This was initially written for Gobblepot Winter 2019. Figured I'd post it here too.
When he exits the Town Hall after yet another one of Mayor James's interminable meetings, it's to a gush of freezing wind in the face and snowflakes dotting his hair. Oswald scrunches his eyes, feels his nose begin to itch (and he has not even taken a step forward yet), and curses the inept buffoon, regretting thrice-fold to have agreed to be his assistant. While he may not mind pitching in the odd extra fifteen minutes here and there, he has not signed on to finish at less than desirable hours and to be at His Majesty's disposal at all times.
Worse, it had turned out to be a complete waste of time, too, the mayor not even having half of the papers they had been scheduled to review, and more than once had Oswald been sorely tempted to just walk out and leave him to it, let him sort his own mess out this time. He may be his assistant, but if he has, so far, stuck to the ingrate position, it's purely because it is serving his political ambitions, not out of love for the incompetent mayor. James tried to apologize, all empty words, devoid of anything substantial, and Oswald had had to cut him off or he'd have been sick: he is proud to say that he is not to be bought by anything or anyone, Mayor James can try that tactic on someone else perhaps, but not him.
Well, after a moment pondering the subject, Oswald ventures that he'd perhaps make an exception for Edward, but only him. The dog has always had a way to get him wrapped around his little finger (or paw, if he's to be more accurate), but then again, when he looks at Oswald with those big sad eyes as he finishes cooking dinner, wags his little tail back and forward when he gets in late in the evening or simply jumps up onto their sofa and curls up beside him as he settles down to read a sample of his vast philosophy collection, he cannot really say he minds the dog stealing his heart.
He does practically everything for the animal, to a point where his mother often says he tends to overindulge it. Oswald pays her comments little heed: Edward has been best companion for years now, brings joy to his days and company during the night, when he sleeps at the foot of his bed, in the fluffy basket he had scoured high and low to find: only the best for his dog.
The problem is, though, that Oswald is pretty certain he's bound to disappoint him this Christmas. With meetings piling up one after the other in this end of year, he has not yet had the time to make his way to the pet store and gander a look at what they had to offer for the season, and with one look at his watch, he's missed his last chance by thirty minutes at least. Given what day it is, he also doubts any clerk would be eager to stay in late for his sake when they probably have families waiting for them back home. If he is to judge by the frenzied crowd literally swallowing him as he takes a step outside, the pet store workers aren't the only ones eager to hurry home to celebrate. He gets it though, he too would much rather be home, in his cosy living room right now.
But going home without anything for Edward still bothers him. He deserves a treat, especially given how much of his troubles Oswald can sometimes unload onto his poor shoulders. Granted, Edward may not understand his (oft-times) unintelligible ramblings, but he remains there for him, curled up on his lap, brings him comfort that Oswald deems warranting of a small something.
He does not wish to stay out any longer than necessary, turns the collar of his coat up as the wind picks up, snow falls everywhere: if he didn't know any better, he'd almost be tempted to say that a blizzard is on the way. Great, precisely what he needs as the cherry on top of a long and exhausting Christmas Eve, just perfect. He shoves his hands into his pockets as he feels them turn cold, and to his dismay, his coat does little to provide them with warmth and Oswald remembers, chagrined, that his hand-knitted gloves –courtesy of his mother, a parting birthday gift from earlier in the year- are safe at home, on a shelf in the kitchen, exactly where he does not need them right now.
He would probably curse were his teeth not chattering.
It's not much better than the alternative, but thinks he would definitely not want his hands out in this weather. He's hasn't made it all that far either (yet feels like he's been walking for hours), perhaps a block down the street, when in the corner of his eye, he catches a gentle glow. Turning around, the glow is actually a light, that of a bakery with a big bay window. It's still open, the doorbell ringing lightly as an old lady heads out, one hand bringing her scarf up to protect her face, the other holding a carton casing with a shiny ribbon close to her chest.
He guesses it's as good a place as any to stay for a while, just until the weather dies down a little, and then he'll head home. Sparing a thought for Edward, he promises himself he'll stay no longer than an hour, and if he happens to find something in there suitable for a dog, then that'll be just the bonus, won't it?
The little bell rings as he pushes the door open, echoes long after he closes it behind him, disturbing a couple seated at one of the tables lining the wall. The woman looks up from her coffee (the steam making Oswald's stomach crave something hot and comforting), an indignant look on her face at being disrupted, and Oswald would apologize but he's frankly too cold and too tired to really care. Instead, he hobbles along to the counter, eying with interest the array of coffee beans and hot chocolate mixes and the many loaves of bread lined up on top of it and humming gently at the unmistakable scent of cinnamon lingering in the air. It is unmistakably a patisserie too, the scent bringing back echoes of memories from long ago, of mornings spent with his mother and father around a hot chocolate and croissant seated together in a quaint establishment not unlike this one.
Unfortunately, the cosiness of the bakery in his childhood recollection does sadly not seem to have a place in here, the warm light he'd seen outside nothing but a deceptive lure, designed to reel him in and trap him in here while the storm raged on outside. Teeth chattering once again (frankly, he's surprised his breath hasn't begun to come out in puffs in front of him yet), he glances around: the place is quaint, he's got to admit, with a dozen dated and yellow-paged books on a low table to entertain those in need of a refuge for a while, another one in the hands of the man at the middle table. Oswald thinks he can make out the author, Dostoyevsky, and wonders why on Earth such a place would house a work of his, but guesses that at least the man will have ample enough to read until the conditions get better outside. All right, the place is dated, perhaps a little too much for his liking, but he guesses it could be worse. You could be trapped outside, Oswald, that would definitely be worse.
Well, he guesses, there's little more to do than take a look at what they have to offer, he guesses, and as Oswald makes his way to the glass casings at the counter, he, for the first time, takes note of the fact that he actually is getting a little hungry. He's regrettably too late for the cream puffs and lemon tarts, a little pink card with SOLD OUT written in elegant italics across them greet him in their stead. Oswald deflates a little, would have very much liked to savour the first one, but guesses he can always come back some other time, because he doubts that there'll be another fresh batch tonight. Craning his neck a little, he thinks he can also spot what looks to be a chocolate éclair, but the coating has gone hard with the cold, and he must admit that it does not look the most appetizing.
He is about to think better of this silly little idea of his and head back out into the merciless cold –it's frankly not much better here, so he might as well go home, so he can warm up there at least- when he hears some kind of commotion coming from the back of the shop, the silver double doors opening as a plump chap who could probably do with a good rest wipes sweat from his brow and leans against one of them, holding it open for a work colleague probably.
"You can put those on the tart spot. Alfred would probably have my head for not adhering to his pain-in-the-arse placement, but I don't really care tonight. If he wants to have a go at me tomorrow, I'll be all ears!"
He probably says something else as he heads back into the kitchens, to wash up whatever trays they've been cooking on no doubt, but the thought is fleeting, as he goes back to look at what the other man is setting into a corner of the display case nearest to the cash register. Oswald can no longer deny the hunger beginning to gnaw uncomfortably in his stomach, and a pastry, no matter how light it may be, sounds like a rather tempting offer right about now.
Except that, as he looks up a little, all thoughts of food go straight out the window, as does the beating of his heart and his brain freezes for a moment.
Oh.
Oh no.
He's cute.
Oswald has always been a firm admirer of cute and pretty things, from the gentle notes his mother's dainty fingers made when brushing the old piano in their home to his quiet little neighbour, Martin's, chubby cheeks covered in an ice cream he offered him one summer long ago. He would like to think himself knowledgeable in matters of aesthetics, owes it to his father's training when he brought him along to visit a number of art galleries in his youth, taught him about the nature of pretty things and the abstract of aesthetics, and he is positive that the man in front of him ticks all of the boxes.
Oswald is pretty sure he's staring –gaping is probably more accurate- because it's just his luck that the other baker (younger, blonde, blue eyes, and encompasses pretty much everything eight year-old Oswald would dream about when watching an abundance of animated features with dashing princes rescuing damsels in distress, wishing perhaps one day to find his own) is, in fact, really cute. Never mind the messy hair, a lone blonde strand falling between his eyes that Oswald itches to gently push back behind his ear were such gesture appropriate, and the very obvious bags under his eyes –blue, like his own, and he's not too sure why he stops on their shared similarity, but he notices them nevertheless- from a lack of sleep probably due to the Christmas season, but before he really gets to take in any further both of them get distracted when the baker sneezes rather loudly.
"Bless."
He doesn't even realize he's said it until the word has already left his mouth, and Oswald –who feels his face heat up slightly as he turns a shade redder and puts it on the cold outside having obviously tampered with his brain-to-mouth-filter- thrice curses himself for his lack of composure. He's just out here picking up something for Edward, he has not signed up for a live re-enactment of Pride and Prejudice.
To say that he is not smitten, however, would be a bold-faced lie, which even to his own ears sounds wrong.
"Thanks. Been a long day." The baker says, briefly, but not unkind. Oswald prides himself in having mastered the art of reading people, a necessity he'd needed to acquire in order to survive in the social world he lives in, and so tries not to let it show when he sees the blond sigh appreciatively, the edge of his lip curling when it dawns on him that Oswald is not here to put him under extra pressure. Still, he's clearly exhausted, and not for the first time this month has Oswald been grateful that he's managed to land a job in the administration business.
The fact that he is a (late) customer seems to dawn on him however: taking note of his clean-cut appearance, he wipes his flour-covered hands on his stained apron self-consciously. Appearance goes a long way to get you what you want, it is quite possibly one of the first lessons he's learnt working for Mayor James -perhaps not courtesy of the man himself- but is glad to be able to add that on his résumé nonetheless.
(Not that Oswald really minds, the other man could have half of his face covered in flour and be selling him yesterday's burnt batch of croissants and with the flash of a smile, Oswald doesn't think he'd be able to resist).
"Sorry about the heating," He says as he notices the fur coat he has wrapped around him, Oswald pulling it tighter around himself at the mention of it, "The heating system broke down around two weeks ago, Harvey's still trying to ring someone up to get it fixed, not really the welcome we like to offer our clients, I assure you."
Were this perhaps the department store downtown and some snooty clerk, Oswald might have a go at them, tell them just how highly he thought of the quality of their services and how, as a client, he frankly expects a little better next time he comes, yet he doesn't think it is appropriate this time. Perhaps because he comes from a place of understanding, knows what it's like to slave all day and just not want something asked of him any longer, or perhaps it's just because he doesn't wish to upset the man any further, he kind of likes him (a lot) if he's being honest.
"Anyway, what can I get you?" He asks him before apologizing again, says that "The fruitcakes and Yule logs are all sold out, but if it's what you're after, we should get some in by tomorrow." He says, noticing, like him, the near-empty display cases, which don't exactly look very festive.
Oswald is aware that, by now, the best pieces have already been swiped by the earlier birds, and had he come along in with the flock of peacock lawyers, fanning their exploits in court to all who could hear and the bellbird-like gossip of Gotham's wealthiest ladies coming in for a cup of tea and a délicatesse, he probably wouldn't have gotten his hands on much anyway (because how could his penguin-like waddling ever compare to their finesse?). He's none too bothered to have missed them, really.
Besides, going with the crowds has never really been his thing. Perhaps, before stepping foot inside the bakery, he may have known what it was he wanted, yet now that he is asked to make a choice, he is feeling rather adventurous, and asks instead "What do you suggest I take?"
He tries not to hope that the baker –James, he thinks he can read on his tag, now that he is closer- will take the bait, finding himself in want of a good conversation, away from the frivolous empty talk that political etiquette demands of him. Nothing irritates him more than that. While Oswald may be well versed in the art of talking practically anyone into a deal with the mayor and choosing each and every one of his words carefully, it is rather exhausting, and he oft sorely misses having a simple and honest exchange with someone.
He's not really expecting James to entertain his wish, but perhaps he too, feels the loneliness of the hour: aside from the odd couple sipping their coffee at one of the tables, it's just him, James and his work mate, and much to his surprise, he humours him. "Unfortunately, there's not much left at this hour," he says, glancing at the glass casing and appraises what's still there, "I don't think I'd chance the éclair, but there is a small batch of mille-feuilles I just brought out, that's probably the best I can offer you." He stops, looks like he's about to sneeze but nothing happens, he sighs in relief, "If you'd like one, you'd want to get in on them quickly though, half of them are reserved for a Mrs' highbrow party downtown later tonight. Knowing her, she'll probably be taking the whole batch home." He says with a wry smile, gone before he can truly admire it, and Oswald thinks he would much rather ask James to do it again than serve him a pastry.
But he's not here to crush on a baker he's never met before, he's here to bring home a Christmas gift for Edward, and so regretfully, Oswald must get back to business.
"I shall take three, then. One for Edward, one for my dear mother, and one for myself." Oswald settles, more hungry than ever now and determined to leave here with at least some semblance of a nice pastry. As James takes note of his order, Oswald fishes in his coat pocket for his purse, pulls out the note he set aside especially for Edward's gift and tries to smoothen out the wrinkles on the face of a president long-dead depicted on it. He's not sure why he does it, perhaps to fill the silence or just to have something to do with his nervous and fidgeting hands, and in the minute it takes Jim to wrap up his éclairs in a lovely carton box, Oswald has plenty of time to reflect.
And suddenly remember that his mother is, in fact, not coming this year.
So used is he to their Christmases spent together that it must have momentarily slipped from his mind that he is not coming tonight. Courtesy of one of her weekly phone-calls (which Oswald must say have become quite the highlights of his recently hectic days), he remembers how, her voice laced with excitement, she had told him that an old friend had offered her an invitation to her place for the evening instead and apologized for her last-minute change of pans. Now Oswald's mother is not the adventurous type, and far be it for her son to encourage her into potentially dangerous altercations, but as he recalls how her voice bubbled with joy and how he could practically see her bounce up and down in anticipation at spending an evening out, what kind of son would he be were he not to encourage her?
He remembers not telling her how he'd prepared everything for her coming, from making sure the casings of his chairs were in tip top condition and putting his nicest cutlery on display to the bouquet of roses at the centre of the table, as she liked it, and classical music in the background ready to go as soon as she was to step foot in his grand dining room.
How silly of him to have forgotten – and this time, Oswald has plenty to blame: the cold, the wine offered by Mayor James he had graciously agreed to once their meeting adjourned, and both his exhaustion and sudden distraction do definitely not mix well.
He guesses it will just be him, Edward, and an extra mille-feuille for them to share. Surely it won't be too difficult to make things work out.
"Actually", he's about to correct James, tell him that he can keep the extra for another potential client were someone to come in looking for a last-minute Christmas present, but sees that he has already carefully arranged the pastries in the box and thinks better of it. He wouldn't want his hard work to go to waste. "I've just remembered, my mother isn't coming tonight…"
"Oh, I'm sad to hear it, I hope it's nothing too grave?" He asks, as he bends down to rummage through the shelf beneath the counter as he looks for one of the silk-like green ribbons the bakery uses around Christmas, surprised he actually does mean it. He's used to small talk, finds it painful to endure with certain clients at times (and Harvey often has a go at him afterwards, gives him another one of his endless speeches about how he can't just ignore protocol and turn a deaf ear to people who are actually buying from them), but it feels different this time. He doesn't know what it is, has certainly never met the other man before, but finds himself enjoying his company.
"No, nothing like that, don't worry," Oswald is quick to reassure, "I guess it's just that parents can be quite unpredictable these days." He ventures, and judging by the look James gives him, the baker concurs – it's nothing much, but this understanding they seem to share means a lot more to him than it probably should. Stop imagining things, Oswald, he admonishes himself before he gets carried away.
James dusts off the top of the box, before he sets about curling the ends of the ribbon with a scissors, the sharp noise starling the old man at the table by the door, his wife shooting them a dirty look over his shoulder. Oswald merely stifles a laugh, wonders momentarily how two senile people like themselves could even hear it from where they are seated, what with their frail-looking bodies and all.
"Do you make these?" Oswald asks, as he looks down at the pastries, lined up in the box, mouth already watering as he eyes with admiration the intricate chocolate detail atop the icing. The crème pâtissière is just about ready to fall out of them, the rich yellowish colour set between puff pastry that looks like it would crumble at first bite, and he cannot wait to eagerly sink his teeth into it. Perhaps it may not look like much, but he's pretty certain that come time for dessert, he will be feasting like a king.
"Not really," James confesses, "Harvey is the one who does all of the hard manual labour, cooks them with tender loving care and always makes sure the pastry is so flaky it'll dissolve in your mouth. I just do the icing and combing of them, then put them on display. The taste though, that's all Harvey."
It must be nice, Oswald thinks, to have such transparent rules to one's craft. No masks to adorn from dawn till dusk, no having to constantly measure one's words, no need to always think twelve steps ahead of one's opponent and always look for hidden meanings and double speak in everything. He doubts that James spends his days bending over backwards having to play nice with some less than palatable folk on the local council and constantly having to curry favour with the mayor to stay in the spotlight if he wants a shot at the next elections. Make no mistake, Oswald loves his job, is aware of what a privilege that is: getting involved in politics, scheming behind the scenes, engaging in word wars with other legislators and building the ground upon which life in Gotham is built is absolutely thrilling, but must admit that the constant looking over his shoulder and double thinking can be quite exhausting too.
"You make it look so simple," He says, not quite sure which exactly he is referring to as he looks back at the pattern of the mille-feuille, "no mess, no second-guessing, what I wouldn't give for that sometimes." He adds, a note of wistfulness in his voice.
James is looking at him quizzically when he catches his eye again, and hastens to fill him in, jumping at an excuse have their exchange linger just a little while longer. Perhaps it is not a confession he ought to be making in the late evening to a baker he's only just met, knows his position could be used against him by many, but desperate for some kind of connection, Oswald takes precious little time to reconsider, "I'm an advisor to Mayor James, the name's Oswald. Don't tell anyone, but he's not exactly what I'd call the sharpest tool in the shed, I oft times need a good bottle of high quality brandy just to sit through meetings with him."
James laughs. It's subtle, discreet, but Oswald can feel his heart hammering in his chest and warmth spread his inside, plasters a stupid grin on his face because if this isn't picture-perfect the kind of boy he used to dream of as an eight year-old, then he doesn't know what it is. He's staring, is acutely aware of it too, but can't stop, as he wonders not for the first time tonight how on Earth they have never crossed paths until now. He's not had the best of luck throughout his life, knows hardships more than most, and thinks perhaps a little Christmas magic may be at play here and silently thanks whatever good star is looking over him tonight.
"Uncle Frank often complains about him, I take it he wasn't too far off. What is it you do exactly, then?"
"Damage control, mostly," They both laugh, and Oswald is relieved it distracts James from the tips of his ears turning red, "Mayor James isn't exactly well-versed when it comes to the art of oration and picking his words. It's a thankless job most of the time lately, but traipsing after him and having a seat at his endless meetings and pompous dinners all have their benefits. I may not look like much, but I learn."
He affirms it with conviction, puffs out his chest like a little bird trying to show off its might. Jim would never say it aloud, would not wish to embarrass the man, but all he can see is a tiny chick trying to pick a fight with the world, all damp hair and red nose and he probably shouldn't be thinking it but Oswald looks kind of endearing, sweet. He's definitely too tired, and is cashing in on that extra-time he's owed off as soon as the Christmas season is over.
"You'll see," Oswald is saying, "One day, I'll be where he is now." And Jim honestly feels sucked in, believes the conviction in what he says, thinks that with such an eloquence, it won't be hard for him to get the whole of Gotham to vote for his person the day he decides to stand for an election.
"I don't doubt you for a second."
Four words, just four words, yet to Oswald they mean so much more than James can ever think they would. James will never know, will never even get a glimpse into how hard he has fought to be here today, but Oswald remembers his peers' derisive snorts at his bold reform proposals, the dirty looks he'd get when Mayor James actually agreed to them and suggested getting to work immediately, the endless talking behind his back at how someone like him could not possibly have gotten into such a highly desired place without cheating somewhere, the pompous know-it-alls on the local council endlessly mocking his aquiline nose and seeking to question his every move. It hasn't been easy, this climb to the top, it has taken him close to a decade of constant proving himself to the world to at last gain their esteem, yet James, who barely knows him five minutes believes him.
Believes in him.
It shouldn't really mean all that much to him, these words from a virtual stranger, yet Oswald finds himself clutching them close to his chest, tucks them away safely so he can linger on them by the fire later. He's curious, as he watches him pull out a pair of scissors from under the counter and set about curling the ribbon on his package, how someone so alien to his world of scheming and politics can understand him so much better than seasoned officials he mixes in with daily. He wants to find out more, get to know him in a way he'd never entertain knowing even his closest colleagues.
It's probably wrong of him to want it, but Oswald thinks that a little Christmas miracle can't be too much to ask for, can it?
"Would you like a tag for that ?"
The question is rather unexpected, Oswald having been under the impression that it was pretty obvious that one wasn't needed –he could get one for Edward, but as smart as his dog is, he unfortunately won't ever master the art of reading, so tag or no tag would make little difference for him- but then thinks better of it: this is a Christmas gift, and Edward Cobblepot deserves nothing if not the very best of presents. Which would very much include the luxury of a nominative name tag handwritten by James himself, thank you very much.
Maybe he'll even keep it, once the holidays over, Oswald doubts Edward will mind.
"Yes, actually, Cobblepot will do just fine."
"Cobblepot?" He asks as he reaches for a pen, intrigued. Jim tries his best to put his calligraphic skills to good use, thinks Oswald deserves nothing if not the best he can offer him, and maybe he does put a little more attention into this tag than the other ones he's has the luxury of doing during the day, makes sure the tips of the letters are wavy and that the ink is evenly shared and has dried out before sticking the tag on. Jim really doesn't want to think about why he's doing it, and if Oswald notices him taking his time, he's certainly not saying anything. "I must confess, I've never heard of a name quite like this one, before."
Probably because you've never met a man quite like me, before, is what Oswald itches to say. It's there, he can feel it burning on the tip of his tongue, another one of his daring utterances full of self-confidence and bravado that he would gladly pull out of his vast array of quips that he would definitely pull out were this an umpteenth political meeting, but thinks better of it.
James isn't one of those politicians with an overly-inflated ego and sense of self-importance, he's just the nice baker wrapping him up a gift for his pet, he doesn't have anything to prove to him, and the sudden realization that they are, in fact, equals, feels like a soothing wave gently rolling over him. It's nice, having one person in this city to whom he does not have to put on a facade, with whom he can engage in an actual conversation and share a little human contact, even if it is just for the few minutes it takes for James to see to his order.
"Astute observation," He commends instead, trying to balance out nonchalance with his urge to talk. Perhaps James isn't interested, perhaps he's being annoying, perhaps he's just tired (and by the looks of it, he is, and sick too), but still, he cannot help but add, "It's actually originally Kappleput. It's my dear mother's name, she's from Hungary."
"You've come a long way then, probably have quite the story to tell."
"So do you." Oswald says back, without thinking twice. It's not that he is particularly averse to talking about himself –one has to let the world know about oneself, he concedes, if one ever hopes to get elected into any kind of office- it's just that he doesn't think he particularly wants to make his long list of exploits the centre of their conversation, it's likely to bore James to tears, and he is pretty certain that he'll just end up letting something too intimate and entirely inappropriate out in the open: no need to ruin things between them by putting his likely one-sided crush into words. It would be a shame for things to so abruptly come to a halt when Oswald can feel them going so smoothly.
His subtle hint for Jim to maybe give a little back hangs in the air all of a few moments before he either decides to humour him, or genuinely wishes to open himself up to him, and recounts to Oswald a tale much closer to home, of a young idealistic teenager enrolling in the local police department at the urge of his family, of it abruptly coming to an end three years later because of his temperament. Of an engagement to an upper class sophisticated woman named Barbara and how things fell apart a mere three years later, the perfect life they'd planned out a mere illusion with hidden cracks at the seams that eventually broke. Of wandering here and there, staying a while with his brother Roger, but never really finding a place for himself there and deciding to come back to Gotham and making one here, in Harvey Bullock's bakery, the other man rather reluctant to hire him at first and Jim having to spend his first few months endlessly trying to prove himself.
Oswald understands, feels like he's being recounted his own rise to the top in a way, and thinks that aside the obvious different places they occupy in Gotham's social class, perhaps they are not so different all things considered. It's feels like a breath of fresh air, at last finding someone who may not be a perfect mirror to him, but understands him in ways even his closest peers have yet to because they've shared so much without even knowing it. It's a feeling of familiarity he latches onto, clutches to his chest for the few seconds it lasts and holds onto tightly as he shields himself from the memories of constantly feeling inadequate, of needing to fight for every one of his colleague's respect.
Yet James, who he's never met, who is just like him in too many ways for him to count, does, and Oswald is increasingly reluctant to let that go. He feels for him, knows, in many respects of some of the things he talks about because he has experienced them himself, is looking at an embodiment of loneliness he knows only too well, a loneliness he knows he could do something about, knows what words he could use to try and stifle –even if it's for a measly few hours- but knows, too, that he has no business trying to fix.
Well, his rational brain thinks as much anyway, the heart he can feel beating madly in his chest is saying otherwise. He can feel it constantly, almost an ache now, as Jim ties the shining green bow around the pâtisserie box, wishes he would draw it out a little longer as he flounders for something to say. Yet now that he needs his words, they seem to be rather elusive, Oswald about to strike up another conversation several times only to stop himself short of actually saying anything. The precious seconds ticking away on the silver watch at his wrist, he cannot see, but the time lost he can feel, as if it were flowing through his fingers right beneath his eyes.
He thinks it all over, when Jim hands him his order, the near inexistent touch of their fingers a burning fire up his arm as he takes the proffered box. It should be all over, after that, nothing beyond a friendly encounter he can now commit to memory. Oswald knows he should probably be on his way, get back to a likely impatient Edward and give him his Christmas present, but seems to be somewhat paralysed, unable to move. From behind him, the couple seated at the wall have not yet left, and as the whiffs of what is left of their coffee reach him, Oswald can feel himself crave a hot drink before heading back out into the unforgiving cold, looks at the well-loved machine behind the counter with envy.
He knows he shouldn't, has someone waiting for him at home and knows Jim probably doesn't need him imposing on him any longer, but he can't help himself. Oswald is only human; an imperfect, flawed and selfish one at that, to whom occasionally giving into temptation is not to be seen as warranting any kind of guilt whatsoever: it is but human nature. Besides, he rationalizes, it's Christmas, and with a time for celebration just around the corner what kind of festive spirit could he claim to behold were he not to indulge just a little more?
"How much for a cup?" He ends up asking instead of taking his leave, and is glad that his voice is not shaking as he does so.
"Five dollars fifty, usually", Jim says, before glancing over his shoulder briefly, and then he leans over, merely a breadth away from him and Oswald is pretty sure he's stopped breathing again. When he speaks again, it's so low it's almost a whisper, his little secret for their ears alone and Oswald could not be more thrilled, "But it's Christmas, and you're nice, I guess I could make you one for two fifty instead, just don't tell Harvey." He adds with a wink, and Oswald is positive he can feel what is left of his heart melting. He wishes he could tell him to stop, really, because crushing on the local baker on Christmas Eve is positively not what he initially came here for, and instead, he tries to focus on the good deal he's getting for his coffee and definitely not the massive grin on his face when Jim sneezes again.
His resolve lasts about a grand total of two minutes –well done, Oswald, he can hear a sarcastic voice congratulating him somewhere, suspiciously sounds like his own- and Oswald thinks that, well, he's head over heels already, it's Christmas and his lucky star seems to be oddly benevolent to him tonight, so why not try and push his luck a little further?
"How long until your shift is over?" His face is burning, hot red and probably on display for the whole world to see, because while the words have left his mouth, Oswald feels he may as well have shouted them from an old clumsily put-together megaphone –the type he'd find in the belongings his mother had in her attic- while standing in the middle of the town square, everybody within a one-fifty kilometre radius hearing the very obvious implications, putting two and two together and laughing their arses off, because how could Oswald ever think it would work?
"I'm sorry?"
Well everybody save for Jim, it would seem. He's staring back at him, confused, head tilted not unlike Edward when he doesn't quite understand an order he's given him, a strand of messy blonde hair falling between his eyes, and Oswald feels a sudden urge to do what would probably be the least appropriate thing given the situation, that is gently take the strand between his fingers and place it back behind his ear, where it belongs, and perhaps make the gesture linger a little, just because he could. But he can't, because he needs to explain himself first, and think of how he's going to get himself out of this unfortunate misunderstanding first.
Of course, there's still the option to back down, tell Jim he's the one who must have misheard him and let things go at that. Nobody would be none the wiser, things would go back to normal and the incident would never be talked of ever again. It would certainly make his conscience much lighter, would mean he could get out of here and back to Edward –poor thing must be worried sick right now- and spend Christmas Eve like he spends it every other year. But despite his misstep, Oswald is still not one to back down, ever, especially in the face of something he wants.
"If you aren't doing anything later, I mean. I do happen to have picked up two mille-feuilles, I don't think I'd chance one on Edward and I really don't think I'll be able to eat the pair of them on my own. I must admit, I do have a sweet tooth, but not that sweet. Of course, it's only an offer, as in, you can come and spend Christmas at my place… If you'd want to, of course. I mean, I'd like it, but it's only if you…" He's rambling, he's bright red and he feels like he's never done this in his life –he has, it's just been a while, Oswald blames the rusted gears, needs to put them in motion again to get into the swing of things- and for a moment thinks he's screwed it all up before it even began, because how could Jim think being invited out for Christmas on the spur of the moment by someone who can't even string a coherent sentence together is something a sane person would do?
He's still looking at him as if he's been talking to him in a foreign language, eyes comically wide and mouth half open, it would probably be funny in any other circumstance, and Oswald thinks that maybe his move was a little stupid. But he also still kind of wants to do it, doesn't feel like taking his words back. Were they ill thought out? Yes. Too sudden, perhaps? Definitely. Was his question so inappropriate that Jim will order him out, tell him to never see him again and threaten a restraining order were Oswald to dare set a foot in here in the future? Probably not.
Maybe it's champagne shared with the Mayor earlier that's finally getting to him, making him giddy with excitement and not thinking twice before he opens his mouth with a poor choice of words. It's been too long however, since he's shared the genuine companionship the likes of which Jim has so willingly given him tonight, and Oswald feels like he cannot afford to miss out on the opportunity of indulging just in it a little more.
Jim still seems undecided though, and with a last-ditch effort, Oswald throws down his last card, hopes it will be enough to convince him to spend the remainder of the evening at his place. "I've got a lovely warm fireplace, and the best champagne in town, scout's honour. You can even meet Edward, he's always thrilled to make new acquaintances."
"Edward? Is he your boyfriend?"
Oswald has to admit, he pauses for a second, the thought so absolutely implausible it's hilarious. He thinks, for a moment, that Jim must be joking, that he cannot possibly be serious yet when he looks at him again as he tries to stifle his laughter, the baker is nothing if not sincere, genuinely believes he is sharing a romantic life with Edward, and the mere picture that comes, unbidden, to his head is so outrageous it cannot be anything but funny.
"No, silly!" He says, really trying not to embarrass the other man –because, really, how could he have known?- "Edward is my dog!"
Jim does have to admit, his assumption is rather silly, finds himself laughing along with his client as he tries not to picture him sharing a candlelit dinner with his pet and kissing him senseless in front of the Gotham paparazzi when the need for a good story arises to distract from whatever scandal the mayor's office is currently embroiled in. He won't ever tell him that he's maybe partly relieved with that little nugget of information, doesn't think Oswald ever need know about the little seed of jealousy that never even got the chance to grow before being killed off.
"He's very affectionate and well behaved, enough to melt the heart of even the most dog-aversive person around, I will give you that", Oswald concedes, fondness lacing his voice as he remembers hosting many a guest in his mansion, each and every one of them completely enthralled by the dog by the time they parted ways, "But fear not, he does not take part in any competition for my romantic affections I'm afraid."
Perhaps Oswald has said too much, his choice of words doing very little to cover up his probable intentions behind the sudden invitation, but Jim doesn't really mind. As he looks at him, all flustered with his hands clutching his carton casing close to his chest and his eyes full of unbridled hope at the idea spending Christmas Eve with him, a complete stranger, how on earth is he supposed to refuse this ruffled little bird? Jim hasn't done this in a while –it's been too long, he reflects, actually- after things ended with Barbara, he hasn't really seriously committed to anything aside from the occasional hook-up with a man here and a woman there, all too detached and ephemeral. Granted, he does not know Oswald well enough (yet) for there to be anything meaningful between them, but finds that he'd be willing to try.
Jim is rather enjoying their exchange, and a Christmas Eve in his company would definitely beat spending it alone in his old dingy apartment. Besides, he does have to admit that Oswald is pretty cute, and as he looks at him with such hope, thinks that even he does not have the heart to turn him down.
"Why not? A warm fire and nice company sound like quite the invitation. And I'd love to meet Edward, if he's anything like you, I'm sure he's a joy to be around", he concedes as he tries fruitlessly to rub some warmth back into his frozen limbs. He feels like he's fifteen again and he's about to ask Charlotte on his first ever date, all red in the face and excitement bubbling in his chest at the prospect of spending time with someone he has grown to care for. He's not felt this in years, the string of men and women, whose names he can no longer remember, he's slept with after he and Barbara amicably ended things not even coming close to what he can feel he's sharing with Oswald, but as he looks back at him, Jim can't in all honesty say he's entirely averse to the feeling. Harvey will probably never let him hear the end of it when he tells him all about it (and it will be a nice change, he thinks, Harvey's numerous conquests being, at times, rather tedious to listen to in all of their detail), but sets aside his friend's teasing for now as he looks down at his watch. Jim knows he probably shouldn't be leaving his colleague like this, without notice, but the steady flow of clients has died down significantly, most having already headed home to share some time with their families. He's pretty certain there won't be too many more passing through here tonight, and thinks that, for once, perhaps Harvey can close up without him. He has countless hours of overtime he can fill in anyway, thinks that tonight is as good a night as any to make use of his hard work.
"Just give me a minute," He pleads, grateful when Oswald just smiles and tells him to take all the time he needs, that there is no hurry, patient and understanding in a way many clients would never dream to be, and Jim appreciates it, truly. Outside, the weather has become somewhat more clement, and unwilling to chance being caught in another blizzard, Jim hurriedly scribbles Harvey a note before he turns off the coolers in the glass casings and hastily organizes the change in the register machine before making a grab for his coat and the old denim bag he should probably have changed three seasons ago.
Oswald is waiting for him by the door, all refined elegance and exuding class from a mile away, and for a moment Jim hesitates, because, really, how can he ever hope to compare to that? How can he be so lucky to score such a singular and charming person, when he's just the local baker who has practically nothing to his name? He knows he doesn't match up to the sophistication and refinery that make up his world, probably never will and shouldn't even dare dream of trying, yet his shortcomings thankfully do not seem to faze Oswald, who is looking at him like he has just hung him the moon, wide smile and messy hair, blue eyes twinkling and one arm held out as, with the other, he holds the door open for him. Jim thinks he could do it himself, but appreciates the chivalrous gesture nonetheless as he steps outside, a blast of biting cold in the face welcoming him as he does so.
By the time he's turned around, Oswald's nose has got a nice shade of vermillion coating it again, the knitted scarf he's fiddling with around his neck doing very little to help. It's to be expected, given the weather, but Jim is reluctant to intervene, the painting in front of him might as well be a real-life rendering of a Vermeer right now, time suspended for a bit as he can fully take a moment to appreciate him. He looks oddly out of place, crooked limbs and sharp angles against the pale white snow and smooth-edged warm windows of the houses behind him, and maybe that's precisely why he's so intrigued by him, accepted his invitation despite barely knowing him. It's hasn't always been in his nature to dive head first into the unknown, but Jim doesn't think he really minds tonight.
And if Oswald's hand somehow end up wrapped around his own with a softness he didn't expect from the administrator, a touch so gentle it is barely there, yet so warm at the same time Jim cannot take his mind of it as they make their way, well he isn't one to complain about it.