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]

[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.]