RP With Oswald Cobblepot

[flippin_peachy]

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.

Comments

[flippin_peachy]

[Oswald doesn't get very far before Lee's hand reaches out and takes hold of his arm, stopping him from making his exit for at least a moment.]

Oswald. [Her tone is soft and her eyes lock onto his, holding him on the spot.] Listen, I understand wanting to leave Gotham. I did it myself after I lost the baby so I get it and I won't be the one to tell you not to go if that's what you want.

But you can't run away from grief. You know this as much as I do. If you leave you will still be hurting, still miserable but you'll be alone. At least here you have someone who has already shown you loyalty and compassion.

Those are very rare things in Gotham.

[She lets go of his arm so she can wipe away a few tears that are tracking down her cheeks.]

Which I guess is another reason to leave....I just.... [She sighs heavily.] He's hurting too, as much as you are. Maybe you two could help one another through that pain.

[hobblepot]

[He half-whirls around when she grabs at him, the look of a trapped animal flashing across his face before recognition sinks in a split second later. Her grip reminds him of the rope pulling him taut, and he glares at it until she lets him go, steeling his jaw.]

...if you care that much about him, then you are very welcome to help. [He answers coolly.] You are the one with the bleeding heart; I’m the ‘degenerate sociopath’, remember?

[flippin_peachy]

I've tried but he doesn't want anything to do with me because of Jim. You're the only person he talks to.

[hobblepot]

[He sighs sharply, white-knuckling the grips of his crutches.]

I’m sorry - I must have missed the part where that's my problem!

[There’s a stone-cold finality to his answer. But he takes just one lurching step toward the church doors and the grey light of day beyond before turning right back, prickled by the fact that two people, now, are burdening him with their expectations.]

I do not know when you started letting Jim Gordon get in the way of something important to you, [he says, a mirthless smile cutting across his face] but this drama between the three of you has nothing to do with me. Let me make something abundantly clear: it is not my job to play therapist and make friends with Pennyworth! He could go and throw himself off the broken bridge tomorrow and all I would feel, at the very most, is the slightest pang of envy!

[His pulse roars in his ears. Grief has made a stranger of her; everything they have been through no longer matters. Nothing matters.]

You want my help? [A beat.] Fine! I can stage an intervention and call up a couple of my men to have him dragged, kicking and screaming, to the nearest support group for the next twelve weeks. How’s that sound?

[flippin_peachy]

[Lee's eyes narrow slightly and for a second Oswald will see the woman Ed and Riddler both fell for, a dangerous, strong woman who can sting like a deadly Scorpion if provoked.]

Do whatever you'd like, but just know that you're pushing away the last person in Gotham who might actually give a rat's ass about you.

[She says and then strolls past him and out the doors with an ease and grace that almost seems deliberately insulting compared to how hard he finds moving these days.

The entire time Alfred stays in position, his eyes facing forward on Nygma's casket in order to make sure no one desecrates it. He has noticed Lee and Oswald's interaction but only in an off hand way, once upon a time he would have accepted Lee's help and comfort but these days he wants nothing to do with her because of her connection to Gordon.

Gordon.
The sanctimonious, hypocritical ass that caused all of this to happen. The man who kept pushing and promising he could keep everyone safe when in reality he just loused it up.

He can feel a dull throb in his temple and he forces himself to exhale slowly, his jaw muscles flexing in anger at the thought of all of Gordon's lies. He would see Oswald through his grief, he would help him become strong again and then maybe they could take care of Gordon.
Together.]

[hobblepot]

[Her fury crashes up against his, neither of them wanting to give in, to apologize. She’s the first to turn away. Brushing past him, fast, sharp strides down the aisle. The hard click-clack of her heels. Watching her go, another person leaving his life for what might be the last time, some part of him understands that like all moments of bitter, hard-won triumph, this victory comes at a cost, too.

---

At one-forty seven in the afternoon, Edward Nygma is lowered into a wet hole in the earth.

The rain has picked up again, pattering against the umbrellas of the few who quietly decided to join Oswald and Alfred. The few who just as quietly trade glances and nods and drift apart after a time, going their separate ways. A heaviness in their hearts would follow them to their cars and into their homes, their bedrooms. Some of them would even lie awake at night gazing at their sleeping partners, the easy heaving of their sides, and wonder about a future not yet written. But when they’d wake up in the morning to taxes and mortgages, to the desperate struggle to get ahead, they’d forget all about the ephemerality of life. About the two men they had left standing on the hill, nothing to go home to.

---

The wipers squeal back and forth, slicing through the downpour, through the silence between them. Cars pass, streaking lights across the slick, shimmering pavement ahead. Oswald leans his head against the window. They catch another string of green lights. But for a reason he can’t explain, the return trip feels twice as long.

At the mansion, he lasts just long enough to shuck off his suit before he drops into bed, blacking out.

---

He wakes in darkness to a slow-dawning realization that he has brought the faint smell of incense home with him. It clings to his pillow, his sheets. To his rumpled shirt. Groaning, he rolls over sluggishly, rubbing at his face. The funeral seems like it happened years ago, a distant memory from another life. But his eye still feels so puffy and raw, his mouth all dried up.

He gives himself a moment for his vision to adjust and for the outlines of objects to emerge. He takes longer to sit up, to carefully gather his crutches leaned up between the wall and the bedpost, and work up the will to stand. It never gets easier. Jaw clenched, he hobbles out his room and into another, flicking the switch with an elbow. Light floods the bathroom. Harsh and cold and white, like back in Arkham. He ducks his head against it, watching his feet as he makes his way forward a step at a time.

Click, click.

He’s nearly at the sink when his legs buckle.

It happens so fast: his head clipping the edge of the counter, his body flopping and crutches clattering, the impact driving a gasp from his lungs. Pain roars through him. He blinks against the ringing in his ears, lost. Blood crawls through his hair. The world – this place that was never home, that never would be home – has snapped into focus around him, so clear and painfully sharp around the edges. He looks around and up at the walls, hit with a sudden, balls-sucking-up-into-abdomen sort of terror.

Ed is never coming back.

No more riddles, no more games. No more bickering, throwing words at each other like dinner plates over the things that never really mattered as much as they had thought.

His lungs jerk, wheezing, as the enormity of that realization bears down on him with its full and terrible weight, pressing his shuddering body into the floor. He throws up until he can’t anymore. And he begins to cry, with the same violence as he does everything else.]

[flippin_peachy]

[Unlike Oswald, Alfred does not have the luxury nor the reprieve of rest. He barely sleeps these days, his evenings full of nightmares where Nyssa kills Bruce over and over in front of his eyes. Sometimes Bruce cries for his help and other times he is silent, his dark eyes looking at Alfred with an accusatory gleam.

So instead of sleep, he reads, just like he did when he was young and plagued with nightmares after the war and had Oswald cared and not been wrapped up in his own grief he would notice the dark circles under Alfred's eyes growing deeper and the way he's lost about seven pounds already.

He is half way through Count of Monte Cristo when he hears the commotion coming from Oswald's chambers and is up in a flash, rushing out of his quarters and down the hall, dressed in nothing more than his flannel pajama bottoms.]

Master Cobblepot? [He calls out as he enters the room, already noting that the bathroom light is on and heads inside. He is greeted to the stench of bile, vomit, blood and pain and for a moment he swears he is back home. Back in Whitechapel when he was at his lowest and would come home drunk, bloody from a fight, and feeling like death had a permanent grip on his shoulder.]

Oswald!

[The mess doesn't matter, he's seen and been in worse and he drops to his knees to scoop the smaller man up into his arms.]

It's okay, I've got you.

[He murmurs and lifts Oswald up, holding him against his chest as he turns and carries him out of the bathroom. He moves quickly, efficiently, and in a matter of seconds he is back in his own room. It's soft and cozy in here, the bedside lamp casts the entire room in a warm glow and carefully he sits down on his bed, still holding Oswald in his arms.]

I'm so sorry, I should have put down a mat so you wouldn't slip.

[He scolds himself and shifts slightly to grab a handkerchief to gently dab at the blood on Oswald's forehead.]

Are you okay?

[hobblepot]

[His shoulders jump under Alfred’s hands. But he surrenders, exhausted. Lets his aching, useless body be gathered up and carried someplace else, somewhere where the light doesn’t anger the hot, sharp throbbing in his skull any more than he has. He’s still in Alfred’s arms when the two of them settle into bed – a bed that doesn’t have the lingering church-smell that turns his stomach. While drying the blood from his skin, Alfred asks him a question.

Shaking and shaking, Oswald blinks up at him like he’s speaking an alien language.

Maybe it’s that he doesn’t remember the last time someone asked. Maybe it's because if anyone would have, it’d have been Ed. Or that he can sense a hint of something almost real behind the words, behind the look knotting Alfred’s face, and doesn't know what to do with it. The truth lies somewhere in between all these things when he tries to answer. Tries, and chokes before he can get a single word out because, no, nothing is okay, nothing will ever be okay. Not when everything from the last two weeks he spent barely moving, barely living, has finally caught with him, burying him alive. The what ifs and if onlys and what could have beens. The reminders, too, of the lesson learned that day by the river, and on every return to the pier afterwards: that love can't be summoned or willed but that it comes and goes as it pleases. That it never comes at all, sometimes. And worse, maybe, that it can long outlive the person it was meant for.

Worthless to one, but priceless to two.

A squeak of a noise escapes him. And when his face crumples, all he can do is shake his head before he folds in on himself, breaking down.]

[flippin_peachy]

[The sound of Oswald's resolve breaking is so intense it's almost auditory but Alfred does not pull away, instead he brings the heaving, sobbing man further against his chest.]

No, of course you're not. [He says softly to himself and begins to gently rock Oswald in his arms.]

You've been through so much and it just keeps going, all this pain. This loneliness.
This feeling of being empty.

[His arms tighten around Oswald a little, giving him a small, encouraging squeeze.]

You go ahead and let it out, I can take it and I won't leave you.

[hobblepot]

[Alfred closes in around him, pulling him in. He flinches. He doesn’t want to be here, to cry, to be touched. This is the man who killed Nyssa. The man who slapped him. But Oswald doesn’t have a choice when he just crumples into Alfred’s chest like a broken puppet, smothering howling, full-bodied sobs into his skin until he can barely breathe, can barely remember how to function as a person.]

I loved him -- [The words rasp his throat, barely above a whisper. Weak, trembling hands grasping at Alfred’s back.

He doesn’t know this body, the weight and shape of it. Doesn’t know these arms rocking him while round after round of wet, tearing gasps rack him senseless, every stolen gasp for breath sticking him like a knife. But for a brief moment in time, even as Alfred says all the right and wrong things, truthful things that both cut and comfort him, the world seems a little less empty, somehow, than Ed left it.]

[flippin_peachy]

[I loved him.

Those three little words hit Alfred square in the chest and he can feel his own resolve crack because those words and Oswald's dedication to Nygma remind him of himself and the grief and pain he felt a long time ago.]

I'm sorry.

[He says at last, his voice a soft croak.] I'm sorry you had to loose the man you loved and I'm sorry I took away your revenge.

[Gently he smooths a hand across Oswald's small back.]

Once upon a time, back when I was a much younger man, I fell in love with a bright, spirited woman by the name of Esme. I would have given her the world had she asked me to, but all she wanted was to have a life together.

[He pauses to swallow a huge lump in his throat.]

About a month after I had proposed I found her dead in our apartment, murdered by my old army commander who had a vendetta against me. I was devastated, destroyed, and consumed by grief and anger much like you are now.

I found him and killed him in cold blood and while it didn't bring her back or make my pain go away it did give me some sort of resolution.
I'm sorry I took that away from you, Oswald.

[hobblepot]

[Under those soothing strokes, his body continues to rage, leaking blood and drool and tears. Chewed-up nails biting into Alfred's skin with the desperation of needing that apology to mean something. But the sorry he thought he wanted, thought he needed, thought could maybe begin to patch over that Ed-shaped hole in his heart is sucked into that emptiness. Nothing changes.

Bathing, dressing, existing: he tried his best. He showed up for Ed, gritting his teeth and accepting the bitter cost of survival just long enough to see his best friend put in the ground. As if that could make things right by Ed. Could make amends. Ed doesn't need his tears now any more than he did when they stood on the pier with a loaded gun between them, back when Oswald still believed that his love could fix everything. But they're all he has left to give, until his lungs ache and heave and nothing but a thin, strained whimper comes out. Alfred is sorry and Ed's still dead and tomorrow seems so far away, impossibly far. Like a jump he just can’t make any way he looks at it.

He peels his hot, wet face from Alfred’s chest. Pulling free, turning away. This isn't his room; he doesn't belong here either. But he's already slumping into bed, his head throbbing savagely.]

ooc: bring on the booooze!

[flippin_peachy]

[Alfred barely feels the bite of Oswald's nails into his skin as he is more focused on holding and soothing the smaller man, rocking him gently as he cries and wails. He understands his pain and knows that the only way past it is through it. It's a storm that one has to weather, but that doesn't mean Oswald has to be alone when he does and eventually when Oswald finally turns away and practically falls into Alfred's bed he takes a moment to think.

Without another word he leaves the bedroom, going down to the kitchen and about five mins later he returns with two cups of hot liquid.]

Here. [He says as he sits down next to Oswald, slipping an arm around his shoulders to help lift him up into a sitting position. In his other hand is a hot toddy, one he brings to Oswald's lips.]

This might help you a bit.

[hobblepot]

[Gathered up into a ball, he stares at the wall across him, listening to Alfred's footsteps drifting out of earshot. And he waits. Not for Alfred’s return, but for the pain squeezing his temples to ease off, hoping against hope. It’s quiet now: he hears his soft, tear-clogged breathing; the mansion settling; the odd clink of a cup or a dish on another floor. To be left alone just like this, he thinks, would be the greatest kindness Alfred could show him now. But Alfred wants him back up for one reason or another, and Oswald lets out a halfhearted croak as he's moved, aware of every tendon and sinew and nerve he has wronged. He leans heavily against the hand bracing him, face slack, hollow. The press of a warm mug to his lips rouses him a little. The drink has a faintly woodsy scent to it; tea, most likely. Weary and wrung dry, his body couldn't care less what it is. He sips, wincing at the lemony tartness of it. The spicy hit of whisky on the second sip isn't any kinder on his throat. But it's a comfort in its own way, as he continues to drink. A way he never needed more badly than he does now.

His hands lift up, weakly clutching the mug.]

[flippin_peachy]

[Alfred watches as Oswald grasps the mug like a child with a bottle, guzzling the hot whiskey almost greedily. A better man than he might scold him for bringing Oswald liquor but those men probably haven't gone through the type of grief he and Oswald have, so for now he will supply what small comforts he can for the smaller man. A comforting embrace and a couple of glasses of whiskey to dull the pain and hopefully allow them both to sleep better than they have.]

That should help ease your throat and headache a bit.

[He says softly and when Oswald has drained the cup he takes it away and sets it aside, still holding him close.]

[hobblepot]

[The top-up he's offered is just as strong, if not stronger. It goes down in a few pulls either way, pooling hot in Oswald’s empty stomach. His throat steadily numbs up and his nose unclogs; he can breathe again, mostly. And deep into his second refill, the world grows fuzzier at the edges and the pain in his head a little quieter, a little dimmer, less urgent. He just sits a moment in the glow of a warm and comfortable drunkenness, cradling the cup in his hands. It’ll never have any of the answers he’s looking for; he has had the deaths of several loved ones in the space of a few years to figure that out. But he gazes long into what's left of his drink, as if this time it might be different. Until a thought occurs to him twenty minutes too late and he looks up at Alfred again, into the face of a man who looks as deeply and inexpressibly tired as he feels. Brow gently furrowing, he asks:]

...why did you bring me here? [There’s no bite to the question.]

[flippin_peachy]

[Alfred helps himself to a top up or two as well, but directly from the bottle, the sting of whiskey on his throat a welcome sort of pain as is the warmth it helps spread inside his chest. Or perhaps that warmth is from the man he still has cradled against him and when Oswald speaks he looks down at him, his eyes calm and compassionate.]

Because I wanted to help you.

[He says but then pauses, thinking a little on why he didn't just bring a first aid kit into Oswald's room and tuck him back into bed.]

And because seeing the blood reminded me finding Bruce in his bedroom.

[He says slowly and then looks into Oswald's eyes as he admits the full truth.]

I got scared.

[hobblepot]

[Oswald watches him through his puffy, heavy-lidded eye, his chest rising and falling slowly. Even from his dreamy, whisky-soaked daze, he can sense a weight to the confession. He doesn’t know what to say to that, for a while, any more than he knows what to make of the expression Alfred’s face is holding. It’s achingly soft and frank and open; a look meant for the dead boy in the backyard, he decides. Not him. He has done nothing to earn it.]

Well... fortunately for you, [Oswald spreads his hands in a weary, bitter parody of some once-triumphant gesture, fingers still hooked around the mug] I am not dead yet.

[To claim he is ‘very much alive’ would have been an overstatement. It’s not just that’s he’s bruised all over, stiff and swelling up. Not just all the scars he collects from year after year of brushing shoulders with death, the toll this life has taken on his body. But that this – stumbling his way from moment to moment like a disaster survivor, bleeding and lost – isn’t living at all; he’s just watching time going by.]

[flippin_peachy]

[The little gesture, even if it is a parody of Oswald's once smug to a fault confidence, goes a long way to soothing the panic Alfred felt when he saw the smear of blood on the floor and on the other man's skin. Not to mention the panic and shame he feels in admitting he is scared of the home he lives in.

He utters a small little chuckle, it's no more than a wheeze really and his eyes move across Oswald's face tenderly.]

A fact I find a lot of comfort in, sir.

[He rumbles softly and reaches out with his free hand to brush his thumb across Oswald's cheek.]

Comfort and strength.

[Moving slowly and carefully as to not hurt him, Alfred plucks the mug from Oswald and then hoists him up enough to wrap his arms around him in a warm embrace. Hugging him against his chest where he will be able to feel slow, steady beating of his heart.]

[hobblepot]

[It’s a strange sound, that chuckle.

These days, it’s what he’d expect to hear in the moments leading up to a nervous breakdown. But Alfred is regarding him with calm, gentle eyes. Patient eyes. Oswald’s pulse beats in his throat, and there’s a feeling, in that silence, that he’s missing something, something just on the trembling edge of his awareness. Something he realizes that he’s no closer to understanding when a hand reaches out to touch him. A warm, calloused thumb brushes his cheek, where his tears have dried tacky on his skin, and he starts a little. Blinks back at Alfred, lashes flickering uneasily. No slap. Suddenly, the cup is easing from his fingers – he has already forgotten about it – and then Alfred is folding him into his arms again, the collar of Oswald’s shirt crumpling as he’s tucked into the heat of Alfred’s skin.

His mind turns, puzzling. He still isn’t sure what’s happening, what he’s supposed to do. But his body, looser and heavier with drink, has already made its choice, is already relaxing into his. And as the sting of whisky begins to settle into a softer, deeper burn, the kind he could fall asleep to, the unexpectedness of this, whatever this is, grows uncomplicated, less threatening. It’s not what he asked for but it’s what he needs – and, for now, that’s all that matters.

He hears himself heave a slow, shaky sigh, and he closes his eye a moment.]

Some days... I find myself wishing I could forget him, for just a moment.

[The words have been rolling over and over in his head. But saying it makes it real. Saying it seems like a kind of betrayal. He sniffs, adding thickly:]

Does that make me a bad person?

[flippin_peachy]

No.

[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.]

[hobblepot]

[There's no time to process it, starbursts of colours lighting up Oswald’s brain as Alfred presses closer and he feels that fierce heat of him through his shirt, feels his mouth on his, warm and wet and laced with whisky. And then the moment breaks, and it's like jerking awake from a dream again, the hazy-lit bedroom and the smell of incense and the loneliness snapping back into awareness. He rears back with a sharp, startled inhale, a spasm of emotions on his face. Fear, confusion, childish hurt. He blinks back, throat heaving. Mouth hanging open for several long, wordless seconds. And, suddenly, he’s more sober than he’s been in the last half hour, his heart rabbiting in his chest.]

--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.]

[flippin_peachy]

[Well that wasn't exactly the reaction Alfred was hoping for and his face burns hot with embarrassment.]

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.

[hobblepot]

[There’s a blank look on Oswald's face, as if something is now slipping into place.]

...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.

[flippin_peachy]

[Alfred jerks, as if slapped, with the realization that he is Oswald's first kiss and he suddenly feels ashamed of himself. No one's first kiss should be from an old war dog like him.]

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.