RP With Oswald Cobblepot

[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.

Comments

[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.

[flippin_peachy]

[Some people might wonder why Lee hasn't blocked Oswald's number, they certainly aren't friends, especially now with the only link between them dead and buried in the ground. It's possible that she just forgot, she is a busy woman after all or maybe it's because there's a part of her that feels bad about the way she betrayed Ed. How she stabbed and left him for Jim and in some small way she wants there to be some contact with Oswald so he can continue to remind her of her bad treatment. A sort of self imposed penance for how she ended things.

Or maybe it's simply because she wants to help others, even if they are selfish little men who never seem to learn.

When the text comes through she is at home, making dinner while Jim is upstairs showering from a long day of trying to help Gotham re-build itself. At first she only scoffs but when she reads the next text she feels her mouth go dry.]

Alfred.

[Her voice is barely a whisper and her heart starts to race, a sort of defiant anger rising up at the news. He can't be in danger, it isn't fair! They've all lost so much already but her heart aches for Alfred in particular, she knows the pain of losing a child and even though she doesn't understand his new loyalty to Oswald she at least felt like it could help him through the pain of losing Bruce.

She downs the glass of wine she had been sipping, the sharp taste of fermented grapes sticking in the back of her throat as she calls Oswald back. Not wanting to waste any time with text. She doesn't bother with pleasantries, as soon as she knows he's picked up she speaks. Her voice hard and to the point.]

What do you mean 'in danger'?

[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.

[flippin_peachy]

There's been no reports of attacks on the roads in that area.

[Lee says, ignoring Oswald's panic in favour of trying to remember everything Jim told her when he got home and what she heard on the hospital's radio during the day.]

So if anything has happened it's probably at the mansion.

[Dinner forgotten she strides quickly to the bedroom, her hair streaking out behind her like a black veil. She can still hear Jim in the shower, a small flicker of irrational annoyance at him rising up in her stomach, she knows there's no way he could have known Alfred was in trouble but damned if she isn't a little upset that after all his talk of protecting people they care about that he seems to have forgotten his friends.

'You could tell him what's happened. Get his help.' Her mind whispers as she goes into the bedroom closet.

Maybe. But Jim has been stubbornly set on trying to prove that Oswald was responsible for Nyssa and Nygma's deaths and there isn't time for them to quarrel.]

You're not alone.

[Her voice is firm, confident as her fingers curl around the shotgun that Jim keeps stashed up on the closet shelf.]

Get whatever weapons you can, I'll pick you up in 15.

[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.]

ooc: enjoy those hot dogs in the sink Jim....

[flippin_peachy]

[The chill in the air matches the coldness that settles over Lee's heart as she drives over to Wayne Manor, a cold determination to do what needs to be done that she hasn't felt in a long time, not since she was Queen of the Narrows.

She doesn't bother telling Jim, just leaves him a note that says she has an emergency at the hospital and that he should finish fixing himself dinner. Later, if and when she returns she might tell him.]

I've got a shotgun in the backseat.

[She says once Oswald is in the car, not looking at him for a moment as the absurdity of the situation hits her. Is she really going to go fight with Oswald??]

And I've got my medical kit, which has enough drugs to knock out at least six or seven people.

[Now she glances at him, swallowing hard.]

That is if we get close enough to use it.

[Wordlessly she turns back to look out the window and throws the car into gear, fearing that if they stay parked for any longer they both might lose the nerve to go through with this. She doesn't like walking into unknown situations, especially not in Gotham, but Alfred is one of the kindest most noble men she's ever met and she won't let him disappear. Not when so many good people are already gone.

The ride there is silent and nerve-wracking, both of them lost in their own thoughts and worries but when they finally reach Oswald's home she spots Alfred's car sitting alone and dark in the long driveway.]

He was here.

[She pulls the car to the side and turns off the engine, her hands cold and her heart beating fast. From fear? Yes, but also from a dark excitement. After all, wasn't this part of why she fell for Ed? Because he had shown her how much fun her dark side could have? How enjoyable danger and violence could be?

It woke up something deep inside you...something dark.
And you love it.

The memory of Ed's voice whispers and she clutches the wheel hard enough to make her knuckles go white.]

Okay...let's do this.

too good for him

[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.

[flippin_peachy]

[The little jab he takes at Jim's expense stings and she turns to look at him as they stop on the front step, her own eyes hard and angry.]

Oh shut up! You're the Penguin for crying out loud, you've escaped death more times than I can count, so the only way you'll die tonight is if you let it happen. [She hisses angrily at him.] You always had an insufferable amount of confidence but I prefer it over this new pathetic death wish version of you.

You're part of the reason why Alfred is here so shut up, grow a pair of balls and let's get on with it.

[She doesn't give him a chance to respond as she is done listening to excuses and she shoulders the front door open and moves inside as quietly as she can, leaving Oswald to either stand there alone or follow her.

The inside of the Van Dahl mansion is dark, much like the rest of Gotham, but Lee can see the faint flicker of candlelight coming from the far end of the hall and slowly she creeps towards it. There are sounds above them in one of the upper levels, voices talking and the distinct sound of two people have vigorous sex. She wrinkles her nose in distaste at that sound but keeps moving down the hall towards the source of light and when she peers around the corner she gasps.]

Alfred...

[He has been stripped of all his clothes save his underwear, socks and shoes, and has been forced down onto his hands and knees and is chained to the huge fireplace by a thick metal chain looped around his neck. His back is littered with huge ugly gashes that bleed freely, to Lee it looks like someone beat his back with a whip made of razors. His face is pointed down at the floor but even in that position she can see swelling and bruises and her heart aches at what he's probably had to endure.

From upstairs she hears a loud moan, the couple finishing it would seem and a second later a voice yells down from the second floor. Leering and full of cruel amusement.]

Hey! Jorge, bring me that old geezer! I got quite a mess for him to clean up.

[A few seconds later the sound of heavy boots come into the room and Lee presses herself and Oswald back against the hallway corner.]

Come on old man, time to get to work.

[The sound of chains clinking, a muffled grunt and then the hard brutal sound of a blow being struck.]

I said come on! Move it!

[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.]

[flippin_peachy]

[Since the blow to the back of his head Alfred has been struggling with his sense of time, this was made all the much harder when the squatters who attacked him had started in with their torture. It had started with stripping him of all his valuables and clothes and then progressed to full on beatings; they had whipped him, burned parts of him with a hot poker and of course beat him with their fists and any blunt objects they had on hand.

It wasn't his first time enduring torture, he had been part of SAS for ten years and was one of the best but that didn't mean he didn't feel pain. He felt it very much.

But he had a place to go, a place in the back of his mind where he could hunker down and wait, hope and pray for it to end. It's this place he slowly comes out of when he hears the choked cry of Jorge as his body falls down onto the floor, landing next to Alfred. One dead eye looking at him as if to say 'well would you look at this, this wasn't supposed to happen.'

He blinks, his left eye swollen basically shut and slowly turns his head, hearing the tendons in his neck creak as he looks up to see Oswald standing there. His face is paler than usual, his eye blazing in the dark with a sort of beautiful brutal beauty.]

.....oswald. [He croaks, his voice barely there and he forces himself to swallow before trying again.]

...sir? ...is that you?

[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!

[flippin_peachy]

[I have come to take you home.

The words are a blessed relief to the despair that had begun creeping into Alfred's heart and for a moment the image of Oswald blurs as Alfred's eyes fill with tears. He feared he would be forgotten but in the end his loyalty to Oswald has been proven to be the right choice because here and in the flesh was his Master. Seeing him standing there, fresh blood on his face from the man he killed helps give Alfred the strength he thought he lost hours ago and when Lee moves towards him to help he holds up a hand, halting her. He knows she means to try and treat his wounds but they are the least of his worries and he motions to the chain that is set tight around it, the metal digging into his skin.]

Get this bloody thing off me.

[Lee's eyes flicker from Alfred to Oswald and when he nods she hurries over to Jorge's corpse, digging into his pockets until she finds the keys to Alfred's chain. It takes what feels like ages, her fingers slippery with blood but finally the chain is unlocked and removed and Alfred pulls in a long, ragged breath.]

We should go. [Lee hisses, casting her gaze upwards to where voices are now being raised.]

No.

[Slowly Alfred forces his legs under himself and with a great effort he rises up off the ground, his chest heaving and his eyes angry.]

Not until I get back what I found.

[His voice is hard and cold and he takes a shambling step to the fireplace and grabs the poker they used on him earlier.]

And not until I pay them back for what they did.

[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!

[flippin_peachy]

[Lee gasps when the shot rings out, it's so loud against the near silent manor but more than that it's as if that single shot is the one that starts the race and suddenly plunges everything into chaos. Voices are yelling and feet are thundering above them as the squatters arm themselves and come for them.

'Keep your wits about you.' Ed's voice whispers, as if he were standing next to her and speaking in her ear and she pulls in a deep breath and socks the shotgun into her shoulder, holding it with arms she wills not to shake.

Alfred seems unaffected by the dead man on the stairs and begins to climb them with a sort of slow, single minded determination that is almost scary. The fireplace poker is held tightly in his hand, the muscles in his arm tense and poised.
Ready to strike.]

Alfred, watch out!

[She yells when a skinny, bald man comes suddenly launching out from the dark with a large knife in his hands. She pulls the trigger but her shot goes wild, hitting the ceiling and causing a puff of debris to rain down instead.]

Fuck!

[Alfred moves to meet the bald man instead of avoiding him, grabbing his wrist with a snarl and bending it so savagely Lee can hear the bones break from where she is standing. A second later there is the dull clang of the poker being struck across the man's face, he moans and sags against the wall and Alfred finishes him by wrapping one beefy arm around his neck and twisting it hard to one side.

Craaaaack.

It sounds like eggshells being broken and Lee knows she's never going to be able to eat breakfast again without hearing that sound.]

[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.]

[flippin_peachy]

[No one was expecting the man on the floor to get back up, least of all Oswald, and when the supposed dead man suddenly springs alive like an evil jack in the box Lee lets out a single shriek before watching in shock as Oswald is pulled backwards and onto the ground. The man, Rob, gurgles horribly and starts to drag his body on top of Oswald.

'He's going to choke him.' Ed muses in her mind, almost thoughtfully. 'Gotta give him credit for his persistence.']

Oswald!

[She manages to make herself move, taking a few shambling steps to the two writhing bodies on the floor and before the other man can get his hands around Oswald's throat she is socking her boot against his temple and shoving him off with all her might.]

Get off him!

[Rob makes another of those horrible gurgling sounds and Lee trains the shotgun on his chest and pulls the trigger.

This time her shot does not go wild.

Silence afterwards, well except for the ringing in her ears and the sound of her own panting breath. Finally she looks down at Oswald and offers him a hand.]

You okay?

[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!

[flippin_peachy]

[Kind hearted doctor that she is, she wants to wait and help him but her concern about Alfred is greater and without any argument she nods and heads off, shifting the shotgun to point at the ground as she sprints up the stairs two at a time. Unlike Oswald and Alfred she has no injuries and in comparison she moves gracefully and quickly.

Not so quickly though that she doesn't feel like she is just a second too late to help stop Alfred from doing something he might regret, she hears a strangled howl coming from one the upstairs bedrooms and a second later a half dressed woman comes pelting down the hall. She looks scared and doesn't even slow when she sees Lee, just runs down the steps at a dead run and out the front door.

Another howl comes from the bedroom to the left and Lee pulls the shotgun up, ready to shoot if she sees Alfred is in trouble. When she enters though the gun sags and she almost drops it.]

Oh....god.

[It's obvious from the crumpled sheets and discarded clothes that this was the room they heard the sex noises coming from but that lust is long gone, replaced by one of the other seven deadly sins.
Wrath.

Alfred has dragged the other half of the lovemakers, the man who had been demanding Alfred come clean up his mess, into the middle of the room and is currently beating his skull in with the fire poker. He is dead but that doesn't stop Alfred from making sure, bringing the poker down again and again until there is literally nothing left but a red smear against the hardwood floors The brutality of it makes Lee feel faint and she opens her mouth to speak, to say something but finds she can only gag quietly.]

Clean up your own mess.

[Alfred's voice is like hearing a stone drop into dark, murky water and Lee grabs onto the door frame to steady herself.]

Alfred.

[Finally she is able to speak but he ignores her, plodding around the room as if he is hunting for something.]

Alfred. Please, you need to go home.

[She tries but he isn't listening and just when she is getting ready to grab his arm and force him back out of the room he stops, his face changing. Some of the cold calculation leaving it and being replaced by what she knows him to be.
Kind, thoughtful, loyal.]

Miss Thompkins, I wonder if you would be so kind as to put that golden cap in your pocket.

[His voice is a soft rumble and she comes over to join him, looking down at the sleeping cap that he's found in a bedside drawer.]

I don't want to get it dirty.
My hands...

[He says and looks down at his blood stained hands as if it is the first time he is seeing them.]

Of course.

[She murmurs, interrupting his lost thoughts and grabbing the cap and stuffing it into her pocket with one hand and grabbing his shoulder with the other.]

C'mon, let's get out of here.

rated B for Business as Usual in Gotham

[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?

XD

[flippin_peachy]

It's over. They're... [Lee says, her voice wavering and she swallows, hearing a click in her throat.] ...they're all dead.

[Her eyes flicker to Alfred's hands which are covered in blood and after a moment she forces herself to look up at his face which is dull and tired looking.]

We should get Alfred back to my clinic. I can treat his wounds there.

No.

[He croaks and slowly un-clenches the hand holding the fire poker, it clangs against the floor, echoing in the silence around them and he takes two shambling steps towards Oswald.]

I want to go home.

Alfred, you need treatment.

[His eyes, which finally seem to have some life in them again, lock onto Oswald's.]

Please, sir?

[He asks Oswald, his voice almost pleading with him.]

[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.]

[flippin_peachy]

[Lee casts one last look at Oswald and Alfred before walking off to go find supplies, leaving the two battered men alone at the foot of the steps. Alfred's eyes are no longer set with grim determination, instead they watch with tired curiosity as Oswald shimmies out of his coat. When Oswald wraps the coat around Alfred's shoulders he feels something shift inside him, his chest loosens and he exhales a breath he wasn't aware he had been holding and moves to lean his body against the smaller man.]

....thank you.

[He breathes and rests his head against the crook of Oswald's neck, his eyes closing as he fully realizes that he's safe again.]

Thank you for saving me.

[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.

[flippin_peachy]

[There's a long pause, one in which someone else might have gotten angry with Oswald, maybe even lashed out at his selfish behaviour and how awful it was that he waited so long before realizing something was wrong. But Alfred feels no outrage, in a way it makes sense that it took Oswald till dinner to realize that Alfred wasn't even there as they've had a pretty set schedule these past few weeks and instead of harsh words he starts to laugh. It starts out a low chuffing but then turns into a deep, rich laugh and he hugs Oswald tightly.]

Well it's good to know you like my cooking so much.

[His tone is one of lighthearted teasing and despite the horrible torture he's had to endure when he pulls back to look into Oswald's face he is smiling and there is no judgment in his eyes.]

Although if you don't mind, sir, I think tonight's meal might have to be something simple like soup and sandwiches.

timeskippery

[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.]

[flippin_peachy]

[As far as patients go, Alfred is one of the best she's ever had. He lays face down on his bed, grateful to be able to feel it's familiar softness again and let's Lee do her work in silence. He doesn't move or flinch, just endures any pain and when she is finished he thanks her softly and eases back up into a sitting position.]

I'll call you in a few days to check in, but for now just keep the area clean and get as much rest as you can, okay? [She feels a little silly telling him how to care for the wounds as it's obvious from the old scars on his back that he is no stranger to such things but the doctor in her can't help it and before she starts to pack up to leave she impulsively hugs him.]

I mean it about the rest. [She tells him as sternly as she can even though she is close to crying in relief that they all made it through okay.] If I hear about you doing anything more strenuous than a walk outside I'll be back and me and Oswald will tie you to this bed.

[Maybe not the best thing to say after he was chained up but right as she starts to worry about it he chuckles, a deep rumbling sound and gives her a little squeeze before letting go.]

Sounds like fun. [He teases and she laughs softly, releasing him and standing up to leave.]

Careful, I'm a married woman now.

A married woman who should get home to her husband, go on. [He says and waves her off with a smile.] We'll manage just fine. But before you go, may I have that cap I asked you to carry?

[She had forgotten all about it in the rush to get him home and patched up and she slips a hand into her pocket, pulling the sleeping cap out and handing it over to him.]

Is it important?

[Alfred looks down at it, his eyes soft and he nods.]

Yes. It might sound ludicrous but finding this almost makes all that dreadful business worth it.

[It's not her place to argue so instead she just nods and gives him one last look before heading off.]

[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.]

[flippin_peachy]

He's going to be left with a lot of scars, the wounds are deep but so long as you help him with keeping the area clean and changing the bandages once a day he should be fine.

[She reports, casting a glance back towards Alfred's room and then back at Oswald.]

I left some supplies in his room and I'll try to stop by next week for a check in.

[There's a pause and she takes a step towards Oswald, putting a hand on his shoulder and giving it a small, gentle squeeze.]

I'm glad you two have one another.

[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.

[flippin_peachy]

You're welcome.

[She says and removes her hand from his shoulder, giving him a brief but hopefully encouraging smile.]

You should get some rest as well, you look done in.

[As is she if she's being honest, it's been a long night and right now all she wants to do is go home and have a glass of wine and hug her husband.]

Goodnight, Oswald.

[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.]

[flippin_peachy]

[When Oswald enters the bedroom Alfred looks up from his position in bed, his eyes growing wide with realization at how complicated this simple task is for his Master and moves to help.]

Oh, I'm terribly sorry sir.

[He says and grabs a chair from the near by writing desk and pulls it over to the bed, motioning for Oswald to sit in it.]

Here, sit for a moment. I can get the rest.

[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.

[flippin_peachy]

[He can see the anger in Oswald's eyes and it makes him pause, his desire to help at war with his desire to do as he is being ordered.]

Yes sir, as you wish.

[He says at last and slowly sinks back down onto the bed, feeling a little deflated but also grateful since he is very tired.]

I didn't mean to offend you, I just....you've already done so much for me tonight.

[Like save his life and bring him home.]

I just wanted to try and repay your kindness.

[He pauses again and then motions for Oswald to put the soup on the bedside table, reaching under his pillow for the cap he made sure to retrieve from Lee.]

But perhaps there's a better way to do that.
Here.

[He says softly and holds out the sleeping cap, it's a little rumpled but the golden silk fabric miraculously has no bloodstains or any other kind.]

[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?]

[flippin_peachy]

[If asked if it was worth it Alfred wouldn't hesitate to say that yes, it was. All the pain, fear and torture was well worth being able to bring Oswald something special to him, something that might make him remember simpler and better times. Or maybe to just prove that someone out there was willing to go to great lengths to try and make him happy.

Either way when Oswald starts to almost shrink in on himself Alfred moves to wrap his arms around him, hugging him gently and rubbing his back as he cries. There's no shame in shedding tears for the memories associated with such a thing, he's often cried when he's gone out back to the garage and looked at Bruce's old wagon. The one he got when he was seven. The one he pulled behind him all over the manor, filling the back with rocks he had found in the garden.

'I'm going to build a home for my wagon.'

How proud he had been when he told Alfred his idea and later the two of them had done just that, laid rocks and stones and planks of wood until the bright red wagon had somewhere safe to stay and as he holds Oswald, hugging and comforting him he quietly promises to do the same now.

He's going to build somewhere safe.
He's going to build a home.]