would like to see continue.
Hair stuck up all over Oswald's head, adding to the man's expression of bewilderment. Quiet, tense, his gaze kept skittering towards the door that led upstairs and to the world outside.
Jim checked the time. "I'm going to work now. Need to get ready," he announced, rather unnecessarily, probably, but he felt he ought to say something. There was just enough time to freshen up and drive across town to the station.
Oswald's bleak eyes flickered to Jim face without comprehension, then returned to the vigilant watch on the door.
Jim hesitated. If Oswald were as afraid of the assassins as Zsasz claimed, then it was cruel to leave him here alone in their care all day. Oswald might feel easier if Jim hung about for a while, to show him there wasn't anything to worry about. Only the presence of the assassins didn't appear to be what had Oswald so worried.
Jim scratched the back of his neck. "Um, look, how about I stick around a little longer?" Maybe even take the whole day, he was due for some time off.
"No, you won't," Lovey announced. Chin still propped in her hand, she glowered through a haze of smoke. "You're gonna go to work like a good little cop. Act normal. Stick with your usual routine."
Jim ground his teeth. The assassins had already warned him about this, and they were right, damn them. Deviation from his routine was an alert to any semi-competent investigator, or to Oswald's criminal rivals for that matter, and Jim was well-known to work late, work hard, and never took time off unless trapped in a hospital bed.
The fact that he fully planned on coming to the safe house every day was going to be enough of a problem should anyone decide to follow him.
The way Oswald was shutting down worried him. Yesterday he was jittery, on edge, smiling nervously every time someone looked at him. Today he was preternaturally quiet and still.
Oswald stared at the exit, dread in every line of his body, and when Jim said his name he turned his head slowly, as if reluctant to take his eyes off it even for a minute.
Jim assured him that he was safe here, nothing to worry about, and he would return again that evening. Oswald nodded, then returned to his vigilant watch.
Jim tentatively reached across the couch, offering his hand, but Oswald's own hands remained firmly shoved under his armpits. Oswald licked his lips and some emotion flickered across his face, too quick for Jim to catch, and Oswald leaned toward him slightly, then he seemed to catch himself and he drew back, looking away.
A hot flush went through him, remembering how he'd kissed Oswald on the cheek last night. God, he shouldn't have done that. Definitely crossed a line there. He drew his hand back.
"See you later tonight. Okay?" He forced a smile on his face, and left.
"Get us our money," Lovey called after him, voice sharp. "And wipe that guilty look off your face, geez."
Jim's ruminations about the nutcase who was going around freezing people came to a halt at the sight of Oswald hobbling around the perimeter of the apartment.
Zsasz appeared to have the night off. Tiff buried her nose in a stack of magazines while Lovey commandeered the remote. "He's been like this all day," Lovey said in an uninterested voice, when Jim handed her the rest of the money for their retaining fee. "That and hiding in the corner."
Oswald, who had flinched and gasped when Jim opened the door, hobbled quickly over to Jim. Reaching out, he patted at Jim's arms and shoulders, plucking at his shirt, as if needing physical confirmation of Jim's existence.
Jim's resolve to keep a safe, objective distance flew out the window. "Hey, Oswald," Jim said quietly, laying his hands on Oswald's upper arms. "What's up?"
Oswald's face was clammy and his worried eyes roamed over Jim as if drinking in every detail. "You are real. Of course. The cushions. I knew I couldn't be wrong."
"Cushions," Jim repeated.
"Yes. The cushions this morning. Where you sat. They were warm." Oswald's lips twitched into a nervous grin. "Hallucinations don't leave heat signatures."
Jim gave Oswald's arms a reassuring squeeze. "Yeah. I think you hit on something there. Here I thought I was the detective."
His light-hearted comment worked for a second. Oswald blinked and his mouth twitched into a shy smile before anxiety took hold again and the corners of his mouth turned down. "When are they coming?" he whispered.
Lovey let out a weary sigh from her sprawled position on the couch. "Already told you, boss. No one's coming for you," she said in the bored tones of one who has been repeating the same thing all day.
Oswald leaned close to him, face pinched with worry. "If you would be so good as to let me know, Jim, I would appreciate it, if you could tell me, when are the orderlies due to arrive? To bring me to the trea...treat..." He swallowed thickly.
Treatment? That must be what Oswald feared. If he wasn't going back to Arkham, well, then, they must be coming to get him.
"You need to sit down," Jim said firmly, and steered Oswald into the kitchen, guiding him into one of the chairs.
He took the precaution of seizing the wastebasket from under the sink, just in case Oswald got sick abruptly, and returned to him, crouching in front of him and laying a soothing hand on his arm, putting as much reassurance into his touch as he could.
"No one is coming for you, Oswald. I swear. There's no... no you-know-what today." He wasn't going to name that machine. It was safest to stick to the euphemism Oswald had chosen.
Oswald had already eaten, according to the assassins, so Jim heated some canned soup and wolfed it down with crackers.
Oswald was up and pacing again before he finished.
With some desperation, Jim turned to a shelf of dusty volumes of Reader's Digest Condensed books in one corner of the basement, to find something that would distract Oswald.
Jim wasn't a big reader although he used to read a lot of Zane Grey when he was younger, back when he had time for reading. Perusing the gold lettering on the spines of the books, he didn't see anything that resembled a western, but to set a good example, he took a volume with Tom Sawyer for himself, chose The Scarlet Pimpernel for Oswald because it looked historical, (when Oswald was in a calmer frame of mind Jim planned on finding out what the man preferred for reading material, if he could coax an opinion out of him), brushed off the cobwebs, and returned to the table, Oswald in tow.
Oswald attempted to sit down and read, but he couldn't concentrate for more than a minute or two before his gaze began skittering toward the door, clearly dreading the arrival of the orderlies, and soon he was up and pacing again, hobbling around the basement, his leg clearly paining him but seemingly unable to stop, rubbing one hand over the other.
Jim alternated between letting him pace and suggesting Oswald rest, or change out of the ugly striped Arkham uniform, to try to read some more, to watch TV. Oswald did as suggested, except for changing out of the uniform. But still he was unable to sit still for long, and soon he would be up and roaming again.
About an hour into this activity, Oswald stumbled, pain contorting him, causing him to bend double to grasp his leg.
Jim urged him to sit, then crouched on one knee in front of him. "Can I help? Let me help."
"It's ugly," Oswald moaned, straightening his leg and bending over to rub his calf.
"Muscle spasms, right?" Jim gently pushed up his pant leg. "Your ankle? Or is it the knee?"
He pressed his fingers over Oswald's calf, putting them where he'd seen Oswald touch, up and down, close to the discolored, swollen ankle but careful not to touch the joint, feeling the tendon twitch and the tightness of the muscle.
Oswald grew quiet as Jim massaged him, running his hands down to the thin area of the tendons near the ankle and back up to the bulk of the calf. Up and down. Minutes passed, and gradually Jim felt some of the tension leaving, the twitches dying down.
Jim moved up to massage along Oswald's the top of his thigh, because Oswald had started rubbing that, too. Jim kneaded with firm strokes until a little sigh of relief puffed out of Oswald.
Jim glanced up at him. "Better? I'll get you a Tylenol." He'd bought it earlier in the day, and went to fetch it from his coat pocket.
Oswald had worn himself out at last. Jim steered him over to the couch, unceremoniously ousting Lovey from her position. Grumbling, she shot him a dirty look, but out of deference to the boss, no doubt, got up and flopped into an easy chair.
Jim sat down, and Oswald pressed against him, shivering. It was the most natural thing in the world to wrap an arm around his shoulders and rest his chin on top of his head, murmuring soothing words into his hair. The shopping network was on, which Jim normally found unbelievably boring, but he was so relieved Oswald had finally stopped his frenzied activity that he didn't care.
Oswald gradually went limp against him and Jim craned his neck down to see that the man had fallen asleep.
Jim had not planned on spending the night again. He badly needed a shower, had no toothbrush or his own shaving stuff, and he absolutely could not show up at work unshaven and wearing the same clothes for the third day in a row. Barnes would have words.
Zsasz had left his own shaving things in the bathroom, a huge straight-edged razor that Jim wouldn't have touched for a hundred bucks. He didn't have his own towel, either.
Jim rested his cheek on Oswald's dishevelled head, and changed his mind, instead making plans to get up earlier to return to his apartment to shower and change.
Naturally, he slept on the couch again. After the stress of Oswald's frenetic pacing he completely forgot about how Oswald had come to sleep on the floor next to him and when he got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom he tripped over him in the dark.
This would not do, Oswald sleeping on the floor like a dog, and it couldn't be good for his leg, either.
His brain fuzzy with exhaustion, he knew there was only one way to deal with this. He brought Oswald back to his bed and lay beside him. As tired as he was, he didn't need to worry overmuch about embarrassing physical displays.
It was quite cozy, actually, with Oswald curled up warm against his back. Jim couldn't help but feel some satisfaction that Oswald felt safe with him, a certain pride that Oswald consistently sought him out for comfort.
He couldn't be objective, or pretend he wasn't already emotionally involved beyond friendship. Getting him out of the asylum went far beyond repaying a debt. Oswald's vulnerability, stripped of the keen intelligence and wit that was the man's usual armor, pulled at something deep within Jim. It made him want to protect him more than ever, to be worthy of Oswald's trust.
He found he was hoping for something more.
Nonetheless, he knew very well Oswald wasn't in his right mind and Jim was not going to take advantage. He'd slipped up once, but that little peck on the cheek the other night, that wouldn't happen again.
There would be time to figure out what they truly were to one another once Oswald was better.
As he drifted off, a more disquieting thought emerged. If he ever gets better.
The next night brought more of the same, Oswald stuck in a pattern of pacing and unable to relax, practically jumping out of his skin when Jim came in the door, then going to him to pat at him as evidence that Jim was real, Jim was there.
Jim's attempts to distract him with food, with the crossword books and sudoku he'd picked up at a pharmacy, had limited success. He had no idea what hobbies or pasttimes Oswald liked, though he distinctly recalled Oswald smugly declaring once how much he enjoyed gathering knowledge and information.
Jim felt a little sheepish about bringing him these silly activity books, certain that Oswald wouldn't normally bother with this sort of trivia. What else might interest him? Model planes? Painting?
Oswald just politely accepted whatever Jim gave him, even the crossword book labelled "For ages 8-13," which Jim had actually bought by accident, then decided to give to Oswald anyway to see if there'd be a sarcastic response.
He imagined the haughty lift of Oswald's chin, the genteel curl of his lip. Really, James, you think this childish busy-work will interest me? Please, spare me.
But Jim watched in vain for signs of annoyance or incredulity, seeing only an anxious desire to be pleasant and accomodating in Oswald's demeanor, as if the man's other emotions had been flattened out. Or extinguished.
The assassins shrugged off Jim's concerns. He'll be fine, they said. Probably just needs to let his brain reset or something, they said.
Their nonchalance drove him up the wall. Half the time it sounded like Zsasz just made up shit to placate Jim, and he considered firing the lot of them.
But that would mean leaving the safe house and he shrank from the prospect of Oswald stuck alone in his apartment all day, nervously pacing, forgetting to eat, maybe even getting it into his head to go back to the asylum.
The saving grace was how when Oswald wore himself out and his abused leg couldn't take any more, he would come to wherever Jim was, prompting Jim to lead him to the couch so they could sit down together.
Even if it meant getting indignant assassins to move over, which they did, grumbling about the 'lovebirds' taking over. Which wasn't too surprising. They could hardly miss how Oswald fastened onto Jim like a barnacle, or how Jim welcomed the chance to hold Oswald and help calm him.
They also were aware that Jim was now sharing Oswald's bed, and appeared to take it for granted that he and Oswald were...involved.
After three gruelling nights, it seemed to Jim that Oswald was finally starting to become quieter. Calmer. The pacing session was markedly shorter.
As Jim wrapped an arm around him to draw him in, he felt that Oswald was leaning against him rather more easily, resting on his shoulder rather than cowering. And he wasn't shivering. Nor had he asked when the orderlies were coming to get him. Not once.
It was a small change, but it was there, though Jim hardly dared hope it was a sign of improvement. That might be premature.
The next night he arrived at the safe house very late. It was simply a given by this point that he was living there. It took up too much time driving back to his place every morning, and he went to his apartment a couple of times a week to get fresh clothes and his mail.
He was wrung out by the bizarre and exhausting day, made worse by the fight with Lee over using Nora Fries as bait at Arkham. The entire time he'd been not only stressed about setting the trap and wondering if he was losing his grip, using the woman to lure her husband, but he was consumed by a low-level dread that Harvey would find out Oswald was no longer in residence.
Which would provoke questions, and someone would start to investigate at last. Jim was beginning to feel too frazzled to put up a charade of ignorance about Oswald's whereabouts.
And yet, still no one at Arkham said a peep to the GCPD about the Penguin's escape.
Not to mention Jim wasn't supposed to set foot anywhere on the Arkham grounds.
Captain Barnes had met with Professor Strange to lock down the facility and set up the perimeter, then basically sneaked Jim in to take over the operation once Strange retreated to his office. Barnes's zeal to catch scumbags led him to overlook the little inconvenience of the restraining order against Jim.
What Professor Strange would do if he found out Jim had violated it, he didn't like to think about.
Then there was the subsequent fallout from the whole disaster in the Fries's basement. Lee had been right. He'd been reckless, careless, goading Fries to take excessive action.
And now both Nora and Victor Fries were dead, circumstances spiralling out of Jim's control despite his best efforts. Harvey insisting over and over again that it wasn't Jim's fault hadn't helped any, not in the face of Lee's silent condemnation.
The debriefing, the paperwork that always needed to be filled out no matter what anyone's feelings were, staving off Harvey's attempts to drag him to a bar, and finally, he managed to leave.
He'd texted Zsasz to warn him he would be working late, and to strongly suggest that the asssassin show a little consideration for his boss and put some effort into coaxing Oswald to do something other than pace himself to the point of collapse.
Victor was watching TV when Jim came in, and all Jim could get out of him was disinterested responses to his questions about how Oswald had spent the evening. Was told curtly that the boss had gone to bed.
He checked on Oswald, who was indeed conked out, flat on his back, the blanket rising and falling gently with his breathing.
Jim straightened a few strands of unruly black hair across his forehead, a little saddened that he didn't get a chance to spend some more time with Oswald. He'd needed to get to work earlier than usual this morning and there'd barely been time to say good-bye. He would have liked to see if there'd been more improvement since yesterday, if Oswald had regained more composure.
Probably for the best. Oswald could use more sleep.
Needing to unwind, Jim wandered back out to the kitchen. The assassins' insistence on being well-stocked with alcholic beverages seemed like the best idea ever now, as he took a beer from the fridge.
Victor glanced at him from his position on the couch. "You made the news, Jimbo. Glad you didn't freeze up."
If Jim hadn't been so tired he would have decked him. "Shut up."
"Temper, temper."
Jim fell into one of the easy chairs, letting the bitter taste of the beer wash through him. He wasn't in the mood for anything stronger, though it would take more than a few beers to get a buzz going. It was more to help him get to sleep than anything else.
Weird how he was beginning to get used to this double existence. Cop by day, gangster-caretaker by night. Barely a week into it, and he was hanging out with hired killers without so much as a twinge of guilt. At least here he didn't have to hide what he was doing or feeling. It was a strange kind of honesty, but there it was.
"So he wore himself out?" he asked, trying not to sound too accusatory, though he suspected Victor probably hadn't tried very hard to keep Oswald occupied. Jim didn't have the energy to call him out on laziness.
Victor shrugged. "Gave him a little something to help him relax."
Jim paused with the bottle halfway to his mouth. "What?"
"It's from a reliable source. Put him right to sleep."
"A reliable..." Jim sputtered. "What did you give him?"
Victor sighed, clearly feeling put upon. "I just told you. Something to help him relax."
Jim pushed to his feet and strode to the bedroom.
Oswald's steady breathing didn't change when Jim shook him, increasingly rough, and Jim charged out to the living room again.
"What was it?" he snapped, dread spiking and making his chest constrict. "A shot? Pills? What?"
Rolling his eyes, Victor got up and crossed the room, returning with a small ziploc bag half full of white oval pills which he tossed at Jim.
"No label, no names or numbers on them." Jim glared at Victor. "You still haven't told me what they are."
Victor wrinkled his nose. "I dunno, the doc makes them. Said they were kind of like Xanax, I think? Relax, Jimbo, this doc's good. Been around a long time. Looks like you could use one," he said, holding up the bag. "Why don't you..."
"Call him and find out what it is," Jim snapped.
Victor pulled out his cell while Jim fumed. "Voicemail," he said after a few moments.
"But you know where he is?" Jim demanded.
"Yeah, I guess, but..."
Jim grabbed him by the shirt. "Get him over here! Right now!"
After Victor stomped into his boots and grumbled his way out, Jim dragged his hands through his hair, fighting panic.
Stupid, idiot, Jim was such a fucking moron, leaving Oswald in the hands of these cretins, God knew what poison Victor fed him.
He should do something, get him some water, get a little down his throat, maybe that would help. Jim's hands shook so badly he sloshed half the water out on the floor before he got back.
He got one arm under Oswald's shoulders and hauled him into a sitting position. Oswald's head lolled as he was raised up.
As he held the glass to his lips, Oswald grunted and looked up. "Wha?" he mumbled, squinting against the overhead light. "Jim, whatever is the matter?"