[On some level, he knows he should have just deleted his texts instead of sending them off. He stews in shame, the kind that only feeds all the ugly feelings willing him to stay in bed and never get up.]
[His appetite is near non-existent these days. But he'd notice, of course, if Alfred's meals were any less in quality even if the effort is somewhat wasted on him.]
[He doesn't bother replying but about twenty mins later he does arrive home, heading to the kitchen first to put away groceries before going to Oswald's room and knocking on the door.]
[He lies unmoving in bed, his phone face down beside him. There's no answer, in part because he knows Alfred will step in anyway, like he always does, to see that he hasn't drunk himself to death. And because mustering the energy to talk, to draw a breath through the heaviness in his chest, is more exhausting than it has any right to be.]
[A scattering of pills and open sleeve of plain crackers litter the night table. His suit jacket hangs off the back of a chair unlike his cravat, which has wound up at the foot of the bed. The cardboard box of Ed’s things remains a tripping hazard in the middle of the room like it has for the last month. He has given up on tidying up much in the way he has given up on himself, sleeping long hours in his day clothes, more often than not. No vomit on his shirt and waistcoat this time, at least. Only sticky blotches of wine.
Sunlight slants in, piercing his eye and the soft, throbbing tissues of his brain. He flinches from it, burrowing deeper under his blanket with a miserable groan.]
[He can smell the sticky sweet stench of wine and decides that once he gets Oswald up and moving he is going to open the windows in here to air it out.]
I've prepared a pot of tea, I figured we could drink it in the solarium while we go over some of the news reports I gathered while out in the city.
[He says as he starts to take out cleans clothes for Oswald to wear for the day.]
And then we shall take a walk around the gardens to strengthen your legs.
[Last he heard, one of the bridges to the mainland was nearing repair with the help of the volunteers and supplies flying in; that much he knows from Alfred's comings and goings, his routine restocking of the fridge. But with no stake in anything anymore, the finer details of life in Gotham that he would have once kept on top of, craving knowledge, are about as meaningful to him as the writings on the back of a cereal box.
He thinks about turning over and shunning Alfred's plans, but something else springs to mind. He blinks, frowning.]
My estate... [he croaks] ...does it remain inaccessible?
[Alfred notes the way Oswald perks up ever so slightly at the thought of his home. It makes sense, the poor man probably hasn't been back there since before everything in Gotham got shut down.]
Partially.
[He replies and then expands on what he means by that.] The main roads are better but a lot of the exits leading up to your estate are still rather rough. I worry about it hurting your leg, even if we were to go slow.
[But that doesn't mean he can't go up to the estate, maybe even find a few personal belongings to bring back to cheer Oswald up. Or maybe to start preparing the estate so he can visit it himself later on when he is strong enough.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
for @hobblepot (tfln continued)
Well I wasn't about to leave you laying in your own vomit.
[He knows you hate being messy, Os.]
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I could have taken care of it myself
I'm a grown man for crying out loud!
[On some level, he knows he should have just deleted his texts instead of sending them off. He stews in shame, the kind that only feeds all the ugly feelings willing him to stay in bed and never get up.]
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Of course you could have, but I want to try and make things easier for you.
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The man I loved is rotting away in a box six feet in the cold, wet dirt
I will never feel his touch or hear the sound of his voice again
I will never know what could have been
I cannot even go and lay flowers on his grave without feeling like I must beg for help with the most infuriatingly basic of tasks
[A tear hits the screen, blurring the letters. He angrily thumbs it away.]
But thank god I made it to the bathtub a little sooner.
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You might not be minding your health but I am.
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Now, I have one last stop before I head back but is there anything you require that you'd like me to pick up?
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I am nearly out.
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I was thinking of doing a roast chicken for dinner, does that sound all right to you?
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[His appetite is near non-existent these days. But he'd notice, of course, if Alfred's meals were any less in quality even if the effort is somewhat wasted on him.]
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Sir?
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All right, Master Cobblepot. Time to get up.
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Sunlight slants in, piercing his eye and the soft, throbbing tissues of his brain. He flinches from it, burrowing deeper under his blanket with a miserable groan.]
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I've prepared a pot of tea, I figured we could drink it in the solarium while we go over some of the news reports I gathered while out in the city.
[He says as he starts to take out cleans clothes for Oswald to wear for the day.]
And then we shall take a walk around the gardens to strengthen your legs.
no subject
He thinks about turning over and shunning Alfred's plans, but something else springs to mind. He blinks, frowning.]
My estate... [he croaks] ...does it remain inaccessible?
no subject
Partially.
[He replies and then expands on what he means by that.] The main roads are better but a lot of the exits leading up to your estate are still rather rough. I worry about it hurting your leg, even if we were to go slow.
[But that doesn't mean he can't go up to the estate, maybe even find a few personal belongings to bring back to cheer Oswald up. Or maybe to start preparing the estate so he can visit it himself later on when he is strong enough.]