A belated contribution for the gobblepotwinter2018. For the prompt “Christmas Lights”. A slightly dark fic in which Jim and Oswald exchange information for sometimes quite personal favors. Find it also on Ao3.
The cheap motel oozes black despair. Mold is creeping up yellowed walls, steadily devouring the remains of a wallpaper. A cockroach disappears down the drain before Jim has the chance to smash it. Not that it would make any difference: there are at least a hundred more where it came from.
Looking out of the window, the commissioner regards the bright-red neon sign of the motel. It's broken, flickering so much just watching it makes him sick.
The sign reminds him of shabby whorehouses - or Christmas lights. And both connotations just add up to the heavy feeling of forlornness. Suicide rates spike during the holidays, he thinks sourly. Among sex-workers, they are always high.
Thanks to some miracle, Jim has gone through another holiday without being gunned down or blowing his brains out himself. Figures.
He stares down at the parking lot, watches three people passing by, all dressed in tracksuits, ill-fitting leather jackets, wearing pretentious gold chains around their necks. As if it wasn’t already obvious that they are gangsters. Snorting, he closes the curtains.
Gotham is beyond salvation. Years ago, when coming to this city, young and naive, he thought the corruption at the top was the biggest problem. Now, he isn’t so sure anymore. These people on the parking lot know nothing but violence and bestiality. They are the solid ground for the high ranking gangsters. Nothing would work without them. And those people won’t ever stop, aren’t interested in an honest life.
Sometimes he wonders if anyone is worth his efforts anymore. It’s not like he has seen many good people recently.
Heaving a sigh, he sits down on the edge of the bed. The springs creak under his weight. It almost sounds like the pained cry Jim tried holding back the entire time. He feels nauseous thinking about what he’s expected to do in this bed soon.
Only in Gotham, it seems, prostitutes, detectives, and criminals are the same thing. Well, all three professions need a profound knowledge of human nature in order to survive.
As if on cue, the door opens and Oswald Cobblepot, crime lord supreme and decided top of the food chain enters. He should look out of place with his expensive, elegant clothes. As always, he’s enshrouded in silk and velvet. The smell of cold cigars follows in his wake as well as a hint of top-notch scotch and the heady scent of a perfume Jim doesn’t even try to pronounce correctly.
Oswald smells like death.
Oswald smiles like destruction.
Jim knows exactly what he truly is under all the layers of grandeur, luxury, and opulence. Knows each and every scar, every little flaw, and imperfection expertly covered by unaffordable fabric.
Under the surface, the Penguin is just as run down as this shady motel.
The kingpin grins like the Cheshire cat at his sight and the words “ I need a favor” are ringing in his ears. He struggles to force them out, throat suddenly so very dry. His voice sounds foreign. Jim still remembers how confident and steadfast it used to be.
They're doing this for years now: tacky encounters at sleazy places spurred on by mutual disdain, greed, passion. Or maybe by something else entirely.
“How can I be of service, old friend?” Oswald asks mock friendly.
Jim wants to wipe the haughty smirk from his face by using his fist.
Instead, he crosses his hands behind his back and grits his teeth.
“I take it you and Ed aren't currently on best terms?” It's not a question. Jim would not be in this motel if they were. He's only being used like that if the Penguin has no one else to turn to.
The mobster makes a dismissive gesture, betrayed by a flash of pain in his emerald eyes.
“How's the current Mrs. Gordon?”
“Filing for divorce,” Jim deadpans.
“I'm not.” At least someone made it out of Gotham, Jim thinks bitterly.
“About that favor?” the kingpin prompts and the commissioner's chest constricts. All of a sudden, the room is too small. He's suffocating, needs to get out, needs to get as far away as possible and even further.
Jim can't do this anymore. He's sick and disgusted at himself, unable to continue their play of push and pull. He does anyway.
“Triple murder. An entire family. Do you know anything about it?” he spits out, at last, handing over a file. Are these people worth what he's sacrificing in exchange for their justice? They're dead already, so who cares?
Oswald tilts his head contemplatively. “And you're offering?”
His dignity, his principles, his morals, everything he ever wanted to be?
“What do you want, Oswald?”
The gangster doesn't answer, walks over to the window instead and opens the curtains. He's positively glowing in the neon light, highlighted by a flash of red. And for a moment it seems as if the years on his face have been erased.
Oswald is Oswald again. Not the Penguin, not a ruthless murderer, not a criminal mastermind but a young man. A very hurt young man.
The moment passes too quickly and Jim sees a Penguin anew. A plump, reckless, aged creature. Just like him.
Sometimes Jim forgets Gotham has beaten Oswald down time and time again too.
“What do you want?” he asks back. His voice is gentle, genuine.
Tears are welling up in his eyes, hot, salty, acidly.
“Can we get out of here, please?” Jim pleads, not only meaning this room but also this situation, their arrangement. Whatever this is, it is degrading both of them.
The gangster simply shakes his head. “I'm sorry, Jim.” It sounds like he means it.
“Don’t you want more?” he blurts out all of a sudden, catching the gangster off guard.
Oswald hesitates. It's not what he came here for. This should have been easy. A favor done for a favor. By now, Jim should already be down on his knees with a murderer’s fingers tangled in his hair. Changing the rules now isn't fair. But what in Gotham is ever fair?
Jim looks up, body rigid, fists clenched painfully tight, breathing ragged. The signs of despair are close to the ones of pleasure.
“Are you offering more?” the Penguin demands to know, voice sharp. Maybe, in that case, something could be arranged. That’s what his tone implies. After all, the criminal always craves more.
“There's a coffee shop down the road,” the commissioner offers frantically, sure the mob boss will decline. How many times has Jim refused his offers on friendship before? It would only be reasonable if he did the same.
The following stillness stretches between them. All of a sudden Jim is hyper-aware of the seconds passing by, the buzzing of an old television set and the hum of the fridge in the corner.
“I prefer tea,” Oswald says instead, picking up his coat.
