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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[Alfred breathes and holds Oswald a little tighter against his chest which has grown tight with emotion at Oswald's honest admission.]
No, not at all.
[He closes his own eyes for a moment against the sudden flood of memories; memories of Bruce, Reggie, and of course Esme. People he's loved and lost and while he would never trade his memories of them he knows how tempting a moment of peace and silence would be should someone give it to him.]
You're not a bad person, just someone who is hurting.
[Just like he is and Oswald's words repeat in his mind, soft and sad.]
Just for a moment...
[He echoes and with that Alfred shifts so he can look down at Oswald, noting his tear streaked cheeks and tired, lonely eyes before pressing his lips down and against Oswald's in a tender, slow kiss.]
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--what are you doing...?
[It’s all he can manage, after he has swallowed and found his voice. And it’s so small, so fragile for Oswald Cobblepot.]
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I beg your pardon, sir. I just wanted to...
[To what? To lose himself in another for at least a moment? To find some kind of warmth in one another?]
...show you some kindness.
If only for a moment.
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...No one has ever kissed me before.
[The realization sits with him a while, long enough that the shock of it drains from his face and there's a slow softening of his expression, a settling into something dangerously close to resignation. He turns his half-lidded eye away, towards a bedpost. The lamplight catches the side of his face, bleaching his eyelashes.]
I had always wanted my first to be special in some way.
[In a different tone, it could have been read as an accusation, a guilt-trip. But here and now, it’s none of these things. Just a solemn statement of fact.]
...I held to this idea that whenever I would have the chance to experience it myself, it would be with someone who loved me, and who I loved in turn. A memory I would look back on with fondness and longing in equal measure.
[And then it’s his turn to laugh. He lets out a chuckle into that silence settling heavily around them – because if he doesn’t laugh, he think he’ll cry. If not over Ed again, or something else taken from him that couldn’t be given back, then for a kiss that could have meant something in another time and another place, with another man – if only Ed had said, I do too.
The walls of the room are suddenly closing in around him and it’s hard to breathe. His chest feels heavy.]
I don’t... feel very well.
[He settles back into bed. Loneliness and whisky are a dangerous mix, but the only answer he can see seems to be drinking himself back into a state of warm, woolly numbness.]
Just bring me the bottle.
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I...I didn't know.
[Is all he can say as Oswald pulls away from him in favor of curling up in his bed but when he is ordered to bring him the bottle the butler in him finds it hard to say no so he goes to do just that. Part of him knowing that it will just add to the other man's troubles but also wanting to do something right for him.]
Here you are, sir.
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Ed would have something to say, he's sure, about wallowing in self-pity without at least downing a few glasses of water first. But the dead can’t speak, and Oswald's belief in ghosts is fading away in the cruelty of their absence.
He pulls the bottle from his lips with a wet pop and sniffs, eyebrows wearily drawing together over the rim.]
You could have taken me to my bed. [He says, dull-eyed, to the wall.] But you brought me here, where I am unable to leave under my own power, and no one is coming to find me. [He feels a muted twang of fear in his gut.] ...well, if your intentions are to take advantage of me, you wouldn’t be the first to try.
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...
[There's a small pause though as he side steps his own feelings and focuses on what Oswald just said, his brows furrowing and he sits down on the edges of the bed.]
Who has tried that before??
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No one who is not already dead.
[He answers, aware of the sick, lingering throb low in his belly. He has no desire to confront the pity or disgust he thinks he’d find in Alfred’s face.]
...my own stepsister attempted to force herself on me when I was in a compromised state. Had I been myself, I surely would have killed her sooner.
[Would Alfred have stormed in, eyes blazing with righteous fury, and torn Sasha off him, thrashing her senseless, too? He nearly chuffs another sad, bitter laugh at the idea - the only kind he has left in him. But he swings the bottle back for another gulp instead, the last of the whisky sloshing against his lips.]
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And rightfully so!
[He exclaims, the sincerity in his voice unmistakable. He looks down and sees that his hands have rolled themselves into fists, as if he could punish a ghost on Oswald's behalf. Slowly he forces himself to unclench them as he lets out a long breath.]
You've been on the end of a lot of cruelty, haven't you? [He asks after a moment of silence and then nods to himself. Oswald doesn't have to answer, he knows the truth now. Why else would the smaller man be so hell bent on gaining power? It was because he was always made to feel like he had none.]
I'm sorry that you were mistreated and hurt so much, I swear on my life that I won't do that but if you want I will carry you back to your quarters right this instant so you can feel safe.
That's all I want really, is for you to feel safe and to at least try to show you some kindness.
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He never thought the idea of receiving kindness could hurt as much as the absence of it. But after everything that has happened, it shouldn’t surprise him at all. Nothing should anymore.
He draws a sharp, quivering breath.]
There is nothing you can do for me.
[He rests the empty whisky bottle over the bed and puts his arms around himself.]
Just let me be.
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[Obedient as always Alfred leaves Oswald alone, moving silently to the closet where he pulls down an extra blanket so he can put together a make-shift bed for himself on the small loveseat that sits on the other side of the room. He doesn't expect to sleep but eventually exhaustion takes over and he drifts off, but not completely, a small part of his body stays alert just as it always did when he was a solider. Listening and staying ready should trouble arise.
Trouble comes in the form of memories wrapped in the shape of dreams and Alfred jerks awake when he hears Oswald cry out in his sleep, a watery heart breaking moan that jabs at Alfred's heart. He is up and on his feet in a flash, moving over to check on the smaller man who is whimpering and jerking about in the large bed.]
Shhhhh.
[Alfred soothes and rubs his hand down Oswald's back, his touch is firm but kind, as if he were trying to penetrate through the sad dreams to show tenderness. It seems to work as Oswald's moaning quiets and Alfred is about to return to his position on the couch when Oswald reaches around to take hold of his hand. His thin, bony fingers scrabbling at Alfred's thick, sturdy ones.]
....please.
[He thinks he hears the other man whisper, the desperate, lonely tone making his chest constrict painfully.]
Very well, sir.
[He says and slips into the bed next to Oswald, wrapping his strong arms around him in an effort to shield him from the despair that seems to be so set on settling into his heart.]
You rest easy now. [He whispers softly, his hand rubbing Oswald's back steadily.]
I'm here.
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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.]
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Do you?
I don't have to look for them Reg, they find me.
Alfred knows better than most about the type of nightmares that plague Oswald, having had similar ones ever since he was a young solider. He has been visited by dead friends more often than living ones and when the smaller man wails out in the dark he doesn't even have to ask why. The panic and raspy breathing as one tries to break away from the icy cold touch of death and decay, the voices of people he's wronged or killed clanging about in his head like church bells, not to mention the endless cacophony of gunfire that seems to have followed him for most his life.
Oh yes, he knows those dreams very well.]
It's okay.
[He soothes, his voice a tender grumble as he wraps his arms tighter around Oswald's small, shaking form.]
I'm right here and I'm not going to leave you.
I swear.
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