chapter 7: a night to remember, part 2

I contemplated destroying a brake light for my freedom, but I had a hunch I hadn't been sentenced to death. Crime bosses didn't do these things themselves, not without backup present. Jim was a smart man, a king of kings. He would have taken my cane from me if he truly wanted to disarm me. No sense in worrying. I noted every stop, every turn, every sound and smell, until we arrived at the docks. This was about Ed, not me. It was about separating us. He needed me alive. My hunch was correct.

I hoped.

The trunk opened, and the watery stink of the harbor greeted me, along with Jim's face. His countenance focused, he lifted me out of the trunk. I didn't fight; this wasn't the moment for that. Once on my feet again, I straightened my clothes and glared at him. A nod asked me to follow.

He brought me to the end of the dock. I stayed away from its edge, while he was unafraid of its edge. "Come here, Oswald."

I was fine right where I was. "What do you plan on doing to me?"

He stared over the water and all its nighttime reflections. "Do you remember how we met?"

"At the precinct, if I recall."

"At the club," he corrected. "Before it was mine. Before it was yours."

I scowled at him. "You've lost it, old friend, and now you're making an innocent man pay for it."

He continued staring, unfazed. "The first time we met wasn't as memorable as the time we met here."

"We've never met here before," I retorted, "so yes, this time is quite memorable."

"This isn't happening again," he muttered. He looked at me, then sighed. "I'm sorry for this." He pulled his gun from his coat and gripped me tight. I panicked. I was wrong. This was it. This was the end. I would meet Death at the end of this stinking dock. My cane fell to the ground, and without a weapon, I gripped his wrists, wrestling against his might. I'd heard rumors Jim was ex-military, but now I knew it for sure. He was unbeatable. I was dead.

He lifted his gun.

He fired.

I went into the harbor.

I swam to the surface on instinct, and clutched what I could on the dock's edge. My hands were met with pocked concrete instead of fenders, and my shoes grew heavy with frigid water. Jim dove in after me, an entirely unnecessary gesture in any other situation, but in my shock I was bumbling and flapping about in the water like the injured prey of a leopard seal.

"Don't touch me!" I shrieked, finally finding a fender to latch onto. "Don't touch me, Jim Gordon!"

"Okay!" he shouted over the sound of our treading and the ringing in my ear. "Okay, fine, maybe this wasn't the best way to jog your memory, but—"

" 'The best way'? 'The best way'?!" My lungs burned, and I coughed, trying not to lose my grip. "How dare you reenact that little scene!"

He spit out water that had dripped down his face. "So you remember."

"I remember you shoving me into a trunk and—"

"Do you remember Gotham? As it was?"

My muscles ached, and my legs burned just as much as my chest. "You remember too?"

Jim hesitated, then nodded. "I remember."

"So I wasn't losing it."

"Not until today, when you started to forget." He spit out another droplet of water as if it were a troublesome piece of lint. "Again."

I softened, despite my shivering. "You said that earlier."

"Yeah." He looked down the length of dock. "Can we get out of here?"

"Tch. You're the one who wanted to go for a dip."

"So…leave you in here, then?" He flashed me a grin.

"My leg is cramped, no thanks to you."

"Would you prefer to have forgotten again?" At once, I felt a small warmth on my back. His hand had retained some heat, despite the chill of the harbor. He guided me along the fender toward a docked boat, presumably to use it as footing to climb out of this disgusting, cold drink. "I'd already tried everything else. It never worked."

My hand slipped, and he caught me before I sunk down again. "I'm a good swimmer, Jim Gordon. You didn't know that before dunking me the first time."

"Well you're not very good at it now."

"Because my head's doing most of the swimming."

He chuckled. "I didn't know your sense of humor came sass-free."

"Maybe if you stayed in this water, yours wouldn't be so dry."

"I take it back."

He gripped the thick rope tied to the dock and pulled himself out with some ease. Show off. He lent me a hand, and my ascent was far more awkward. I stumbled, and caught myself on his chest. Any worse, and we'd have ended up in one of those accidental embraces that begin so many TV romances.

I looked up at him. "How many times have we done this dance, old friend?"

"Shot at each other?"

I was not in the mood for his jokes. "Gotten this far, only to have me forget?"

"This is the third time. Guess we were about to start on the fourth."

"Well, third time's a charm."

We slopped to the car and leaned on the hood. The warmth of the engine drew a relieved sigh from my chest. Jim pulled off his coat and lay it on the hood, and I did the same. When I finished pressing most of the wrinkles from it, I looked up to find Jim squeezing the water from his collared shirt, wearing nothing but his undergarments: a tank, boxer shorts, and socks. He looked like an advertisement, or would if his hair weren't soaked and falling out of place. I maintained more modesty.

"What?" he said. "You really want to sit in the car in soaking wet clothes?"

I ignored him. He could've stopped somewhere for towels if he'd cared. "What are you going to do with Ed?"

"I'm not going to kill him."

"Maybe you should."

"So you remember that too?"

"Yes," I snarled. "I remember that too. Along with…some other things."

He unfurled his twisted shirt and gave it a few sharp snaps before putting it back on. I tried squeezing my clothes against my skin to remove the water. It didn't work. I put the car between us to undress, and he gave me privacy.

"By other things, you mean the fact that you almost went home with Ed tonight."

"I would do no such thing."

"But the other you would have?"

My nostrils flared as I scrunched my soaked shirt. "No, neither me would have done what you imply." I feared removing my shoes, knowing what nightmares awaited my feet on this dock. I'm surprised my shoes had stayed on. I returned to the squarish hood of the car, mostly re-dressed and still wetter than I liked, and sat beside Jim, who'd returned himself to his pants. We dumped the water from our shoes and wrung out our socks.

"I didn't know you and Ed had a thing," Jim said. We set our shoes beside us. "How'd it get so bad, really?"

"It never got to be a 'thing.' He met a very off woman who looked like the other woman he'd dated-slash-strangled, so I saved him the heartache of killing her and did it for him." I shrugged. "He didn't appreciate that."

"Did you just confess to murdering an innocent woman?"

"They knew each other for like two days and were seconds away from running down the aisle. I had to do something."

He let out a guttural groan. "Damn it, Oswald, you can't just kill people."

"She was dangerous for him, and I was a much better…anyway, I've already paid for the error of my ways, Jim."

"At someone else's expense."

"Let's not forget the debt you collected for me, Jim Gordon."

He turned toward me with a glare. "At least we're back to being honest with each other."

"I have always been honest with you, old friend." I shot forward. "Can't say you've been the same way with me."

He grumbled and put his shoes back on, without the socks. "Get in the car. I'm taking you home."

"Forget it. Living with your ex is a nightmare. She's too…caring."

"Home with me."

"Oh." We stared at each other for a moment. My mind was still hazy with each life I'd lived, and I was thankful to Jim for what he'd done for me, though his execution was sloppy and nearly traumatizing. "I take it you live in my father's house."

"It's a nice place."

"Is Zsasz there?"

"No. He's a barista at a place near Kyle Corp."

I cackled. "I must see this."

"Can't risk someone like him remembering this. Not yet."

"Zsasz is a professional. It might be worth it."

Jim shook his head. "No."

"The longer you keep Ed locked up, the better his chances are of remembering."

"I'm not convinced Ed isn't part of this."

I didn't want to consider it. I still recalled our kiss. "What if he isn't?"

"You just said you wanted to kill him."

"I know…but…he seems just as duped as we were."

"Then that's where Barbara's info comes in." He broke our gaze and slid off the car. "Let's get out of here. We've got a lot to cover."

I sipped the spiced wine he'd had prepared for us. A far cry from the bottles of cheap whiskey that kept him company in our reality, or the cocktails sipped in his club. I would've preferred the whiskey.

The house was…different than I expected. Arranged differently than I preferred. Jim sat at an appropriate distance, in the chair across from the sofa I occupied. We were much drier, in nightclothes and robes, though his choice of pajamas were too blue-collar for my taste. Still, his tee hung loosely on my shoulders, and smelled of him, with traces of his cologne. It was comforting, despite the uneasiness of the situation.

I still glared at him. He deserved worse for exploiting a nearly traumatic memory. Just because I'd appreciated the gesture the first time, didn't mean I wanted a repeat.

"I'm sorry, Oswald," he said. He sipped the wine too, and seemed just as unhappy with it. Part of his cover, I suppose, to indulge in things that seem finer to the masses.

"And for lying to me? I ask again, when have we ever been dishonest with each other?"

"Plenty of times."

"Not when it counted."

"I was waiting for the right moment." He sipped the wine with the slightest cringe.

"I could've told you that waiting for the right moment never works out, Jim."

"Maybe when it comes to romance, but not with this. I had to be sure it was worth bringing you in again, but I couldn't risk you triggering any of Barbara's memories."

"So naturally, as her ex…what was it, boyfriend? Fiancé? Doesn't matter. You thought it best to try and goad her into giving you information."

"Couldn't be helped. That painting's the key."

"Is it? How could a defaced portrait be the key to resetting our lives, hm?"

"Because every time I get close to it, it moves. Like it's been protected."

"It moves? It just gets up, sprouts legs, and moves? Really, Jim, I think you ought to know that nothing is so divine."

"I mean it gets moved by others, or vanishes and re-appears. That's why I needed Barbara's records. I know she has it now, but I needed to know where it came from, and where it could move next."

"I know the painter. I posed for him, remember. We can suss him out."

"It's not your guy. It's mine."

I laughed. "The thought of you posing for a portrait…"

"Not my artist. My partner. Bullock."

I nearly choked on my disgusting wine. "Bullock? A painter? How droll."

"He's in the dark about this more than we are. He doesn't even remember working on it, which makes sense. Seems like a cruel joke. Someone planned this well."

"Then I suppose it must be Ed. You should've seen the lengths he went to just to enact his vengeance. Far worse than the time I—" I sipped the nasty drink. "Never mind."

He sighed. "What now?"

"Just…the means by which I acquired this house. Tell me, what was your false memory of the experience?"

He shrugged. "I inherited it. Didn't you?"

How boring. Not one tidbit on his family, no matter how false their portrayal in Oz? "I should have," I remarked. "But I discovered I had a wicked step-mother, and I, having been her Cinderella for too long, discovered a glass slipper. Or a glass container of poison."

"You poisoned her."

"I made her a roast."

"A poisoned roast."

I smirked. "Not so much, really."

"What then?"

"She thought she had eaten her children." The perfect beat to habitually sip wine. Only I remembered I didn't want to this time. "It was laughable."

His mouth curled in disgust. "You cooked people?"

"No, no. It was beef. I only told her it wasn't. I'd always heard humans looked like chicken when they were cooked, so I don't know how she was fooled."

"It's the taste, and no."

"Oh, are you the expert on people eating? Should I be worried?"

He shuddered. "No." He sipped the wine, perhaps this time to taste something less offensive. C'est la vie, Jim Gordon. "Let's discuss something other than one of your many murders."

I grinned at him. "It must be frustrating, being unable to arrest me."

"There's a lot that's frustrating about you."

"Such as?"

"That answer's classified."

"Fine. What about Barbara? You said her part in this was over. What happens when she suddenly remembers how in love you once were? And the mess that naturally followed? Hm? What then?"

He shrugged his brows. "As if kissing Ed wouldn't remind him of how you felt?"

The fond memory of a connection built on lies had no problem standing beside the wrath I felt for being toyed with and shot in the stomach. Now I was the one who wanted to swallow something much less offensive. At least the disagreeable taste would provide a distraction. "Jealous?"

Jim grimaced. "No, but maybe we shouldn't remind him that shooting you didn't take." He sipped his wine, and grimaced again.

"Enough," I said, setting down my wine. I headed for the bookshelf in the corner, where I hoped a hidden bottle of whiskey sat. It did. Some things here did not change after all. I removed it and sat beside Jim, swapping his wine for the bottle of fine whiskey. "Here."

"A man after my own heart," he quipped.

I scanned him. "Is that something you'd—" My phone lit up with a delightful chime. I grit my teeth. "Pardon me, old friend."

"Barbara?"

I nodded and picked up the phone. "She's wondering where I am. She'll be thrilled to know, I'm sure."

"So don't tell her."

I read the text. Lovely. "She's at the club." I sighed, and gestured with my hand for the whiskey. Jim passed it along when Barbara's next text came through. "Just lovely."

"Any chance she knows you stole that info?"

"No. One can only hope she doesn't spot Ed while she's there."

Jim picked up his own phone. "I'll check in and make sure they're keeping him safe."

"Secure, you mean."

"Sure."

Jim made his call while my thumbs typed furiously. Then the text messages from Butch rolled in. He was coming to meet her. I showed Jim that particular conversation and he rolled his eyes. When he finished putting out the fire on his end, Barbara called me. I held up a finger to my lips and answered.

"What now, Barbara?"

"Are you two sleeping together?"

"Don't be ridiculous," I said, under Jim's studious gaze. He looked quite handsome, even without all that product in his hair. "You know I—"

"Actually, I know for a fact that you make exceptions."

I gaped in horror, and when Jim prompted me for a silent answer, I mouthed, Did I sleep with Barbara? Jim passed me the whiskey. "I'm not sure we're talking about the same thing."

She growled a little then corrected herself. "I'm talking about how many times you've looked the other way with criminals. What did you think I was talking about?"

After her other self had outed me to Ed, why would it be implausible that Oz-Barbara was being gray-phobic? "Forget it. I'm not doing what you think I'm doing."

Jim raised his brows, asking me what she was saying. I shook my head while half-listening to her tirade.

"I'm alright Barbara, you don't have to worry about me."

"Of all the people to fall for, Penguin, why him?"

"I'm not—" Jim was still looking at me. I stared back. "I'm not doing what you think."

"I have a bad feeling about him, Os." Her tone softened. "It's more than just who he is. He's going to break your heart. I just know it."

I bit my tongue on the reply I wanted to give, lest it spark any memories. "He won't."

"So you are with him."

Outfoxed. Damn her. "I'll be home tomorrow. Good night, Barbara."

She groaned and hung up.

Jim took a long sip of whiskey before passing it on. "She's come to a few interesting conclusions, hasn't she."

"She seems to think we're sleeping together. I suppose that's better than her realizing what's actually going on and having her screw this up."

"We can't lose that painting again."

"Why is it so important? Art moves, you know. Rich people love to pretend they understand it."

He sighed. "I wasn't using hyperbole before. I literally saw it vanish before my eyes. I touched it, and it was suddenly gone."

"Were you high?"

He shook his head in disgust. "No."

"Drunk?"

"No."

"Concussed in some way?"

"No."

"I don't understand."

"Neither do I, but I know what happened, and I'm not letting a lead like that go." He sipped the whiskey. "So, you and Barbara, huh?"

"No, that was a misunderstanding, thank god."

He stared ahead, the whiskey bottle in his lap. "Let her think whatever she wants. The more we try to correct her, the more we risk slipping up."

My face warmed. "Are you suggesting a fake relationship, old friend?"

"That'd just be pushing in the other direction. I'm saying we let it be."

"Good. Of course." I pondered the many sips we'd partaken in, and the growing pang in my chest. I wanted to touch the curve of his jaw. "Excuse me, old friend, but I think it's time we call it a night."

He replied with a slow nod. "Good night, Oswald."