[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.