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.
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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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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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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 ;)
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ooc: bring on the booooze!
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