Jul. 24th, 2024 08:11 pm
RP With Oswald Cobblepot
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flippin_peachyHe was cold.
It was the type of cold that seeps into you, past your flesh and straight down to your bones to make them ache, ache in a way that makes you feel as if you were slowly being turned to stone.
And maybe he was.
It certainly felt like he had been here in this spot for centuries, motionless and cold.
And alone.
He was alone now, his one true north taken from him and when that happened he had fallen into this cold, dark place where his bones ached and his head throbbed and his hands were wet and sticky with blood. He can still hear the soft exhale of breath as Bruce died in his arms, his body slowly going limp and heavy.
And then....
nothing.
Just a cold, black feeling that had swarmed up inside him. It was a feeling he had spent a long time keeping locked away, ever since the day he had left the Army, since the day he found Esme dead in their flat. It was familiar and cold.
So bloody cold.
Just as he is now, cold and empty now that he had found the wretched bitch who had murdered his boy and made her pay. Knocking her away from the poor sod she had been busy torturing and onto the ground, straddling her and wrapping his callused hands around her head and bashing it.
Over and over.
And over.
Until....
Nothing.
Just silence and the feeling of being cold.
As if his heart had turned to stone.
It was the type of cold that seeps into you, past your flesh and straight down to your bones to make them ache, ache in a way that makes you feel as if you were slowly being turned to stone.
And maybe he was.
It certainly felt like he had been here in this spot for centuries, motionless and cold.
And alone.
He was alone now, his one true north taken from him and when that happened he had fallen into this cold, dark place where his bones ached and his head throbbed and his hands were wet and sticky with blood. He can still hear the soft exhale of breath as Bruce died in his arms, his body slowly going limp and heavy.
And then....
nothing.
Just a cold, black feeling that had swarmed up inside him. It was a feeling he had spent a long time keeping locked away, ever since the day he had left the Army, since the day he found Esme dead in their flat. It was familiar and cold.
So bloody cold.
Just as he is now, cold and empty now that he had found the wretched bitch who had murdered his boy and made her pay. Knocking her away from the poor sod she had been busy torturing and onto the ground, straddling her and wrapping his callused hands around her head and bashing it.
Over and over.
And over.
Until....
Nothing.
Just silence and the feeling of being cold.
As if his heart had turned to stone.
no subject
He looks terrified - and he hasn’t even seen her yet, rounding a pillar behind him. Coming up from the side.
Oswald’s heart swoops into his stomach. He shakes his head desperately, crying out through the gag behind his teeth. Screaming until darkness crowds the edges of his vision and tendons cord in his neck, bloody spit frothing out the corners of his mouth. He throws himself forward, desperate to reach him, to shove him out of the way. The ropes bite deeper into his wrists and wrench him back.
Ed blinks, shaken.
Then Oswald hears it over the pounding in his ears. They both hear it.
Click.
A cold, hard sound that bounces off the walls. And Ed understands.
Their eyes meet for the last time: Ed’s blank; Oswald’s wet and red and begging time to slow down, to stop. Begging Ed to pull an impossible escape from the pockets of his shiny green blazer, to find a way – because if anyone could, it’s him. It had to be him. Because they were supposed to seize the future and make Gotham theirs. Supposed to laugh and grow old together and sit around sipping Bordeaux, reminiscing on a life well-lived, the life they built together against all odds.
Then comes the bang that blows a hole through Ed’s skull. That throws bone and brains onto the tiles. Ed’s glasses clatter to the floor and the rest of him follows, his head landing with a thudding bounce.
The impact crushes the air from Oswald’s lungs. His mouth drops open, useless, empty. His world begins to spin, faster and faster, as all sense abandons him. Ears ringing, body all trembling-electric on the inside. He can't think, can’t breathe, his lungs struggling, straining, failing -- until a rattling gasp rips through his chest. Then another. And he begins to sob like an animal. Big, ugly sobs, screaming sobs that tear his throat up. He can't even recognize himself.
Nyssa drops to a crouch by the blood pooling under Ed’s temple, smiling grimly. Gotham is a cancer, she tells him, taking her knife to Ed’s neck – no chance of resurrection for him –
– and right then and there, Oswald can feel some part of him crack down to his very core, sliding away from the rest like a heavy sheet of ice from a glacier. He shakes and shakes. Can’t stop it any more than he can stop watching the blade saw its way through meat and tendon and bone, Ed’s glassy eyes staring back at him –
And then Oswald blinks, and Nyssa has moved in front of him. She grips him by the jaw, her thumb grinding into bone. Blood and tears and snot drips down his face and dribbles over the floor in fat blots, his nostrils flaring, quivering. Disgust curls her lip. He’s a perfect representation of the city, she reminds him, patiently dragging open another gash in his face: ugly, broken, pathetic. A lost cause. His head goes light; Nyssa’s face, her look of dark satisfaction, splits in his vision. Something primal rears up inside him – and he comes alive, for what feels like the very last time, twisting his head and biting down. And he bites savagely, not entirely sure what’s happening until Nyssa jerks her hand and they both stare at the wound he gouged into the web of her thumb. He bobs his head and lets a small chunk of meat tumble from his drooling mouth. His head is already whirling when she slaps him, and so viciously that his vision goes spotty. She fists his hair and yanks his heavy, lolling head back, and through a prism of tears, he sees her knife poised for his eye socket.
Her breath is hot on his skin, spit flecking his cheek. Her rage, whatever she felt for herself, for her father, when driving that blade into Bruce and killing him in his bed, and whatever she feels now, while cutting at his numbed flesh, can’t even begin to touch his. He's somewhere far away, every word out of her mouth thrusting him into higher and higher stratospheres of anger until all he can see is white. And he waits. Waits for the moment he’ll claw his way from this nightmare and out the other side with everything he has left, driven and ready, coming for her like a heart attack. Waits for the end, the bitter release, like a sick, sad brain waits for a bullet.
Death comes for Nyssa. And it comes now, ripping her away from him. Bludgeoning her to the floor. And it thrashes her senseless, just a few feet away from Ed’s headless corpse. Over and over and over, until there’s a wet crack, like a melon being split open.
And then it’s over.
Oswald blinks and blinks, bewildered. Breathing in fits and starts, a harsh, reedy sort of wheezing.
It’s over.]
no subject
All of it, that it was his life that had ended and not Bruce's, that he could trade his soul for one more chance to save his boy and for a moment he considers just ending it so he can be with the one good thing he had in his life. If he just gave up now then maybe he could see Bruce again, maybe Esme too.
Maybe he could find relief from this horrible weight in his heart and things could just be....over.
What finally stirs him from his own dark, suicidal thoughts is a voice.
'Alfred, you have to help the survivors.'
It's the voice of Bruce, murmuring deep inside his own mind but it somehow manages to give him the strength to come back to his senses, not fully but enough to realize that he's sitting in a puddle of blood and gore. That his hands are coated up to his elbows in Nyssa's blood, that the cuffs of his usually crisp white dress shirt are now a dark maroon color.
'You can fix yourself up later, Alfred. Get up and help him. That's an order.'
He hears Bruce say in his head and he nods, hauling himself up off the ground and plodding over to Oswald, his eyes glassy and faraway, as if he were on auto-pilot.]
Hold still.
[He croaks and gently removes the gag from Oswald's mouth before moving on to untie the rest of his restraints, there's no indication that he even seems to realize who it is he just saved just that he should be free.]
achilles tendon on his good side was severed
Oswald’s slimy-red teeth are jammed tight around the gag, and he jerks his face away from the hands reaching for him, hanging his head. Something inside him won’t let go, or forgot how. But those fingers keep pulling and prying. Teasing a ragged strip of his own pant leg from his mouth with impossible patience. He hears himself gasp for air as it falls away. Hears himself straining to breathe through his gummed up nostrils, still fighting to live, not knowing any better.
The ropes slip off him and his body pitches forward. He throws his hands out to break his fall, feeling that jolt of pain to his teeth. Lights pop behind his eyes, dizziness roaring through him. It hurts. Everything hurts. Fresh tears leak from the corners of his eyes, dripping acid into the open wounds in his face, his split lip. Sides heaving, he struggles to climb to his feet before he even understands where he’ll go, what he’ll do next. No plan. Nothing. Only mindless animal instinct driving him forward, onward, determined to survive at any cost. But his body is failing. Muscles shudder under him, rubbery-weak from abuse – and with a fierce stab of pain just above his heel comes a sensation of flesh peeling away from flesh. The ugly shock of it makes his knee give way, and he drops back on all fours.
A naked, shivering wreck at the heart of City Hall.
He stares at the floor in a daze, here and not here.
He stares at the bands of skinned meat around his wrists. Then at the splinter of too-white bone peeking out the stump of a finger – and feels his eye go wide. He remembers the blade sinking into him, the cruel, easy snap under its edge, as if she were doing nothing more than cutting a carrot. But seeing it makes it real. Seeing it turns his stomach and pushes a burning, bitter taste into his mouth. He makes a noise high in his throat, an anxious mewl, his breath coming faster, faster.]
owwwwwwwwwww
Help him.]
Yes, Master B. [Alfred whispers and moves to unbutton his vest and then shirt, shrugging off the latter so that he may kneel down next to Oswald and drape it over his bare shoulders.]
Try not to move. You'll only hurt yourself more, sir.
this might just be the perfect icon for this moment
It’s Alfred Pennyworth – butler and de facto father of the young Bruce Wayne.
He remembers Pennyworth through a fog. A scattering of details from what feels like many lifetimes ago. Remembers handshakes and clipped small talk, remembers Alfred stopping Selina from opening his throat. The in-between slips like smoke through his fingers. But it doesn’t matter now; none of that matters. Because it isn't hope that he finds in that harried face watching his. All he can see is someone else who raped him of the only comfort he could have found, the closest thing to closure anyone is ever allowed to have in this cursed city.
Oswald’s gaze sharpens through a film of tears, his skull rocking with a violence that feels like it’ll split itself open. His lips twitch, stinging as they peel back.
A film flashes through his mind, the very same that kept him alive for the last hour: a crowbar crunching into Nyssa’s skull, popping one eye halfway out the socket; a broad, heavy swing from the side loosing her jaw and knocking out her teeth in a gout of blood; a horrible shriek gurgling up in her throat. That’s how it starts. How it was supposed to go.
But that dream is over.
And all he has left is this rage engorging his brain, this feral rage that demands blood. Screaming, he rears up and throws himself at Alfred, snapping his hands out for his throat.]
Hell yeah!
Do it.
[He whispers as he feels Oswald's hands tighten around his throat, his voice trembles with emotion and he feels a few tears leak out of his closed eyes and run down his cheek.]
I want to be with him.
no subject
Fuck you!
[He jerks him around, snarling through teeth clenched so hard he can feel his molars grinding.
Alfred is supposed to fight - and lose. He’s supposed to suffer and die shocked, struggling to understand how this half-dead, skinny thing could have ever overpowered him. But Alfred is motionless, unresisting. He's already dead, Oswald realizes; he’s just waiting for his body to catch up.
He squeezes. His knuckles blanch, and the nerves in his finger, or what's left of it, spit fire. Blood spurts out, his grip growing slippery and weaker, somehow, the harder he tries to make Alfred hurt. It’s not fair – not fucking fair. He throws back his head, his eye filling. And he howls at the ceiling, into all that wide, empty space. Because nothing is ever easy for him. Because Alfred won't even give him a sliver of satisfaction when death is what he wants. When he welcomes it so calmly and on his own terms, as if he has the goddamn right. Oswald’s face wrenches up, a vein splitting his forehead.]
...fuck you!!
[He sobs, brokenly, sagging.
He can't do it. He won't.
His arms drop, and he crumples to his knees. Throbbing with hate, hate for himself and Alfred and Nyssa and Ed, and every wet, ragged gasp he can’t bite back. If he has to suffer, to live with this pain, then he won’t suffer alone.]
no subject
I'm sorry. [He says and quietly sinks down to his knees next to Oswald.
It's of course that moment that the cavalry finally arrives.]
Oh holy shit. [Bullock mutters when he sees the scene and looks over to Jim who already has his gun drawn. They approach slowly, Bullock wincing when he sees both Ed and Nyssa's bodies.]
Alfred. [Jim says slowly, his eyes watching Oswald carefully as he can't quite tell what state of mind he is in yet.] What happened? Are you okay?
[Alfred pulls in a ragged breath and slowly exhales and when he speaks his voice is controlled but also somehow horribly hollow sounding.]
Bruce is dead.
[His throat constricts painfully, a deep sob trying to choke him and he takes another breath before continuing.]
So no.
I'm not okay.
I'm actually doing fucking awful, mate.
Bruce....no. [Jim whispers in disbelief and Alfred nods, slowly rising to his feet.]
Yes.
How?! [He demands and then turns his gun towards Oswald.]
What did you do, Oswald!!
[Alfred moves fast, faster than most people would assume a man his age could and grabs Jim's wrist, twisting it savagely until he drops the gun.]
Don't you fucking dare! [He snarls.] This is YOUR fault! You should have killed her the first time!!
[He shouts and punches Jim in the face.]
They'd both still be here if you'd done your job properly!!
[Jim staggers back, both from the blow and the strength of Alfred's sudden rage. Alfred meanwhile advances and is about to strike Jim again when Lee comes onto the scene.]
Alfred. Please, stop.
[Her tone is soft and full of sadness and somehow it reaches past his anger and touches him briefly.]
I know you're upset, but hurting Jim won't bring Bruce back.
[Alfred looks at Jim with absolute hate in his eyes and then turns away.]
No but it will make me bloody well feel better.
[He says bitterly and comes back over to kneel next to Oswald, wrapping an arm around him protectively.]
Get out of here, all of you.
oopsiedaisy
It’s the first time someone has, and meant it, in as long as he can remember. And it’s useless. He doesn’t even know where to start with sorry, what he’s supposed to do with it. But he doesn’t throw it back into Alfred's face. Oswald doesn’t even look at him.
Gulping down deep, shuddering breaths, he dries his face on his arm, his mouth, slowly going cold. His head is pounding and pounding. And sitting there, on his knees, he begins to feel the sick ache in his gut of a boy who just wants to go home, even if he’s not sure what that means anymore. Only that home feels less and less like somewhere real and more like an idea of a warm, comfortable place that never existed.
Footsteps carry through the chamber, and he and Alfred are suddenly no longer alone. Oswald counts two people from the sound of their hard-soled shoes; Bullock is the first to give himself away, and it’s not hard to guess who he’s with. Once upon a time, Oswald's first thought, above all else, would’ve been that he can’t be seen like this.
--ugly, broken, pathetic--
But he doesn't scrabble around for the clothes that slid from his shoulders, or bother cupping his privates and preserving what little dignity he has left. He’s tired, so tired. A part of him wants to flatten himself over the tiled floor. To feel them cool against his heavy, throbbing cheek and forehead, and sleep forever.
People are talking now, talking around him, and Bruce’s name breaks through the numb, black buzzing in his mind. The last of the Waynes – gone, too. Oswald blinks, turning that over for a second. He isn’t sure, right away, why he feels the way he does – like he’s climbing stairs expecting the next step to be there, only for his foot to pass through empty air. Until Jim calls his name with all the aggression of a death-threat and turns his gun on him. Oswald raises a swollen, hooded eye to the barrel, dumbstruck. All he can do is stare, his mouth hanging open, as he grapples with the enormity of an accusation so off-the-mark that his fury nearly whiplashes into laughter. How much of that would’ve been the direct result of the trauma and how much would’ve been honest-to-goodness craziness setting in, here to deliver him from this hell, he doesn't know. But he’s not laughing. He’s trembling, so angry he could spit. And not at all prepared, either, for Alfred to answer on his behalf with a punch that snaps Jim’s head back.
It might just be the first good thing that has happened today.
Lee hurries in on clacking heels, and Oswald stops paying attention. Slouching, he sinks back into his own head, little by little, and disappears, until someone loops an arm around him. He flinches, his breath catching. Alfred’s skin is warm and sticky with sweat against his, and he’s reminded that this isn’t supposed to be happening. That Alfred finding him at all was purely accidental. Only Ed had come after him. Only Ed had cared, following up on a string of unanswered texts. And he had paid for it.
Like everyone else who ever cared for him.]
no subject
He sees a man who won't blink when pulling the trigger, who will hit his target every time.
They're sniper eyes.]
Jim. [Lee says softly and reaches out to take hold of his arm, trying to pull him away gently.] Leave them alone.
[It takes a moment but in the end Jim let's himself be lead away by Lee and Bullock who go outside to call for backup and a medical team, leaving Oswald and Alfred alone in the warehouse that stinks of death and sorrow.]
Oswald.
[It's the first time Alfred has addressed him by name and for a moment it feels strange on his tongue but he repeats it again.]
Oswald. Sir? I suspect a medical team and more police will arrive soon, so if you were thinking of leaving before then I would suggest we do so rather quickly.
[We. It just slips out but the second it does he knows it's right. Oswald is hurt after all and can't very well run on that sliced tendon of his.]
no subject
No! [Oswald shouts, breaking free with a strength he shouldn't have.] I am not leaving!
[His heart clenches with a sense of desperate purpose, with a promise not to abandon Ed to the gloved, uncaring hands that would come for the corpses. One last indignity towards a man whose life was made up of nothing but indignities. Oswald makes a beeline for him, half-crawling half-dragging himself along, skin squealing over tiles. Doggedly, his breath coming in short, shallow heaves. But sheer force of will isn’t enough. He collapses an arm’s length from Ed’s side, shy of reaching a shaky hand out and touching him. Shy of feeling the unyielding denseness of a body that once braced his, held his steady, when he staggered around half-blinded. A body he could never pull close and find comfort in again.
He strains to move, choking out an angry sob. But his own has finally given up on him. Has already made peace with the darkness swallowing his senses and pulling him under. All he can think of, as his world disappears, is how sorry he is. And of how meaningless apologies are for the dead, too.]
no subject
The drive back to Wayne manor is hard, he knows what's waiting for him there and doesn't want to see it. He doesn't want to see his boy, who was once alive and bright, now laying cold and dead in blood stained sheets. He doesn't want to see those glassy, accusing eyes.
But he will, because he knows what needs to be done.
He brings Oswald into the manor and takes him into his own chambers, laying him down into his bed before going and retrieving the medical kit. In a way it's good that the other man is unconscious, it helps make the process of patching his wounds up faster than if he was alive and causing a fuss. Which is good, because Alfred has work to do.
With Oswald mostly patched up he then trudges up to Bruce's room, his heart feeling heavier and heavier with each step. He does not turn on any lights, he doesn't need to, he knows this house like the back of his hand and in a way turning on a light would make the scene of Bruce's death so much more real.
More brutal.
So he enters, shrouded in darkness, slowly walking across the room and then sitting down next to Bruce's body.]
I'm here, Master Bruce.
[He says softly as he reaches out to close the boy's eyes, his own filling with hot tears.]
I'll take care of everything.
I promise.
no subject
The door across him is open a crack. This isn’t his house. And under different circumstances, he’d have fumbled for the crutches leaned up against the bedpost and armed himself, seeking food and water and an exit after. Determined to mentally map out the place, to be anything but helpless. But he can’t bring himself to move. Hasn't tried short of pulling his arms into his chest and curling up, letting the day or night - whichever it is behind the drapes - move on without him. His legs aren't going anywhere, anyway. They feel so heavy they could be someone else's, if not for the pain deep and sharp in his foot.
He remembers the knife. Then he remembers the gunshot and Ed falling for what seemed like forever, and his throat heaves suddenly; he barely manages to drag himself to the bed's edge before he gags. It's all bile hitting the floor between spluttering, ragged lungfuls of air. But enough of it that he is exhausted by the end, feeling worse when he wipes his chin and drops back into bed.
It's a long time before the throbbing in his skull softens, becoming a sort of white noise. His stomach never does settle - and he’s grateful when the darkness comes back for him. Taking him away, away from the guilt, and from this cold, colourless life he no longer recognizes.]
no subject
No more birthdays, no more watching the boy who became his son grow into a man.
He can remember carrying Bruce's body, now clean and smartly dressed, outside to his parent's grave and there he begins to dig. He doesn't know how long it takes but it doesn't matter, it has to be done and in the end he lays Bruce's body between his parent's caskets. As if he will somehow find comfort being between them again in the afterlife.]
I love you, Master Bruce.
I always will.
[By the time everything is done Alfred is exhausted and he collapses onto one of the couches in the main room, falling into a fitful sleep. The next morning he wakes at his usual time, dragging himself up and out of bed to go check on the only other people here with him now.
He enters his room with a tea tray, on it is a pot of tea, two cups, some meds, and some fresh fruit.]
Good morning, sir.
[He says as he sets the tray down and moves to open the curtains slightly, letting in a small sliver of sun as to help wake the injured man in his bed.]
no subject
His bleary gaze falls on the pills. He doesn’t know what they are, exactly, and there’s no Ed to tell him the medical name and chemical make-up, to offer a deluge of facts. But whether it helps or kills him, it’s doing him a favour either way, he reasons. Wincing, he stretches an arm and paws the tray perched on the night table. One pill rolls away from his clumsy fingers but he manages to grab the other, finding premature relief in the sticky sweetness of it dissolving in his mouth. It scrapes its way down his throat in two, struggling swallows. All that’s left to do, after, is wait. It’s something to look forward to.
He sinks back under the covers, hunching his shoulders against the pale daylight.]
no subject
You'll want to eat something with those pills. [He states clearly.] Otherwise you will feel sick.
[He grabs a wooden chair from the desk on the opposite side of the room and drags it across to sit next to the bed.]
I brought some fruit but if you'd prefer I can make something a little heartier, oatmeal perhaps?
no subject
Leave me alone.
[His new, loose clothes feel raw against his skin when he shifts, fighting every whining muscle in his body just to turn over. He squints against that sliver of light slanting through the curtains a moment. The sun is still shining at the window, cruel in its indifference. Time has stopped – and yet it hasn’t, somehow, for the rest of the world, everyone everywhere moving on without a missing a beat. Gotham moving on.
His thoughts drift to the fruit on the tray. He can’t remember when he last ate or what it was, or the taste of anything other than blood and bile. But he doesn’t think he can trust his stomach to keep anything down if he tried.]
no subject
Afraid I can't do that, sir.
[He says patiently and pours himself and Oswald a cup of tea.]
You need to eat in order to get your strength back.
[A pause as he sips from his own cup.]
Especially if we are to start making arrangements.
no subject
...Excuse me? [He demands, his voice low and raw.]
no subject
And then of course there are arrangements that must be made to deal with Nyssa's spies. There's no way she knew where and when to attack either of us without getting some kind of inside information.
no subject
It’s the reality check he never asked for but the one that was always coming. That puts a time limit on everything. The overwhelm hits him like a panic attack. He screws his eye shut hard enough for his brow muscles to ache, fighting to breathe around an awful, sinking feeling in his gut. Another loved one cold in the ground. Another headstone he’d stop and lay flowers by, week after week, growing old alone. He doesn’t even know which ones would’ve been Ed’s favourites. Tears gather at the corner of his eye.
He could have followed Ed into that darkness. He had come so close to the edge of nothingness, had stared fearlessly into it, ready and not ready. But instead, he's here, In someone else's clothes and someone else's bed, under a roof that isn't his. No phone or knife or gun. Nothing but this rage in his bones. It feels like some kind of karmic punishment.
He wipes his face, his gaze shuttering. It takes him a moment longer before he can trust his voice not to crack.]
...You mean that you believe one or more these supposed informants are responsible for Bruce’s death... [he reaches a compromise with his wounded body and rolls onto his back] and you need me to track them down.
[He chuffs wryly.]
no subject
[His tone is short and dry, his face composed and still and yet inside his chest aches at the mere mention of Bruce.]
I merely thought you might want to be involved in dealing with any informants or associates of hers, as payback for what she did to you and Mr. Nygma.
[A small pause.]
But if you are not then I shall deal with them on my own.
[And he will deal with them harshly.]
no subject
But it's a bold claim that Alfred is making and he needs proof that he wouldn't wind up expending what little fight he has left just chasing shadows.]
City Hall was my base of operations every since that Valeska lunatic blew the bridges... [he croaks] ...My whereabouts were no secret. [His expression darkens the longer the thought sits with him.] What makes you so certain that... vile bitch [Oswald spits the words like a black, burning venom] was not acting alone?
[His chest rises and falls more sharply, his knuckles whitening around the bedsheets.]
If you know something, spit it out, now--
no subject
[Alfred says, his eyes still locked on Oswald's.]
And I should know, it's a tactic I've used before back when I was a soldier.
no subject
Passing him a bat is another one of them.
Oswald’s knuckles blanch around it, the handle shaking in his death-grip. In borrowed shoes and a borrowed suit draping his wiry frame, he doesn’t look like himself. Hair down, face scuffed up and bandaged. But the resolve in the set of his jaw is unmistakable. There’s no room for bargaining here.]
You killed him. [Oswald advances, his eye flashing like a knife in the half-dark.] ...And now, I am going to beat you until you beg me to do the same. And I am going to enjoy every minute of it.
'the fuck you talking about?'
[His head snaps to the one of the men tied to a cheap, folding chair. Two chairs for three bottomfeeders; the third in line, Bobby, is down on the concrete, hands tied. Staring back at them, Oswald isn’t sure what shakes him most. That these forty-something year old nobodies are the rats who gave Nyssa the edge she needed to ambush him, or that they’re too tweaked out of their minds to grasp the devastation they're responsible for.
They don't even know why they're here.]
‘look at this guy, this fucking whiny little faggot,’ [Frankie continues, tugging at the ropes.] ‘I ain’t scared of you, Penguin!’
‘yeah, who made this crippled fuck king, anyway??’ [Joel demands.
A wild ripcurl of anger surges through Oswald. He never hears the scream that rings through the warehouse – his own – as he drives the bat down into Frankie’s skull, again and again. The fifth swing comes from the side and caves in a cheek, blood dribbling out a ruptured ear. Frankie howls.
Joel jerks from the bloodspray, his face taut and white.
‘yo, what the fuck, get this fucking maniac away from me!’
With only one arm to work with, the beating was always going to be nothing short of a full-bodied effort on Oswald’s part. His breath comes in harsh, wheezy gasps, furious gasps, his fringe flopping with every crack of the bat. It’s agonizingly slow. And it’s unrelenting.]
His name
[--whack--]
was
[--whack--]
Edward Nygma!!
[--whack--]
Wounds reopen, blood and sweat streaming down his sides. Everything hurts - and yet, it feels bitterly good to bleed and sweat because it means getting to feel Frankie’s bones give way, little by little. Getting to watch Frankie’s face, what’s left of it, collapse and his gaping wound of a mouth gush blood onto the concrete.
‘pl... pluh...’ Frankie splutters uselessly.
A few of his teeth stud the bat.]
What was that...?! [Oswald snarls.] Can’t hear you over all the whining!
no subject
Alfred watches all of this, his face eerily calm and composed while Oswald vents his anger and grief. Once upon a time he would be horrified at his actions; finding these three men and dragging them from their shabby homes to tie them up and let Oswald torture and kill them. And yet it feels right, it feels justified.]
...holy sweet jesus!
[Bobby whispers when Frankie's corpse falls over next to him, his face now nothing but a pulpy mess. It's this that suddenly seems to make it through the haze of drugs and Bobby lurches up to his feet and takes off running.]
No you don't.
[Alfred growls and is off like a wild cat after it's prey; silent, quick and deadly. He cuts Bobby off easily and the other man yelps weakly when Alfred literally grabs him by the scruff of his neck.]
'fraid not sunshine. [He says and starts to drag Bobby back.] You need to take what's coming to you.
No! Please! I swear I didn't know!!
[But Bobby's pleading and sobs fall of deaf ears and Alfred drags him back over to where Oswald is, shoving him down and holding him there as he looks up and into Oswald's face.]
Please continue, Master Cobblepot. Sir.
oops, I fucked up the formatting in my last tag. shhhh
It’s Joel’s turn to watch in terror.]
‘Fucking Christ, I’m sorry!!’ [Bobby bawls, throwing every kind of promise and every kind of apology at Oswald and Alfred, Alfred and Oswald. It’s just noise, so much noise. Sets Oswald’s teeth on edge. And it’s then that Oswald realizes that this living waste of skin Alfred is presenting to him had managed to slip into his blindspot. Would have escaped him, just like Nyssa had.
It seems there’s still some justice in the world. A sad little pity-scrap of it that he’s supposed to snatch up and thank Alfred for. Oswald doesn’t. Not just because it’s Alfred, but because there isn’t a hint of Nyssa’s smugness in Bobby’s wet, snotty face. Not a damn thing that can let Oswald pretend, for even a second, that the heavy clunk of solid wood rocking bone is the sound her jaw makes, and not Bobby’s; that it’s her eye leaking like runny egg down her cheek, not Bobby’s; that this, any of this, is good enough. But he tries to make it things right the only way he knows how, and lays into Bobby with everything he has left. With all the force in his shuddering, failing body, meaty thuds turning wet, and every downswing driving desperate, broken cries from his own lungs. He heaves up the bat again and again, flicking blood into the air. Bobby lets go, fully pissing himself. He gurgles and twitches, barely human. Still, he lives.
The pain catches up to Oswald. His head feels light and he leans heavier on his crutch, sweat bearding his lip and soaking the back of his suit. His breath rattles on the inhale. He can’t stop now. But he can’t finish. Can't even do that much for Ed. The bat slips from his deadened fingers and clatters to the floor. He stares at it for a long time.]
...bring the gasoline. [He says hoarsely, his vision blurring over.]
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Instead he is told what Oswald needs and he nods.]
Very good, sir.
[Without a second thought he turns and heads back to the car, going into the trunk to grab the large canister of gasoline he picked up before grabbing Nyssa's men. He heads back over to Oswald and untwists the cap, a moment later the air is filled with the tangy stink of gas as he pours it over and on top of what is left of Bobby and then over and onto the now squirming and screaming Joel who seems to have finally clued in to his own fate.]
Here you are, sir.
[Obedient and to the point, he puts the canister down a safe ways away and then hands Oswald a package of matches.]
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‘Penguin, Penguin, listen, I swear to god,’ [Joel’s voice cracks as Oswald lurches for him, slowly, painfully, the matches rattling on every step.] ‘I swear, it was all Frankie. I’ll, I’ll do anything—’
[He strikes the match against his suit. Once, twice. It ignites with a soft sizzling, flickering in his trembling, sticky fingers. Its light shines in the glassiness of his eye.]
Oh, I know. [Oswald says.
Joel stares into his face, paralyzed.
And for a few seconds, it’s like life itself is holding its breath.]
Give my regards to Nyssa.
[An easy flick of the wrist sends the match arcing for a puddle of gasoline at Joel’s feet. The fire takes with a whoosh, engulfing his legs and Bobby’s prone form. Screams rise into the air, high and jagged, crazed with pain. A sick-sweet, greasy stench fills the air. But the smell of hair as it burns away with layers of scalp is worse, so much worse. Oswald’s stomach turns. He fights the urge to gag, clenching his jaw against it. And he stays. He stays until the chair gives out and Joel’s corpse collapses through it, skin crackling as it peels away from the metal welded to it. Tongues of flame lick out the body's hollowed sockets, its gaping, lipless mouth.
Oswald tightens his grip around the crutch. When he finally turns away, he doesn’t feel triumphant.
He doesn’t feel anything at all.]
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It's this quality that ensures that the remains of Nyssa's men will never be found, their bodies burnt to a crisp and then their bones ground up into dust at a local factory that Wayne Industries owns and then buried.
But speaking of burials, with Nyssa's men taken care of he then turns to preparations for Edward's funeral, pulling more than one string to make sure the man gets a proper send off despite what others like Jim Gordon say or want. He spares no expense either, after all the Wayne fortune is his now and he will spend it as he pleases.
Part of that expense is making sure that Oswald looks his best for burying his best friend and even though the other man is in no mood to go shopping Alfred still manages to get his measurements to a tailor and on the morning of the funeral he knocks softly at what has now become Oswald's bedroom door, the new, crisp suit in his one hand.]
Master Cobblepot.
[He says through the heavy oak and then opens it.]
It's time, sir.
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That all feels like a fading dream, now. A childish dream, when he looks across the room and wonders how the entirety of one man’s life could fit in a single cardboard box. It has been days since Alfred hauled that box in from the GCPD evidence locker, a collection of Ed's personal effects from City Hall and the Gotham Library, the warehouse Ed had repurposed for work and sleep. Oswald still can’t bring himself to rip away the packing tape and confront what’s left of his best friend. To touch the things Edward Nygma touched, that he cared about while he was still alive.
Oswald is sitting on the bedside, in his shower robe, when the door clicks open. Still slowly turning Ed’s glasses in his hands like a Rubik's cube, restlessly searching for a message, for something he must have missed. From the corner of his eye he sees Alfred advancing, suit in hand. It's what inevitability looks like. And the dread crowding his heart grows teeth, clamping down.
His fingers go still.]
I, I never told him...
[Oswald stares at those blood-flecked lenses, seeing and unseeing. Tears webbing his lashes faster than he can blink them away.]
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[He gently prompts, standing exactly where he is. Still and motionless, black mourning suit in one hand as he watches Oswald's jaw clench and his small frame quiver with grief.]
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I was a coward--
[He chokes it out like a confession – urgently, despairing. It's the first time he has talked about Ed, about the pain trying it's very hardest to close his throat, and it already feels like a mistake. He sucks down a watery breath.]
I was... so afraid I would lose him again, after him and his librarian, that I -- [his eyebrows pinch together] -- I couldn’t.
[He closes his eye, wanting to escape himself, to claw out of his skin. And in that darkness, he conjures Ed's face. Not that vacant stare, the one that has burned itself into the inside of Oswald’s eyelids, but his sunny smile. Big and broad, all those teeth showing. What had he said to make Ed so happy? He fumbles to place it, to pin down the memory before it can slip away from him like smoke through his fingers, struggling with the idea that he might have only just imagined it. That the smile was never meant for him. He can’t say for sure, and shakes his head again, unable to speak. His heart hurts, ballooning against his ribs.]
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That you loved him.
[He supplies and gently hangs the suit on the back of the door and moves forward to kneel down at Oswald's feet so they are on the same level.]
I don't know everything that transpired between you two but I can say this, I believe he knew. After all, you took a grenade for him back when we all stood together and you don't do that for someone you don't love.
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Oswald traces a fine, spidering crack at the corner of one of the lenses.
He nearly died for Ed, Alfred points out. But all he did was delay the inevitable. Death would come for them all – but taking Ed just as a new Gotham was dawning, just when they had found their way back to each other again, was most cruel. Even if Ed knew, even if he accepted it, the knowing and the acceptance could change nothing now. Worthless to one but priceless to two, the riddle echoes in his mind, over and over. Like a curse.
Worthless, worthless, worthless.
Oswald bites down on a strangled, angry sort of sound, his throat jerking, fighting back. He wipes his cheeks with the back of a hand.]
...Ed was the only person who still cared about me, [his voice cracks around the words] and now he’s gone!
[Gotham takes and takes. And every time it has, he made a promise to himself that he’d take the pain roiling inside him and make something useful of it. Weaponize it. Give it purpose. The night he staggered into the Wayne mansion, wrung-out and bloodied, the bitter smell of burnt flesh sticking to the back of his throat, there had been the hope that he’d feel a little better in the morning. That, somehow, after washing himself clean and collapsing into bed, he’d rest easier thinking Ed could, too. But all he had done was force himself to confront the reality that killing those men had not made him whole. And that he still can’t understand how he’s supposed to exist without Ed.
His face wrenches up.]
...I don’t know what to do. [It squeaks out of him, so rattly and thin and small.]
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[Alfred says, glancing down at his own hands. Remembering how long the dirt from Bruce's grave stayed packed under his nails, a bitter, horrible reminder that seems to have permanently stained them. These deaths, they've stained both him and Oswald forever and he reaches out to place a hand on Oswald's shoulder. His touch is gentle but firm and he looks into the other man's face.]
You give the man you loved a proper farewell.
Because he deserves it.
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Ed deserved the revenge you took from me!! [He spits the words at him, viciously shrugging Alfred off. Pain splits his side and he winces, angrier for it.]
Did you really think that by [he brusquely waves a hand around the bedroom] dragging me here and playing doctor, you would be making amends? That I would thank you for the tea and sympathy and call it even?!
[A harsh, broken laugh punches out of him. He's so sick with grief, with futile rage. So sick of feeling sick. Fresh tears well up in his eye, his chin wobbling helplessly.]
Did it ever occur to you that, perhaps, I might have been better off back at City Hall? ...That, perhaps, dying there or in some dingy concrete cell at Arkham or in Blackgate might have come as a welcome relief??
[And that he believed that, once, with his whole heart, should scare him. But there's nothing left in him to shake. No surprises. Just resignation weighing heavy on him like a stone, a bigger stone than the one he has been rolling up that hill for most of his life. The slope is impossibly sharp and he's losing ground, just tired of pushing, so damn tired he could sob.
He's still breathing. He's still here. And deep down he knows that if Alfred's right about anything at all, it's that Ed does need him one last time. Needs him to grit his teeth and shove at that stone with everything he has until his spirit gives out and it crushes him entirely.]
...But I guess it doesn’t matter, [--Oswald seethes--] ‘cause I'm here now, and you get to pat yourself on the back for being such a gracious host.
[He sniffs and nods to himself.]
Well, I am so glad I could keep you busy and help ease your guilty conscience.
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But Oswald is not a child, even if he is throwing a tantrum like one and Alfred finds that after weeks of loyal service and care his patience is now gone and once Oswald has finished spitting out as much hurt as he can Alfred takes a breath and then slaps Oswald smartly across the face. Just once, but the sound is a hard crack that echoes in the empty halls of Wayne Manor.]
Now, you listen here.
You are not the only one who lost someone to that bitch, she took my boy from me and I don't give a rat's ass if I stole away your 'revenge', which by the way you weren't going to be able to do considering you were trussed up like a turkey when I arrived.
There is no even because I am NOT in your debt.
[He pauses to slowly stand up, looking down at Oswald.]
But nor are you in mine.
I brought you here because you were hurt but if you'd rather I just let you deal with all of this alone then fine, jog off.
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He throws Alfred a stricken look. Blood pounds in his ears, in his cheek. A bruise in the shape of Alfred’s fingers already staining his skin. But that wounded-child expression on his face lasts only a moment before it warps into something feral, his whole body surging with the desire to make Alfred hurt. His mind whites out – and he lunges from the bed, wild-eyed. Forgetting he can’t bear his own weight. His foot gushes blood under his bandages, loose and floppy and useless. The pain is breathtaking; he buckles instantly, the ground hurtling towards him. He catches himself, just barely, hands and wrists and knees taking the brunt of his fall. One of the crutches leaned up against the bedpost tips over, narrowly missing him.]
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It's good to see you have some fight left in you.
[He says after a long moment in which the only sounds in the room are Oswald's angry breathing but then he kneels back down, moving the fallen crutch away and offering Oswald a hand.]
Someone once told me, 'each has to bury their own'.
Now I don't want to have to drag you there, mate. But I will. Not because I want to hurt you, not because I want to, but it's what has to be done and because you are the only man who can do this for Nygma.
[A pause as his grey blueish eyes grow stormy and emotional.]
Just as I was the only one who could bury Bruce.
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He would’ve never won a fight against Alfred; probably couldn’t even have hurt him. But he can grope around for the bedpost and struggle his way back into bed. He can make it to the church on his own, falling back on the resourcefulness and spite he has in spades. But he doesn’t have to take the difficult route – even if his screeching lizard brain tells him otherwise while he's down on his hands and knees, feeling so small at Alfred’ feet. So starkly helpless.
Panting, he blinks through the blinding fractals of light in his vision up at Alfred’s outstretched hand; the stubborn set to his jaw almost guarantees that he’d bat it away if he could.]
...You barely know me, much less Ed... [he rasps, his brows pulling together] ...you have no personal stake in any of this. Why does this matter to you?
[In the face of Gotham’s eternal indifference, it’s something he just can’t figure out.]
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Because much like you I've lost the most important thing in my life.
[His voice a low husk, the sound of fallen leaves scraping across the cold ground moments before the rain starts.]
Bruce was everything to me and as much as I want to just give up and follow him.....[His jaw trembles on the last few words and he swallows a lump in his throat.]
I can't.
I can't because I know it's not what he would have wanted, which means I have to find something to live for, something that will inspire me to get out of bed in the morning, something that will give me the strength to keep going.
And that's you.
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The almost-funny part isn’t that he got it right about Alfred, that his existence does serve to keep him occupied on some level; that was always going to be true. It’s that Alfred has turned his focus onto him, devoted to helping someone who is struggling to picture a future outside these four walls. Someone whose reason to live seems to be pulling further and further away with every shaky step forward. Someone who can’t bring himself to thank the man who took him in unasked, can’t even look him in the eyes without feeling some primal twist of anger in his gut, but who needs him on a practical level.
But what is this if not just another temporary alliance in Gotham?]
...That is a lot to pin on one person.
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[Slowly he goes over to fetch the funeral suit he had made for Oswald, laying it carefully on the bed before leaving him to get dressed but on his way out he pauses in the doorway, his brows knitted together and before he thinks better of it he adds.]
I voted for you.
[His tone is soft and without waiting for a comment from Oswald he leaves to go get changed and bring the car around.
The funeral is quiet but honorable, there is no priest to spew out a bunch of false hopes and lies, just a casket surrounded by green roses and a tasteful photo of Ed. Not a lot of people show up, Ed might have been well known in Gotham but he didn't have a lot of close friends. But that isn't to say there weren't a few who cared or respected him.
Lucius Fox is one of these, he approaches Ed's casket and after a moment of silent prayer or contemplation he lays Ed's old GCPD forensic badge on the top and then leaves, nodding at Oswald and Alfred but not staying to speak.
Lee is next, she comes alone and dressed in a black dress and veil, looking beautiful in a fragile, sorrowful way. She stands at the casket for much longer, tears tracking down her cheeks and after she has said her own silent goodbyes she takes out a small envelope, kisses it and places it inside.
Slowly she walks over to where Oswald is, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue before speaking.]
I know this is going to sound strange, considering what I did to him but I'm sorry he's gone. He had a lot of problems but he was a good man.
I switched to quotes for NPCery just 'cause
It’s drizzling when they pull into a near-vacant parking lot, loose gravel crunching under the tires. The church stands tall and solemn under an overcast sky. He hasn’t stepped into it since Don Falcone’s funeral, but the incense perfuming the air takes him right back, back to a time when Ed was more than a memory, an ache clutching his throat, a eulogy tucked in his pocket. The old floorboards squeal as he moves past the holy water stoup at the entrance, and heads turn. There are a few people scattered across rows and rows of pews. Faces he doesn’t recognize.
That first step up the aisle is the hardest, he tells himself, because it’s the first. But each one that follows brings him closer to Ed’s casket, to seeing Ed for the first time since Nyssa blew a hole through his skull, and Oswald can feel dread gathering around his heart. His legs grow heavy and weak and he’s struck by a very real fear that he’ll fall and lose all will to pick himself up. Yet, somehow, he makes it to a pew up at the front and slumps into it. Nerves hiving, heart pounding in his throat. The priest’s opening remarks ring in his ears, and at some point he’s back on his feet again, approaching the altar and the casket laid before it. He tucks a sweaty hand into his breast pocket and unfolds a piece of paper. There’s some muffled coughing among attendees, a restless shifting in place. All eyes on him as he stares at that trembling page, stares at all the places where the ink bled as he tries to remember how easily words used to come to him. How he could talk his way into and out of anything.
But there is no escaping this.
He sucks in a breath, like a diver about the disappear into the depths of the sea, not knowing when he’ll come up again. And he begins.]
////
[The mortician has done good work – so he has heard.
When he finally dredges up the courage to see for himself, he’s so relieved he could cry. There’s no swollen mass of maggots pulsing under Ed’s skin. No thick, red gash circling his neck like a garish necklace. Something unclenches inside him when he realizes he can’t even tell where Ed’s head has been reattached.
Ed is wearing an uncommonly gentle expression, a touch of colour in his cheeks and lips.
He’s just sleeping, it looks like.
Oswald's heart surges.
Watching Ed, he's seized by the sudden, wild hope, a sick hope, that he got this all wrong. That this is all an elaborate hoax. Because basking in praise and surprising them all with a broad, cheeky grin and a slow clap is one of the most Riddler things he can think of. And, if nothing else, because this is Gotham, and nothing is impossible, not anymore. For a moment, he can almost picture Riddler swinging up from the casket. Can almost hear his disappointment.
Well this is a buzzkill. I would’ve gone with a celebration of life, honestly.
Oswald waits for Ed to draw a breath for him, just one more time. Not realizing he’s holding his own until his lungs burn for air. Ed’s chest never rises. That heart of his, long chased after, lies quiet and still. Lost to Oswald for the very last time.
////
Time passes; people come and go.
Women dab at their eyes and noses, men doffing their hats. Even the ones sticking around only long enough to confirm that Edward Nygma is truly dead.
Oswald looks on, a muscle flickering in his jaw. He feels like he’s between worlds, watching someone else’s life unfold, until something brushes his arm. He flinches like he touched fire.
“...such a handsome young man...”
An old woman stands before him, built like a stiff breeze could tip her over. A beret with a lace veil is perched on her head at an angle and a purse dangles from her elbow, just above a long, silk glove.
His brow furrows. He understands she can’t be referring to him. Enough time has passed that his face is no longer held together by bandages. But a few dark sutures zipper across his nose and jaw and forehead. Without makeup, the healing cuts seaming his skin are on full display.
“...what?”
“Your chief of staff.” She answers with a rueful smile.
He can’t help but notice the red lipstick smeared over her upper lip. Something close to disgust curls in his gut at the thought of being touched again.
“He was full of pep, that boy.” Then, with a knowing, almost conspiratorial look, she adds, “Had a bit of the devil in him, too.”
Don’t we all, Oswald thinks he would’ve said, once. But nothing comes out. His gaze falls on her long, drooping necklace. He absently counts the pearls.
“Beautiful eulogy, very beautiful.” She says, sobering, pressing a hand to her heart. “You have a gift, young man, I am telling you. I know these things. I voted for you, you know – and I would again. Passionate young blood is just what this city needs. Now more than ever! No more of that lousy Aubrey James robbing me of my pension that I worked all my life for. Forty years of employment at that no-good laundromat! That’s what I think. And now--”
“Madam--” Oswald interjects hotly, a fat vein throbbing at his temple. “I do not care! Not about you or your stupid pension! In fact, the only way I could possibly care any less was if I was six feet in the ground, myself, which, frankly, would come as a relief!”
Huffing, he glances past her shoulder just as Lee, of all people, is making her way to the altar. His stomach swoops sharply. It takes him by surprise, nearly as much as Lucius’ appearance had. He catches her slipping something into the casket and frowns.
“...Oh, oh, there there, honey,” the woman croons, patting his sleeve. “I know you cared about him very much. I’m sure he knew that too.”
Oswald stares at her in stunned disbelief.
“Oh, but listen to me, nattering away.” She babbles on. “You have a long day ahead of you, don’t you?" With one last pat, she turns away. “You take good care.”
The woman looks to Alfred, then Lee, seeking a conversation no one is offering before she totters off.
Oswald’s eye glassily holds Lee’s. A throbbing tightness forms behind his Adam’s Apple as he watches her wipe her tears.
He was a good man.
The past tense comes like a twist of the knife.]
Ed was a hero. [He insists, fiercely, daring her to argue otherwise.] That man gave up his best chance at survival to fight for this city when it was burning -- and for what? Only to face ridicule and dismissal at every turn, regarded as little more than a madman or garden-variety criminal.
[His chest heaves.]
He deserved better than this! Ed deserved better than to be surrounded by these made-up performers blowing their noses on cue as if they were there at Ed's side when he needed them most!
Works for me ;)
You're right, it's not fair.
[She says softly and after a long pause she turns her head to look at Alfred, who is standing off to one side of the service. Calm and stoic.]
At least you don't have to grieve alone.
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Once upon a time, Ed had been a stranger to him – too needy, too fixated, too much. And still, even as a stranger, he had managed to save Oswald when he had all but given up on Gotham, on his dreams, on himself. But the two of them had been alike in ways beyond their mutual resentment for Jim Gordon: they were hungry for validation and respect. They understood what it meant to feel othered, to feel like the answer to a question no one asked.]
He didn’t know Ed! [Oswald doesn't care that Alfred is in earshot; he stopped caring a long time ago.] How does that help me? How??
[He demands, wide-eyed, rigid and shaking.]
Nearly everyone I have ever loved is dead, with the exception of a child whom I sent away from this godforsaken cesspool for his own good, for a chance not just to survive but to thrive! I am sick and tired of fighting for some semblance of happiness, for what little I am allowed to have, only for it to be ripped away from me, time and again, because nothing ever changes!
[His voice rings out through the church; strangers glance his way, startled and uneasy.
Another sob swells inside him and he struggles to breathe around it, needing air, needing out. He looks away, sharply, up at the window, throat lurching. Quietly cracking under the weight of all the things he left unsaid and that Ed will never hear. His fury collapses.
There’s a familiar image of Jesus on the stained glass, his arms outstretched with the false promise of eternal life. Oswald stares and stares until it blurs over.]
...There is nothing left for me here. [He says thickly. His twitching lips press together.] I will see Edward laid to rest... and then I will leave Gotham, forever.
[He takes up his crutches and clicks past her, making for the exit.]
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Oswald. [Her tone is soft and her eyes lock onto his, holding him on the spot.] Listen, I understand wanting to leave Gotham. I did it myself after I lost the baby so I get it and I won't be the one to tell you not to go if that's what you want.
But you can't run away from grief. You know this as much as I do. If you leave you will still be hurting, still miserable but you'll be alone. At least here you have someone who has already shown you loyalty and compassion.
Those are very rare things in Gotham.
[She lets go of his arm so she can wipe away a few tears that are tracking down her cheeks.]
Which I guess is another reason to leave....I just.... [She sighs heavily.] He's hurting too, as much as you are. Maybe you two could help one another through that pain.
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...if you care that much about him, then you are very welcome to help. [He answers coolly.] You are the one with the bleeding heart; I’m the ‘degenerate sociopath’, remember?
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I’m sorry - I must have missed the part where that's my problem!
[There’s a stone-cold finality to his answer. But he takes just one lurching step toward the church doors and the grey light of day beyond before turning right back, prickled by the fact that two people, now, are burdening him with their expectations.]
I do not know when you started letting Jim Gordon get in the way of something important to you, [he says, a mirthless smile cutting across his face] but this drama between the three of you has nothing to do with me. Let me make something abundantly clear: it is not my job to play therapist and make friends with Pennyworth! He could go and throw himself off the broken bridge tomorrow and all I would feel, at the very most, is the slightest pang of envy!
[His pulse roars in his ears. Grief has made a stranger of her; everything they have been through no longer matters. Nothing matters.]
You want my help? [A beat.] Fine! I can stage an intervention and call up a couple of my men to have him dragged, kicking and screaming, to the nearest support group for the next twelve weeks. How’s that sound?
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Do whatever you'd like, but just know that you're pushing away the last person in Gotham who might actually give a rat's ass about you.
[She says and then strolls past him and out the doors with an ease and grace that almost seems deliberately insulting compared to how hard he finds moving these days.
The entire time Alfred stays in position, his eyes facing forward on Nygma's casket in order to make sure no one desecrates it. He has noticed Lee and Oswald's interaction but only in an off hand way, once upon a time he would have accepted Lee's help and comfort but these days he wants nothing to do with her because of her connection to Gordon.
Gordon.
The sanctimonious, hypocritical ass that caused all of this to happen. The man who kept pushing and promising he could keep everyone safe when in reality he just loused it up.
He can feel a dull throb in his temple and he forces himself to exhale slowly, his jaw muscles flexing in anger at the thought of all of Gordon's lies. He would see Oswald through his grief, he would help him become strong again and then maybe they could take care of Gordon.
Together.]
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---
At one-forty seven in the afternoon, Edward Nygma is lowered into a wet hole in the earth.
The rain has picked up again, pattering against the umbrellas of the few who quietly decided to join Oswald and Alfred. The few who just as quietly trade glances and nods and drift apart after a time, going their separate ways. A heaviness in their hearts would follow them to their cars and into their homes, their bedrooms. Some of them would even lie awake at night gazing at their sleeping partners, the easy heaving of their sides, and wonder about a future not yet written. But when they’d wake up in the morning to taxes and mortgages, to the desperate struggle to get ahead, they’d forget all about the ephemerality of life. About the two men they had left standing on the hill, nothing to go home to.
---
The wipers squeal back and forth, slicing through the downpour, through the silence between them. Cars pass, streaking lights across the slick, shimmering pavement ahead. Oswald leans his head against the window. They catch another string of green lights. But for a reason he can’t explain, the return trip feels twice as long.
At the mansion, he lasts just long enough to shuck off his suit before he drops into bed, blacking out.
---
He wakes in darkness to a slow-dawning realization that he has brought the faint smell of incense home with him. It clings to his pillow, his sheets. To his rumpled shirt. Groaning, he rolls over sluggishly, rubbing at his face. The funeral seems like it happened years ago, a distant memory from another life. But his eye still feels so puffy and raw, his mouth all dried up.
He gives himself a moment for his vision to adjust and for the outlines of objects to emerge. He takes longer to sit up, to carefully gather his crutches leaned up between the wall and the bedpost, and work up the will to stand. It never gets easier. Jaw clenched, he hobbles out his room and into another, flicking the switch with an elbow. Light floods the bathroom. Harsh and cold and white, like back in Arkham. He ducks his head against it, watching his feet as he makes his way forward a step at a time.
Click, click.
He’s nearly at the sink when his legs buckle.
It happens so fast: his head clipping the edge of the counter, his body flopping and crutches clattering, the impact driving a gasp from his lungs. Pain roars through him. He blinks against the ringing in his ears, lost. Blood crawls through his hair. The world – this place that was never home, that never would be home – has snapped into focus around him, so clear and painfully sharp around the edges. He looks around and up at the walls, hit with a sudden, balls-sucking-up-into-abdomen sort of terror.
Ed is never coming back.
No more riddles, no more games. No more bickering, throwing words at each other like dinner plates over the things that never really mattered as much as they had thought.
His lungs jerk, wheezing, as the enormity of that realization bears down on him with its full and terrible weight, pressing his shuddering body into the floor. He throws up until he can’t anymore. And he begins to cry, with the same violence as he does everything else.]
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So instead of sleep, he reads, just like he did when he was young and plagued with nightmares after the war and had Oswald cared and not been wrapped up in his own grief he would notice the dark circles under Alfred's eyes growing deeper and the way he's lost about seven pounds already.
He is half way through Count of Monte Cristo when he hears the commotion coming from Oswald's chambers and is up in a flash, rushing out of his quarters and down the hall, dressed in nothing more than his flannel pajama bottoms.]
Master Cobblepot? [He calls out as he enters the room, already noting that the bathroom light is on and heads inside. He is greeted to the stench of bile, vomit, blood and pain and for a moment he swears he is back home. Back in Whitechapel when he was at his lowest and would come home drunk, bloody from a fight, and feeling like death had a permanent grip on his shoulder.]
Oswald!
[The mess doesn't matter, he's seen and been in worse and he drops to his knees to scoop the smaller man up into his arms.]
It's okay, I've got you.
[He murmurs and lifts Oswald up, holding him against his chest as he turns and carries him out of the bathroom. He moves quickly, efficiently, and in a matter of seconds he is back in his own room. It's soft and cozy in here, the bedside lamp casts the entire room in a warm glow and carefully he sits down on his bed, still holding Oswald in his arms.]
I'm so sorry, I should have put down a mat so you wouldn't slip.
[He scolds himself and shifts slightly to grab a handkerchief to gently dab at the blood on Oswald's forehead.]
Are you okay?
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Shaking and shaking, Oswald blinks up at him like he’s speaking an alien language.
Maybe it’s that he doesn’t remember the last time someone asked. Maybe it's because if anyone would have, it’d have been Ed. Or that he can sense a hint of something almost real behind the words, behind the look knotting Alfred’s face, and doesn't know what to do with it. The truth lies somewhere in between all these things when he tries to answer. Tries, and chokes before he can get a single word out because, no, nothing is okay, nothing will ever be okay. Not when everything from the last two weeks he spent barely moving, barely living, has finally caught with him, burying him alive. The what ifs and if onlys and what could have beens. The reminders, too, of the lesson learned that day by the river, and on every return to the pier afterwards: that love can't be summoned or willed but that it comes and goes as it pleases. That it never comes at all, sometimes. And worse, maybe, that it can long outlive the person it was meant for.
Worthless to one, but priceless to two.
A squeak of a noise escapes him. And when his face crumples, all he can do is shake his head before he folds in on himself, breaking down.]
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No, of course you're not. [He says softly to himself and begins to gently rock Oswald in his arms.]
You've been through so much and it just keeps going, all this pain. This loneliness.
This feeling of being empty.
[His arms tighten around Oswald a little, giving him a small, encouraging squeeze.]
You go ahead and let it out, I can take it and I won't leave you.
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I loved him -- [The words rasp his throat, barely above a whisper. Weak, trembling hands grasping at Alfred’s back.
He doesn’t know this body, the weight and shape of it. Doesn’t know these arms rocking him while round after round of wet, tearing gasps rack him senseless, every stolen gasp for breath sticking him like a knife. But for a brief moment in time, even as Alfred says all the right and wrong things, truthful things that both cut and comfort him, the world seems a little less empty, somehow, than Ed left it.]
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Those three little words hit Alfred square in the chest and he can feel his own resolve crack because those words and Oswald's dedication to Nygma remind him of himself and the grief and pain he felt a long time ago.]
I'm sorry.
[He says at last, his voice a soft croak.] I'm sorry you had to loose the man you loved and I'm sorry I took away your revenge.
[Gently he smooths a hand across Oswald's small back.]
Once upon a time, back when I was a much younger man, I fell in love with a bright, spirited woman by the name of Esme. I would have given her the world had she asked me to, but all she wanted was to have a life together.
[He pauses to swallow a huge lump in his throat.]
About a month after I had proposed I found her dead in our apartment, murdered by my old army commander who had a vendetta against me. I was devastated, destroyed, and consumed by grief and anger much like you are now.
I found him and killed him in cold blood and while it didn't bring her back or make my pain go away it did give me some sort of resolution.
I'm sorry I took that away from you, Oswald.
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Bathing, dressing, existing: he tried his best. He showed up for Ed, gritting his teeth and accepting the bitter cost of survival just long enough to see his best friend put in the ground. As if that could make things right by Ed. Could make amends. Ed doesn't need his tears now any more than he did when they stood on the pier with a loaded gun between them, back when Oswald still believed that his love could fix everything. But they're all he has left to give, until his lungs ache and heave and nothing but a thin, strained whimper comes out. Alfred is sorry and Ed's still dead and tomorrow seems so far away, impossibly far. Like a jump he just can’t make any way he looks at it.
He peels his hot, wet face from Alfred’s chest. Pulling free, turning away. This isn't his room; he doesn't belong here either. But he's already slumping into bed, his head throbbing savagely.]
ooc: bring on the booooze!
Without another word he leaves the bedroom, going down to the kitchen and about five mins later he returns with two cups of hot liquid.]
Here. [He says as he sits down next to Oswald, slipping an arm around his shoulders to help lift him up into a sitting position. In his other hand is a hot toddy, one he brings to Oswald's lips.]
This might help you a bit.
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His hands lift up, weakly clutching the mug.]
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That should help ease your throat and headache a bit.
[He says softly and when Oswald has drained the cup he takes it away and sets it aside, still holding him close.]
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...why did you bring me here? [There’s no bite to the question.]
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Because I wanted to help you.
[He says but then pauses, thinking a little on why he didn't just bring a first aid kit into Oswald's room and tuck him back into bed.]
And because seeing the blood reminded me finding Bruce in his bedroom.
[He says slowly and then looks into Oswald's eyes as he admits the full truth.]
I got scared.
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Well... fortunately for you, [Oswald spreads his hands in a weary, bitter parody of some once-triumphant gesture, fingers still hooked around the mug] I am not dead yet.
[To claim he is ‘very much alive’ would have been an overstatement. It’s not just that’s he’s bruised all over, stiff and swelling up. Not just all the scars he collects from year after year of brushing shoulders with death, the toll this life has taken on his body. But that this – stumbling his way from moment to moment like a disaster survivor, bleeding and lost – isn’t living at all; he’s just watching time going by.]
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He utters a small little chuckle, it's no more than a wheeze really and his eyes move across Oswald's face tenderly.]
A fact I find a lot of comfort in, sir.
[He rumbles softly and reaches out with his free hand to brush his thumb across Oswald's cheek.]
Comfort and strength.
[Moving slowly and carefully as to not hurt him, Alfred plucks the mug from Oswald and then hoists him up enough to wrap his arms around him in a warm embrace. Hugging him against his chest where he will be able to feel slow, steady beating of his heart.]
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These days, it’s what he’d expect to hear in the moments leading up to a nervous breakdown. But Alfred is regarding him with calm, gentle eyes. Patient eyes. Oswald’s pulse beats in his throat, and there’s a feeling, in that silence, that he’s missing something, something just on the trembling edge of his awareness. Something he realizes that he’s no closer to understanding when a hand reaches out to touch him. A warm, calloused thumb brushes his cheek, where his tears have dried tacky on his skin, and he starts a little. Blinks back at Alfred, lashes flickering uneasily. No slap. Suddenly, the cup is easing from his fingers – he has already forgotten about it – and then Alfred is folding him into his arms again, the collar of Oswald’s shirt crumpling as he’s tucked into the heat of Alfred’s skin.
His mind turns, puzzling. He still isn’t sure what’s happening, what he’s supposed to do. But his body, looser and heavier with drink, has already made its choice, is already relaxing into his. And as the sting of whisky begins to settle into a softer, deeper burn, the kind he could fall asleep to, the unexpectedness of this, whatever this is, grows uncomplicated, less threatening. It’s not what he asked for but it’s what he needs – and, for now, that’s all that matters.
He hears himself heave a slow, shaky sigh, and he closes his eye a moment.]
Some days... I find myself wishing I could forget him, for just a moment.
[The words have been rolling over and over in his head. But saying it makes it real. Saying it seems like a kind of betrayal. He sniffs, adding thickly:]
Does that make me a bad person?
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[Alfred breathes and holds Oswald a little tighter against his chest which has grown tight with emotion at Oswald's honest admission.]
No, not at all.
[He closes his own eyes for a moment against the sudden flood of memories; memories of Bruce, Reggie, and of course Esme. People he's loved and lost and while he would never trade his memories of them he knows how tempting a moment of peace and silence would be should someone give it to him.]
You're not a bad person, just someone who is hurting.
[Just like he is and Oswald's words repeat in his mind, soft and sad.]
Just for a moment...
[He echoes and with that Alfred shifts so he can look down at Oswald, noting his tear streaked cheeks and tired, lonely eyes before pressing his lips down and against Oswald's in a tender, slow kiss.]
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--what are you doing...?
[It’s all he can manage, after he has swallowed and found his voice. And it’s so small, so fragile for Oswald Cobblepot.]
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I beg your pardon, sir. I just wanted to...
[To what? To lose himself in another for at least a moment? To find some kind of warmth in one another?]
...show you some kindness.
If only for a moment.
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...No one has ever kissed me before.
[The realization sits with him a while, long enough that the shock of it drains from his face and there's a slow softening of his expression, a settling into something dangerously close to resignation. He turns his half-lidded eye away, towards a bedpost. The lamplight catches the side of his face, bleaching his eyelashes.]
I had always wanted my first to be special in some way.
[In a different tone, it could have been read as an accusation, a guilt-trip. But here and now, it’s none of these things. Just a solemn statement of fact.]
...I held to this idea that whenever I would have the chance to experience it myself, it would be with someone who loved me, and who I loved in turn. A memory I would look back on with fondness and longing in equal measure.
[And then it’s his turn to laugh. He lets out a chuckle into that silence settling heavily around them – because if he doesn’t laugh, he think he’ll cry. If not over Ed again, or something else taken from him that couldn’t be given back, then for a kiss that could have meant something in another time and another place, with another man – if only Ed had said, I do too.
The walls of the room are suddenly closing in around him and it’s hard to breathe. His chest feels heavy.]
I don’t... feel very well.
[He settles back into bed. Loneliness and whisky are a dangerous mix, but the only answer he can see seems to be drinking himself back into a state of warm, woolly numbness.]
Just bring me the bottle.
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I...I didn't know.
[Is all he can say as Oswald pulls away from him in favor of curling up in his bed but when he is ordered to bring him the bottle the butler in him finds it hard to say no so he goes to do just that. Part of him knowing that it will just add to the other man's troubles but also wanting to do something right for him.]
Here you are, sir.
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Ed would have something to say, he's sure, about wallowing in self-pity without at least downing a few glasses of water first. But the dead can’t speak, and Oswald's belief in ghosts is fading away in the cruelty of their absence.
He pulls the bottle from his lips with a wet pop and sniffs, eyebrows wearily drawing together over the rim.]
You could have taken me to my bed. [He says, dull-eyed, to the wall.] But you brought me here, where I am unable to leave under my own power, and no one is coming to find me. [He feels a muted twang of fear in his gut.] ...well, if your intentions are to take advantage of me, you wouldn’t be the first to try.
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...
[There's a small pause though as he side steps his own feelings and focuses on what Oswald just said, his brows furrowing and he sits down on the edges of the bed.]
Who has tried that before??
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No one who is not already dead.
[He answers, aware of the sick, lingering throb low in his belly. He has no desire to confront the pity or disgust he thinks he’d find in Alfred’s face.]
...my own stepsister attempted to force herself on me when I was in a compromised state. Had I been myself, I surely would have killed her sooner.
[Would Alfred have stormed in, eyes blazing with righteous fury, and torn Sasha off him, thrashing her senseless, too? He nearly chuffs another sad, bitter laugh at the idea - the only kind he has left in him. But he swings the bottle back for another gulp instead, the last of the whisky sloshing against his lips.]
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And rightfully so!
[He exclaims, the sincerity in his voice unmistakable. He looks down and sees that his hands have rolled themselves into fists, as if he could punish a ghost on Oswald's behalf. Slowly he forces himself to unclench them as he lets out a long breath.]
You've been on the end of a lot of cruelty, haven't you? [He asks after a moment of silence and then nods to himself. Oswald doesn't have to answer, he knows the truth now. Why else would the smaller man be so hell bent on gaining power? It was because he was always made to feel like he had none.]
I'm sorry that you were mistreated and hurt so much, I swear on my life that I won't do that but if you want I will carry you back to your quarters right this instant so you can feel safe.
That's all I want really, is for you to feel safe and to at least try to show you some kindness.
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He never thought the idea of receiving kindness could hurt as much as the absence of it. But after everything that has happened, it shouldn’t surprise him at all. Nothing should anymore.
He draws a sharp, quivering breath.]
There is nothing you can do for me.
[He rests the empty whisky bottle over the bed and puts his arms around himself.]
Just let me be.
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[Obedient as always Alfred leaves Oswald alone, moving silently to the closet where he pulls down an extra blanket so he can put together a make-shift bed for himself on the small loveseat that sits on the other side of the room. He doesn't expect to sleep but eventually exhaustion takes over and he drifts off, but not completely, a small part of his body stays alert just as it always did when he was a solider. Listening and staying ready should trouble arise.
Trouble comes in the form of memories wrapped in the shape of dreams and Alfred jerks awake when he hears Oswald cry out in his sleep, a watery heart breaking moan that jabs at Alfred's heart. He is up and on his feet in a flash, moving over to check on the smaller man who is whimpering and jerking about in the large bed.]
Shhhhh.
[Alfred soothes and rubs his hand down Oswald's back, his touch is firm but kind, as if he were trying to penetrate through the sad dreams to show tenderness. It seems to work as Oswald's moaning quiets and Alfred is about to return to his position on the couch when Oswald reaches around to take hold of his hand. His thin, bony fingers scrabbling at Alfred's thick, sturdy ones.]
....please.
[He thinks he hears the other man whisper, the desperate, lonely tone making his chest constrict painfully.]
Very well, sir.
[He says and slips into the bed next to Oswald, wrapping his strong arms around him in an effort to shield him from the despair that seems to be so set on settling into his heart.]
You rest easy now. [He whispers softly, his hand rubbing Oswald's back steadily.]
I'm here.
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'Ed... Ed, I am so sorry,' Oswald squeaks out; it’s all he can ever seem to say. And it's always the wrong thing, because he can see Ed's eyes go dark behind the harsh glare of his lenses. Then Ed pounces and locks his hands around his throat, pressing him down. Squeezing and squeezing with his ice-cold fingers. Oswald feels the furious throbbing of blood behind his eyes, feels them balloon in their sockets, his mouth dropping open in a scream he can't make. He heaves and scrabbles at Ed's arms, his face. At Alfred’s arms, Alfred’s face.
Wailing, he jerks awake in the dark with his pajama top sticking to his skin. His breath rattles through him. And for a moment, while staring through Alfred, his eye big and shiny, dreams and memories begin to blur and he isn't sure what was and what wasn't. Can't remember what colour of tie Ed had been wearing the day Nyssa shot him; can't remember what the colour of Ed's eyes really were. Brown? Green? It seems to change the harder he struggles to bring it into focus, and he chokes out sob, terrified by his own brokenness.
The only thing that makes any sense at all is the hand smoothing down his shuddering back: long, slow strokes. He doesn't understand what he has done to deserve it but all he knows is that he needs it now more than he has ever needed anything. And as he slots his chin into the warm crook of Alfred’s neck, he finds himself listening for the words he desperately needs to hear. That he’s safe. That someday, weeks from now, he'd find himself in a place where the Ed from his ugliest, guiltiest dreams wouldn't reach out to strangle him in his sleep. And that he would wake up in the morning to the realization that life went on and that he could too, just like he used to. But these are not promises Alfred seems able to make, that anyone can. Because this is Gotham, and there’s no refuge here, no rest.
He blinks up at Alfred, his heart still rabbiting in his chest. In his vulnerability he looks too young, too harmless, for all that he has done.]
...you are all that I have left... [He rasps into the dark, his clammy fingers tightening around him.]
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Do you?
I don't have to look for them Reg, they find me.
Alfred knows better than most about the type of nightmares that plague Oswald, having had similar ones ever since he was a young solider. He has been visited by dead friends more often than living ones and when the smaller man wails out in the dark he doesn't even have to ask why. The panic and raspy breathing as one tries to break away from the icy cold touch of death and decay, the voices of people he's wronged or killed clanging about in his head like church bells, not to mention the endless cacophony of gunfire that seems to have followed him for most his life.
Oh yes, he knows those dreams very well.]
It's okay.
[He soothes, his voice a tender grumble as he wraps his arms tighter around Oswald's small, shaking form.]
I'm right here and I'm not going to leave you.
I swear.
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