[By the time he feels a hand snap around his ankle, he's already being dragged off, away from Alfred and the pillar, for what feels like forever, his skin squealing over marble tiles. Then he's dropped and Ed looms into view above him. He’s bleeding from the hole in his head, his glasses cracked, crooked. And he just stares the kind of stare that pins the breath in Oswald's throat.
'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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'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.]