Alfred Pennyworth (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
flippin_peachy) wrote2024-07-24 08:11 pm
flippin_peachy) wrote2024-07-24 08:11 pm
RP With Oswald Cobblepot
He 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.
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.]
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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.]
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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.]
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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.
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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.]
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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.]
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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.]
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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?
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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.]
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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.
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...Excuse me? [He demands, his voice low and raw.]
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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.
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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.]
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[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.]
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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--
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[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.
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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!
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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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I switched to quotes for NPCery just 'cause
Works for me ;)
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ooc: bring on the booooze!
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