[He dresses himself in that empty room, button by button. Stopping to fingercomb his product-less hair before he turns away from his tired, sallow reflection in the mirror and clicks on his crutches to the car, where Alfred is waiting. The world whips by the window, shades of grey on grey. Oswald’s gaze lies somewhere ahead of them, unfocused. He expects traffic along the way, even welcomes it; it’d buy him some time to prepare. But in strange twist of fate, they catch green light after green light, the beginnings of panic catching up to him as the distance between them and the church closes too quickly.
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!
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
I switched to quotes for NPCery just 'cause
Date: 2024-09-22 05:30 am (UTC)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!