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.]
no subject
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.]