[His ears are still ringing when Alfred apologizes.
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.
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.]