flippin_peachy: icon by https://thehollowedartists.tumblr.com/ (just a flesh wound)
[personal profile] flippin_peachy

It's always amusing, in a dark ironic sort of way, how easily a simple plan can turn to absolute shit.

The plan had been to take a day trip up to Oswald's manor and find a few items that might help improve Oswald's mood as well as give him some motivation as Alfred was finding it harder and harder to get him out of bed these days. He still did it, sometimes literally hauling the smaller man out so he could stretch and strengthen his leg but it was taxing and he didn't like how set Oswald seemed to be on wallowing deeper into his despair. But if he could bring him a few items or even better, repair some of the damage and move him back to his actual home, then maybe Oswald would take some steps towards life again.

So after making sure his new Master was set up for the day, which meant leaving a tray of breakfast by the door and a note explaining his absence, Alfred makes the slow trek to the Van Dahl manor. Most of the roads are still bad, damaged by explosions and gang wars, but gradually the city is piecing itself back together and he is pleased to find he reaches his destination just before noon. He is also pleased to see that the outside of the Manor isn't too bad, many of the windows on the lower level are broken but the upper stories seem intact and it isn't falling down around itself so he moves inside to take a further look, already feeling hopeful.

That hope dies however when he enters Oswald's main study and finds himself face to face with group of looters.

There are five of them and while it's obvious that a great deal of things from the manor were taken long ago when Gotham first went dark it somehow greatly offends Alfred to see that these men are trying to pick the place to the bone. They are taking things that are close to useless, things that hold no meaning except for the man who lived here and when Alfred sees that one of them is not just stealing but wearing a gold silken bedroom cap he becomes enraged.

"I would highly suggest," He says as he pulls his pistol and trains it on the group, "You all put those down and get out of here."

The men seemed surprised that he is not only making such a demand but seems intent on backing it up and one of them laughs, pulling out a large hunting knife.

"Yeah? And you gonna make us, Grandpa?"

Alfred's shot rings out like a crack of thunder, the bullet hitting the spot right in front of the man's feet.

"Indeed I will."

The knife holder suddenly looks doubtful, as do his friends and just when Alfred thinks his simple plan might work out after all he is struck upside the head with a metal pipe and falls unconscious to the floor.
Date: 2025-01-21 07:06 am (UTC)

hobblepot: (oh no)
From: [personal profile] hobblepot
[The last two, three weeks have marked the start of a ritual Oswald has come to hate. If all it was was just Alfred sweeping through the room and throwing open the drapes, letting the sun in, he could turn over or burrow under his blanket like a stubborn child. But he’s not allowed to fritter away the morning hours; Alfred won’t let him. Every morning, Alfred marshals his groaning, wounded body upright as if there’s somewhere to go, somewhere to be. Somewhere he’s still wanted. And it’s hard, so hard, Oswald could cry: every movement, every step, every breath weighed down by an exhaustion that is all-encompassing, so heavy it hurts. The forced march down to the garden never gets any easier, even when Alfred hooks an arm around him and takes as much of his weight as he can. It’s never worth the bitter relief when he finally slumps down onto the bench outside, swaddled in his housecoat, and Alfred sets his breakfast down over the iron-wrought table in front of him. That’s when Alfred relays news of the outside world, as if it still matters. He talks about the roads, the supplies trickling in, the volunteers and peacekeepers overseeing Gotham’s recovery. And surely enough, the one-way conversation always circles back to the idea that there’s more to life than wasting away in the prison his bedroom has become.

There was, once, Oswald can agree.

Then, one day, Oswald rouses at noon to a breakfast tray and a note on top of the dresser. No struggle to get him up on his feet. No agonizing slog to and from the garden. He won. But this doesn’t feel like a victory, either. Leaned up against the dresser, Oswald reads over the note, crunching into a cold, buttered triangle of toast and chasing it down with a few gulps of orange juice. Nothing tastes like it used to; there’s no pleasure in it. Chew, swallow, shit, flush. Life has become a relentless cycle.

When the bed beckons him back, he doesn't resist.

---

Time slips away from him.

The shadows in the room stretch and deepen, and when he cracks open his eye hours later, night has settled over the manor. He blinks at the flickery smear of numbers on the digital clock. His stomach clenches. It’s around now when Alfred prepares dinner. In bed, he listens, hazily, for the distant clinking and clattering of pots and saucepans. The sounds of a man going through the motions of a normal life — because someone between them had to. Oswald listens for a long time. The mansion shifts gently, creaking and groaning. No clinking. No clattering.

He stretches for the nightstand and flicks on the lamp after a while, rubbing the sleep-grit from his eye. His breakfast is still on the dresser, where he left it. Frowning, he musters the will to sit up and fumbles for his crutch, feeling the sharp need to piss. On the way back, he eyes the tray, waving off a fruit fly skittering up the side of the glass. The apple slices have browned. He finishes the toast in a few bites, feeling hollow and strange.

He pokes his head out of his room and peers down the hallway, left and right. No lights on. The grand foyer beyond is swallowed by darkness too, the kind that makes the mansion feel alien and threatening. Twice as vast. Blood roars in his ears. He limps out, wide-eyed.
]

Alfred? [He calls into the silence. His voice cracks, hoarse.

At the end of the hall, opposite the stairs, a window gapes wide; Alfred hasn't drawn the drapes shut. Oswald feels naked standing in front of it. Clicking over on his crutch, he looks out into the empty driveway below. In the distance lies the cold, flickering skyline of the city that raised him. A city he had loved so fiercely, once — and that had left him behind.

Like his mother and father. Like Fish. Like Ed.

Like Alfred, comes a dark whisper from the back of his mind.

His stomach swoops.

He looks around, his grip on reality, on sense, beginning to slip. He feels his body numbing, going cold. And he forgets all about the note on the tray, and what it means, struck by the fear that Alfred has left him for good. Finally gave up on him, tired of trying. Of giving and giving, and all his effort disappearing into the black hole of Oswald’s grief.

He stumbles into Alfred’s room and flips on the light, bracing for pain he isn’t ready for, that he could never be ready for. But nothing has been packed away. The bed is set, night clothes neatly folded over the covers. A book rests on the desk, gathering dust, a bookmark slotted halfway in.

He stares, uncomprehending. The relief that should have flooded him never comes.

Panting, he doubles back to his room, snatching his phone from the nightstand. The screen casts a soft glow: 6:23 PM. No new messages. With trembling fingers, he scrolls through the sparse exchanges between him and Alfred for something, anything he missed. The last text is a day old.

Dinner is ready, sir.

A wave of dizziness sweeps over him. He drops back into bed, his crutch slipping and clattering to the floor. The silence closes in on him. He shakes his phone, willing it to jingle. Waiting for the sound of Alfred coming in through the front door, hugging a crinkling paper bag of groceries to his chest, and for everything to be the way it was before. To feel alone, but not be truly alone knowing that there was still some semblance of life somewhere in the mansion. A sliver of light under a door.
]

Where are you?
Call me!


[The minutes drag on — one, five, ten. Then, suddenly, half an hour has passed, and he’s still sitting on the edge of the bed, phone clenched in his hands, feeling ill. He scrolls through his contacts, his thumb hovering over Lee’s name for the briefest moment. She had no reason to care about him. But Alfred was different.]

I need your help.
I fear Alfred is in danger.
Edited Date: 2025-01-21 04:04 pm (UTC)
Date: 2025-01-22 07:48 am (UTC)

hobblepot: (facepalm)
From: [personal profile] hobblepot
[He answers on the first ring, jamming the phone to his ear. The reception is as frigid as expected, but he has her attention, and nothing else matters.]

I, I don't know--

[The words stumble out of him in a rush, like a confession shaken out of him.]

He left a note saying that he was headed to my estate. He should have been back by now, but...

[Oswald pauses. The sound of his soft, rattling breath crackles over the phone.]

...something must have happened out on the road, or at the mansion.

[He flicks a glance to the breakfast tray. The longer he sits with himself, the more he wonders and dreads, endless possibilities racing through his mind. A man could disappear, vanish without a trace. Peacekeepers couldn’t be everywhere. There were only so many of them, and too many fires in Gotham that needed putting out.

Oswald sinks his teeth into his lip, squeezing his eye shut against a rising panic he remembers too well. And for a long, unbearable moment, all he can do is tamp down the scream of frustration swelling inside him.
]

I need Ed...

[Ed.

The realization crushes the air from his lungs. He folds, quietly. And staring at the floor, he finds himself struggling to breathe again, to remember how, fresh tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. The phone is still in his hand, as cold and heavy as a brick. Slowly, he brings it back to his ear, not knowing if Lee is still there, or if he is just talking to himself.
]

Alfred. [Oswald rasps weakly. His knuckles whiten.] I need to find Alfred.

...but...

I cannot do it alone.
Edited Date: 2025-01-22 03:33 pm (UTC)
Date: 2025-01-23 06:05 am (UTC)

hobblepot: (casual look)
From: [personal profile] hobblepot
[There’s no time to search Alfred's room in its entirety, and drawer after drawer reveals little of use: hand lotion, reading glasses, socks, underwear, face towels. Alfred must have guessed where he’d look first for a gun. But perhaps what he hadn’t counted on was Oswald’s determination. Sweat sheens his temples as he plunges into the closet, clawing suits and coats aside. High up, toward the back, he spots something just out of reach. The placement seems deliberate.

Grunting, he angles his crutch, nudging it down. A small suitcase tumbles to the floor—no lock. Inside, an old army uniform. Hope trills in his chest. He paws through it, letting out a ragged breath when his fingers brush the sleek metal body of a handgun. It looks well-cared for. He hefts it, counting only four rounds. Digging deeper into the suitcase, he finds no more bullets. Of course.

Stuffing the colt into the pocket of his pajamas, he hurries downstairs, making a brief stop in the kitchen.

---

There’s a fierce chill in the air, even for autumn. To some, it would feel like an omen. But to Oswald, it’s just another inconvenience of being alive. He is leaned up on his crutch by the front steps when Lee’s car rolls up the driveway. He doesn’t wait for it to pull to a stop, already hobbling toward the passenger side, his breath misting in short, shallow puffs. The high beams cut through the night and light up the wool overcoat he has thrown over his pajamas. It’s loose on him — the easiest thing he could grab, with the added benefit of deep pockets. He opens the car door and ducks inside, awkwardly maneuvering himself and the crutch, Alfred's gun digging into his hip.

He sniffs wearily, settling in a moment after clicking his seatbelt into place. Letting the situation wash over him.
]

...I’ve got four bullets and a steak knife.

[He glances over at Lee through his messy fringe, his ears and the tip of his nose pinked from the cold. It’s a fucking laughable arsenal for god knows what he’d be facing out there. But he’s not laughing.]
Edited Date: 2025-01-23 03:16 pm (UTC)
Date: 2025-01-26 08:59 pm (UTC)

too good for him

hobblepot: (I can deal)
From: [personal profile] hobblepot
[The Van Dahl mansion cuts an imposing silhouette against the night sky. He wills himself onward, the knot in his gut tightening with every lurching step. As expected, nature has wasted no time staking its claim on the property: weeds sprout from the cracks spider-webbing the driveway, the lawn wild and overgrown. But it's the other details, those that emerge from the shadows as they close in on the front door, that make his heart clench: shattered windows gaping open, broken glass scattered across the front steps. His home, his father’s home, violated.

Breath pluming in the air, Oswald quickens his pace, his jaw set. It’s only this fresh surge of outrage that makes stumbling into the situation blind — armed with those four bullets and that knife in his pocket — feel less like a death wish.
]

I may die tonight. [He stares straight ahead.] And should this happen, I need to know that you will set aside these petty reservations and keep an eye on Alfred. For his own good.

[A part of him had expected to make this leg of the journey alone. That Lee would get him from point A to point B, patching up wounds if needed, but no more than that; she had her reasons to stay out of it. People to stay alive for.]

He will not hold Jim’s failures against you forever. He is a good man. [He spares her a look.] You know this.
Edited Date: 2025-01-27 06:14 pm (UTC)
Date: 2025-01-30 06:26 am (UTC)

hobblepot: (RAWR)
From: [personal profile] hobblepot
[His eye widens, his body locking up.

Pathetic.

Nyssa said that too, when he had started to shake. Her lip curling as she cut away at his dignity until there was nothing left for Gotham’s would-be king to hide behind.

Look at you. Disgusting.

Lee and Nyssa couldn’t be more different. But Lee’s words are just as cold, just as vicious in their contempt. Whether they’re meant to or not, they jog memories of everything he’s survived out of spite. Every person who put him in his place and every place he clawed his way back out of; every person who spat his name out and died choking on their own blood. This city broke him, made him wrathful. Someone who would never lay down and die without taking his enemies with him. He's not allowed to be anything else. Lee won't let him. Alfred won't let him.

It’s this Oswald — shaking not with fear, but with the rage hot in his blood — who follows Lee into the ruins of his home, white-knuckling the knife. It’s this Oswald who chases the soft, sputtering light down the hall and finds a man in chains. The same man who cut him down from the pillar at City Hall, threw his shirt around him. The same man who scooped his bleeding, sobbing body off the bathroom floor and held him close, as if nothing would ever hurt him again. But that was never going to be true.

It's just not allowed.

He bristles against the arm urging him back, his chest heaving. One of the squatters crosses their line of sight. And when the man starts laying into Alfred with his boots, Oswald can’t wait, can’t hold back any longer. He lunges for him, the candlelight throwing his jagged shadow across the wall. His crutch gives him away. But by then, Jorge is already catching it across the mouth, the force of it sending them both staggering off-balance. With a cry, Oswald winds back and throws all his weight into another wild swing. The crutch cracks into Jorge's temple this time, ragdolling his head sideways. He drops to the floor.
]
Edited Date: 2025-01-30 03:22 pm (UTC)
Date: 2025-02-02 06:54 am (UTC)

hobblepot: (please don't)
From: [personal profile] hobblepot
[Panting, Oswald looks up from the corpse, his gaze sweeping the room. Dizziness roars through him. It’s as if a tornado ripped through the place: splintered tables and chairs, books and bric-a-brac strewn across the floor. Hundreds of years of Gotham’s history, destroyed. A single portrait remains on the wall. One of his father, looking down on them with gentle, sorry eyes. Mourning a son lost to a cycle of violence he can’t seem to escape.

Alfred calls to him. And in a voice so weak that it seems for a moment that he only imagined it. It’s not Master Cobblepot this time; just Oswald. And Oswald feels his face soften, drop. His throat hitches.

He wasn’t too late. But seeing Alfred with that chain around his neck, suffering — seeing himself in that swollen face turned up to him, in that bowed, bleeding back — it feels like he was. That Alfred, in his daze, still looks so achingly hopeful, is what hurts the most.

This is his fault.

He hates Lee for saying it. Hates that she's right.

Oswald fights to swallow, muscles clicking.
]

Shh...! Don’t talk. I have come to take you home.

[But he doesn’t know how to help — doesn’t know where to start, when so much is wrong. So much blood puddling over the tiles. The beginnings of panic balloons in his chest, and he shoots Lee a desperate look over his shoulder.]

Help him! [He snarls under his breath.]

The fuck’s taking so long? [A shout comes from the upper floor. Oswald’s head snaps up, the whites of his eye gleaming in the light. ]

Bring his ass up!
Edited Date: 2025-02-02 05:41 pm (UTC)
Date: 2025-02-03 08:55 pm (UTC)

hobblepot: (BLAM)
From: [personal profile] hobblepot
[He watches Alfred stagger to his feet, feeling his stomach lurch. Alfred is barely strong enough to bear his own weight. But when Alfred grips the poker, Oswald doesn’t rush to his side or try to hold him back. Because he knows better than anyone that Alfred's resolve isn't the kind that can be talked out of.]

Alright, alright, I’m going -- fuck.

[Above them, someone tromps across the room. Eye to the ceiling, Oswald tracks their movement. Then peeks around the corner of the study, breath tightly held, gazing into the heart of the mansion. A looter finally appears up on the second-floor landing: first, the beam of his flashlight, then his silhouette.]

Yo Jorge, quit jerking off already! [The man calls out.

He lingers at the top of the stairs, scoffing.
]

...man, why do I always gotta go babysit this asshole? [He grouses.] Fucking idiot.

[Shining the flashlight down on his Doc Martens, the man descends the stairs, each step gently creaking underfoot. He never sees Oswald swinging out from behind cover with his pistol trained. A shot rings out in the dark, catching the man in the throat. He chokes out a gasp, losing his footing and hurtling down the stairs with his flashlight. It survives the fall, rolling to a stop at the bottom and casting a beam of light into the study.

Oswald dips back behind the wall, his gaze snapping to Alfred, then Lee. Upstairs, there’s a brief pause before chaos erupts. Shouts, curses. It’s impossible to tell how many are heading down from the thundering of stampeding feet.
]

That Rob?

Fuck!
Edited Date: 2025-02-03 09:43 pm (UTC)
Date: 2025-02-05 03:34 pm (UTC)

hobblepot: (THE DAY I'VE HAD)
From: [personal profile] hobblepot
[He flinches when the shotgun blast rips through the air, bringing chunks of ceiling and plaster dust down. Half-hunched, he raises his pistol, trying to line up his shot with the man hurling himself at Alfred. But the instant Alfred snatches the man’s wrist, Oswald realizes he’s in total control. The knife clatters over the step, and the sick, gristly splintering of bones sends a shiver under his skin. His leg throbs in sympathy. His body will never forget.

An uneasy silence settles over the mansion afterward, broken only by the creak and groan of aging wood as Alfred pushes forward, upward — a man possessed. Oswald limps after him, his gaze fixed on the second-floor landing. He steps past the flashlight and Rob’s body slumped over at the foot of the staircase. He’s one stair up when Rob springs at him, tearing at his coat with an angry, strangled gurgle. Oswald wails as his balance suddenly shifts and he’s dragged backwards. Adrenaline surges through him; it feels like he's falling forever before he hits the floor. The gun slips from his grasp, pain driving a whoosh of air out of him. Croaking, he struggles to breathe, to move. To make sense of the world through the lights flashing in his vision as he frantically gropes for his gun.
]
Edited Date: 2025-02-05 10:36 pm (UTC)
Date: 2025-02-07 04:07 am (UTC)

hobblepot: (oh lawd)
From: [personal profile] hobblepot
[They wrestle like animals, Oswald snapping out his fist through the red, sticky fingers clawing at him and clipping Rob's jaw. Blood sprays from Rob's gasping mouth. A dying man with a hole in his throat shouldn’t have half the fight this one does. But nothing’s more dangerous than someone with nothing to lose — except Lee, with her double-barreled shotgun. She kicks the man aside, giving Oswald the chance to scurry out from under him before the shotgun goes off. The blast punches wet, ragged holes through Rob’s chest. He flops over, dead for good.

Oswald can barely hear Lee over the ringing in his ears, and the alarms still shrilling in his brain. He blinks at her, breathless, his heart racing. He aches all over; a few more bruises added to the collection, no doubt. Each a humbling reminder of how helpless he still is without his crutch and a gun.

Scraping his Colt off the floor and stuffing it into his pocket, he clasps her hand, wincing as he forces himself to his feet.
]

...where's Alfred? [He rasps, waving off any concern.] Go, I will catch up!
Edited Date: 2025-02-07 07:22 pm (UTC)
Date: 2025-02-08 06:11 pm (UTC)

rated B for Business as Usual in Gotham

hobblepot: (IT'S OVER)
From: [personal profile] hobblepot
[The air in the mansion is charged, like a storm is about to break. Leaned up against the banister, he’s still recovering when a scream shatters the stillness — then another. His head snaps up, bewildered. A woman is racing down the stairs, clutching her chest. Her eyes just as wide and shiny with fear as his own. She whips past him, nearly tripping, her bare feet slapping the floor. He draws his gun and turns it on her, his lips screwing into a tight line.

His finger trembles over the trigger.

This woman is a trespasser. She played a part in defiling his home. It’s reason enough for him to hate her with his whole being. His lizard brain still shrieks for blood, and someone has to pay.

But glaring down that quivering barrel at her, he sees her dress torn up the back, the blood trailing down her leg. And something lurches inside him. There are fates that make death a kindness in comparison. A fate that Alfred, he realizes, may have shared. Because god knows Gotham has always been a breeding ground for, and enabling force of, the ugliness in humanity, and the reunification effort wouldn’t change that. Only drive the worst of the worst underground for a while.

With a soft, shuddering exhale, he lets his arm drop, watching her plunge out the door into the cold. She wouldn’t get far on foot, a long way from civilization. Not without luck on her side.

His gaze shifts to the top of the stairs, his temples throbbing. Gripping the banister and clenching his jaw, he wills himself upward. Halfway to the second-floor landing, Lee and Alfred appear, coming towards him.
]

...what happened?
Edited Date: 2025-02-08 08:37 pm (UTC)
Date: 2025-02-10 02:34 am (UTC)

hobblepot: (I can deal)
From: [personal profile] hobblepot
[He places all his focus on safely descending the stairs, taking it step by step before giving them his full attention. With Lee appealing to his sense of reason and Alfred to his heart, he needs a moment to think, fretting his lip as he looks into Alfred’s puffy, harried face. Alfred has never begged him for anything — not since that day Oswald put his rope-chafed hands around his neck and squeezed with everything he had.

Oswald draws a steadying breath.
]

I need you to patch him up as best you can. [He tells Lee, finally.] There might still be medical supplies in the bathroom down the hall. Towels, at least. I will look for something he can wear.

[He makes it two steps before whirling around and awkwardly shimmying off his thick wool coat. Alfred has suffered humiliation long enough; he shouldn’t have to freeze on top of that.]
Edited Date: 2025-02-10 02:38 am (UTC)
Date: 2025-02-11 05:09 am (UTC)

hobblepot: (don't be cry)
From: [personal profile] hobblepot
[While it’s in Alfred’s size, the coat fits him only slightly better, hanging off his rounded, sagging shoulders. Oswald doesn’t know how to make him look or feel any more comfortable in it, not wanting to chafe the wounds on his back. And it’s while he fumbles to do up at least a couple of buttons with one hand that Alfred slumps into him, rocking him onto his back foot. Blinking, Oswald catches himself, bracing Alfred’s shoulder to steady both of them.

Alfred’s breath is hot on his neck. Oswald can smell the iron on his skin, and he closes his eye, his brows drawing tight. It’s strange, being thanked the way he has always wanted to be thanked by the world — meaningfully, sincerely — and yet feeling so deeply unworthy of it. Feeling ill, as the last of his unspent rage gives way to grief.
]

I have lost so many people that I cared about... [He swallows against the lump rising into his throat.] I could not bear the thought of losing you, too.

[And yet, he hasn’t really saved Alfred — not for good. Only bought him a little more time. But nothing is forever, and these fleeting moments between them are the most either of them can hope for.]

I’m sorry. [A sharp breath tears through him, tears gathering at the corner of his eye.] ...I have been cruel and unkind, and I took you for granted. While you were suffering at the hands of these animals, I was asleep in my bed, assuming you would be back by dinner time, and that everything would be just as it always was.

[A sad, hiccupping laugh shakes him.]

I only woke up because I was hungry.
Edited Date: 2025-02-11 05:23 am (UTC)
Date: 2025-02-14 05:07 am (UTC)

timeskippery

hobblepot: (confessions)
From: [personal profile] hobblepot
[Back at Wayne Manor, Alfred is eased out of his coat, and his bed quickly becomes a makeshift examination table. Oswald raids the nearest medicine cabinet, bringing Lee everything he can find: antiseptic ointment, gauze, bandages, nitrile gloves. He watches her pull a chair up to the bedside and clear the nightstand, suddenly feeling too big for the room. Drowning in that silence. Chewing his nails, he struggles not to stare at the blood, the gashes. When Lee readies the antiseptic, he can't stay.

Among the rations Alfred’s been diligently stockpiling — bricks of instant noodles, jerky, granola bars — Oswald finds two tins of tomato soup. Dusting the lids off with his sleeve, he cracks open the pull tabs and pours the contents into a small pot. A few lumps of celery, potato, and carrot tumble out. He cautiously licks one of the lids, wrinkling his nose. It’s a tart, bland excuse for soup; a far cry from what either of them could make on a good day. But with a heavy dash of seasoning and a slab of buttered toast alongside it, they’d make do; they've both survived on less.

He flicks on the burner, cuts two generous slices from the loaf in the bread box, and loads the toaster before slumping into the nearest chair to wait.

With the adrenaline draining out of him, he realizes just how weak and winded bedrest has left him, how much everything hurts. He’s not sure how he’ll get the food upstairs, but he’s determined to carry it up and see that Alfred is fed — even if it takes several trips. It’s the most and the least he can do.
]
Edited Date: 2025-02-14 06:12 am (UTC)
Date: 2025-02-16 06:18 pm (UTC)

hobblepot: (it can't be)
From: [personal profile] hobblepot
[He hears Lee coming down the stairs – it’s easy to distinguish her footsteps from Alfred’s, all things considered – and pushes to stand after another break from minding the soup. In a few clicks of his crutch, he appears in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame. His heart pounds heavily in his throat.]

...how bad is it? [There’s an anxious knit to his brow, a desperation to know everything there is to know. But his tone is not unhopeful.]
Date: 2025-02-17 06:36 am (UTC)

hobblepot: (I can deal)
From: [personal profile] hobblepot
[Oswald hangs on her every word, his gaze lingering on her, weary and unfocused, when she briefly looks away. With a sense of calm, of order restored settling over the manor, it feels like it was a long time ago when she spun on him with fury in her eyes, tearing him down for making peace with death. She saved him tonight. But her pulling the trigger on Rob hasn’t granted him a new lease on life. It's the responsibility he has to care for Alfred that will keep him going — his debt of gratitude to the man upstairs. And maybe, by the time Alfred is well again, weeks from now, and Oswald feels he has paid his dues, he will have found another reason to face the day. For now, he’d just have to take each one as it comes.

Her touch brings him back. He blinks, looking to her hand with a restless flicker of his eyelashes. Not offended, but unsure where the gesture is coming from.
]

Thank you.

[He offers, quietly. His lips twitch, and he suddenly doesn’t know what to say without feeling like he might cry. Something he’s prepared to blame on his frazzled nerves, the exhaustion.]

For taking care of him.
Edited Date: 2025-02-17 08:40 am (UTC)
Date: 2025-02-18 08:51 pm (UTC)

hobblepot: (disappointed)
From: [personal profile] hobblepot
[Alfred is stable, would recover – and Oswald waits for the next moment to come, for the sheer relief that’s supposed to swell inside him, just like it did back at the Van Dahl mansion, and pour out as tearful laughter. But there's a heaviness settling in his chest. Something he’s afraid to label after everything he’s been through tonight.

He had wanted Alfred back. That hasn’t changed.

He swallows and nods dimly, looking at his feet.
]

See you next week.

[He says, his throat aching.

He’s the first to turn away this time, slowly making his way back into the kitchen where the tomato soup is gently bubbling. He listens for the sound of the front door while ladling out as much of the solids as he can into a single bowl. Balancing a tray while hobbling up the stairs strikes him as an accident waiting to happen. So, he brings the soup first – Alfred’s – hugging the bowl to his chest as he fights his way up, step by step. By the time he reaches the top, he’s completely breathless. But at least nothing has spilled. Life, now, is about the little victories.

After giving his heartbeat a moment to even out, he moves on, rounding the corner into Alfred’s bedroom.
]
Edited Date: 2025-02-18 08:53 pm (UTC)
Date: 2025-02-20 07:59 pm (UTC)

hobblepot: (watch yer mouth)
From: [personal profile] hobblepot
[He's not prepared for the fierce rush of anger he feels at Alfred’s apology, at his insistence on accommodating him. And Oswald’s that much angrier knowing he can't do a damn thing to stop him — his hands too full to wave him off, his body too useless. He drops into the wooden chair Alfred has dragged over, the soup sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the bowl.]

No.

[There's no give in his voice, in the set of his jaw. Closing his eye, his focus sharpens on the blood pumping dizzyingly hard at his temples. He needs a moment just to breathe. But he doesn't feel any calmer.]

...You are not going anywhere. All you are going to do is eat this and get some rest. That’s it.

[He heaves a sigh, long-balled up inside him, and slumps into the chair as if it's the only thing keeping him from collapsing. For now, it might just be.]

If you need something, just say so, and I will bring it to you.
Edited Date: 2025-02-21 05:26 pm (UTC)
Date: 2025-02-25 07:02 am (UTC)

hobblepot: (breakdown)
From: [personal profile] hobblepot
[There's some hope, when Alfred relents, that they can leave things at this. That he can bring Alfred his toast and go — dipping in and out of his room every now and again, asking Alfred nothing meaningful, and Alfred quietly killing him one thank you and one sorry at a time. The both of them only skimming the surface of everything that’s happened in the past few hours, slipping back into life at Wayne Manor without Bruce Wayne and Edward Nygma. But it’s not so simple when Alfred offers him the hat: the same one his father gave him when he made a place for him in his home and in his heart that one wet, bone-cold afternoon. He hears himself suck in a soft, sharp breath as if physically struck, the little boy in him reaching out, desperate to touch it.

He turns the cap slowly in his hands, this delicate thing of silk and golden thread. Although wrinkled, it’s oddly pristine considering where it came from. He’s reminded of the mud and debris tracked over the floor of the mansion, the bare walls where portraits once hung proudly, watching over generations of Van Dahls. The long, gutted hallway leading to Alfred on a chain. This simple sleeping cap might be the only tangible thing left of his father now. Something Alfred must have understood.

All the pent-up fear and helplessness inside Oswald — everything he’s felt leading up to the rescue — lodges behind his Adam’s apple. Alfred should have never been there; Oswald hadn’t asked him to venture beyond city limits. But he did, and suffered for it. Like everyone else who has ever gotten too close to him. Somewhere down the line, feeling anything for him always comes at a cost.

Oswald is still staring at the cap when he feels his face wrench up. He makes a strangled noise in his throat, shaking his head. Was bringing something, anything, back to him worth being beaten half to death? Was anything worth it anymore?
]
Edited Date: 2025-02-25 10:28 pm (UTC)

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Alfred Pennyworth