Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Perhaps it was the weather that made it suitable for Oswald to linger in his suppressed melancholy.
He stood in his elegance, in his vast marble tomb of an office, in swirls of ivory smoke that plumed from his mouth.
A mouth that was gathering more nooks, all these years scowling had left the permanent visage on his face. The more nooks, the more his aging heart seemed to swell in putrefying emotions he’d kept contained for too long. The noxious gasses of decades old heartache he’d kept locked from the light of day, released in the night. His bedtime routine of lingering in the rich spaces he never filled. Staring sightlessly at the street of the nocturnal Gothamites below. He watched over them from his nest above the city.

Lovers for the night as they stumbled into nearby hotels that were under his umbrella; more money in his pocket. Spats in former spotless alleys that would be spotless once more before the morning light if his men wanted to see another sunset. Clean streets mean easy business, it’s just common sense. Late night workers in their business casual, shuffling to the bus stop that was generously paid separate from the city to run late and run frequently at that. A business cannot run without its laborers after all; it’s more profitable in the long run when a staff is well kept. And every business in his district was well kept. More money in his deep pockets.

The late autumn rain collapsed like pebbles against the large gilded window overlooking the heart of the Diamond District. His face lit up between the murky yellow street light and harsh icy blues from The Lounge’s sign below. All of it projected onto his aging face like a performance piece, playing out a somber ballet of cold hues that chased away the warmth, slowly but surely.

He thought of another lifetime, where he was just Oswald. Maybe he went by Os for those he liked. Maybe he was the one leading a tittering dame into the golden light of the hotel lobby after a successful date at the nearby club. A club that wouldn’t be so icily themed because he was just Os, and he didn’t own it. So maybe it wouldn’t have been such a successful date without the proper means of curation, without his means of catering and hosting lush gothamites.

Another lifetime then, just Oswald, the man who knew his worth enough to kick the teeth in of the guy that shoulder checked him on a sparsely filled sidewalk. But when had his temper ever flared out when his fist had knocked the first couple of teeth out? It still burned even as he used his polished wingtips to push the remaining teeth into unforgiving concrete. Blood was never enough for his soul. Insults rang in his ears and seeped into his bones, he wouldn’t find peace from a humiliating moment for weeks. That kind of wrong may never be allowed to happen again for the sake of his survival. That kind of wrong needs to be buried under meters of water with bricks in its stomach.

A final shot in another lifetime then, Oswald, the Gotham brand of an honest laborer. Working late to take care of a modest life with secret ambitions of making enough to retire early. But in this kind of economy, complacency is sanity and when has Oswald ever not strived for more. For more than more. The kind of greed that sat under fingernails and dug into the world around him to haul himself to the top. He’d end up itching the soft underside of his chin with a .22 if the other option was to learn complacency in life.

There was nothing for him if not this life that he’d been destined for the moment he took that first breath of Gotham air. He should be used to yearning for more, yet this particular brand of more had always felt different from the money, the respect, the control. The vulnerability he yearned for in fact jeopardized everything that kept him alive. Maybe he was yearning for an end now that he’d gotten what he wanted. It wasn’t just any kiss he wanted, he once again was asking for the most powerful option, the most pricey. A kiss from death to send him to his ornate, marble tomb. A tomb he fantasized would be visited with grief spurned from lost opportunity. A special someone he would haunt.

So lost in this fostered melancholy, Oswald didn’t notice the softly swishing sneaking of a tightly fitted suit as Edward, the man of green, slinked in from the office window adjacent to him.

Edward hesitated, standing still in awkward surprise as he took in his companion, the defeated slump of such a strong stature that usually stood so strong in the face of strife. The strong back holding up strong shoulders he’d seen more than his memory wanted to recall, were swaying so slightly that a lesser man wouldn’t notice. Oswald’s face, too open for all the years he’s ruled over Gotham’s cruel and ever evolving underground, hauntingly resembled a look from fifteen years prior. Oswald’s face on the dock the first go around. Edward felt his mouth twitch in a grimace at the recollection. Insecurity rose in the face of the emotionally charged air. He contemplated slinking his way back out, to never mention this intrusion, and continue within the particular brand of vapid partnership they had begrudgingly settled into post Arkham breakout. There was eternity in the seconds spent contemplating as he rocked on his heels. Edward steeled himself and moved forward in careful steps. The urge to know what had weakened Oswald so outweighed all the nerves that suggested leaving Oswald alone to his misery.

“Don’t tell me age is making you sentimental, Oswald.”

His dry tease pulled Oswald from his reverie more peacefully than Edward would have predicted, a small smile acknowledged him as Oswald’s good eye sought him out from the side. Unfazed, but that’s hardly shocking considering a lifetime of shocks and terrors Gotham feeds to its finest soldiers. Not to mention that this would hardly make for the first time he’s crawled his way into Oswald’s office in the past few years. What’s a little snooping between them after all? He’s sure Oswald has only left certain files and paperwork out for him to personally find anyways. A respect that smoothly flowed both ways as long as it was never vocalized or acknowledged. Perhaps the need to know how far it could be stretched when Oswald was weakened like this emboldened him. The weight of his stance solidifying as he stood before the moody window, lights flickering over Oswald’s aging face and through his graying temples. Splashes of color like the purple he used to put there when he was 14 years younger.

“I dare say it has, old friend.” Oswald responded after a beat, watching Edward just as thoroughly as he watched him. He caught the movement of Edward clenching his jaw in response and nearly laughed at himself. There was no need to worry about a kiss of death when it came to Edward, the man would no doubt flee from any vulnerability Oswald wished to give him. He was safe. Ed, the cruel reminder of his dreams and reality.

“Apologies, Edward, I don’t mean to upset you with my moping.” Oswald dared for a shoulder pat, part of him relished the way Ed stiffened under his hand and another part of him shriveled away, “Especially not when I’m sure you’ve come to share good news of your latest heist.” Not like he wasn’t already well aware. “Tell me, friend, how did our dear Bat fare?”

Edward, who had been unconsciously holding his breath since Oswald’s hand first settled on his shoulder, released it on a laugh. Tension relief dialed up to electrified exuberance as he leant in with a guttural, “How does a bat hang?”

Oswald tried to match his sadistic glee but felt short of it, “By his feet?”

“By his feet!” Edward agreed in a peal of laughter.

“And however did you manage such a feat?” Oswald smirked at the cackle he brought out of Ed. He shook his head to negate the pride foolish enough to grow in response, “Oh dear me, where are my manners, let us find our seats before you regale your genius, Riddler.” Oswald gestured for the door, the sooner they were no longer alone, the sooner the ease that threatened to spill over was locked away in the paranoia of the public eye.

“With a complimentary drink.” Edward agreed in smug humor as he held out his elbow for Oswald to take. With a tut and an eye roll, Oswald dutifully took his offered arm and the two moved towards the office door, beyond which the cacophony of jazzy club music and alcoholic socializing surrounded them.

“With a celebratory drink, of course, my friend.” Oswald agreed as he locked the office door behind them. An unnecessary move in his icy fortress, but The Penguin took no chances. Retaking his arm, the two continued in their bubble of conspiring smiles past stationary guards and to the elevator. Once shut in the glass enclosure, he smiled, a pointed nod down to the floor below where patrons tried to conceal their looking and pointing toward his impromptu guest.

“You are the man of the hour after all.”

Edward’s smile shifted from unsettling to appreciative in the blink of an eye and was gone just as quickly. Oswald caught it nonetheless, pleased with himself and therefore upset with himself. The two made their way, under glittering white lights and over sleek, crystal floors to the far back, left-hand corner, where a table sat reserved just for The Penguin as it was every night. The crowd gave natural berth for the king of the Diamond District and Underground and his esteemed guest, The Riddler, as they did most nights, with a quiet but not understated sense of respect. It straightened out Edwards spine and puffed out his chest with pride and confidence every time and never failed to lift the corners of Oswald’s mouth in a similarly proud smile.

With Ed’s smile directed elsewhere, a sharp sting of leftover melancholy had his own smile crumpling around the edges and his eyes seeking out the waiting gaze of his bartender. An immediate and dutiful nod in response was given before he began fixing the two rouge’s usual drinks but with a look in his eye that Oswald would need to address. He felt an itch grow under his fingernails as his bartender reached, long arms to the top shelf liquors. He clenched his fist and a thirst settled in his throat as he darted his gaze away, lit up by a suggestion. His special guest always exacerbated his needs into a frenzy, as he’d come to recognize. No doubt his favorite bartenders had too.

Edward all but collapsed into the booth with boyish flair, riding the high of the respect of the Lounge’s patrons.

“I saw that.” He grinned, following up with a finger that he pointed first towards Oswald as he settled in across the table from Edward before moving to carelessly flick towards the bar.

“Well, it’s not like we do this every night.” Oswald remarked sarcastically, feeling oddly called out from a man he’d overheard being referred to as a city bike previously.

“Not every night.” Edward defended immediately, ears turning pink under the crystalline white lights, giving Oswald pause.

“No,” Oswald rationed, “but we meet like this more nights of the week than not, friend.” Oswald tilted his head, considering, “Unless you’re out stringing bats up by their feet, that is.” Oswald offered, leaning forward on an elbow on the glass tabletop between them. He was quickly met in the middle by Edward’s answering lean like a magnet.

“He really should have expected it, after all, the first riddle was in the Gotham Zoo’s bat enclosure…” He quickly began his recount of the long night prior. Their drinks were promptly delivered, neither moving away or pausing to acknowledge it, aside from the two sliding their drinks closer to take sips in between remarks, or as was often the case for Edward, sipped slow and long for dramatic pauses.

After what could have been hours or thirty minutes, the two were laughing conspiratorially, heads ducking even closer together before their hands accidentally brushed. The soft warmth sent a spark up both men’s arms. Edward jerked back with a quick gasp,

“Sorry.” He offered curtly, offending hands stiffly placed in his very green lap.

The dramatic reaction made Oswald roll his eyes as if his pinkie finger wasn’t still tingling in the aftermath.

“Really, Edward, we’ve been friends for how long now? Surely we can touch freely.” Oswald chuckled in an attempt to diffuse Ed’s reaction.

“I’d prefer if we didn’t.” Edward quickly responded, much to Oswald’s chagrin. Pushing the sting he felt in his chest aside, Oswald tried to remain lighthearted for his friend, he was still the Edward Nygma that he had built a submarine with all those months during No Man’s Land, but the ten long years in Arkham had magnified some of his previous quirks and reactions to seemingly trivial things. Though Oswald would like to think he knew more than most when it came to Edward, he knew better than to assume he knew everything that could set him off.

“Apologies. You usually offer me your arm when we walk together, so I assumed-.”

“That’s different.” Edward’s voice, much colder than moments ago, made Oswald’s stomach clench and his head feel too light.

“Okay.” Oswald haltingly responded, feeling more and more upset though he tried containing it. Years and years of insecurity topped with the years of repulsion and bullying from his cohorts under Fish, left the topic they were suddenly breaching a raw and ever aching wound for Oswald. Even after all these years of knowing Edward, he knew the other man didn’t feel the same as he did. The abrupt reminder did nothing for the already dower mood that threatened him before Edward had interrupted back in his office.

Something must have shown on his face because Edward cringed, clenching his hands in his lap.

“It’s probably time I take my leave.” Oswald had never seen the lanky man stand so quickly to make his escape from their table, it only added to the roaring ache now in his chest. “It was great seeing you, Oswald.” Edward reached forward and finished his glass before setting it down with a nod.

“Till next time.” Edward offered even as he pivoted on his heel and marched away with haste toward the Lounge’s employee exit.

“Farewell, friend.” Oswald offered to his fleeing back, feeling foolish even in doing so. A mix of anger in being left a fool lit up in Oswald as he sat there. Ready to release the ugly feeling he snapped his head up to look over the club’s floor, only to be met with respectably down turned faces. His staff, more than well trained, were also respectfully responding in their own ways. Jay was already moving around the bartender, preparing a tray with a decanter and crystal tumbler that was no doubt about to be sent up to his office when he inevitably sulked back upstairs, and Raven already looked to be clearing away some of the customers near the bar.

Feeling more defeated as his anger quickly flared out and left him even more sorrowful than before, he waved Raven down, to which she immediately responded, backing down and offering condolences to the customers she had started shooing away. There was no need to lose out on any business tonight, Oswald figured, especially if he was merely set to mope about in his office for the following hours anyway. Lately his manor had begun to feel cavernously empty, echoing the lonely ache that had been building rampantly in the years since being sent to Blackgate. His release had him busy enough and grateful for being busy. But he’s since reclaimed all his holdings over Gotham and then some. He’s built an empire upon which Gotham runs on, but with so many moving parts running on their own now, he’s left to this. A man in a beautifully elaborate nest of his own making where not a soul dares to look in his eyes lest they be thrown from it. Where not a soul speaks to him like a human, but a vengeful god. Oswald had always defined himself by his work in pouring blood, sweat, and tears into the pavement of Gotham, all to get to where he is. Now that he’s the king of the castle, he’s not so sure who he is when the tall ceilings and spacious rooms of his making are silent and bare of warmth.

With leaden feet, The Penguin rises, and with a jerk of his chin, Jay is taking over the bar as his bartender gracefully removes his apron and heads to the employee staircase. Penguin moves through parted bodies to his glass chamber, his face impassive as he swiftly ascends away from the swaths of human connection in his own club.
His bartender, that he refuses to acknowledge by name for his own sake, is dutifully waiting with a barely repressed grin by the door to his office. The decanter and crystal tumbler Jay had prepared are held on a silver platter, merely props for deniable accountability.

There door shuts to his office with a thick thunk and Penguin watches as his bartender puts the tray on his desk without a thought and eagerly approaches, one hand loosening the silk tie of his uniform as he now grins,

“Same thing as last time, boss?”

Oswald wants to let the disgust in himself surface so he can deny the handsome man before him, wants to be above base and carnal distractions that prove he’s not above the common man, but here he is. The Penguin, in a cage of his own design as he distracts the consuming void within him with pretty toys like the man before him.

“Get on the desk, and wipe that smug look off your face.”

The man, his employee he thinks derisively, does his best at following orders but only manages one as he kicks his heels flirtatiously from his seat upon his desk.

“I learned a fun fact the other day, boss, do you wanna hear it?”

Oswald really doesn’t, he feels perverted and too old to be resorting to having flings with employees. But he also really does want to hear, he wants someone to want to risk their neck getting close to him.

The Penguin hums, disinterestedly, nearly mocking as he removes his overcoat and gloves.

“Did you know, male emperor penguins keep their eggs warm by balancing them on their feet?”

Chapter Text

Oswald barely registers his hand as it grips the man’s throat in a brutal, unwavering grip, his blunt nails digging up the naively, bared skin. Blood is rushing in his ears, pounding his skull. He’s disturbed how he’s been hollowed out in a single sentence. In a moment he’s hearing Edward Nygma, the forensic science technician, glibly attempt to make his acquaintance in the bullpit of the GCPD. So innocently sinister and sweet he was. All to a younger version of Oswald, unaware of how devoted his own heart would be to that man, who shut him out. He’s carsick, at a standstill, yet tearing into this young and handsome idiot’s neck with sharp and shaking fingernails.

“Care to repeat that?”

He hears himself talk but his mind is racing, rapidly running to conclusions and mentally ticking off lists of cohorts and enemies alike that could gain from pulling a cruel and frankly insulting honeypot such as the one that trembles under his white knuckle grasp. One that stutters and gasps for breath like a caught fish.

“That was me being facetious, I heard what you said, you dithering, dim-witted dolt.” With a crack and a cry, he stands, trembling with rage over his recently former, broken-nosed employee. Oswald replaces the pistol he’d bludgeoned the man with back into his side strap. He doesn’t need this to be over too soon. Oswald pulls a switchblade from his waistcoat, the steel releases with a slick click. Bumbling in sobs, the man beneath him curls in on himself. This so-called man begs Oswald. For what, Oswald doesn’t care. He could barely make out what the fool was saying and barely paid any mind to waving away the guards that had burst into his office at the sound of trouble. The sound of his office door thunks closed and he begins pacing around the fetal man.

“Please, Mister Penguin! I don’t know what I said to make you think-!” Oswald raises his voice to drown out the begging, “Of course, you would just happen to stumble upon the exact words spoken to me 18 years ago!” Not that anyone’s counting.

Oswald gasps, “I knew it!” Oswald’s leg jumps in angry ticks. “Oh he thinks he’s so clever!” Oswald laughs and leans back down, tapping the blade of the knife, mockingly considering, against Hugh’s cheek, dangerously close to his eyes. “You know, now that I think about it, Scarecrow spent 10 of those years with the Riddler, himself!”

“I would-dn’t kn-now!”

“Hush now. Hugh, right?” Oswald moves the man’s face up with the tip of his knife. Hugh nods against the cold steel.

“You studied psychology at GSU, did you not?”

“I-I did, Mis-ter Peng-guin.”

“Good boy.” Oswald crouched through the pain shooting through his leg to hold onto Hugh’s sniveling face. Knife held firmly against his stretching neck, “You’re a little young to be a pupil of Gerald Crane, aren’t you?” He mused, mockingly tilting the man’s blemished face to and fro under the faint, blue light from the windows behind them.

“I’m not-I don’t know wh-ho-!”

“Oh hush. You’re too young to be a student of his father, but I guess Jonathan really has outshined him in every way, hasn’t he? He's definitely gathered a much larger cult following compared to that quack father of his, wouldn’t you say?”

“N-No!” Hugh yelled, thrashing his face from side to side, nicking his own neck against Oswald’s knife. Oswald tuts at the display and releases his face but not his neck.

“Oh? You don’t agree? That’s rather harsh.”

“I don’t know!” Big brown eyes, shot red with frightfully lackluster tears, pitifully sought out Oswald to no avail.

“Now, don’t pretend you don’t know the infamous Scarecrow! I have no use for those that take me for a fool.” Oswald slid the knife against his throat, missing arties but bleeding him pointedly. “You know him, correct?”

“Yes! I do!”

“Oh good then we can stop dancing around the subject.” Oswald pushed his good knee into Hugh’s sternum, holding him to the ground under his weight as he pushed the blade into the underside of his trembling jaw, wet with tears and blood. “What did he send you to me for?”

“No, please!”

“I invade one little territory that, mind you, once belonged to me anyhow, and he sends a honeypot to, what? See the contents of my desk drawers? I’m sure you’re very aware of how tightly sealed all of my drawers happen to be.” Oswald chuckled ruefully.

“I was just supposed to be a distraction!” The man yelped as Oswald dug the knife into the soft palate.

“A distraction? When? Right now?” Oswald chased the blood in the water relentlessly, he slid the knife under the layer of skin, making a pocket of skin and gore that he readily slid his fingers into, jerking him up by the hold he made inside his chin. Oswald felt the rapid movements of Hugh’s tongue at work as he screamed, holding fast. He was just glad he’d removed his gloves for the better grip his bare fingers provided. He’d have to call up his manicurist for an emergency appointment after this was all over.

“Tomorrow!”

“Ah-ha! Where?” 

“The docks! There’s gonna be a shipment near your warehouse!”

“Which dock, which warehouse, boy, I’m not just some street gangster, I own half this city!”

“Warehouse 39! Please! Don’t kill me, please!”

Carmine’s damned Warehouse 39. Oswald slid his fingers out from the man’s chin and rose to his feet with a grunt. He should have gutted that old lab after the WellZyn “Viper” scandal, but it was simply too easy to cut the costs and set up his own shop. Not that he would ever send something as foul as “Viper” on the streets, no. Common party drugs however, sure. He did great business supplying the rich and famous with party favors and nose candy. But here came Gotham, the cruel and irresistible mistress, as she worked on a karmic cycle revolving around him, it seemed. Oswald sighed, watching as Hugh curled into a ball at his feet, kissing the leather with his blubbering lips. Spit, tears, snot, and blood ruining the wingtips, he’d have to call up his cordwainer too.

“I honestly cannot believe Jonathan would recruit a worm like you. I thought his crew were conquerors and masters of fear, yet here you are, quivering like a worm on a hook. What would he say if he saw you now?” Hugh sobbed in response so Oswald continued on. He’d been Oswald’s favorite plaything afterall. He deserved a proper farewell.

“Honestly,” Oswald laughed, “he’d be rather amused at how fearful you’ve been.” Oswald wagged his finger down at him. “I’ll be sure to send the surveillance footage to him.” Oswald slid the knife back into his waistcoat, giving it a final, thankful pat before upholstering his gun. “I truly feel sorry for whatever help he promised you, I don’t think it would have helped one bit.” Oswald hissed with vitriol, pulling the trigger.

Bang. Bang.

Kiss. Kiss.

The shots echoed within his walls and he stood, staring at the lifeless man below him.

The silence echoed within his walls and he stood, staring at the lifeless, cowardly, traitorous, low-life beneath him.

It was some time before he moved. When he did it was to offer a gentle kiss to the back of Hugh’s bloody head.

“Can’t even have any fun in this wretched city.” He muttered, standing and making his way to his desk. His mood leveled out beautifully upon sitting in his plush, leather chair. Relief flooded his leg as his weight was removed and he basked in the brief moment of peace. The silence.

He pressed a button under the desk. His men entered, grabbed Hugh and left. His cleaners entered, clearing the office of Hugh. Lark entered, gave him a kiss on the cheek, picked up his hands and let out a soft tisk . Jay entered, ran her hands soothingly over his shoulders and shook her head as Lark gestured to the caking of his fingernails. Lark spoke softly on the phone to his manicurist as Raven entered. She leant next to him against his desk on lovely, long legs.

“Can’t have any fun, huh?”

Oswald huffed, “You’re telling me.” He finally spoke, addressing his girls, “Call the cordwainer too, he ruined my black and white wingtips.”

“Oh, dear.” Jay commiserated, his lovely girl.

“Ozzie, it’s 4 in the morning in London.” Raven reasoned. Jay sucked air between her teeth, shaking her head at her.

“Mister Chesterfield is seventy years old he is most definitely up at this ungodly hour!” Oswald slapped his hand down on his desk. His girls, even Jay, raised their brows in response. Though he liked to see them as his younglings, they often dared to gang up on him, making him feel like their petulant child. “Well?” He was a petulant old man, and they would do well to remember that.

“On it, boss.” Lark patted his shoulder, soothingly.

“Express shipping.” He gruffed.

Raven snorted but smiled at him when he whipped his head to level her with a glare.

“Of course, boss.” Lark nodded, stepping aside to call a cranky Mister Chesterfield.

“What about plum, this time?” Jay inquired his nails as she brushed soft, young fingertips over his own gnarled hands.

“Absolutely not.” 

“Oh, why not? I think it would look lovely on you!” Jay held fast to his hands as he tried to snatch them away from the foolish girl.

“Plum would be ridiculous,” Raven rallied, “Mulberry would match your new suit trim.”

“That’s what gloves are for my dears.” Oswald rolled his eyes, missing Lark’s rational presence already.

“Too manly for painted nails, Ozzie? I thought you were better than that.” This was it, he was going to finally reduce Raven’s pay until she knew how to be respectful to him, her boss .

“What’s wrong with colorful nails, Ozzie?” Jay jumped in, mirthfully wide-eyed and pointedly wiggling her own painted nails on top of his.

“If you must keep needling away, I’ll have you know that I have no qualms with makeup. In my younger days I would have thought your consideration helpful.”

“Why not now?” Jay poked his shoulder, brows furrowed and outright pouting. His bodyguard. Pouting. He’d really gone soft in his age.

“It would only bring attention to features that need no more attention.” He sniffed, finally pulling his hands out of his wretched girl’s grasp and tucking his hands under crossed arms.

“Don’t start again.” Raven groaned.

“Oh Ozzie, you’re not too old for a makeover!” Jay enveloped him into an unwelcome embrace.

“You look fine, you silly man.”

“Both of you, knock it off!” He barked, batting at Jay’s muscular arms from squeezing him anymore. 

“What’s wrong, boss?” Blessed Lark inquired, sliding her phone away upon her return.

“When will my shoes be here?” He asked over the tittering of Raven and Jay.

“Boss thinks he’s too old and ugly for makeup.” 

“Lark, tell Ozzie he would look grand with painted nails!”

Lark paused, her calm and strong demeanor respectful and deserving of a raise as far as Oswald was concerned. She looked him in the eye, “Your replacements will be here by the end of the week. Mulberry would look great on you, boss.” Damn the rotten lot of them.

Sunday morning found him bleary eyed at his desk, hunched over a map of Gotham’s Dockland. Oswald stretched his feet beneath the desk, brand new and not broken in yet, the new wingtips chafed his tired soles. Should he have paced another hour they probably would have been by now, though he’d only just put them on at the start of his long night turned morning. He tapped a finger against his empty mug absently. Since entering a turf war with Scarecrow, Mad Hatter had decided to throw his hat in the ring. Metaphorically of course, since it had been years since Oswald had seen the top of his head. He’s fairly certain he’s hiding a balding patch, the old bastard. Of course, no one needed to know who that particular rumor came from, he was rather proud of it since Mad Hatter had yet to disprove that rumor. Oswald had prepared of course, the two of them were often a package deal in disagreements. A bitter memory of the two throwing him onto that damned blimp entered his mind, throwing the remaining bits of his present patience to the wayside. He went to take another swig of coffee from his mug to no avail. Slamming the empty mug against the desk, his purple fingertips tap, tap, tapped aggressively. The next hot rumor to hit Gotham’s streets was going to involve the bald and the scary bastards being involved in some twisted affair, he doubted they’d prove that one wrong either, the sick loons. 

“You’re going to mess up your nails, boss.” Lark scolded as she came to fetch his empty mug. He flexed his fingers away from the mug as she slapped his hand.

“Good!” He snapped, viciously, eyes trained on the mug as she spirited it off to the coffee cart Jay perched on.

“I told you two, plum would look better on him! He has more than one suit!” 

“Quiet you, can’t you see, boss is at wit’s end?” Raven ran her hand through Jay’s short bob, fondly snobby, she gave him a glance over her shoulder, “Coffee’s not going to help at this point, you need rest. Your peers are waking up at this hour.” She jutted her chin toward the light entering the office, a rising sun breaking through tall buildings and spilling onto the street below. 

“One more jab at my age and I’ll put you outside with Zsasz.” He growled back, refusing to rub at his tired eyes on principle.

“You wouldn’t separate a flock!” Jay cried, clutching Raven with arms and legs. Lark moved to stand closer to the two, respectfully disrespectful.

Oswald groaned, dropping his head into his hands, sliding his fingers into the thinning hair near his temples. Maybe the hens had a point, his head was pounding and he’d tore enough holes into the sides of his cheek with his itchy teeth. He’s too tired to keep being restless.

Lark, Jay, and Raven all perk up, something has been communicated through their earpieces and they’re alert but relaxed enough that he has to let out an even louder groan.

“Who’s it now?”

Their pinched faces make him laugh.

“Send him up.”

Raven gives him a groan back.

“You can send for my driver,” He interrupts, “I’ll see what Edward has to say and then I’m going back to the manor.” Lark nods, dutifully responding to his doormen over the radio as she moves to stand by the door.

“Where you will rest!” Jay points a stern finger at him. He waves her off with a sneer. She frowns, big eyes wide.

“Oh, seriously, obviously I will rest!” He amends with scorn. Jay and Raven smile, smug as the children they are.

“Perhaps I need to come another time, then.” Edward sweeps into the room like his name’s been added to the lease. He takes his bowler hat off, dipping his head to Oswald’s bodyguards, who have gone petulantly silent, eyes like hawks.

“Tough crowd,” Edward muses with a final glance their way as he approaches Oswald’s desk, “Ever wonder what they must say when we’re not around?” Edward stage whispers with a cocky grin that makes Oswald’s teeth itch even more.

“Oh, they make plenty of a racket for me.” Oswald grumbles into his fist.

Edward’s smile tightened and spoke through pearly teeth, “Lovely, Oswald.” Oswald flushed, indignantly he choked on words,

“Not like that you,” Oswald jabbed the air in front of Edward, “you lecher!”

“Nice. I’m the lecher? At least I don’t sleep with my staff.” Edward closed the distance between him and the desk, leaning over it.

“Leave us!” Oswald shrieks to the women looking on in judgemental silence. They file out slowly and as if to prove a point, each throws their own nasty look Ed’s way. Oswald watches as the door closes softly and huffs out a breath. He whips around to yell at Edward but a different kind of noise leaves his throat as he catches Edward’s bold sweeping gaze up and down Oswald’s flushed and sprawled figure. Seated and looking up into that assessing gaze, his breath catches traitorously. He lets out another choked, aborted attempt at rebuttal before giving up, huffing and leaning back into his chair with childishly crossed arms.

“Well?”

“Nice manicure, by the way, haven’t seen you in any kind of makeup in a while.”

Oswald grunts in response.

“I mean it. It suits you.” Edward’s soft and considering voice did horrid things to his gut. The scar there felt as if it had opened up once more, harbor water flooding his insides with murky sludge. 

“I didn’t see your darling boy, Hugh, when I came in.” Edward broke the silence Oswald didn’t realize they had lingered in. “I was hoping to get a good grasshopper, and I’m certain your other bartenders purposely make the drink wrong for me.” He drawled, a brief glance back to the door and affecting a nonchalance that Oswald saw right through.

“He’s no longer with us.” Oswald checked the paint on his nails, begrudgingly agreeing that the paint looked good there aside from the scars and wrinkles that had settled into each finger, each bloated knuckle.

“Oh ho? Is that so?” Edward leant down, long body folding over his desk like it was no feat at their advancing age. Head in hands, Edward grinned joyfully, “I suppose I’ll miss the grasshoppers but I can’t wait to hear all the sordid details.” His chilling chuckle shouldn’t make Oswald squirm, but he found himself adjusting himself in his chair regardless.

The truth was too humiliating for Oswald to admit to that lecherous face. Though he had faith Edward’s cunning nature and nosy ass would find out eventually, it needn’t be face-to-face like this.

“Let’s just say he tried to open drawers I keep closed.” Oswald said as saucily as his generally conservative nature allowed.

Edward’s eye darted down to Oswald’s lap, roving considerately. He quickly clasped his hands over it, flushed to the roots and ears burning. He really should know better than to test Edward, from the rumors everyone knows he keeps up with, the man is an absolute scoundrel. 

“He got caught with his hand in the cookie jar?” Edward mocked, mirthfully smirking as he settled up on top of his desk, relaxed as if they were about to gossip about affairs like a couple of housewives.

“I will not speak any further of the matter, just know he was promptly dealt with.”

“That’s no fun, Oswald,” Edward leant back onto his arms, frowning at him. “There’s no need to be embarrassed about sex, Oswald, it doesn’t sound like there was any insertion going on so I doubt it’s that scandalous.”

God! Curse this man and his awful mouth!

After a moment of deep breathing and closing his eyes to that wickedly smug face, Oswald exhaled.

“He wanted something I refuse to give anyone, and that is all I will say on the matter, Edward.”

There were the ghosts of thought passing across Edward’s face again. What that man thought about this situation however made Oswald weary, his heartbeat picking up as Edward, still flickering, slid off the desk and stood absentmindedly graceful and absolutely maddening to Oswald’s poor, inflated heart with each step that floated him closer to Oswald’s chair. Edward hung him that moment as he approached, barely blinking, he’d pinned him down with a stare that made Oswald pity the corpses that the man used to stare at everyday. He could tell when Edward’s teeth itched too, but he’d very rarely been on the receiving end of that bite in recent years.

“Edward…” Oswald’s breath escaped him against his better judgment. Calloused hands and long fingers smacked down on the arms of his chair. Edward spun him to face the window. Oswald squinted against the morning light in an attempt to hold Edward’s blank stare. His silhouetted figure remained motionless. Oswald’s heart was skipping beats at dangerous rates, his breathing refusing to calm.

He took a shaky inhale, “Look, Ed, Riddler, you need to back up or I’ll call my bodyguards back in. I’m in no mood to entertain yours.”

“Does your leg hurt?” Edward’s voice was low as he ignored Oswald’s threat. He really meant to follow through with it, instead he found himself answering immediately,

“It always hurts, not so badly in this current moment to kick you with though.” Oswald sneers and does, his leg makes contact with Edward’s shin. Edward’s hands grab him by the front of his vest and hauls him up to his feet mercilessly.

“Guards!” Oswald shouts, shaking head to toe, shaking against Edward chest to toe.

His door slams open as Edward noses next to his ear, hot breath like pins and needles against his skin, “Send them away.”

His hand has gone out against the approach of Lark, Raven, and Jay. They halt immediately but their guns remain fixed on Edward. Edward remains curled against him, breathing steadily as if there aren’t three markswomen aiming his way. He trusts Oswald to send them away, he realizes with a hint of shame. Oswald swallows against a lump that won’t be soothed.

“Apologies, my doves, turns out even the Riddler needs a hug sometimes!” He laughs shrilly. Elegant fingers pinch at his chest.

“Well? Go away!” Oswald gasps out.

His lovely bodyguards remain still, he’s really not selling a vision of safety here, and whether it’s loyalty or an enormous paycheck, they pride themselves on keeping him safe. 

He curses under his breath and wraps his arms around Edward’s back, nose burrowing into the starched green jacket that he valiantly tries not to notice and fails, smells faintly of oil and electricity. Edward shifts his hands from where they’ve bunched up his satin vest, to wrap around his shoulders. Showing off empty hands to his bodyguards and humiliating him further. 

There’s a beat of silence where he doesn’t hear them move, and just as he’s inhaling to yell, the door closes with a quiet click. Neither of the two move. Oswald inhales embarrassingly long against the fabric covering Edward’s chest. He can’t help it. He does it again. Again. Edward’s hands slide down to his back. Then down to the small of his back where they pause, warming him to his core, before sliding to cup his sides. He’s rigid under Edward’s touch, he probably wouldn’t be breathing if he wasn’t so intent on smelling underneath the cologne Edward has dabbed on. He’s a talented craftsman that’s elevated himself to the stage and he smells like it. From the smell of it, the Bat has a hell of a lot in store for him if the hint of kerosene is anything to go by.

“Oswald.” His voice is like gravel and he shivers against Edward like some dame. He pulls his face from Edward’s chest, committing the smell to memory as he meets Edward’s gaze. He’s infuriatingly blank. Oswald is infuriatingly in love with him even when he offers nothing to Oswald. A true novelty. He swears those eyes soften though, and that’s enough to make Oswald’s mouth drop open. A reverent old fool in love, it’d be sad if there wasn’t a long cast aside hope flickering to light again in his bones. He’s warm in this embrace, he doesn’t want it to end, he’s been cold for so long.

“Can I kiss you?” Edward mutters out, eyes cast to his dumbly open mouth. Oswald closes his gape, icy cold and so very, very hot all at the same time. His ears are ringing. He can’t breathe so he opens his mouth again and a, “Yes,” falls out.

One of Edward’s hands leave his side, cupping his jaw, closing his dumb mouth for him in one fell swoop before touching his own mouth to his. A gentle pressure, testing. It’s still and unromantic but it feels like Oswald is standing naked before him. Edward’s lips are chapped and catching on a scar on Oswald’s lips. It’s all Oswald wants for the rest of his life. And then Edward is pushing firmly against Oswald’s mouth, boyishly charming even at his age. Oswald lets out a chuckle that is taken advantage of. All of a sudden, the kiss is too wet and too sloppy and Edward kisses like a dog.

Oswald barks out an incredulous laugh, grabbing Edward by the face and pulling him back, “No offense but you’re reminding me of my other Edward.”

Edward tries to jerk back but Oswald’s not letting him go now, “How am I not supposed to be offended at you thinking I kiss like your dog?”

Oswald’s laugh is light and breathy as he gazes fondly at Edward’s furrowed brow, his scrunched up nose, his downturned mouth, beautiful as their corners catch on the morning light from behind. He’s glowing like an angel, and he’s just as righteously cruel as one.

“My sincerest apologies, Edward, I’m not used to kissing with tongue is all.” He lies with golden tongue.

“What about Hugh?”

“I have a rule against kissing staff.” He responds smugly.

“But not against having sex?” Edward scoffs softly. Oswald smirks in response and slowly pulls Edward back down. 

“Slowly, if you please.” He murmurs against Edward’s lips. They meet softly once more. Its innocence is truly something wretched for the two of them. He feels Edward soften against him and he feels his body soften in response, hands sliding down from Edward’s face to his tie. He’s wringing his hands with it as his head gets lighter and lighter. He sighs against Edward’s mouth as it moves gently, inquisitively. He sighs again and Edward grabs his face, keeping him there, separating their mouths. He’s breathing sharply, then deeply through his nose, eyes closed, Oswald grants him the moment, taking his own to notice Edward’s high cheekbones behind his glasses, the way they’ve hallowed his face even more over the years. His nose used to slope so perfectly, now it’s notched to the left and slightly rounded in the middle and Oswald adores it even more. He can’t stop the buzzing in his head that urges him on so he kisses that crooked nose.

Edward huffs through his nose in response. Oswald will beat himself up for being so sentimental later.

Chafed palms catch on wrinkles he’d earned in his patient waiting for this moment. His eyes are open now, watching Oswald through a microscope. Ed’s fingers push into the crinkles around his eyes and he’s never felt so happy to have them, circular motions that feel so loving, so longing. Was he searching for the face he’d known when they first met? A face 18 years younger? It was laughable and so he did laugh.  A chuckle that would’ve sounded more appropriate had Ed’s hands been around his throat rather than tenderly rubbing at his face.

“Not the reaction I would have anticipated.” Edward muttered absently, as if the answer was somewhere in the texture of his skin rather than on his tongue.

“I’m old.” Oswald laughed, he felt looney, off his rocker. The plush carpet beneath his soles had, at some point, turned to a puddle he was sinking into. Sinking more and more at an increased rate now. Oh how Edward’s tall stature grew impossibly more, haloed by the rising sun.

“Oswald!” Edward would break a spell like that so crudely, Oswald thought fondly as his knees shook, bent and brushing the carpet.

Oswald laughed harder at the realization that he’d buckled at the knees. Edward tightened his grip around his arms and it hurt deliciously. It mustn't have been easy for Edward to pull him back up to his feet, because he didn’t help him at all, laughing all the way back up.

“Oswald, really!” Edward grunted, pulling him back up and fully flush to his chest, one hand to his back for steadying and one hand to his face to study. “What’s gotten into you?”

“God, you have!” Oswald accused, eyes stinging, hands balling up Ed’s lapels.

“Getting a little ahead of yourself, Oswald,” Edward muttered, as he flipped his hand over to check Oswald’s temperature. Flushing and indignant, Oswald battered his hand away,

“Edward!”

“What? You said it.” Edward raised that dastardly brow of his much to Oswald’s chagrin. He stuttered and tittered, flushed to his roots as he pushed off and away from Ed’s chest. Cold rushed up his body where heat had once been, and just like that, he felt like the old fool he was. 

A played old fool.

“What is this?” He stepped back, weak knees dropping out from underneath him once more and he crashed into the desk behind him. Edward lurched forward with a hand that was instinctively slapped away.

“What is this?” His voice was quivering and rising in volume. Edward withdrew back into himself, even in the face, Oswald watched in sick fascination as his face closed off and his eyes darkened, the way they always did before he tore out Oswald’s heart.

“What do you mean?” Edward stood, back straight, shadows of light playing over his face in a way Oswald mused matched the neurons firing in that insufferable skull as they planned out a multitude of lies and escape routes at once until they settled on the very best one. Edward took a step forward. Oswald reached for a paperweight. Edward paused, more thought. Oswald clenched the obsidian robin under white-knuckled fingers.

“Surely I don’t have to explain a kiss to you, Oswald.”

“Yes! You do!” Oswald jabbed his free fingers at Ed. “What is all this for, huh? What do you want?” Cold hit his gut like a punch, “I should have known!” He gasps against his shattering heart. “You visit at the same time as Scarecrow tries to distract me!” Oswald’s screaming, lent forward from the force of it breaking through his chest in sudden, sick realization.

“What? Oswald-!”

 He sees the door to his office crack open and throws the paperweight, a bird of stone breaking against the door in a powerful crash,

“I’m fine!” He’s so shrill, it’s barely legible, but the door closes dutifully nonetheless. He spins on his heel and limps close to Edward, menace and desperation in his gait, “We are fine, aren’t we, friend!” Oswald grins with sharp, yellowed teeth, teeth that know how to bite back. “A fine couple of villains! Well? What are you being offered?” Oswald inquires.

“For what?”

“Why, for working with Scarecrow, of course, silly! What was it, huh?” A pause offered so minuscule in faux charity; Oswald’s mouth always worked faster than Edward’s. “Funding for your next caper? Parts for another silly trap? Amusement?” 

“Oswald, shut up!” Edward took him by the shoulders and pushed him back into the desk in quick, unrelenting steps. Oswald grunted as the small of his back popped against the desk, arms reaching back wildly for another object to bash Ed’s skull in with. Long, serpentine arms forced his own down, tightening with a strength he’d never accredit their owner with. He paused, gasping, mouth wet from spit he’d spewed like a rabid dog.

Taking the moment he’d earned, Edward cleared his throat, “Oswald, I’m not working with Crane. I don’t know what’s happened between you and him and I’m insulted that you think I would need Crane to help me!” Edward would of course be most insulted by the insinuation of being anything but a lone, genius, wolf. “As for amusement, I can get that anywhere except from here! Of course you wouldn’t be aware of this, but most people can share a kiss without being accused of deceit!”

And just like that, he could feel that click in his brain. A gun ready to fire.

“We’re not most people, Riddler.” Calm in the assurity that Edward was in fact hiding something. Though Scarecrow probably wasn’t involved, there was something Ed wanted in offering that kiss. Oswald wasn’t even religious but he felt marked by a damning kiss in that moment, lips burning. Oswald deflated against the desk and into Edward’s grip. After a moment of searching Oswald’s stoic face, Edward relaxed with him.

“Did you sleep with Hugh because he looks like me?”

“What?” Oswald hissed, “What does that have to do with this! You’re a smart man, Edward Nygma, what do you think!”

“You’re not denying it.” Edward persisted.

“Because it’s obvious, Edward! Yes!” Oswald kicked out at Edward’s ankles, gaining space, “I’ve been hopelessly in love with you for over a decade and you have been aware of that fact!”

God he was shaking, had the city been hit by a hurricane in the time between Edward entering his office and now? The ground was moving, the walls were shaking, he swore he heard rattling and wind rushing by at impossible speeds. The pounding was no longer just in his head, it was rising from the ground, buried feelings bursting through rotten wood and unearthing with an unholy hunger.

“No. You don’t.” Edward’s voice is a bomb going off in Oswald’s head. He’s losing his left eye this time, his entire vision is going dark.

“Yes! I do! Quite frankly, I don’t know what else will prove it at this point without me dying again for you!” Oswald wailed against the relentless force that was Edward in this standstill.

“Have you replaced him?”

“Edward!”

“You say you love me, you don’t. Obsessed, maybe, but you can’t love, Oswald.” Edward says it like a fact and Oswald would give anything to rip his chest open and let Edward drown in the emotions that have threatened to drown him for years . “People that love each other don’t do these things. It’s perverted. Corrupted. It’s not love, you just can’t stand that there will always be one last thing you’ll never have.” Oswald wishes he’d complete the cycle and shoot him in the gut, let him bleed to death here in his gilded office rather than hear another word from this insufferable man.

“It’s so convenient for you, Edward, isn’t it? That I’m always the villain?” Oswald laughs bitterly and sucks his lip, he splits it under his mashing teeth, he’s tired of holding back for the sake of friendship, but if this is how the other man feels about him then there’s no more use in keeping up a waltz with a corpse.

“You’re sleeping with your staff, Oswald!”

“What the hell are you talking about, Ed! How do my private encounters affect you in the slightest?” Oswald laughed disbelieving, “I mean honestly, what business of yours is it to take offense?” 

“It’s all I can think about, damn it!” Edward throws his arms up.

“Well that sounds like a personal problem you really need to work on!” Oswald flailed his arms in exasperation, he couldn’t understand Edward in this moment. Everything from the kiss to this idiotic argument had unmoored Oswald to the insufferable riddle this man was.That at least seemed to give Edward pause for a moment, whatever retort he’d been ready to yell out, died in his open mouth that quickly snapped shut. Breathing harshly, Edward’s face lost all semblance of emotion once again and it frustrated Oswald to the point of tears in a moment like this.

“I’m so tired, Ed,” Oswald’s voice broke but he soldiered on, “I’m lonely, and I’m sorry if that bothers you, but it’s simply none of your business!” Tears broke free finally, ones Oswald briskly and aggressively rubbed away as he took a shaky breath in the resounding silence from Edward. “It shouldn’t affect you at all, we’re friends, if anything, you should be happy that I’ve been trying to move on!”

“Well I’m not!”

“Why!?”

“You say you’re in love with me and then you go parading around with these whores!”

Oswald sucked in a gasp, feeling all color drain from his face, “Edward.” He admonished, disbelieving and cold, this wasn’t right, nothing was going right in this moment. More things were crashing. More howling. The ground was shaking. It was all him. Papers are on the ground. Crystal tumbler and matching decanter shattered.

“Newsflash, Ed, you’ve made that abundantly clear! You don’t love me, I know! But how dare you be upset that I might move on from loving you! What, you want me to condemn myself to a life utterly alone? That’s what you think I deserve?” Here it was, Oswald wasn’t foolish enough to think it would never happen, he just wished it wasn’t, “Well I probably will be,” Oswald laughed, an errant molten tear making its way into the corner of his mouth. He caught it on his tongue, “Whatever you think is going on is probably wrong. Don’t worry friend, I’m sure I’ll die all alone and unloved! Congrats, Ed! You win! As always!”

“No!”

“What do you mean no?”

Edward fisted his hair between two fists, letting out a groan, usually Oswald would back down in a situation where Edward started losing control, but in this moment he couldn’t. Edward paced away and back to Oswald in quick, erratic strides, stopping just inches in front of Oswald. His previously shifting eyes now honed in directly on Oswald’s, as intimidating as it was, Oswald held his ground, gazing back unflinchingly even as he willed the silent tears to dissipate into the frigid air.

“No, what, Ed.” Oswald tried again, quieter but no less intense.

Edward paused like he had to force the rest from between his teeth, “How am I winning in this?”

“We can’t be friends, Ed.” A watery laugh, “I make you uncomfortable, don’t I?” Oswald sighed in exhaustion, turning away from Edward and scrubbing at his treacherous eyes.

“No.” Edward grit between clenched teeth. He struggled, seemingly willing Oswald to put together the parts he wasn’t saying.

But just like that, Oswald did understand. 

“You… are a selfish man, Edward Nygma.” Oswald swiftly held up a hand, silencing whatever rebuttal Edward had. “No. You’ve haven’t and have said enough, friend.” 

Squaring up his shoulders, Oswald’s demeanor shifting like fall into winter. The winds under them were picking up, Edward froze. In the eye of the hurricane, he could not move, only observing as Oswald did what Oswald has always done better than anyone in Gotham, in Edward’s life. He laid him bare of all dramatics, flairs, and airs. He laid before him Edward Nygma. Judge’s hammer echoing around them. His words were fast and vicious.

“I’ve known you for eighteen long years, Edward Nygma. In all that time you have done nothing but self destructively eat away at anyone who’s ever tried to get close to you. Now I know I have done wrong by you. And I’m sorry, Ed.” Oswald let out a breath, closing his eyes and he hoped Edward saw the curtain dropping on the stage they had long danced on, the curtain call, “It’s quite sad, honestly, how starved you are for attention. You pick people up like toys and shake all the intellectual stimulation you can get out of them and then you get bored.” Like lightning, malicious glee lit up Oswald’s face, manic anger covering up bleeding wounds that were cut far too deep to keep contained now.

“I’m all you have left. I’m the only person who will ever see you for who you are and who can match you at every turn. Because we compliment each other. You wouldn’t still be here after all these years if we didn’t. And yet! You’ve been so stuck on finding extensions of yourself in the past that I’m almost tempted to say that you’re just repressed, but ten long years in Arkham is too long for someone as brilliant as you to not have spent your time analyzing everything over,” Oswald stepped forward, “and over,” another step and his shiny leather wingtip shoes brushed against those awful gaudily, glittery dress shoes, “and over again.” Oswald hissed in his face, breath brushing up to Edward’s quivering chin. He felt his teeth respond in nervous vibrations with every venomously spat word. He felt right. He felt wrong. He felt vindictive.

“I know now that you know you need me just as much as I’ve needed you, and it’s so sad. That rather than admitting it you would rather keep me tied to you in hopeless hope rather than allowing whatever we might have to come to light.”

A sharp finger dug into Edward’s chest and he could feel the path it would take to impale his rapidly beating heart.

“Because you’re a coward! You don’t want anything to change so you keep me hanging on, knowing damn well what you’re doing all these nights you keep me occupied in your company. I can’t have anything that isn’t you, but you wouldn’t even grant me your affections in return.”

Silence. Or it would have been if there wasn’t the cacophony of destruction ringing in Oswald’s ears. It poured in the space of his cracked ribs and bleeding heart. His skin was vibrating with panic, and yet with the clearest voice he was able to speak finally,

“You’re still one of Gotham’s Rouges, you may still use the Lounge for information and trades, should you require any funding you may take it up with my booker.”

“Oswald-”

“You will not visit me or my office uninvited, that’s not to say I will not see you, but you will need to make an appointment with my staff ahead of time.”

“Oswald stop-”

“In fact, I believe you are on borrowed time here, Mr. Nygma. Unfortunately, I am a very busy man and I have other appointments to keep, so if you don’t mind, my guards will be seeing you out now.”

“What? No! Oswald, just listen to me, you never-!”

“Guards!” Oswald screeched.

“On it, boss man, one break-up clean-up crew right this way.” Raven drawled, sauntering in on quick and steady strides, flanked by her two muscles, Jay and Lark. Edward immediately began backing away from the women he’d mocked what surely was a lifetime ago. Oswald’s previous exhaustion hit him in excess, he slid into his office chair with leaden limbs.

“Move it, Romeo.” Raven wagged her gun in Edward’s face.

Edward sought out Oswald again, yelling his name even as Jay and Lark each took an arm and began forcibly dragging him out, followed by Raven as she kept her gun in Edward’s face. He’d sure she’s imagining pulling the trigger, but that wouldn’t do.

“Remove him from the premises alive.”

“Boss didn’t say unharmed.” Lark muttered as the door closed behind them.

Oswald dropped his heavy head into his shaking hands. He’d just closed his eyes when a thunderous crash shook his office.

Edward crashed backwards through his office door as if thrown.

Oswald was on his feet now, a second rush of adrenaline pumping through his tired veins.

“What’d you do to my girls? I told you to leave!” He barked as Edward righted himself, reaching for his own gun.

“You’re under attack, Oswald.” Edward approached in quick, long steps, “We need to go.” 

Chapter Text

“Unhand me, Edward!” Oswald struggled against the harsh tug on his arm. Edward constricted further in response,

“It’s Scarecrow.” He says like that’ll make Oswald give in to his tugging.

“I knew you were working together!” Oswald ripped himself from Edward’s grip, his face pained and disgusted at the accusation.

“Damn it all, Oswald, I’m not working with him!” Edward ducked from Oswald’s punch, gripping onto the thrown out arm and utilizing his momentum to pull him forward. Crashed against his chest, Oswald snarled, all spit and gnashing teeth. With one arm locking down Oswald’s, Edward gripped the other in the neck of Oswald’s shirt, craning his neck uncomfortably and pointedly as he loomed further over him. Two hunting animals locked in a violently winding embrace. A mockery of the gentle kiss they’d shared in this very spot moments ago. Edward lingered in the moment with Oswald, more disgustingly right than it should have felt. This is what they were made for, not tender embraces. 

Oswald lurches forward, teeth first and raging, bloodshot eyes locking onto Edward’s sneer. They’re kissing again, if either could call it that on their respective ends. Oswald is ripping into Edward’s bottom lip as if he could mark him with a mirroring scar. Edward is breathing harshly, huffing steam into Oswald’s face. He’s shoving his way in closer to Oswald, closing in on frontlines and forcing a retreat of Oswald’s gnawing teeth. Sharp hips dig their way into Oswald’s gut, excavating. The kiss is wetter, it’s more than spit, it’s slick with blood and he’s sucking in Oswald’s lips to chase the taste. There’s tongue again and Oswald allows it. Retaliating and fighting for his own dominance and shoving his own tongue as far as he can reach. He hopes to lick the back of Edward’s throat, to eat him from the inside out, to be the one that makes him gag and fight for air. Choking as he’s being choked. Teeth bite down and Oswald howls into Edward’s mouth as he holds him there inside a Cheshire grin. Edward releases the choking grip on his neckline and arm, instead locking around his wide back, nails digging into his jacket, tearing. They’re so flush, Oswald feels like he’s absorbing Edward into the pulp and flesh of his body. He’s sucked further into Edward’s mouth, tongue released and he groans in relief. 

“Tell me you have an escape route to get out of here.” Edward hisses into his mouth, raw lips rubbing against his own. It’s revolting how wet his chin is. Mollified only by the sick pressure of the man against him and how wet he is in return. He no longer cares if this is a further deceit. If this is a trap, then he’s victorious in his humiliation. He's dragging Edward to hell with him because he can feel how affected he is. If Edward isn’t ashamed then neither is he.

“Yes.” He’s growling into Edward’s mouth, it’s slack and then rigid in a manic laugh as he follows Oswald’s pushing assault, backing him across the room.

Flush against the wall adjacent to the door, Edward’s breath leaves him and Oswald is there to suck it all in.

“I’ll always be your biggest weakness, Oswald.” He laughs as Oswald pushes in on a mahogany plank that lifts up into a locked handle.

“The only one you’ll ever kiss.” Oswald grunts in lieu of responding to that as he shoves a hand between their writhing bodies to fetch a key from his inner suit pocket. They need to stop, but Oswald can barely reason why. “The only one you would ever risk ruining your hard earned title for.” Edward teases, he lounges back against the trick wall, and what a stunning imp he is. It’s pink, the mixture of blood and saliva that he luxuriates in, clothes disheveled and ruined. Oswald’s mad with a passion that lights up his chest and floods his brain with smoke. As foggy as this man is making him to the world around, something clicks. Oswald is suddenly aware that he knows. He knows that Oswald thinks this is a trap and he knows that Oswald would allow himself the injustice to keep this moment. He knows Oswald so insufferably well he might as well have already known this would be where they would be from the moment he was thrown back into the office with him. Oswald’s hand tremors, the key scratches embarrassingly around the lock before slotting into the mechanization. He hasn’t stopped growling and grunting like a rabid beast since Edward kissed him for real.

“Is that what it was about?” Oswald pauses before turning the key, “You just wanted to prove that if no one else, I would kiss you?”

“Yes!” Edward yells out, pulling Oswald back into him. Oswald is about to prove home right again when the door to his office bangs open.

“Well, well.” Ice shoots down Oswald’s back, though he remains motionless. He really has no one to blame but himself, they wasted so much time on this ill advised dalliance. He’s also mad at Edward for forgetting himself as well, he was supposed to be the smarter of the two. Or so he’s claimed. He’s glaring lacklusterly at Edward, who’s wide eyed and smaller than he was not thirty seconds ago. Canisters clank and rattle together as boots thunk on the ground in heavy, slow, predatory steps.

“Scarecrow! It’s a little past your bedtime isn’t it?” Edward crowed. Scared shitless and yet still mouthing off. Oswald rolls his eyes to the heavens.

“Good one, maybe you want to go ahead and personally ask for a hit of fear gas, you dodo!” Oswald whispers through his teeth. 

“Oh good thinking, Penguin!” Edward grins and pulls back, “He says he can get one of his bartenders to fix you some warm milk downstairs, helps with bad sleep.” 

Oswald slowly drops his hands to display a lack of threat, though he wishes he could use them to throttle Edward. Maybe that would put him and Scarecrow in good graces. Better graces. It probably wouldn’t do him any good, he’s well and truly fucked if he’s being honest.

“Shut up, Nygma.” Crane’s voice is deep, he sounds pleased, Oswald knows he must be. Oswald knows he’d be very pleased to get the drop on a target in such a vulnerable position. Other than the deep breathing Oswald can hear behind him, Scarecrow goes silent. Oswald turns around slowly, obediently. Crane’s head is cocked to the side, the holes inside his mask are lit up from the rising sun. His eyes are lidded, a calm man. It terrifies Oswald. They both know he’s at Crane’s mercy.

“Mr. Crane. I assume you’re here because of our business on the docks.” For every terrifying moment Oswald has been thrust into, for every big bad he’s faced down with, he’s grateful because his voice does not sound as scared as he is. He’s a respected figurehead of Gotham’s underground and a veteran of this city.

“I was. Now I’m curious.” He drawls out, letting it seep into the air. A room that was on fire now drenched in ice.

“What could be more curious than discussing the matters of Warehouse 39, my friend?” Oswald lowers his arms, relaxing them into his pockets. “Other than, perhaps, that Wayne Chemicals shipment scheduled for tomorrow morning?” Oswald takes Scarecrow’s silence as encouragement to keep talking, “I do wish you’d have just come to me, friend. If I had known you were looking to cinch that boat of goodies, I’d have had no problem at all in you borrowing my lab there.”

“At a price.” Scarecrow added, bored.

“A price that pays for some good bat repellent, if you will.” Oswald tipped his head, a gracious business man. “My docks-men would have looked the other way and my muscles would have unloaded the shipment and delivered them straight to Warehouse 39, where you and yours would be able to operate uninterrupted, of course.”

“Riddler left.” Oswald whirls around to indeed find that Edward is gone, the key he’d left in the lock gone as well. “As for the shipment,” Oswald startles, Scarecrow is at his back, “I’m sure me and mine will manage.” Scrambling to put distance between them, Oswald throws his back against the wall, arms held aloft.

“The warehouse! You can have it! You needn’t do anything rash, my friend!”

“Like I said, I’m sure we’ll manage,” Crane lifts his arm, Oswald looks down a loaded canister at the end of his glove, “I’m more curious to see how you manage, Penguin.”

A sinister click and hiss is the last thing Oswald hears before his brain is on fire.

His office is flickering in and out of view. He can smell Gotham harbor. He tastes mist and tears on his tongue. Oswald frantically rubs at his face, his eyes, he’s coughing and coughing trying to cough the gas out of his lungs but he’s already gone. 

The dock creaks with the light tide.

Scarecrow is no longer aiming his canister at him. It’s Edward aiming a gun to his chest. His Edward. Greying temples and sunken in face. How many times can they do this? How could he bring him back here?

“Edward?” Oswald’s voice is hoarse.

“When will you get it through your brain, Oswald?” Edward cocks the gun, “I don’t love you.”

Bang.

He’s toppling backwards. He braces for the cold murky waters to swallow him once more. When his back breaks, it’s not water, he dents the metal of a red car. There’s shattered glass surrounding him from where his back has broken the windshield and there’s a blinding red light blinking, blinking. A train’s horn is blaring, getting closer and closer. The locomotive is barreling its way toward him and he can’t see it. All he can see is the car he’s strapped to and flashes of red. Isabella’s screaming from inside the car. There’s no way out of this and he knows it because he had the brakes cut himself. He’d seen them himself when Edward, outraged, had shown him in the aftermath.

“Would you die for love?” She screams from behind him in the driver’s seat, cackling in the rushing wind. “I did.” Her face is a mess of gore, eye dripping from where her skull had broken against the steering wheel before the rest of her had broken against the train. She laughs as he yells out fearfully, but no amount of “stop,” or “no,” slows them down and now he sees something other than red. The bright yellow light of the train as it hurtles toward him. The horn overrides the insane cackling of Isabella till it vibrates his skull, he’s going to die.

“Oswald!” Edward sounds worried.

“Oswald!” He spits his name like mud as he comes to on the hood of the car again. It’s already been wrecked and they’re in the dim warehouse. Edward grabs him by the face, “I don’t love you.”

“But I do!” Oswald chokes out, “I do love you!” 

“No! You don’t!” Edward loses control and smacks him with the back of his hand. There’s iron in his mouth again. Edward grabs him again, grimacing when his hand is wet by the tears Oswald is crying.

“Say hello to your parents for me.” Edward’s face is close, the barrel of acid looms above. It’s not the same rudimentary one from before, there’s no rope, just gears and infernal question marks painted over the metal, scraps that say Property of the Iceberg Lounge. He pulls back, remote in hand. Oswald can now see his mother and father are standing beside him. His mother’s face is grief-stricken. His father looks aghast, “He dumped me in a dumpster,” His father’s eyes widen, large and alien like, his mouth stretching, a crude Jerome-esque smile, “I wonder where he’ll dump you.” 

Edward laughs in response, his mouth is wide and wicked too. There’s the familiar sight of blood on his lips. His father joins in, laughing like a broken sink disposal. His mother politely hides giggles behind her hand, casting her eyes away in embarrassment. Stretched out on top of this car wrecked by his own hand, he is humiliated. His parents would be disappointed in him.

“If you think that’s funny, wait till you see this!” Edward clicks a button on the remote and the barrel tips over, a wave of acid rains down.

Oswald gasps. He’s in an old tub that scratches the itch of a memory he desperately tries to bring to the forefront of his mind.

“Water. An easy enough solution, well, solvent really.” Edward chuckles to himself tiredly. It’s Ed’s old tub, the one he used back on Grundy Street. He’d heard word that Edward had been seen back at the old apartment, he didn’t think he’d be so bold. Though it has been over a decade, not many would remember this place. Oswald does though, he thinks of the time spent here frequently.

“Edward?” Hesitant, Oswald’s voice is grating to his own ears. He’s waiting to be pushed back into the tub, to be waterboarded or something else horrible to happen.

Edward pauses running a wet rag over his face. He says nothing at first, just rinses the rag under the faucet and brings it back to smack wetly against his neck. Oswald shivers and is aware of his nudity. He’s too exhausted to protest.

“I thought you hallucinated your mother on Crane’s formula.” Edward breaks the silence, frowning at the wet cloth that rubs circles under his ear, he’s refusing to look Oswald in the eye and he can’t blame him. He’s made an absolute fool of himself today.

“Back at Arkham I did. I’ve long since made peace with my mother’s death. You helped me.”

“I tried. I wasn’t sure you ever listened.”

“Eventually, I did.”

“Now I scare you.”

“Nothing scares me more than realizing one day that there is nothing for us, Edward.” He’s tired, he’s been wrung dry by Scarecrow’s fear toxin and there’s no more pride to wear in front of the man who is gently wiping down his naked body with a wet rag. Every scar, his bloated belly and sagging skin, all under Edward’s gaze. He knows Edward had done this before, back when he’d been shot by Tabitha and was feverous from infection. Knows because Edward told him so, his argument being his rancid smell. Back then he was young though. He’s flushing, leaning his head back, stretching the extra skin and fat that hang from the underside of his chin with as much dignity as he can muster. It’s not much but it seems to amuse Edward.

“I had to make sure I got all of the toxin off you.”

“Rather reminiscent of the time you just had to remove all my clothes for a single bullet wound.” He grumbles. Edward laughs, shaking his head as he rubs further down. His ribs are ticklish under the strokes and he twitches.

“I remember you being ticklish here,” Edward teases, “here too.” He brushes down to Oswald’s belly button. 

“Enough!” Oswald sits up, kicking out with his good leg. Edward backs off good naturedly and doesn’t that just make Oswald mad.

“I don’t need your pity, Edward.”

“God, Oswald! It’s not pity, you scared me!” Edward throws the rag back onto the counter. He’s on his feet pacing. Oswald settles back into the tub, more comfortable with their arguing than Edward’s gentle touching.

“I scared you? How ironic, our situation.”

“You’re not young anymore, Oswald.” Edward braces himself on the counter, he’s restless. “I thought you were going to have a heart attack, the way you were screaming and thrashing around.”

“I think you meant we’re not young anymore.”

“Oswald.” Edward’s upset and more so for being uncomfortable with being upset, what a silly man. Oswald huffs out a laugh.

“Apologies.” Oswald sits, folds his hands over his stomach, taps his fingers there. He counts to ten and tries again. “Thank you, Edward.”

Edward doesn’t respond but he didn’t expect him to. The man is a genius when it comes to equations and riddles and labyrinths, but he doesn’t know what to do with himself when it comes to genuine moments. Even though he’s closing in on fifty. Oswald’s given up pretending he doesn’t have a soft spot for him, he’s close to sixty himself and he feels it, he doesn’t have the extra energy to hold it back for Edward’s sake. Maybe another decade will soften Edward out. Just the thought makes Oswald shudder to think of himself turning seventy and going steady.

“I thought you’d left me to Crane.” He redirects.

“One of us needed to be coherent.” Edward shakes his head as if rejecting his own words. He straightens and turns back to Oswald. “Actually, I did plan on leaving you.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“I just didn’t - wait.” Edward holds up a hand, “You don’t blame me?” He’s disbelieving, an eyebrow raised.

Oswald shrugs, head resting back onto his shoulder, “Can’t say I do.”

“You’re so!” Edward growls, pacing once more, “This! This is the problem, Oswald!”

“What?” Oswald groans, shutting his eyes.

“You can’t keep trying to kill yourself to prove a point! That’s not how this works!” Oswald is confused and is fighting sleep valiantly with every passing moment.

“What point am I trying to prove, Ed?”

“That you love me!”

“God.” Oswald groans, he’s honestly over this, left over anxiety from Scarecrow’s toxin threatens to lick up his spine.

“Don’t act like that’s not what you’ve been doing since I told you what love was!” Edward accuses.

Oswald throws his hands up, slaps them back down on his stomach and it ripples back.

“Sacrifice, Oswald! I told you love was about sacrifice, and since then you’ve thrown yourself in front of every bomb since!” Oswald doesn’t have to open his eyes to know Edward is throwing his scrawny arms about. “Don’t deny it!”

“I’m not.”

“Good!”

“I love you, I don’t want to see you hurt.” Oswald reasons factually.

“Stop it!” Edward yells and Oswald knows he’s pushed it. He closes his mouth but doesn’t retract the sentiment. Edward’s huffing and puffing, his feet smacking the tiles. Oswald is quiet, listening to the furious pacing. It’s comforting to know Edward is here with him, that he decided to take care of him. Oswald feels the corners of his mouth tick upwards and his body is fluid, sinking his weight fully against the porcelain tub. He’s barely conscious when the pacing stops. There’s soft shuffling.

“Oswald.” He murmurs near Oswald’s ear. He hums lightly in response.

“I barely got you in here, I need you to get up.” Oswald frowns in rebuttal. “The bed is less than twenty feet from here, come on.” Edward’s grabbing his arm and giving encouraging tugs.

“If I must.” Oswald sighs and opens his bleary eyes. Oswald meets those brown eyes head on. He’s so gorgeous, more so than the priceless faberge eggs Oswald keeps. Edward doesn’t seem like he will so Oswald breaks the spell, using the sides of the tub to lift himself up. Edward offers an arm as he climbs out of the tub. He stumbles a little but Edward is there, quiet and valiantly helpful.

Edward pulls a robe from a hook on the bathroom door and offers to cover Oswald with it. The robe barely covers him but it keeps him from full frontal nudity a second longer so he obliges the slight humiliation and retakes Edward’s arm after the rope is cinched around his waist.

“I can’t believe after all this time, you’re back here.” Oswald leans his weight onto Edward who is graciously accommodating as they slowly meander to the bed. A bed that would be more familiar were it not covered in blueprints, tools, and scrap pieces of what Oswald would fondly call junk.

“I can’t believe after all this time, we’re back here.” Edward laughs airily.

“It is strange.” Oswald hums, lowering himself onto the bed with assistance. He watches as Edward frantically begins clearing off the rest of the bed, quick steps carrying him between tables and counter spaces, all which seemed to have been turned into impromptu desks. In fact it seemed rather any flat surface left in this apartment had become desk space for Edward and his schematics. His chest lurched at the thought, wondering just how Edward was taking care of himself. Compared to the immaculate functionality of this apartment all those years ago, this place seemed barely livable. Where did Edward sleep? Where did he eat? Just how or how well was he accomplishing any of that? Edward’s life revolved around his next heist, the next big show, and he was killing himself to stay in Gotham’s limelight. 

“Edward…” He calls out weakly, unsure of himself, unsure of how to say anything to a man that abhorred the soft things that threatened to erupt from his chest.

“Yes? What’s wrong?” Edward strides back to the bed, leaning beside Oswald in a moment. Oswald flounders, mouth twitching. Edward’s hair has grown out a little and is more wiry than before. He couldn’t blame the man for how he looked because he’s fairly certain the stains and tears in his undershirt are from him having to be manhandled into his apartment and again then into his tub.

“Oswald?” Edward’s hand reaches out, calloused and clinical, sweeping over his forehead and neck. Oswald’s trembling hand catches it and holds on. For every impossible feeling and every impossible thought he feels in the moment, he counts them in every upward brushstroke of his thumb over Edward’s palm. Edward watches, hovers over Oswald, and there’s the air of something blooming again here. It’s too bright in here under the late morning sun, he can’t believe he’s thinking wishfully for the night’s harsh shadows cut by that obnoxious neon green light from the sign outside. He hopes it still shines the same.

“I’m afraid I’m still out of sorts,” Oswald finally chuckles, squeezing his hand apologetically, “would you mind lying down with me?” 

The seconds it takes for Edward to swallow are agony but he nods, succinct and clipped, “Move over.” Oswald is scooting to his old side of the bed immediately, a cool smile on his face. Edward climbs on top of the blankets in his ragged wear as Oswald settles. 

He’s so warm and the cold sheets are so refreshing to his aching leg that he settles, lush against Edward’s stale-smelling pillows. He nearly falls asleep in the brief moments before Edward clears his throat.

“I’m surprised you’re not mad at me.”

Oswald sighs, it seems rest would have to come later still, “For leaving me to Crane’s devices?” There is a twinge of hurt there.

“Yes.” Oswald doesn’t have to open his eyes again to know Edward is sitting straight against the headboard and staring him down like a lab specimen.

“Are you really?” Oswald mumbles, exasperated. “After all that showboating before about being my exception to just about anything, you’re surprised.” There’s a shift in the air and Oswald smiles, picturing Ed whipping his head away from Oswald out of frustration. He’s tired and as far as he’s concerned he’s suffered worse blows and turned out worse for it. Right now he’s next to Ed in the man’s bed, he’s made out pretty well. He can’t even seem to get worked up about his territory on the docks at the moment. He’s not felt this peaceful in bed for a long time. 

“I came back when I heard you scream my name.” If only Ed felt peaceful. “I had thought about leaving you there. I listened to you beg,” He adds and to that Oswald does open his mouth to protest but Edward powers on, “I heard it all, even when he used his fear toxin on you. I know Scarecrow doesn’t like to linger but even so, I considered it.”

“I appreciate you coming back.” Oswald’s voice is soft and strained. They lapse back into silence.

There’s more shifting this time, much more and Oswald is curious enough to open his eyes. Edward’s spine moves under his bare skin as he leans over to lay his undershirt upon the bedside drawer. Oswald watches unabashedly as he fumbles with his belt. Edward cuts his eyes over and catches him staring but says nothing as he slides off his pants. The pants are folded and placed with his shirt. Oswald is alert now but he stays put under the blanket where his fingers are twitching with an urge to touch.

“Guess now we’re even.” As soon as the light joke is out of Oswald’s mouth, he flushes. Embarrassed, Oswald turns his head away, finally breaking his stare and looking to the ceiling. Edward’s weight shifts the mattress and Oswald’s neck is breaking to turn back. He’s moved under the blankets to join Oswald, propped up by an elbow and a hand cradling his own chin as he looks down at Oswald. 

“Not quite.” Edward smirks, casting a glance down, and if that doesn’t just get Oswald hot under the covers.

“Then make it even.” Edward looks pleasantly shocked. He shifts to sit up, arms going beneath the covers. Oswald’s pushing down on his chest with his hands, trying to keep his breathing calm. That all goes out the window when Edward fishes out his briefs, dangling them from his fingers. His grin takes the last of Oswald’s breath away and he chases it, lunging for Edward with degenerate hunger. His legs intertwine with Ed’s under the covers and his hands grip the sides of his face.

Where Edward’s lips were hard and thinned in their volatile kiss earlier, they’re plush and malleable under his own. It feels like they’re allowing themselves something they can’t have anywhere but in this strange dream bubble of Ed’s old apartment. It’s a passion that keeps him moving his lips between caressing Ed’s top lip and then his bottom. It’s passion that has him crawling between Ed’s legs that part so easily under him.

Ed seems just as affected, he won’t stop writhing, rolling his hips against the robe that’s covering less and less of him with every push. 

“Get it off.” Ed shoves at the robe covering Oswald’s shoulder but Edward’s gravelly voice does the opposite of inciting him to move, instead his body is wrecked with shivers and has to duck his head against Ed’s chest to take in a few shaky breaths.

“Fine.” Oswald is on his back, Edward straddling his hips, “I’ll do it.” He’s ripping at the robe’s knot with single minded determination. He’s taking Oswald’s breath away.

“God.” Edward looks down at him, robe undone. The blanket has been cast aside and they’re both exposed. Their chests are heaving, it’s a moment they both take to just look. Oswald holds Edward’s hips down though their thighs are twitching where they’re flush, serpents waiting to strangle. Edward’s hands touch his stomach. They’re tentative only for a breath and then he’s putting his weight into it, hovering over Oswald as he runs his hands over his chest. His fingernails scrape into the scar from his bullet and Oswald lets out a horrible moan. His thumb pushes against the scar on his shoulder and Oswald is harder than he’s ever been.

“Now who’s wasting time.” Oswald growls out, gripping the back of Edward’s neck with one hand and bringing him crashing back down into him. Neither of them can keep their mouths closed enough to be defined as a kiss, but the way they pant into each other’s mouths is enough as Oswald uses his other hand to guide Edward’s hips into working with his own. Edward hardly needs encouragement, soon his erection is grinding violently into his own, bucking intermittently. He’s wild where Oswald is blown away, like floodgates have opened and he’s drowning Oswald in his pleasure. If he’s going to drown, he’s taking Edward with him. Oswald’s thick arms wind around Edward’s back, crushing him to his chest. It makes it harder for Edward to keep his uncontrollable grinding up, but the heavy, sticky weight of him is worth luxuriating in before he rolls Edward onto his back.

Edward’s responding moan is drawn out, his neck stretches as his head falls back into the space between pillows. Oswald can’t have that, he needs to see him, know that he’s being seen. One arm wrangles one of Ed’s legs up, hooking it over his elbow as he drops to grind deep against Ed.

“Oswald!” Edward’s voice is strangled, his head jerking up to watch where their dicks are flush, peeking out from underneath the weight of Oswald’s stomach. His face is pinched, red and purple, and so beautiful. His throat is letting out noises that set fires to Oswald’s nerves, his free hand has to shoot out to grab that throat and crush the noise beneath it. Edward laughs, disbelieving and thrilled under the pressure of his hold. His eyes are alight and looking straight into Oswald, never wavering.  

“You’re mine.” Oswald grits out from between his clenched teeth. Both hands push down, holding Edward to the mattress as he descends unto him. Edward thrashes like he wants to roll Oswald onto his back again, to assume control of their lust again, but Oswald doesn’t let him. Where he felt like humoring Edward before, his patience is lost and he’s hungry, starved and ravenous for him. He won’t let this moment stray from him.

“Settle down.” Oswald orders, teeth against cheek. Edward groans out a laugh,

“Oh, yes, sir.” And if that doesn’t have his hips bucking into Edward. The man throws his free leg up to hook under his waist, utilizing the movement to grind back up into Oswald. His prick is long and thin like the rest of him, and it stabs into his stomach relentlessly. Edward’s breaths stutter out of him with each reckless jab. He’s endearing if a little horrible at this at the same time. It makes Oswald’s heart lurch. With Edward’s leg in the crook of his elbow, he winds his arm underneath his back. His other hand releases Ed’s throat and slides it down, nail catching his nipple, scratching over his belly button, scraping down the wiry hairs. He grabs Edward by the cock and Ed seizes under him in response. Their skin is starting to stick, tacky with sweat as their thighs move against each other. 

“Os! Please!” He pushes dryly against his hold on him. Oswald doesn’t bother asking if the man has stored any lube in this crowded space, not necessarily because he can’t wait but because he’s sure that Edward cannot. Oswald spits down onto his hand and retakes Edward, pulling up as sweetly as he can manage as he bites down into the flesh of his cheek. There’s the blood again. Edward’s hips follow the movement desperately and Oswald wages the war between desires to sink his teeth into Edward’s neck or to watch every twitch in Edward’s expressions under him. He’s going slow, a marionette to his pleasure, he makes Edward dance under him. Oswald rolls against the crook of his thigh, distracted as he watches Edward’s tongue push against his bottom teeth. He’s wet under Oswald’s fingers, dripping, slicking his hold, he clenches his fingers tighter around him.

“Yes!” Edward yells, throwing his weight enough to send the headboard crashing against the wall. He can’t remember the neighbors ever complaining when the two of them tortured Mr. Leonard in this very room, so he’s not too worried about it when he increases the hold he has on Edward and sends him thrashing his weight back and forth again. Edward is dropping affirmatives from his tongue like the drool that’s hitting his cheeks. Oswald drops down and licks across his mouth from cheek to cheek. Edward’s hands shoot up from where they’ve been uselessly scrambling against him, against the sheets and pillows. Edward grabs him by the face, fingers at his temples and curling behind his ears. He’s pulling him forward and kissing him deep between breathy moans. It’s so wet where he touches Edward, his mouth, his skin, his cock. He’s been so focused on Edward this whole time that it’s surprising when he finds himself teetering on the edge of release with Edward’s tongue lapping into his mouth.

“Ed!” He gasps out, spilling into the crook of his thigh, stuttering thrusts taking precedence over jerking Edward off.

“Oh, god.” Edward whispers out. He’s frantically grabbing Oswald’s hand with his own and forcing his grip around his dick. He’s shaking and releasing as Oswald grips him too tightly in turn. Oswald pumps his hand with the last of his energy, letting Edward ride out his orgasm. Edward shies away from him when it’s too much and Oswald’s hand lingers too long.

“Bastard.” Edward laughs, exhaustion in his tone, and runs his hand over Oswald’s wrists to cease his infernal teasing. Oswald hums, dastardly pleased and takes the hand into his own. He drops Edward’s thigh from his hold before he drops his weight down, laying partly on Edward as he holds onto his hand. He’s begging this moment not to slip by him but his head is fuzzy with exhaustion and release. His eyelids are heavy velvet curtains, closing.

“Thank you.” His gentlemanly manners hit him on the edge of sleep. Edward chuckles in response and Oswald can feel it between the man’s heaving breaths. He’s asleep before there’s a response if there even was one.

The next thing he knows, he’s coming to under neon green light. There’s rapping from the door. It’s the dead of night and it’s cold and the bed is empty beside him. There’s more rapping from the door. He’s heavy against the mattress, he wishes he could sink further into it.

“Boss? You in there?” He hears Raven yell against the door. She’s worried, he knows his girls must be worried. He can’t move though. His mouth won’t make a sound. He stares out the window beside the bed, stares out into that green light and curses himself for forgetting his place in life. The man who could get anything but love. He’s silent even as the locked door is picked open and his girls burst through. They’re noisy until they aren’t. He’s been tucked into the bed but he’s still naked underneath. Usually he’d be more reluctant to let the girls near him like this, but when Jay crawls on top of the bed behind him and curls around him, he allows it. He blinks away feverish tears and attempts to clear his throat as they all join him on Edward’s bed.

“We were so worried about you, Ozzie.” Jay murmurs to his back.

“We looked everywhere, every safe house and even went looking for Scarecrow.” Raven agrees, she lays across from him on her back, watching him with stern eyes, one of them is swollen and cut.

“Then some street kid delivered us a riddle.” Lark sits at his feet. She holds up a green envelope with a large, black question mark drawn onto it.

“Four hundred and one men and a woman with child, doubled in size as they make their way to Soloman, where their king lied.” Lark recites, the corners of her mouth are bitterly turned down.

“Asshole.” Raven tacks on.

Jay hugs her arms around him, “Come on, Ozzie, let’s get you home.” She squeezes.

He pats her hand, sighing through his nose.

“Give me a moment, my doves.”

They settle around him, birds in a nest bathed in green light. They lie with his melancholy, making it their own. He’s grateful but doesn’t have the words to say so. They stay in this nest regardless.

Chapter Text

When they move from the bed it’s quiet. Oswald bunches the sheet around him and seeks out his clothes in the bathroom. They’ve been hung up to dry over the shower rod, though the toxin has been drenched in water, it lingers as a yellowed stain on the lighter trim parts of his suit. He changes back into it while Lark calls for the car. When she says it’s for the manor he interrupts,

“No, we’re going back to the Lounge.” He’s stern in his direction and Lark acquiesces, though he knows they must all want to head home. He doesn’t have the time for any more rest by the look of the late hour. Scarecrow has no doubt set up on his territory in the dockland. It’s about time for the Penguin to sweep the rug out from under his feet. 

“Call Zsasz and have him assemble Firefly and Freeze.” He buttons up his shirt with steady fingers. “While you’re at it, have him call up his markswomen. I want Crane on his knees before sunrise.”

“Yes, Boss.” Lark, Jay, and Raven are all at attention when he exits the bathroom. Their backs are straight and they don’t show any facetious emotions, they’re the best of the best. His girls are soldiers and they know this is wartime. Oswald hesitates as he passes the bed. The girls look away. He rips the quilt from the bed in a quick and quiet fit. It’s folded up over his arm and passed to Jay without a word spoken in the dark room. 

He doesn’t bother closing the door on his way out, they file into the elevator as Lark barks orders into her phone. Jay holds onto the folded quilt like a conquered flag. It is in a way, a stark reminder for him. Something he can hold whenever he feels weak for that infernal man again. Zsasz sounds excited, he so rarely gets the chance to play nowadays and Oswald has worried if he would lose him to his dalliances if he didn’t entertain the man. What a perfect opportunity Crane has offered him. It seems Lady Gotham is turning in his favor again.

They’re out of the building and into his town car, it’s starting to rain. He’s notified that Zsasz has everyone on the move. Oswald instructs Raven to call one of his men to bring out a change of shirt and coat to his office, he’ll change and then meet with his personal militia before sending them dockside. This is easy, this is Penguin. He is a man who gets what he wants and forgets about the tawdry affairs beneath a man of his status.

“You want blood, Boss?” Raven speaks up. There’s something about her that tells him it’s not just Crane on her mind.

“I want Scarecrow on his knees in front of me.” He reiterates, keeping them on task. There’s no need for distractions, even Edward would agree, this is business. This is revenge. This is an eye-for-an-eye, something he’s well acquainted with. It seems it’s about that time again to remind Gotham who runs her streets.

“Then what?” Raven questions, the streetlights and rivulets of rain create streaks across the faces of Jay, Raven, and Lark. Even Jay looks deadly serious.

“Then we remind this city just who the Penguin is. I can’t have other Rogues thinking I’ve grown soft with age.” They nod in unison and he puffs up with pride, in himself but also his flock. He’s built something that won’t be so easy to take down with errant betrayals.

They’re storming into the Iceberg Lounge, his staff is at attention, there’s a limited number of patrons on the floor. Most Gothamites know better than to be on turfs of warring factions. Oswald doesn’t mind making some extra money while he takes care of business, it’s their own lives they choose to risk in this city. If they’re only guilty of not knowing, the sentence was still violence. Not his problem. Gotham gives and takes, who’s to shame her if she takes more than her fair share.

Jay, Lark, and Raven break off from him as he enters his office, they line up in front of the doors, waiting as he changes into an untarnished suit. Oswald feels cleaner, more at ease in a suit that Edward never touched, he feels more alert. Without the green menace clouding his brain his thoughts are racing. He watches as the rain continues pelting down his windows, the storm clouds are dense above the city. He decides there’s something missing up there.

He throws open his office doors with a grin twisting his face. His girls, Firefly, Freeze, his top muscles, Zsasz and his markswomen all await him in the hallway. The chittering of the crowd dissipates before him, all eyes are on the big boss and the payday he had waiting for each of them.

“Who here doesn’t mind performing for the Bat?” Zsasz’s hands are in the air, both armed with pistols.

“We love a good show, don’t we girls?” Zsasz and his markswomen readily agree.

“I’ve got a new toy that I’m just dying to test out.” Firefly cackles, stepping forward. She has a large tank strapped to her back and her gear does look thicker than the last time he had her run errands, she could burn down the entire dockland if she felt so inclined.

“Make that two of us.” Freeze cracks his neck inside his cryosuit, it hisses as he unlatches a rig with what looks to be a modified shotgun. An icy buckshot sounds absolutely vile. Incidentally, Oswald loves the new additions.

“Excellent!” Oswald crows, clapping his hands in approval. He turns to Jay, Lark, and Raven and winks, playfully snide, “Give the GCPD a call, let them know there’s a frightfully violent turf war coming to the docks between the Penguin and Scarecrow tonight.” Jay is off, running to make the call from the street corner. “When she comes back, I want you three to hit Scarecrow’s hideout. Empty the place, I want his supplies loaded onto a truck and delivered to the GCPD.”

“We’ll pack it up and send the freaky lot scrambling.” Raven salutes, malicious glee in the corners of her mouth.

“Aw, that sounds fun too!” Zsasz cries out.

“If you mess up that shipment quick enough, you can join them. Get as many tallies as you want from his followers.” Oswald allows, he catches the twitch of his fingers at the thought of carving more marks into his maimed body. The man already had to move above the collar after all these years as a hitman.

“Oh we are so on!” Zsasz pumps the air, leading his markswomen back to the elevator. Freeze follows, offering a nod that Oswald returns. He’ll have half of Freeze’s pay wired to him as soon as he’s back in his office. The perks of loyalty.

“Burn down Warehouse 39 while you’re at it, Firefly. I’m looking to rebuild.” Oswald instructs. She laughs and gives him a thumbs up before following the rest.

“You all,” Oswald turns to his leftover muscle. They’re of no mutant powers or extreme training, but they’re dumb as doornails and very strong, perfect for what he needs right now, “I need you at every exit, every weak point. Make sure you’re ready under the main floor’s skylight and the rooftop.” They linger. “Whoever lands a punch on Batman gets triple tonight’s pay.” That amps them up. His muscle disperses, clapping each other on the shoulders and taking playful potshots. Tonight, Oswald will not be humiliated and he doesn’t mind the payout it will require. He returns to his office, pleased and proud.

Oswald fixes himself a drink from his bar cart. He sips neat brandy as he stands in front of the windows. The bat signal hits the storm clouds and Oswald smirks into his glass. 

“Everyone’s enroute, Mr. Penguin, sir.” One of his men stands at the door, Oswald turns to face him. He offers a cheers with his glass, approaching glibly,

“Wonderful, truly. Say, we still have some guests on the floor don’t we?” Oswald lilts, free hand fixing the man’s tie. His throat swallows rather attractively under Oswald’s ministrations. 

“Yes, Sir.” He’s tall and broad but makes himself meek before Oswald.

“Well, we’d better not keep them waiting! Let’s start this party.” Oswald chuckles, taking the arm of his employee. Together, they ride the glass elevator down. The chandeliers bounce crystallized lights off the monocle on his face and dance off the glass cage he descends in. When the doors open to the luminous lounge floor, he strides through, handsome muscle on his arm.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!” He calls out to his patrons, an elegant group of around twenty based off of his quick head count. They stop their socializing, heads swiveling to The Penguin making himself known. From their finery, Oswald can tell they must be rich folk from across the harbor. Of course they wouldn’t know the rules of Gotham, poor souls. But if they’re going to risk their lives to party with the infamous if Gotham, then he might as well show them a good time. 

“What a dreary night we are having!” He charms, there’s some raised glasses and agreement from the crowd, “Well, so long as it’s pouring out there, we’ll keep it pouring in here!” A regal hand is waved to the few staff he has working the floor, “Bartenders please, a free round of drinks for our lovely crowd!” That gets him a cacophony of boisterous cheering and lovely smiles from the ladies. He sends a wink to one that sends a demure look his way. This crowd is just too easy, he’ll have a party in full swing by the time Batman breaks in. Though it never stops the Bat from brutalizing him, it usually keeps property damages low to be amidst the crowd. He might as well have fun while he awaits the dramatics to make their way back to him.

He holds onto the muscular arm, taking weight off of his bad leg as much as he can, he’s sure it’ll be killing him by the end of the night. Drinks are flowing and he graciously accepts a new glass of brandy that one of his staff brings him. He toasts, he laughs, he mocks, and he offers Gotham gossip like scary camp stories to his patrons. The woman that caught his eye earlier slowly makes her way closer through it all. She’s meek, mousey yet clad in impeccable blue velvet that he can appreciate. She looks perfectly innocent aside from a nosy need to get a peak behind the Gotham curtain. She’s a perfect human shield.

He motions for her to sit with him at a big corner table, she sits beside him. He’s collected a few other young idiots that sit across from him as they jabber on about how amazing his lounge is, how amazing he must be in turn, how generous he is, how the rumors they’ve heard are all wrong.

“But I knew better than to believe all that, that’s why I came here.” One of them postures in front of his friend.

“Me too. I was hoping to speak man-to-man and lo and behold, those printed rags are all slander! I told you!” His friend slurs, his aristocratic brows are raised as if fighting to open his eyes that are drooping with every drink Oswald motions to come their way.

“You all are really too kind.” Oswald buffs, batting a modest hand that’s snatched by  small, manicured fingers.

“No, you really are amazing!” It would seem after a few drinks the mouse starts squeaking. Oswald smiles, it is nice to have his ego stroked even by a bunch of rich kids from across the harbor.

“Thank you, my dear.” Oswald pats her hand. She perks up more and grabs his other hand as well, they’re clasping hands like jolly old lovers, how quaint. 

“If it’s not too rude to ask, Mister Cobblepot,” She starts like she rehearsed them in front of a mirror, she sits up straighter and leans in closer, “I was wondering about your years before your reform…” She loses steam, and her hands twitch over his own.

“Ah.” Oswald leans back, but allows her to keep hold of him. The rest of the table is leaning in close save for his muscle who, Oswald swears, huffs under his breath. “You want to hear about my start in Gotham’s underworld?” He drops his voice and leans in with the drunken youth. They lean in even closer in response, mouths are hanging open.

“Yes!” She gasps at her own boldness and composes herself, “That is, if you wouldn’t mind sharing with us, Mister Cobblepot?”

“Of course not, dear.” Oswald pretends to consider stories, leaving them in anticipation. “Ah, there was that time…” Oswald hums and then shakes his head, “No, that story is rather gruesome…”

“I heard you killed the mayor and then ran for mayor and won!” One of the eager young men pipes up, unable to contain his excitement any longer under Oswald’s teasing. Oswald grins in response,

“Now that is a rather gruesome story.” Excitement escalates among them and Oswald nearly gets caught up in it. Luckily, a waiter delivers a note to him underneath a replacement brandy. As the youth are bestowed more liquor, he sneaks the note under the table.

Break-in. Riddler. Office. Men at stand-by.

Oswald heaves out a sigh through his nose and stuffs the note into his jacket pocket.

“I’m afraid I must take a quick break, my young friends.” There’s light protests that break from their lips and he offers a congenial smile, “Fret not, I will be right back. After all, you all did want to hear about former Mayor Galavan, didn’t you?”

“Yes, please!” The little mouse scurries her way out of the booth to allow Oswald to go. He gets more yeses from the young men and he nods and waves them promises as he makes his way back to the elevator, muscle at his side.

Oswald urges his muscle man forward once the elevator opens to his office floor. There are three of his men standing by the door, guns drawn. 

“Stand down!” He barks, dropping the aiding arm of his man and barging the rest of the way through the doors. “Edward!” 

The office is empty. On his desk sits a green envelope. Oswald makes a mental note to have the escape door’s lock redone. He should have had a keypad installed but he loved the classic prohibition aesthetic just as his predecessors did. What’s really puzzling to him is why Edward would make such a show of himself breaking in if he was just going to escape unnoticed. He approaches the wall, raps on it but isn’t surprised when it goes unanswered. 

It’s still pouring outside, there’s an uptick in his anxiety as he walks along the windows, rain cracking against the glass in an uproar as he reaches for the envelope.

“You try to avoid me, yet in a hurry you will make me. When you make me, you need to fix me.” Oswald mumbles to himself, dropping into his chair. It doesn’t take much thought, for that Ed was particularly cruel. The letter is tossed back onto his desk and he leans back into his chair. 

A mistake.

Oswald barks out a laugh and pushes back to his feet, the chair crashes to the ground behind him. He snatches up the letter and storms his way across the room again. Quick movements from his pocket to the hidden door and he’s nailed the letter to the wood with his switchblade. 

“Well that’s good to know!” Oswald screams against the door. In his fantasies, Edward has felt and heard every word, but based on the riddle and the way he left, he’s long gone. Ran away like a coward because of course he would. Of course everything Oswald has ever wanted is too much for Edward. He’s breathing shallowly, his fists are up. 

He’s pounding against the wall and letting out an awful scream. He’s lightheaded, head coming to rest against the cold wood between his aching hands. Oswald knew how Edward felt when he woke up alone, getting delivered this letter was just an insult to injury, and so impersonally too. His head and fingers are thrumming with pain and he tries to breathe through the throbbing pulse in his throat. 

He’s back, standing over his desk. Oswald runs a hand over the desk top, over where Edward dared touch. His finger brushes against an emerald faberge egg sat atop its ornate, golden stand. Plucked straight from the Gotham Museum as part of a heist he’d partnered with Ed on. It’s thrown against the bulletproof window. Shattered pieces of its shell scatter across the floor. He feels wretched regret instantaneously. He’s on his knees, a quick wail of pain as he scrambles to pull together the pieces. Oswald is left to sit there among the shattered ruins of a priceless piece of art lying in his shaking hands.

All at once, this room is too large and too empty around him. The echoes of the crashing reverberate in his head. His office is a cave as the sound keeps echoing cavernously. He’s vulnerable, all alone, and the space keeps getting bigger. Oswald can’t stand another second of it. He shoves his swollen fingers into his pockets, a piece of the faberge egg tucked in between fingers, and limps to the door. 

From the stand, he pulls out his favored cane, sleek, black and hiding a six-inch blade under the silver penguin head. He’s itching for an outlet and shoving it through someone’s chest would be ideal. If it really came down to it though he’d settle for a neck or gut.

Oswald clears out his clogged throat and emerges from his office. His men say nothing, though he’s sure from the berth they give him that they heard everything. His waiter from earlier stands shaking in his little white apron. His wide, terrified eyes are kept lowered onto another note held aloft in his hands.

“Do you have another message for me?” Oswald drones out, testy and gripping the handle of his cane a little too tight.

“Yes, sir!” Oswald handed it to him, his voice came out strong and steady.

“Well then, stop wetting yourself and hand it over!” Oswald shoves a hand out that he flinches from. With the note forcibly snatched away, Oswald grumbles to himself, walking away from his staff before he does something rash on a night that he’s already spread too thin as is. Once inside the elevator, he takes a moment to read the message.

Docks on fire. Hideout emptied. Birds enroute to the pig pen.

“Finally, some good news!” Oswald grumbles, shoving the note into his pocket only to hiss in pain. He withdraws his hand, his ring finger is bleeding, the sharp edge of glittery, green enamel hangs from his skin. Why he put the broken shard in his pocket is beyond him, he’s been doing a lot of things that just seem to hurt him in the end. Though this one was a little fork-found-in-kitchen of him. Oswald shakes the piece back into his pocket, plucking out his pocket square to cover the cut. A rivulet of blood has run into his cuff and he sighs at the mark.

When the glass doors open once more, he’s smiling, striding back to the table where he left his young friends waiting.

“Apologies, friends, my turacos had escaped from her enclosure and I’m afraid I won’t allow my staff to handle my birds.” He smiles to himself wistfully, holding up his injured hand still wrapped in his pocket square.

“Oh, that’s so sweet!” 

“How bad is it?” 

“Your what?”

What a shame for these youths to have been brought up so green. It’s too easy to settle back into this little party of theirs and await the Bat. He doesn’t have to wait long though, he barely gets through explaining the semi-zygodactylous nature of the turacos before Batman starts a commotion on the second floor. From the sounds of it, Oswald will be giving out a few bonuses tonight. His muscle that’s been on standby all night cracks his knuckles. He stands guard as another of his men is thrown from the second floor down onto a lounge table.

Oswald’s mousy friend screams and clutches onto his arm while the young men all yell out for help while not doing very much themselves.

“Penguin.” A guttural voice calls out for him.

“Down here, Bat!” Oswald calls back. The dark knight himself swoops down from the story above. He lands with one knee to the ground and on fists, it makes Oswald cringe. If they were on slightly better terms he’d consider asking for his chiropractor’s information.

“The shipment of Wayne Chemicals, I know you targeted it.” He accuses, approaching with quick strides full of intent.

“Actually!” He’s floating above the floor, held up by his lapels. He chokes out, “That was Mister Crane!” Oswald still has a hold of his cane, though he’s sure he’ll be thrown through a table as well for drawing the blade.

“You fought him for it, Gotham’s dockland is in flames to prove it. You sent Firefly.” Batman shakes Oswald like he’s not an overweight old man. Oswald’s groaning in misery of his poor bones, may they rest in peace after this lunatic in a bat costume is through with him.

“Yes, yes! I sent my men to prevent Crane’s siege! You’re welcome!” Oswald spits out between choked and gargled noises that are shaken from him. 

“You’re no saint, Cobblepot, what are you planning?” Batman growls into his face.

“To keep fear toxins off the damn streets! And to keep Crane’s freaky little fingers off of my warehouses!” He yells back. Oswald is drooling rather unflatteringly in front of all his patrons, how embarrassing.

“There’s something else. If you won’t tell me what it is, I’ll keep breaking bones.” A punch is thrown by his heavily armored arm into Oswald’s ribcage. Oswald feels the moment one of his ribs crack.

“Tell me what you’re planning!” Batman shakes him and his pain is even more excruciating for it. Oswald howls in pain, cracking his teeth under the force of his clenching.

“You dense bastard, I’m telling you the truth!” He’s thrown into a table for that. Oswald rolls onto his back and is picked up again.

“Stop it! He’s been with us all night!” The mousy girl yells at Batman, his head cocks toward her and she jolts, wringing her hands, “You’ve got the wrong guy.” She squeaks out. Oswald laughs rancorously, head dropping back from the hold Batman has on him.

“She’s right, we’ve been here for hours!”

Batman lowers him to his feet. Oswald is so lightheaded that he crumples under Batman’s loosened hold. Batman drags him back to the table where his young alibis are cowering. He throws him back onto the bench seat and Oswald lays flat without resistance, his head is caught and cradled by the mousy girl.

“Say I even try to believe you, Penguin, why do you care about Scarecrow’s fear toxin?” Batman lords over the table, the rich heirs look about to pass out themselves.

“It’s chaos,” Oswald slurs, “bad for business.”

Batman’s face scrunches in disgust under his cowl, “Of course.” He’s gone in an instant, a grappling hook has gone through his roof and swung him back onto the second floor where he goes through his men a second time. Most likely just for practice at this point. 

“Are you okay, Mister Cobblepot?”

“What was your name, dear?” His breath comes in wheezes.

“Victoria.”

“Victoria, be a pigeon and let my men know to call my doctor.”

“Oh, uh, okay!”

He wonders if he could wake up in Ed’s old apartment again before he passes out from the pain.

He doesn’t, but when he comes to, it’s to Jay, Raven, and Lark hovering at his bedside. Looking down his chin, he sees bandages wrapped thickly over his chest. The quilt he stole from Ed’s apartment is folded at his waist. Thankfully he’s wearing his silk pajama pants this time. There’s a drip IV connected to his arm that he’s sure is pumping doses of morphine through him with how good he feels.

“Crane’s stock?” Oswald asks, mouth dry.

“Delivered straight to the GCPD.” Lark is quick to reply, standing from where she sat at the foot of his bed. She looks worse for wear, her bottom lip is swollen and her eyes are red and puffy.

“I called Gordon’s office and ditched the phone.” Jay chimes in, just as haggard and puffy.

“How was the fear gas?” Oswald sighs as he reaches a hand out to Jay who curls in closer in response.

“Awful.” Jay sniffles. Lark steps in, sitting next to the two of them, she looks tired and unsure.

“Come here, my dove.” Oswald motions for Lark to rest beside him.

“Your rib is cracked.”

“It won’t be any less cracked with or without your company.” Oswald pats the bed again, “And with the amount of morphine pumping through my veins at the moment I cannot feel a damn thing.” He laughs and it finally draws in Lark, she settles beside him, her hand quickly grabbed by Jay. Their fingers lace together and fall to rest on the bed. He tries not to feel bitter toward their easy love. His flock, nearly, all together again.

“Raven?” He calls out into the room, he doesn’t see her but knows she must be close.

“Yeah?” She responds, from the far corner of the room by the sound of it. Oswald imagines her standing moodily by the window.

“Come here.” He pats the other side of the bed, no room for argument in his tone. Oswald waits till she comes into view, Raven looks to be untouched save for fingernail scratches across her cheek. She looks as haggard and upset as the other two though.

“I apologize, I never wanted the three of you to experience fear toxin.”

“We knew what we were getting into when we took up the job, Ozzie.” Jay pats his arm softly.

“Raven saved us from the fear toxin.” Lark comments, praise seeping into her voice.

“Raven, is that so?” Oswald smiles, looking at her sullen face that only scrunches in on itself more.

“Guess so.” She mumbles. Oswald hums at the lackluster response but she doesn’t budge. He makes a mental note to discuss further with her alone.

“When we came back to our senses we were able to take the rest of his followers down and load up his supplies into a supply truck.” Lark continues, sending a confused look of her own Raven’s way.

“Then we parked it in Harvey’s spot and ran.” Jay grins.

“What happened to Zsasz?” Oswald asks the three of them.

“Oh, he made it to Scarecrow’s place after the docks.” Jay perks up, sitting up and sending him a knowing look. “He’s most of the reason we cleaned house to be honest. You did give him free rein and all.”

“The man is covered in marks.” Lark adds, disgruntled. Jay shivers, comically agreeing.

“The docks…” Oswald prompts.

“Oof, burnt up.” Jay sucks her teeth, “Firefly did what you asked, burnt down Warehouse 39 and then some.”

“I suppose that was to be expected.” Oswald nods along, “It’ll be nice to rebuild. I’m thinking of a warehouse with more than meets the eye.”

“A shark tank!” Jay gasps.

“Too gauche, Joker already did that.” Oswald admonishes. “I was thinking of a hidden basement level with a hatch to send the vermin off to sea. A few extra rooms that we hide inside the floor plans. A security panel to top it off.” He lists off, dreamily. 

“That sounds great, Boss.” Lark smiles, “You’re so old-school though, why didn’t you have a security panel out there in the first place?”

“Don’t call me old.” He points a finger at her. Lark tries to pull in her smile and fails. “Though, yes. I suppose I’ve been lacking technologically at my facilities. It’s not what I’m used to. Fish, Maroni, Falcone, they all had their holds over men. Your muscles were your security and the ever loyal street ears were all you needed to know what was coming.”

“Aren’t they all dead?” Jay scoffs. 

Oswald smacks the back of her hand, “Watch it, young lady.” He won’t have any disrespect on their names. Oswald still feels a deep rooted sense of pride when he thinks of besting the best of Gotham’s crime lords. He owed a lot to them.

“Actually, Jay, Lark,” Oswald addresses the two in turn, “would you mind leaving Raven and I for a moment?”

There’s a moment of hesitation where Lark and Jay look at Raven who doesn’t reciprocate. The two of them shuffle out slowly, more glances sent back that go unanswered. The door clicks shut behind Jay and Oswald turns his attention fully to Raven. He waits.

“There’s something you want to get off your chest, my dear.” Oswald finally prompts, decade-long unrequited love aside, he’s really not a patient man.

“He was there.” Raven confesses, resentful, “That jolly green asshole.”

“Edward was there?”

“He helped me get Jay and Lark out onto the street and open up a fire hydrant.”

“He helped you save them.” Oswald clarifies, strangled. Raven looks sour as she gives him a curt nod. 

“And then what?” Oswald pushes. Raven sits quietly before shrugging.

“Dunno, he dipped.” Raven bites at her cheek and huffs, “Guess he came here to rub it in from what I heard.” 

“He did come here.” Oswald confirms slowly, “Though he didn’t say anything about aiding you three with Crane.”

“Then what did he do?” Raven is sharp, looking down on him expectantly.

“He left me a riddle.” Oswald starts, holds up a hand when Raven goes to needle him further, “It was personal, that is all you need to know.”

“I hate him.” She spits, glaring at Oswald, “I hate that you let him mess everything up.” Oswald sucks in a breath that sends him reeling. Raven clutches his hand in hers. 

“As do I.” He squeezes her hand, he can’t apologize because he knows he can’t change.

“No, you love him.”

“I do. I wish I could hate him though.” He offers her a watery, despondent smile. Raven huffs and flops down onto the bed. She rests on her side, facing him. Watching him. Raven squeezes his hand back and shuts her eyes tightly. He watches her for a moment before calling the other two back in. The soft scent of Edward’s apartment lingers in the quilt and encompasses him as Jay pulls the blanket up, tucking him in before lying alongside him. They’re all back on the bed, quiet and somber. It’s deja vu except this time he goes to sleep, pulled under by an intoxicating mixture of drugs and a weariness of all to come. Blessedly, he does not dream.

Chapter Text

Edward Nygma, known to most as The Riddler for well over a decade now, was flat on his back. An errant wire he hadn’t kept tabs on continued sparking wildly on the rig back on top of his desk. It was supposed to be a nasty little taser bomb that spouted a riddle and if the correct answer wasn’t typed in, was supposed to shock your nervous system to bits. It definitely has the voltage to knock the wind out of a victim, he just wasn’t supposed to be said victim. He’s slipping, has been for the past month. Ever since Oswald touched him, had him underneath him, his nerves have been cracking like the unchecked electrical system above him. Edward can’t believe he risked their partnership on a dalliance he knew Oswald would take too far, if not on paper then in his own heart surely. Oswald had many admirable traits but his proclivity to run wild with his heart on his sleeve was not one. Edward felt guilty of all things. Guilty at taking things too far with Oswald. He should have known better. He should have kept a closer eye on that wire.

Edward tries to curl his fingers in to make a fist but the closest he gets is some erratic twitching. He’s stuck here for the moment. Query and Echo are out fetching him more scrap materials since he’s run through most of his supplies in his fervor to pummel Gotham’s finest into the ground. The past month he’s barely slept or ate, he’s run through project after project. Edward knows this last one is sure to catch Commissioner Gordon lacking and force Batman to play his game. 

He’s keeping time, he’s been down for fifty-six seconds, definitely enough time to run in and grab Gordon. He’ll have Query and Echo lift the dead weight and load him into the van. If he makes a few more he can incapacitate his annoying lackeys, Harvey and Montoya. 

At a minute and twenty seven seconds he can sit up, he does so with a grunt fitting a man of his age. His vision is a little fuzzy. Edward takes off his glasses to rub at his eyes and lingers too long. It feels really good to close his eyes.

“Gotta get up,” Edward groans to himself, pulling himself back to his feet, “gotta tuck that wire back in.” He pulls up the rubber gloves from where they’d slipped down his arm, exposing a part of his sleeve. There’s a singed hole now in the last white button-up he owned.

“Gotta sick Sparky on Gordon and de-cowl the Bat!” He sings to himself, stringing the wire back through the conduit. He whistles to himself as he ties in the frays. Old sparky should hold just long enough to send Gordon flying and that’s really all he needs. Though with the proper funding and outlets Oswald used to provide, it would have been a more durable and expansive project. 

“Liar.” He hisses into his pliers. Oswald’s little speech about still allowing him full access to the Lounge and deals afforded to the Gotham Rogues was all a farce. He’s not surprised, but Edward hasn’t even been able to get a message back from Oswald in the past month, so he’s had to make do. He’s proud to admit that he’s lifted some of Oswald’s materials straight from his own construction site on the docks. As fate would have it, Oswald seems to finally be interested in proper security systems so he’s had quite the field day.

“Oswald, Oswald, Oswald!” He yells, throwing his pliers down. The desk jolts as he kicks at the leg.

“Geeze, Ed.” Query enters the room, “Calm down, what did Oswald do now?” She brushes past him to set down a stolen 48 volt battery on his desk. “Why do you smell burnt?”

“Shut up!” 

“Did you say Oswald did something?” Echo follows, carrying in rolled metal sheets that dwarf her in size. “I thought he was still bedridden.”

Edward pauses with poison on his tongue. The room stills with him. Query looks confused, standing awkwardly at his side as he looks between the two of them.

“Bedridden?” Edward scoffs, “How is Oswald bedridden?”

“Batman.” Query and Echo reply in unison, shrugging.

“Bats broke his ribs from what I heard.”

“When?”

“Like a month ago,” Echo responds, approaching the dwindled pile of scrap metals and throwing the rolled sheets down, “you really didn’t know?” Echo shoots a charged look to Query.

“Then what has this spree of yours been about?” Query leans against his desk, worried, “We thought you were trying to get back at Batman for putting him out of the game.”

“No!” Edward rips his rubber gloves off, “Why would I care about that?” He throws the gloves at the wiring he just finished touching up and it sparks back at him petulantly. “Why don’t you work?” He screams at it.

“Maybe if you got some rest, Eddie…”

“I don’t need rest! I need to shock the hell out of Gordon, have you two kidnap him, use him as bait, and finally get underneath Batman’s stupid mask!” He finishes bellowing with a grand sweep of his arms to the wall that’s steadily been covered up with pictures, newspaper clippings, and handwritten theories connected by strings that don’t point in any singular direction. Dead ends.

“How can you possibly do that, when you can’t even wire up an electrical bomb, Ed,” Query sighs, “that’s rudimentary for a guy like you.”

“Seriously, Eddie,” Echo joins, coming to rest beside her partner, “we’re worried about you.”

“There’s no reason to be!”

“You smell like burnt toast, Ed.” Query reasons matter of factly. It infuriates him even more.

“Because I’m working with garbage!” He cuts off his tirade by stomping to the door, not needing another moment of his two henchwomen heckling him.

“Maybe you should drop by Oswald’s!”

“Yeah, see how he’s doing, maybe he’ll give you a loan if you bring flowers!” Query and Echo call after him, he slams the door for extra measure.

“I’m not toast, he’s toast!” Edward mutters to himself angrily scooping up his keys and throwing on his jacket. “James Gordon, Batman, they’re all toast!” It takes a few turns of the key to get the ignition roaring, he really needs to take a look at the start-up but he can’t think of any more parts he needs at the moment. He’s exhausting his resources, and for what? Edward’s not so sure of himself and he is not okay with not being sure of himself. So he’s evading it, willing it to go away with every riddle he writes and every screw he fastens into every new trap.

He can’t believe he got caught up in Oswald’s schemes just to feel like an idiot. Edward thought he’d earn some brownie points, maybe get more of an allowance out of Oswald to fund his next caper. So he’d gone and helped out his favorite bodyguards with his invasion of Scarecrow’s place, it was safe to assume they’d be fear gassed no matter how good they were. Crane and his subjects breathed it in like air. But no, he goes and risks his neck and his standing with Scarecrow just to show up and catch Oswald with a new handsome employee on his arm and some tiny bimbo. He never thought Oswald swung that way but with how they were cuddled up together? With how he held her hand? After they finally consummated their desires! 

Edward takes a sharp turn onto a side street, horns blare from the cars he cuts off.

“Stupid,” He bangs on the wheel, “stupid,” bang, “stupid!” Oswald must think he’s such a fool, that he has Ed finally.

“Wrong-o!” Edward shouts to the stop sign he speeds past. Some of his anger towards Oswald has died down in the wake of hearing he’s been injured. For the Penguin to take a sick day is unheard of, a month is a devastating event. The tall buildings have long dwindled down and he slows down to drive along the winding road to Oswald’s manor.

It’s barely a thought as he parks his car just out of view from the vast abode. Edward knows Oswald would turn him away in this state. They’ve already been too soft toward one another, look where that got them. Edward creeps through the tree line, seeking out a blind spot. Oswald has increased security since the last time he broke in, there’s military trained men making quick, circular patrols with night goggles. Edward squints and is sure they’re also carrying AR-15’s with infrared scope screens. Oswald must be hurt pretty bad. Edward shifts from foot to foot, his heart racing from the challenge, from the need to see that Oswald is well.

He watches the armed guards make their route, there’s really no lack of overlay. Edward bounces on his feet. There’s new flood lights as well. No matter how he slices it, if he approaches in any direct manner, he gets caught. A distraction is necessary. Something to throw him a couple of seconds to clear the yard in order to duck behind Oswald’s town car. Then he’d wait for the brief moment one guard’s back is turned before another begins to turn the corner. If it goes wrong he gets shot. If he’s lucky, he lives. Such is the life of a man in Gotham.

With nothing else at his disposal, Edward squeezes his car key fob. He really hopes they don’t damage it too badly. If he has to call Query and Echo, he’ll have to listen to their barrage of questioning and theorizing about Oswald and him, things he doesn’t have solid answers for. Yet. Edward cannot abide having unanswerable questions thrown at him. His thumb jams down on the alarm and from behind the patch of woods he hides in the shallows of, his car screeches to life. The high-pitched alarm does as it’s intended and as soon as the guards whip their heads to the sound his feet are pounding against the ground. His long leaps land him behind the shiny black luxury car without a gunshot. 

Edward can’t risk peaking around the bumper so he breathes. He begins counting the pattern of the guards cycle again after one of the guards volunteers to investigate the alarm. He has to move before that guard turns around or he’ll see Ed sitting against the car. He has to move just in time to fall inside of that guard’s gap. One step, two step, three, four, go.

Edward ducks his head down and runs, aiming for the corner of the manor. He’s going to scurry up the first floor window ledge up to the second. Legs sprint until fingers clutch brick. Fingernails dig in, sliding against wood paneling. There are splinters gathering under his nails but the pain propels him upward, his feet kick up off the ledge and send him to the under frame of the next window. Grunts are bitten down as he hauls himself up. He’s plastered against the side of Oswald’s home. He feels utterly ridiculous and he feels proud of the feat he’s managed, what a wonderful conundrum. Who else to be the cause other than Oswald?

Splayed out like a starfish against the second story window, Edward starts to realize he might not have completely thought this out. The amount of effort needed to pull the window up, assuming it’s already unlocked, will definitely create noise. A squeaking of old windows sliding up ancient frames would definitely get him shot by the armed guards below. Curse Oswald’s sentimentality. Newer windows wouldn’t make his father any less dead.

A silent buzzing from his pocket makes him flinch against the cold glass. Long fingers fumble into his back pocket to fish out his phone. Edward slides the phone around to his front, covering the screen’s glare with his frame.

‘Sup!’

Edward’s heart skips, head jerking back to scan the yard. Light tapping stops his heart completely. With dread in every millisecond, he pivots his head to face the window. Victor Zsasz is grinning like a lunatic. The hitman waves his phone, gesturing for Edward to check his own.

‘You look kinda stupid.’

His forehead meets the glass. In his peripheral he can tell Zsasz is trying to mime more things and gather Edward’s attention but he plays dead, willing an explosion to save himself from the humiliating situation. There’s no explosion but his head is knocked back as Victor throws the window up.

“Ow!”

“It’s alright guys, it’s just Riddler!” Edward had briefly forgotten about the men walking around with AR-15s, but he’s glad that’s sorted. Zsasz grabs the fabric on his shoulder, yanking him inside the dark hallway. Edward stumbles, inelegant and even more so when a pistol taps his chin.

“I don’t wanna have to kill you, riddle man,” Zsasz says, more so to himself than Edward, “remember our time at the disco?” He mourns. Zsasz is shaking his head, sucking air between his teeth, “But on the other hand you are trying to break into my boss’s home in the dead of night, and that can only mean one of two things!” 

“Listen, listen!” Edward interrupts, hands held out soothingly, “I’m not here to hurt Oswald,” Shaking his head he barges on, “I heard he was hurt, badly, and he hasn’t responded to any of my correspondences.” Zsasz raises the skin of his eyebrow, Edward blurts, “Please, he’s never been down this long.”

Zsasz’s mouth twitches around like different words are flying around in his mouth, his eyes are emotionless.

“Aw, you should’ve just said it was the other thing!” Zsasz holsters his pistol, “You can never tell what it’s gonna be with you two though! Always violence or love!” Zsasz laughs, waving his hands around comically and lets out a mocking yell, “Ah, Edward! Ah, Oswald! Y’know?” He laughs again and swats at Edward’s shoulder jovially, “C’mon, let’s see if he’s up.”

Rollercoaster emotions aside, Edward deflates as his anxiety dissipates into the gilded wallpaper of Oswald’s ancestral home. He follows behind Zsasz as he’s walked down the hall to Oswald’s bedroom door. Zsasz throws him a wink over his shoulder before softly knocking. The moments between make Edward jittery. Any other night Oswald would be wide awake and throwing open his door to bark at whoever disturbed his peace already. Edward’s taken a half aborted step forward before he realizes how close to Zsasz he is, that’s enough of a deterrent.

“There’s that look.” Zsasz smiles, somewhat ruefully, something Edward didn’t associate with Victor Zsasz, Oswald’s nut-job gun-for-hire. “Go in, but I’ll be waiting right on the other side of this door. A job is a job you know, any funny business and,” Zsasz mimics blowing a hole in Edward’s head, “Pow!”

“Got it.” Edward nods, lips pursed. He is positive Zsasz would gun him down in the same way he would blink, without thought.

Zsasz opens the door for him, watching for any emotions on Edward’s face. He solidifies himself against it as best he can, nodding again in quick thanks as he enters the darkened bedroom. A warm tiffany lamp at Oswald’s bedside has been left on. Rosy light caresses the right side of his pale face. For a man so brushed in cold blues, he looks new, soft as wildflowers. Even though he’s asleep he lets out a little twitch here and there, eyes darting underneath heavy eyelids. Edward takes it all in, enraptured as he crosses the room to get a better look at him. Nerves flare to life when he hears the soft whisper of the door being shut behind him.

Edward checks to make sure Oswald hasn’t stirred. A squashed, freckled cheek laying upon a high thread pillowcase remains unmoved. Pouted lips, parted in lush sleep, accentuate the divot of the long scar that parts his mouth on a vertical slant. Splatter painted freckles that have only increased with age, wrinkles that have rooted into his eyes and corners of his mouth. It hurts to look at, abysmal tugging from his gut. His stomach churns at Oswald’s vulnerability. Eyes darting to the pillow unburdened by Oswald’s crown, fists clench in response. It would be so easy in the moment to rid Gotham of its king. 

Then he remembers Zsasz against the door, believing if he strains he can hear the faint humming of “Funky Town” through the thick wood. Edward shivers. He creeps closer to the bed. Underneath blankets, Oswald’s chest rises and lowers in a slow and steady rhythm and yet he needs to feel it. The tangible proof of Oswald’s breath hits his hand as he hovers, tracing the faintest hint of fingertips over his jutting lips. 

Though he endured an extreme electrical shock an hour ago, he can barely handle the way his nerves light up. Voltage licking up from his fingertips and cycling through his nervous system to hit his stomach, a sparked fire. Strangling Oswald, pulling him close to feel their bones grind into dust are all urges to distinguish the discomfort that’s setting his teeth on edge. His thighs brush the comforter, something violent soothed. He’s looming over Oswald’s prone form breathing deep like a lunatic, it’s infuriating how easily he’s caught up in Oswald even when he’s inanimate. Edward rights the corner of the thick comforter and something worn and green peaks out from underneath.

“Oswald.” His whisper is strangled. It’s not smart, risking waking Oswald, but he’s suffering the steep drop of his stomach upon finding Oswald swathed, underneath his luxury goose down comforter, in his old quilt from the Grundy apartment. It’s almost painful to know he has it secreted away, that it’s the closest to him, that his dingy old blanket caresses the King of Gotham’s skin. It’s possession that brings Edward to assume domain right in this room as he crosses over to the far side of the bed. Slipping off shoes and pants, he crawls in beside Oswald. 

With the blankets lifted up, Edward can see the bandages that wrap around Oswald’s torso. Though larger than before, it’s them again. His quilt and Oswald wrapped up in bandages. To make the image right again he flings the expensive comforter to the foot of the bed. Only his quilt remains. Oswald surrounded only by him, willingly.

Those eyes are squinted open, watching.

“You don’t mind returning the favor do you?” Edward murmurs, shifting down to lay atop the spare pillow. “You did steal my blanket.” He teases, settling but never looking away from pale eyes. 

Part of him is upset that Oswald doesn’t pull a knife on him. He’s unmoored when Oswald closes his eyes again without response. Oswald’s breath doesn’t even out to that slow and steady rhythm again, but still he lies there knowing Ed is in his bed and makes like he’s at peace with it.

“Is that a yes?” He mocks, shifting closer like he could taunt Oswald into lunging for his neck. There’s a huff of breath through Oswald’s nose. When he responds it’s quiet and lacks theatrics,

“Shut up, Ed.”

Edward quiets. It’s just the two of them breathing, neither sleeping under the same blankets, sharing the same warmth. The ache of a month of minimal sleep alleviates as he plummets into sleep.  

When he wakes, it's Oswald staring back at him. Calculated calm on his face as he says nothing to Edward. Edward can tell he’s waiting for him to explain. He’s not too sure himself.

“Zsasz let me in here.” Oswald waits for more. “I don’t know how much you pay your guards but it’s too much, it was a simple feat to scale the manor.” Edward smugly shuffles his feet under the warm quilt. “Honestly, those ancient windows you refuse to update held the only true challenge of breaking in. At least switch the glass for something bulletproof.”

“Edward.” Oswald startles him, “Why are you here?”

“Well,” He starts, mulling over best and worst things to say, “I haven’t been able to sleep much, probably because someone stole my blanket.”

Oswald isn’t amused, he’s giving Ed nothing.

“You’ve been gone for a month,” Edward swallows against his dry throat, “and you never responded when I reached out. I needed to make sure.”

“Batman cracked a rib. I decimated Scarecrow’s base operations. I’ve been resting and laying low.”

“You don’t rest, Oswald.”

“I do now.”

Edward shuts his mouth against the juvenile argument before it begins. He’s not sure now is the time to go back and forth with Oswald until one of them gets too frustrated and admits defeat.

“Can I take a look?” Edward says instead. Something finally gives on Oswald’s face. 

“If you must.” He sighs out. Though agreeing, he is caught up in caution, those misty eyes dart back and forth between his own, waiting. Edward is probably the only one that could wear Oswald down like this, it’s an honor he prides himself on. Right now, he uses it to his advantage, pulling the quilt away from them both. Gooseflesh skin prickles under his careful fingers as they tuck underneath the tiny metal clasp holding the bandages secure. The exposure to the bracing air sobers him from sleep and he feels a little less sure of himself. With every unravel his heartbeat picks up, gone is the clinical mortician, he is a man baring another man. What a novelty. 

Oswald’s chest is a riot of color, sage and mucus greens interlocking with necrotic purples. A sickly beauty laid beneath him. His hand hovers before lightly pushing into the eye of the storm. Oswald hisses, instinctively crushing his wrist with his hand. He doesn’t push Edward away. 

“Is that necessary?” Oswald bites out. Edward laughs at his scorn, relieved.

“Suppose not, just needed to make sure you were alive in there.” Edward smiles. Oswald aborts an answering uptick of his own, resolution stoning his mouth.

“Can you make up your mind already, Ed? Or are you just being intentionally cruel?”

“I’m not,” Edward huffs, making a fist of the hand Oswald has a hold on, “I don’t know how you can see this as being cruel.”

“A mistake.” Oswald reminds him, patronizing through every agonizing syllable. “You left that riddle to let me know that what we shared that night in your apartment was a mistake.”

“Morning, technically.” Edward can’t help himself. Oswald shoves him away, successfully sending him onto his back. Oswald groans from the pain he earned in the extended motion, flopping back down into his nest.

“It didn’t seem to mean much to you.” Edward growls out. 

Oswald lets out a sharp laugh, “You’re ridiculous as well as delusional, Edward.”

“Oh?” Edward shoots back up, hovering over Oswald as his hands sink into the mattress on either side of Oswald’s shoulders. “You seemed pretty unbothered with those two numbskulls on your arms.” His vicious, hot breath washes over Oswald.

“After you abandoned me,” Oswald shrieks back, head rising from his pillow, “I don’t even know where you get off, Ed, so what, I had two meat shields covering me for when Batman would inevitably barge in to break my damn bones!” Spit flies from his mouth but Edward doesn’t flinch he only leans in, nose flaring.

There’s a moment where nothing is said, they’re suffocating breathing in each other’s panting. Edward descends. His lips are smearing against a snarl, they glide easily over bared teeth and taunt lips until they slacken. Edward drops to his elbows, hands coming to hold Oswald’s face, to push them even closer together. Lips move under his own ruefully. They part in a wet smack as he’s forced away by a hand on his throat.

“What is this, Edward?” Resignation drops from his mouth, a hammer to a coffin nail. He knows Edward cannot answer, it’s a riddle to trump the Riddler.

Insecurity is volatile when put under a spotlight.

“I hate you.” Edward burns under a month’s worth of kerosene. This man perpetually knocks him flat and brushes his hands from him any time his feelings are hurt. With every earnest word ever given, he cuts Edward with what he calls love and bleeds his shame. “You chew me up and spit me out all in the name of love and it’s exhausting, Oswald!” Why can’t they just be? Every time they build something, the weight of Oswald’s weaponized scrutiny breaks it down. Escargot on a platter, he sucks Ed out and devours him like a triviality. He hates how vulnerable Oswald likes to prove he can make him.

“Get out.” Now this again.

“No, Oswald, you can’t keep just sending me away!”

“Yes, I absolutely can, and I am.” Oswald pushes him further away by the hold on his neck. Even with the words he speaks, he doesn’t let him go. Oswald infuriates him, a bed infested, his skin is crawling.

“Stop it!” His own hands clench into the skin of Oswald’s cheeks, he shakes the man under his grip, “Stop acting like I don’t get a say in this!”

“What is your say, Edward? That you hate me? Then go! What else could you possibly expect from this thing that you started?”

“I started? This was all you, Oswald! Every time you sought me out for a caper you could’ve managed all on your own, every meeting you pushed between us, every time you wormed your way closer no matter how much distance I gave, every man that resembled me even a little that you had sex with!”

“Because I love you!” Oswald screams back, pinned down and shaking in righteous fury, “And I tried to leave you alone, but you’re the one that kissed me!”

“You wanted me to, I was only giving you what you wanted!”

“It’s what you wanted, Ed!” Edward rears back, Oswald’s empty fingers clench the air between them, then lowers, “Until you can finally admit that, I don’t want you haunting my home nor my office.”

“You’re so self righteous, Oswald, really,” Edward starts.

“Zsasz!” Oswald bellows and the door opens immediately, most likely he’d been waiting behind it since last night.

“Alright, buddy, let’s go.” Zsasz approaches the bed and Edward scrambles to grab his clothes, he refuses to get tossed out in the cold clad only in his underwear. Zsasz stands beside him as he hurriedly dresses but speaks to him as if he isn’t throwing Edward out in the midst of an intimate blowout, “I really thought you were ready, dude!”

“Zsasz!” Oswald barks, outrage ricocheting off the walls.

“Sorry, sorry.” He waves his hands placatingly to his boss before pulling a pistol from its holder, waving it in Edward’s face. Edward flinches back from the gun as he rushes to pull his shirt over his shoulders. His eyes dart back to Oswald. The man has pulled up the quilt, shielding his beaten body. Edward wants to say something to halt this procession but when his mouth opens, a gloved hand slaps down onto his shoulder. As he’s manhandled out of Oswald’s bedroom he bleats out protests, he scoffs and calls out Oswald’s name as if his decision isn’t set in stone.

He’s pushed out of the front door in an undignified manner that he spins around to address but meets Zsasz’s look of utter boredom and a two finger salute,

“I’d apologize about your car but it’s a bit of a lemon already isn’t it?” Zsasz swings the door with his fingertips, “Bye!” His drawl is cut by the slam. Edward feels the gates to the castle close. The bridge has been drawn up as he passes through the front yard to his car. There’s a river of sharks and monsters between them now.

Edward manages to drive his car back to his hideout without an intact seat cushion. If he had to make an educated guess, Oswald’s men stripped the car looking for explosives. He’ll need to tear through the car’s parts himself to locate whatever tracker they definitely planted on it. Or maybe he won’t and Oswald will suffer always knowing where he is.

“Ooh, late night, Eddie?”

“That’s none of your business,” He storms past Query and Echo, “what is your business is fetching me more parts for the next trap to be built.”

“What the hell, Ed?”

“That’s Riddler to you, now go find me a generator with enough juice to make even the Batman defecate himself!” Edward shuts himself into his workshop, latching the metal door closed to punctuate his anger. “And the next person to bring up Oswald to me ever again is getting sent back to Pandora’s Box!” He yells into the rust. Edward stands there, face and hands pressed to the heavy door, and listens as his two henchwomen leave the building. A deep breath and then he’s pushing himself upright.

“Right!” He claps to the empty space, “Time to beat the Bat!”

Business as usual.

Chapter Text

Edward’s cheek burst against his molars, blood and spittle hit the rooftop before his cheek followed suit. Curled up on the cold concrete building, he shook with rage. How could this all be going so wrong? He’d meticulously planned and plotted this out. Not only was James Gordon upright, safe and soundly communicating over a GCPD radio to his men on the street level, but Batman was pulling extra punches and had barely uttered a word. He was someone in this city, he knew he was, but his own world was crumbling, cracks in foundation he felt in his mind. He wasn’t pathetic enough to start splitting his shame into something incorporeal again, but the threat was there. Aside from the way his body gave under Batman’s kicks and swings, he wasn’t soft. He never would be that simpering, awkward buffoon again.

“Enough, Nygma.” Batman looms like a god over his crumpled body. Enough is right, he’s pretty sure the vigilante broke his nose again and dislocated a shoulder for extra measure.

“It’s not possible!” Edward spits against the roof, grit and dust matting to his tacky, bloodied mouth, “You cheated!” He howls.

“No, you’ve just become predictable.” Batman lances him with icy condescension, “You’ve gotten messy. It wasn’t even a challenge. It hasn’t been as of late. Admit it, you’ve lost it, Nygma.”

Though he knows it’s not there, Edward feels Batman’s heavy boot on his neck. He can’t breathe.

“You’re hyperventilating.” Batman informs him, watching, unsympathetic. He can’t breathe and he’s going to die like an ant under a magnifying glass.

“Oswald.” Edward gapes like a fish, legs kicking out.

“What does Penguin have to do with this?” Commissioner Gordon joins the funeral procession. Edward sees his workman’s boots warp in and out of focus by his head.

“Call Oswald.” His voice is faint and it’s an effort to push the words out with his writhing body. He gasps, he flips onto his back and extends, desperate to pull air into his lungs. If Edward’s about to die, Oswald should feel bad for how he’s treated him, sending him away when he had so little time left. 

Gordon and Batman share a look before Gordon gives him a pat on the shoulder and leaves. Deniable accountability of Edward’s murder, it makes sense to Ed, he even feels a twisted sense of respect bubble up against the leaden weight in his stomach.

“Please.”

Batman speaks, closer to his face than he was moments ago, “You’re having a panic attack, Nygma, not dying.” Knelt on a knee in front of him, Batman grimaces at his gasping and writhing. His head is much too light, his spinal cord must have been severed under Batman’s modified punches. He’s headless and vaulting into the void under the gaze of Gotham’s Dark Knight. It feels Shakespearean, a sick pride hits him, he relishes in the tragedy Oswald will be consumed by. Let him cry atop his grave as he did with his mother and father, and let him be the last, let him haunt Oswald the rest of his life.

Bitter chalk coats his tongue, he tries to retch it out but a kevlar glove covers his face. He’s forced to swallow against the weighty hand.

Oh dear.

“It’s a mild sedative.” Batman’s words cut through the frostbite of panic coursing through his veins. Whether the drug is fast acting or Edward placebos himself with the knowledge, Edward begins to relax against the concrete roof. The smog that covers the night sky is macabrely beautiful. A plane passes overhead, green and white lights blinking across the span of Edward’s worldview. He’s sure if Oswald was here he’d secretly make a wish, doubly foolish and doubly amusing.

“Why did you mention the Penguin?” 

“He’s so confounding.” Edward laughs, imagining what Oswald could wish for, embarrassingly it peals out in a way that’s much closer to giggling.

“How so?” Batman brings him back.

“He threw me out!” Edward gesticulates, a sharp twinge in his shoulder brings it crashing back down. He’s feeling vengeful and relaxed enough to spill his guts if just a little bit. Batman is quiet, not pushing further, so Edward cranes his head to look over, “He said until I can admit to some perceived feelings I, apparently, have toward him that he won’t see me anymore! No more funding or anything! So much for Gotham Rogues sticking together!” Edward scoffs.

“So Penguin has been funding your schemes.” 

“Is that all you’re taking from that?” Edward laughs incredulously, “He thinks that we love each other!” Edward shakes his head, scraping it against the rough roof. “If I were you, I’d think that’s more useful information!”

“I am already aware.”

“What?” Edward’s voice is too loud for his own ears, “Aware of what exactly?”

“Your feelings for each other.” It’s said too coldly, too bluntly, something like that deserves more respect. Fragile, move with caution.

“Wrong!” Edward mimics a buzzer, “He might have deluded himself with displaced feelings for me, but I do not have feelings for him!”

“It must be hard.”

“Yes! It’s exhausting quite frankly! To top it all off it’s also taking a toll on my livelihood now as well!”

“No. I meant it must be hard being a self proclaimed genius blinded by his own willful ignorance.”

“Excuse me?” Edward’s voice hits an octave too high, it makes his extremities curl in response.

“You’re probably the last man in Gotham to find out that you and Penguin have been engaged in an unhealthy, codependent relationship.” The man is statuette against the night, a barrage of words like arrows rains down from his mouth. Edward is already battered and bruised, this is overkill. Batman doesn’t usually play with his food, but then again Riddler doesn’t usually go on relentless, month-long sprees terrorizing Gotham. This is the closest Batman’s ever come to petty, if there was a locker around he’d probably shove him inside of it.

“That’s,” Edward sputters uselessly, “that’s insane!”

“It is, given both of your histories though, it’s not surprising.”

“Was that a joke?” 

Batman is silent but Edward knows he’s being made fun of. It quiets Edward momentarily as he regathers his wits, which is rather hard to do throbbing and humiliated, flat on his back.

“The timing of Cobblepot being out of commission and you losing your grip.” Batman prompts.

“That was!” Edward scrambles, voice faltering out of confidence, “Something else.”

“Something else Penguin did.” He really thinks he’s leading a horse to water.

“Yes!” Edward groans, catching his slip, “Not like that, you are purposefully misconstruing the situation to fit an ill begotten narrative!” The finger of the hand attached to the arm that isn’t displaced is pointing accusatory at the man sitting smug inside of a bat costume.

“You get wordy when you feel outmaneuvered.”

“I’m always wordy!” Batman has a special way of exploiting Edward’s faults, it’s more infuriating because though he knows what he’s doing Edward really cannot help himself.

“You’re scared.” That catches Edward’s flailing tongue. Edward shakes his head but Batman elaborates, “Do you think if you allow yourself love that you’ll cease to be the Riddler?”

“What do you know about that?” Edward screeches, a banshee on the rooftop. A mild sedative is no match to his madness. 

“Only what you wear on your sleeve. It doesn’t take genius to figure you out.”

Edward breathes through his teeth, he’d rather be in the back of the cop car on his way to Arkham than be cut down like this.

“Just cuff me already, Batman.”

“I don’t need to, you’ll go quietly.” He asserts, standing. “Use this time to think, Nygma.” 

Batman rappels from the roof, swinging off into the soup of Gotham smog and smoke. Edward lays despondent and, apparently, predictable. He waits, hears the clamoring of boots rattling the stairs to the roof, hears them approaching and surrounding him. They’re telling him to get up and to put his hands where they can see them but he doesn’t feel like obliging. He lets himself be manhandled and dragged down from the roof.

Bullock and Gordon themselves are his escorts to Arkham, the gang all back together. Harvey throws weak jabs to him in the backseat but he simply cannot entertain any of it. He’s taking Batman’s advice, he’s thinking. His mind a miasma of discombobulating thought patterns encircling every word and touch between Oswald and him. Even the Batman claims to know what they are to each other. That’s maddening, he won’t abide.

“Home sweet home, ay Ed?” Harvey Bullock finally breaks through his intense analysis. Edward looks up, there is dread, but he does have a foothold here since Batman and Gordon insist upon sending him to Arkham at least once every few months. You’d think they’d at least try Blackgate with how easy he gets sprung from the Asylum. 

The arching gates creak open, sinister arms engulfing him once more, “Home sweet home.” He murmurs back. History tells Edward that he has a couple days before Echo and Query plot up an escape and come fetch him. He has time to think. That’s all he will do from now to then. How could other people claim to know something he doesn’t? That they would know something about him that he doesn’t? He has to find the reasoning, the thread of thought connecting him to Oswald that he hasn’t touched. He’s lost on the cork board, he must start from scratch, ripping away what he assumes to know and rehangs each picture, each memory. Right now, he knows he resents Oswald, the way he’s been left is a bitter after taste that won’t go away. Or maybe that’s just the sedative Batman gave him.

“Alright, Ed?” Gordon asks over his shoulder, the car is parked for patient intake. Edward has not thrown a fit, no hissed vitriol, nor any threats toward them or their loved ones.

“Just peachy, Jim.” He offers back absentmindedly. White coats emerge and approach, there’s a couple of security guards with them, Edward has a preceding reputation and a habit of making things difficult for kicks. He ran them around the courtyard for ten minutes once before, just because he could. He won’t now. There’s not a single second to waste, he will not be anymore behind a revelation than he already is. 

“Jim, where are you going? This place is a drive through for crazies!” Gordon leaves the driver’s seat and walks around the vehicle to open his door, that’s new.

“Jim!” Harvey is ignored once more, he huffs and relaxes back into the passenger seat.

“It’s okay guys, I’ll walk him in.” Gordon halts the guards making to grab Ed themselves.

“Sir, that's really not how this works.” A white coat speaks up.

“It does when you’re commissioner.” He jabs back, charming smile on his face. They acquiesce begrudgingly. Gordon pulls him out of the car by his arm, handcuffed and off kilter, he stumbles but offers no protest aside from a faint grumble.

“Ed, as much as I’m loving this new quiet you, are you okay?” Jim doesn’t look his way, just marches him into Arkham. With a wave to the security booth, an alarm for the gates blares and the final gate to madness opens before them. There’s a fight going on in the dining hall, Edward doesn’t even spare a glance. There’s more memories to connect and words that seemed paltry that need to be clipped and pinned to his wall. 

He’s escorted straight into the visitor’s room and to that he does shoot Jim a dirty look.

“I’ve just got a couple of questions before I release the Riddler into your care, I’ll fetch you when I’m done.” Edward’s look is ignored, after all Jim believes that he is a mad man, a man that belongs here in Arkham. A man that would believe Arkham would do him good. What a joke.

“Of course, Commissioner.” A doctor dryly responds as James Gordon shuts the door in her face.

“Perks of the job, huh?” Edward warily eyes the other man as he’s led to the table. Though he’s handcuffed and able to be strapped down to the table, Gordon makes no move to do so.

“Yeah, it’s one of the very few perks for sure.” Gordon drones. Awkward beats pass where Jim taps an arrhythmic beat into the metal table before sighing out and rubbing his neck like he’s rather be doing anything else, “Look, Ed,”

Edward’s hackles raise at the tone, he interrupts, “I’m not a danger to myself, Jimbo.” He doesn’t have time to babysit James Gordon’s moral high ground, he needs to think, why can nobody see that? 

“Are you sure? I mean I know you and Oswald have been on the outs,” 

Edward explodes once more, snapped from reverie for the last time, “Why is everyone concerned about Oswald and I?” 

“Ah. Touched a nerve there, huh?” Gordon raises an eyebrow, it’s patronizing enough to make Edward slam his fists against the table. His dislocated shoulder screams in agony, he screams as well. Oopsie daisy.

“Settle down, Ed.” Gordon sighs, abortive, “Fine, you say you’re not a danger to yourself, I’ll believe you.” Gordon stands, rapping down on the table to get Edward’s undivided attention, “Just, try to take it easy a little while you’re here. Sometimes some time apart can help.” At least he knows Arkham isn’t a permanent fixture for Ed, it’s about time the GCPD stops deluding itself. They might have held him for ten years before, but what was the point roaming a Gotham that denied herself. Without the Penguin, who is Gotham to Edward? That’s another thought he pins to the board.

“I don’t need relationship advice from you!” He hisses, shooing Gordon off with rattling chains.

“Uh-huh, sure you don’t. I’m just saying, sometimes things seem hopeless, but don’t, you know,” Gordon scratches at his peppered stubble, “don’t lose hope or whatever.” The Commissioner finishes lamely, the ‘don’t kill yourself’ much apparent. As if Edward would! There's no time for rest now that there’s a new mystery for him to uncover. 

“Thanks for the insightful pep-talk, James,”Edward lurches forward over the table, vitriolic, “you’re a natural motivational speaker, why you chose police work, I’ll never know.” 

Gordon waves him off and exits without a glance though he does throw back a final barb, “Enjoy your dinner, I heard they’re serving gruel tonight.” How he fits through the door on that high horse of his is another mystery for another time. Maybe a riddle that involves an actual giant horse, that’d be fun to watch him climb.

The door shuts, through the small glass window he sees Gordon chatting with a doctor. It’s a minute before a guard and the doctor come back for him, they’re almost pleasant. It makes Edward grind his teeth. He’s the damn Riddler, not a basket case. Damn Gordon and damn all their sympathies, it’s not making it easy to focus on what matters.

A self-satisfied smile catches his face when the guard starts tossing him around shortly after the doctor leaves. He’ll make sure Jim regrets treating him this way. After of course, he sorts out whatever it is between Oswald and him that makes half of Gotham’s key players wait on bated breath. 

Sat on the creaky cot, he runs through every poignant thought attached to Oswald. The springs begin to dig into his backside, he doesn’t move. The shadows creep across the white floors, grey gives to dark shadows, encompassing the cell. He’s forgotten by the guards with how quiet he’s been, he’s not fetched for dinner though that could have also been on purpose. Eating would be impossible at the moment anyways, his stomach is churning and flipping as he flips through an eidetic memory of eight years with Oswald. Just living in Gotham meant being in conjunction with Oswald no matter where he was, he was on ground that Oswald ran through, a rip current that made stone his own. There are so many memories with him. There are so many thoughts he’s had about Oswald. A hearty concoction of elation and malcontent, boiled down into an obsession over the years that has kept him inside of the man’s inner circuit. So very few can claim that honor, it’s a point of pride to know that of every villain and monster in Gotham, Oswald would call on him. He’s fascinated by Oswald and fascinating to him in turn.

It comes to him that time has slipped by between them so fast, dust blown away with every breath. There’s so much history they boil down inside of their partnership. So many things have been said but there’s so much more that Ed hasn’t. The words he’s thought that hurt the most stack as stones in his gut as they come, sinking him further into the spring mattress with each thought, each era they lived through. 

Oswald, where would he be without him?

Oswald is the bane of his existence.

Oswald is the only one who sees him for what he is and keeps looking.

Gotham is more important to Oswald than him.

Oswald is worth walking into war for.

It’s just Oswald and him in this entire godforsaken city.

His life would be so boring without Oswald.

Oswald, Oswald, Oswald.

Time feels wasted and yet spent so well. Oswald and him are Titans, a steel foundation and a cataclysm working in tandem like the seasons in this city. But he can’t stop drowning now, things not said aloud give way unto sights he could never unsee. Moments that Edward knew Oswald was his, the two of them an undeniable fact, an ouroboros taking turns between who was swallowing and who was being swallowed, head and tail. The moments in when he knew he’d swallowed Oswald hurt the most, his chest and throat burning at the images as they come.

In his horrendous fake tanner and clean pressed suit, eyes alight and mouth parted, breathless as he looks to Edward when he’s elected mayor of Gotham.

Smiling a bittersweet turn of mouth, eyepatch covering his sacrifice without a hint of regret on his face, that visible eye electric and misty with pride as he looks at Ed.

In the backseat of a town car, plump with the easy life of a man that figured out how to run a high security prison from the inside, a devastated wonder on his face when Edward breathes his name into the space between them.

When did their problems start? Oswald’s eyes lost a spark that flared to life when he used to meet them. Edward’s sure now that’s when he started feeling ill towards Oswald, when those cheeks stopped being rosy, in anger or delight, when those eyes learned how to look away from him.

“Do you feel neglected?” His assigned therapist questions, pen poised over mouth, tapping thoughtfully. There’s a degree from Gotham University on the wall and Edward squints looking for the year on it. Of course it has last year’s date printed in script.

“How does that make any sense?” His voice is harsh, nasally under the bandages covering his swollen nose. Thankfully, there aren’t any mirrors, he’s sure it was set wrong and doesn’t want to see just how badly it was just yet. One thing at a time for now and though he scorns the doctor before him, this is the first time since being admitted that he feels very aware of the room around him. Thoughts have drifted him between cell, dining hall, and doctor’s office in blurs.

“Well, you said the shift was when Orlando began seeking other men out. That he began acting more distant, thereby restricting the amount of affection he had been giving you previously. You felt that lack and acted brashly, attempting to rush carnal relations between the two of you so he didn’t seek out those men to meet those needs. Now you’re lacking that affection because, though you succeeded in engaging the physical side of the relationship, he wanted an all encompassing relationship. It was something you hadn’t prepared yourself for, so you shunted it. Now you have even less attention from him than before.”

Edward blinks, mouth twitching.

“Do you feel neglected?”

“I’m done talking to you.” Edward is glad to have gotten word from Query and Echo. He should be out of here after the patients are all released from dinner. Edward glances at the calendar on the wall, it’s disturbingly headlined by kittens playing with yarn. Three days already at Arkham and he’s spent it solely thinking about Oswald or discussing “Orlando” with the annoyingly green therapist he was assigned. Feverish with emotions he was terrified to know before, he now forces himself to bathe in. The sterile bath of his mind locked inside Arkham Insane Asylum has stripped away what he thought he knew.

Edward is escorted back to his room when time is up, true to his word he had not spoken the rest of the session. It’s not that it didn’t make sense, it’s because it did in a way that also makes him feel horrifically juvenile. He needs to make this his own, take charge of his confusion and force a conclusion before the rest of Gotham screams the answer to him.

So he’s been in love with Oswald for a long time.

“But only I have figured out just how long!” Edward sings out, laughing maniacally. His eyes are watering but manages to keep from breaking down until he’s thrown back into his cell. Edward paces once righted, picking his cuticles and gnawing down his fingernails to keep from scratching holes into his skin. He feels disoriented, the foundations he stood on were rickety at best, kicked in. Does he really not know himself well enough to know something so crucial.

“Don’t beat yourself up, we knew. There wasn’t a lack of empirical evidence. We just never acknowledged it,” Edward spins on his heels, watching the vision miming slamming a drawer shut, “just misfiled it away under friendship and loathing anytime we felt it.”

“No!” He points, hiding his shaking finger by wagging it, “You’re not supposed to be here! Not anymore!” Edward howls at his visage in the corner. It’s a gut punch to see himself standing there in the old green sweater and cozy slacks he once upon a time wore around the old apartment. The vision of his younger self fixes his own glasses, snorting,

“Then stop catastrophizing, dummy, the worst that could happen already did. We lost.” He shrugs.

“I haven’t lost Oswald!” He rises to his own bait.

“Then what am I doing here?” 

“Reminding me.” Edward slumps, disturbed, distraught, and defeated. He turns his back on the image and runs raw fingers through his wiry hair.

“So what are you going to do now?” This visage calls haughtily, leant back against the stained wall where he left him. Edward lets out his insecurity in a burst of air, pulling himself upright, making himself bigger than his hallucination.

“It’s about time Oswald visited The Riddle Factory.” He concludes, track set. It’s time for the final gamble between them, win big or lose big and Riddler is no loser. The confidence that finds him strips away his fractured image, drawn back inside where he remains whole once more.

Edward vibrates as he’s forced from his cell by a lunk in a guard’s uniform, the steps to the dinner hall too slow as he’s made to walk at the same grueling pace. He needs action and his action needs planning. Now. Everything is moving far too slowly. They’ve spent too much time with this partition between them, he needs to tear and claw it away. He needs to make this real, now, make it their own, intangible to the rest of Gotham. Once inside the dining hall, he scurries, finds the right people and utilizes previous favors to gather what he needs.

A smuggled golf pencil is used to scribble hasty schematics onto a scrap piece of paper from the Warden’s office. Organizing his thoughts like this is righting his sense of self once more. This might have been a game Oswald was playing alone, but now Edward has been tagged in. Pulling the rug out from Oswald is going to make his following descent onto the man so sweet.

The buzzer for the door sounds.

“Alright, dinner time's over, let’s go. Single file!”

Edward stuffs the paper and pencil into his jumpsuit before diving underneath the table.

BOOM.

He cackles at the resounding shock and horror of the guards, the glee and shrieking of the patients.

“No need to fret, we’re here for something lean and green!” Query shouts through a respirator, smoke bomb lit and tossed into a growing crowd of guards. There’s a few gun shots that ring out uselessly, Echo pulls him out from under the table and runs him behind the guards. Query meets them in the van, diving through the open door just in time for Echo to punch the gas. Shots echo in the trail of exhaust and dust they leave behind.

Query rips the respirator from her face, shaking her hair out, “Ah, how’s that fresh air taste, Eddie?”

“Fishy.” He darts a pointed glance back to the, hopefully, empty fish crates in the back that Query lounges on.

“Don’t be catty, there weren’t many vans up for grabs on short notice!” Echo reprimands, wagging a finger his way even as she whips the vehicle around at a hundred miles an hour.

His good arm holds him steady, he clears his throat, “It would seem apologies are owed.” 

“Don’t sweat it, I was heckling Echo about the stink the whole way to Arkham.” Echo rolls her eyes.

“No, I’m referring to my behavior leading to my arrest. I don’t apologize for my disgust, this van reeks.” Query barks out a laugh, even Echo can’t keep from grinning. 

“I shouldn’t have lashed out at the two of you.” Edward nods to himself, if anyone else is deserving to know of Oswald and him, it’s his girls, “I’ve been thinking,”

“Is that supposed to be news?” Query laughs, yelping as she’s thrown across the van. Once back on a smoother track he tries to discreetly put his seat belt on. Between their bickering he’s pretty sure he was successful, safely buckled in for the ride.

“Hush, you! He’s trying to be vulnerable!” Echo slows down, taking the next turn at a more acceptable velocity. Edward snorts at the behavior and is endeared just the same.

“I’m going to need your collective help, I’ve decided it’s high time I brought Oswald to The Riddle Factory.”

“You’re gonna kill Penguin?” Query gasps horrified, crawling up to the front of the van to get in his face. Even Echo looks shocked.

“No, dummies! I’m going to tell him that I love him!” Big flamboyant reveal, he’s laughing without air at the confession spoken out loud. There’s no stopping him now. They squeal in unison, Query rolls onto her back, excitedly kicking the back of his seat.

“Not so directly of course!” He amends, voice stuttering from the kicked vibrations on his seat, “Only if he’s willing to win the game!”

“Of course he will!” Echo laughs, bouncing in her seat. “Oh damn, hold on!” She drifts the van around a street corner and then another, losing a cop car from their tail. He’s glad to have buckled in and has spare thoughts of sympathy watching Query roll around through the rearview mirror. With every cop car lost, one by one, Edward and his henchwomen cackle, speeding around Gotham with rose-tinted glasses. 

Pulling up to his hideout, he cannot even wait for Echo to park before he’s ripping his seat belt off and flinging open the door.

“Lots to do!” Edward crows, jumping from the van that Echo is forced to abruptly stop. He takes in the workshop and the severe lack of supplies.

“Or maybe not.”

Query and Echo each flank a shoulder, taking in the stock as well. 

“Hey, it’s the thought that counts, you’ve at least got enough supplies left for a main event, right?” Echo pats his shoulder.

“Yes!” Edward pulls out his paper plan, tries to smooth it out and holds it in front of them.

“Oh, easy peasy!” Query smacks his other shoulder, “We’ve still got the show set-up at The Riddle Factory, it just needs some slight modifying!”

“Removing the saws is slight modifying?” Echo leans around Edward to mock Query.

“Maybe not for you, pipsqueak!” Query baits back, also leaning around Edward.

“Oh, just kiss already!” Edward snaps, pushing away from the two and storming off to his desk. He has some leftover wires and the malfunctioned taser bomb that sent him flying from before. He’ll apologize to Oswald later, he’s sure to understand when he hears Edward’s confession. He is such a hard man to get alone these days.

Now to execute one complicated riddle, how does one kidnap a king from his throne? 

First, he needs to get out of these Arkham stripes.

Chapter Text

Oswald’s going mad in this cage. Tossing and turning and wheezing and groaning, he’s sick of it. Foolish he is, holding the key to his release and yet he only complains. The truth is that he’s wounded and scared. It’s simply not like Penguin to behave this way and he simply cannot face Gotham’s seedy underground with such weaknesses on display. So let him rot in his bed, listening to the Pagliacci opera on vinyl. If only his legs would allow him the luxury of rotting.

Over silken sheets his legs twitch, feet run. Oswald doesn’t do vacations. Every day that he wastes away like a heartbroken teenager his anxiety increases. His paranoia builds and he wonders which face would be worse to show the public. Caught in indecision, he hides inside with the blackout curtains drawn. The quilt has lost its scent of Ed but his memory fills in the gaps every time he brings the blanket to his face. 

The needle on his record player breaks in a glorious fit of irony to his and Pagliacci’s woe. The quiet settles around him, a hefty blanket tossed atop his nest. It becomes stifling in moments, with the quiet comes more memory. He tries to wrangle them under control, huffing against the cotton in fits of ache.

But scent and memory sour in his bed. His feet kick against the sheets, is at a loss in the empty space they encounter. He clutches onto things because he cannot have more. The quilt is useless without the man who owned it, this bed is useless if it cannot be filled.

He’s on his feet, cascade of soft finery tossed up and away. 

Feet pad to his closet, impatient limping steps, a wounded soldier to court.

An impeccable suit is blindly chosen, open eyes that cannot register his motions.

Blurs of routine send him to stand in front of his full length mirror. He looks regal and empty. Old, alone, and dangerous. He’s ready to displace this rot in his chest, to punch a hole in another’s. He has enough enemies to never run out, Gotham is a tide that is always breaking anew. Until his dying day, Gotham is his as he is Gotham’s, he can’t believe he left her to her own devices for so long.

Cane in hand, he considers the weight. He approaches the record player where it sits uselessly without the skinny piece. His arms strain as he brings the cane down over and over again, bits of polished wood, metal, and glass break under each swing.

When all is done and only the memory of a broken record player exists, he straightens his back. Clothes righted once more, he approaches the bedroom door. Gotham immediately welcomes him back into her arms, swinging the door open for him before he can reach for the handle.

“God, enough of this ridiculous mopping, Ozzie!” Jay stomps into the room, flanked by Raven and Lark crashing through his door. There’s an abrupt stop to their tirade, they stare at him with shock and relief at finding him on his feet, dressed and ready to go. Oswald wanly smirks as some embarrassment even colors their faces and ears.

“Agreed, ladies.” He tips his head, a brief nod executed with a sudden composure, “If you would, call my driver, and tell him to step on it if he wants to stay employed. There’s not a moment to spare with the amount of work there is to catch up on.” He’s cool, the thin veneer of control draped over his suit.

“So many brutes to scare.” Lark pipes up after a quiet moment.

“Plus your accountant!” Jay jumps in, hope invigorates her features.

“And the waiters!” Raven laughs, jumping in with Jay.

“How will I find the time?” Oswald tuts, facetiously mournful. He feels the life seeping back into his skin, seeping into his bones and soft tissues. Oswald doesn’t take vacations, he needed that reminder.

The driver is tense when he arrives but he leaves the divider cracked open, he’s practically inviting Oswald to terrorize him. His girls wind their own comments into his, they play with Oswald’s cruelty, egging on the paling features of the driver. His door is lined up perfectly to the Iceberg Lounge’s entrance in record breaking time. Oswald offers a tip through the glass partition, smiling thinly at the flinch that’s followed by a fragile hope in the man’s face. The door is opened for Oswald by his doorman and he decides to put on a show,

“Be back here at three on the dot or leave Gotham before my men hunt you and your family down.” His driver nods in staccato and blubbers an affirmative that Oswald ignores, wingtips sliding out onto the concrete.

“Good to see you back, Boss.”

The pleasure Oswald gains from having a two-hundred pound gorilla sweat a simple pat he gives back is immeasurable, “What’s your name?”

“Pete, sir.”

“Peter,” Oswald smiles wide, “why haven’t you gotten the door yet? Is that not what I’m paying you for? Or did I forget I hired a professional deadbeat? Go!” He sends the man running, tail between his large legs. Jay and Raven take an arm, sucking in laughs that shake their shoulders as they walk him to the door. The king and his court enter the castle gates, float over white marble and glide on shiny barstools.

“Your usual, Mister Penguin?” The twinge of fear in the young man’s voice is a vicious pleasure to his ears. Oswald leans his arms on the bar top, his flock follows suit.

“If I have to tell you, what’s the point?”

There’s a top shelf brandy between his fingers, chipped nails tapping away at the crystal on their way up to his office. Sparkling lights and elegance reflect off the glass elevator.

“Schedule another nail appointment for me.” He won’t have any more weaknesses shown through, he’s going to have to beat down on the pavement to make up the hit on his reputation that this stunt will have cost him in the eyes of his peers.

“On it.” Lark already has a phone to her ear.

“What’ll it be this time, Ozzie?” Jay leans in, easy smile and interest in even the mundane parts of the Penguin veneer.

“I’m thinking a plum color would look nice.” It’s a lovely color and it’s worth the pleased look he gets in return from both her and Raven.

The elevator dings and opens to the second floor where one of his staff waits on the other side. He’s a nervous young thing that opens his mouth only to be shoved across the floor and into the wall. Jay has her forearm against his throat, he squeals like a pig.

“Is that any way to approach the Penguin?” Jay’s voice is full of scorn, Raven joins in, snatching a waving letter from the man’s hand.

“Messengers get shot for less here, kid.” Raven throws back as she delivers the paper to Oswald’s outstretched hand.

“Please! I’m so sorry!” 

“Go tarp down the alley.” Oswald orders, eyes flickering over the print out of the club’s numbers from the last month. They’re satisfactory numbers that could do even better with a few new rumors to circulate and a show of strength here and there, “If you don’t want to be what’s cleaned up, I suggest you hurry up.”

“Yes, sir!” Jay lets go and the man darts away, head ducked down. If his path zigzags on his way to the employee staircase, Oswald pretends not to notice. Employees of the Iceberg Lounge are paid so well because they’re expected to be the best of the best, he doesn’t waste his hard earned money on just any Gothamite. It’s best to remind them of that fact when there’s sure to be an attack on his turf in the near future due to his recent stint of melancholia.

He’s delivered to his office doors where he motions for Jay, Lark, and Raven to stand guard. They shove into the meat headed guards already waiting, carving out their rightful spaces at his standby.

“I won’t be taking any visitors today. You three see to any odd characters that come in and deal with them in the alley.” 

“You got it, boss.” Raven taps her earpiece in, they’ll be the first to hear from his terrified doorman about any out of place personnel and guests.

Jay and Lark push open the doors, the smell of his office overtakes him. Fresh  papers and a lunch spread wait on his desk, likely rouge correspondences and calamari; he has much to digest.

The sun is replaced by neon and street lights before he relaxes back into his office chair. Scarecrow, bled dry, has taken to drastic action on Gotham hospitals and drug stores. Mad Hatter has targeted one of Oswald’s warehouse labs on the outskirts of the city. Catwoman was seen aiding and abetting Batman against Ivy at Wayne Enterprises. Harley and Ivy have taken over Gotham City Park with hybrid plants that bark and have grown teeth of all things. Freeze and Firefly have begun feuding again since he forced their team up on the docks, the city is starved of gasoline and liquid nitrogen. Joker has been awfully silent, which means it’s time to increase insurance on his properties. Oswald has responded to every movement, plans intact to profit within the gaps of each turmoil appropriately with maximum margins. A few favors asked of him from the rogues have been considered and redrawn to benefit Oswald and only Oswald in the end.

The newspaper clipping of Edward’s capture, the Arkham medical report of his injuries, and the newspaper clipping of his escape have been flipped upside down. Oswald has ignored them until now. He weighs the bad idea that flutters his heart, plum nails flick at the corners of the papers left on his desk. Sucked in breath, Oswald flips the papers over, pushing aside the newspapers to feast his eyes on the doctor’s notes filling the medical form. 

He doesn’t take pleasure in Edward’s injuries, instead they ignite an insipid hatred of Batman, of James Gordon who put Edward back in Arkham bruised and battered. Oswald gets to the bottom of the report and freezes. There in familiar handwriting is a note, not from Ed’s doctor but Ed himself, addressed to Oswald. His day has been without incident, Jay, Lark, and Raven took a couple of ne'er do wells to the alley to set the record straight. He doesn’t see the need to call them in now, he’s worked all day with this note laying on his desk. Edward couldn’t be so idiotic as to start a fight with him now. He is, however, embarrassed.

Check the bottom drawer, Oswald.

The drawer is ripped open despite his reservations. A purple present wrapped in a green bow stares up at him.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Oswald scoffs, leaning back into his chair, curiosity in his fingers as they flick at the bow, “seriously, Ed?”

The present box is removed from his drawer and placed carefully upon the desk.

Oswald bites at his lip, chewing thoughtfully as he wraps the ribbon around a finger, pulling it loose from the neat bow. The box falls open, each side splayed out on his desk.

“Oh hell!” Oswald yells, face to face with a bomb. The box’s release has started a timer, electronic green numbers are set to sixty seconds. From a speaker within the bomb comes the Riddler’s lilting voice,

“Kingdom lost, the crown has tipped, this to your opponent you must admit.”

The numbers flash, they begin the countdown. Oswald knows Edward and him have had a tumultuous past rife with their own fair shares of violence but he thought they were long past threats on each other’s lives. Heart pounding and neck breaking out in cold sweat, Oswald hovers his fingers over the keyboard. The riddle sounds like a threat within itself, he worries that nothing will change even if he answers, if this is the final insult Edward will allow Oswald. It’s thirty seconds to go off and Oswald braces himself, with no time to run he mashes his fingers down onto each key. He silently begs for his mother to protect him as he hits enter. Don’t let this be a trap.

“Checkmate.” His whisper surrounds him for a heart palpitating moment. The countdown stopped at nine seconds, blinking. Oswald’s seized chest relaxes.

“Final answer?” Edward’s voice asks mockingly through the grating speaker. His materials have hit a severe blow, Oswald notes. He’s smug knowing it’s because of him.

The numbers blink again and the nine turns into an eight.

“Yes! Final answer! Yes!” Oswald screeches, jamming his finger down quickly and repeatedly on the enter key. He can barely hear himself with the riptide of blood rushing in his ears.

Enter. Seven. Enter. Six. Enter. Five.

“Checkmate, dammit!” Oswald screams into the bomb’s speaker.

“Gotcha! See you soon, Oswald.”

Once he hears the hiss of electricity it’s too late, he’s flung back by nerves that have caught fire, jerked from his chair and onto the floor. His limbs are not his own as they echo the live wire coursing through his veins. He is alive, though useless to himself. 

So Edward’s goal was to incapacitate him, not kill him. Not yet at least. The man did have a penchant for putting on a show, Oswald has to remind himself this is far from over. Through gurgles and groans his tries to curse Edward but instead it seems to summon him instead. 

Through convulsions he notes the heavy smoke that begins to fill his office, a lanky man wearing a gas mask has thrown the doors open. The smoke quickly engulfs the figure and camouflages the vibrant green in its grey, but Oswald has seen enough. He chokes on his own spit trying and failing to scream at Edward from the top of his lungs. He reappears in front of Oswald, a swagger in his step like this is a seduction and not an assault.

“Upsie-daisy, Oswald,” Edward grunts, hooking his arms underneath his armpits to hoist him back up into his chair, “and stop trying to scream at me, it’s a mute endeavor,” he’s chuckling and Oswald wants to shove his fist down his throat to stop the sound, “if anything, you’ll just choke before you manage to say anything.”

“Bastard.” Oswald manages to gargle out. To that, Edward sighs, his mask right next to his ear.

“Well, you always do seem to defy all odds, don’t you?” Edward purrs, downright dreamy in Oswald’s ears, even through the augmenting of the mask he wears. Now Oswald is absolutely terrified, there’s no point of basis for this sultry version of Edward. Cold water slides down his back, he might actually die today.

Edward spins his chair out from around his desk, they’re flying through smoke. Shouts from his men surround his blind field of vision, his prized lounge has been turned into a fun house of disorientation by the least likely suspect. Edward’s fingers extend their hold on the sides of his leather chair, hooking fingertips into his arms. As if he could lose him now. Edward manages to operate the elevator, a moment trapped in descent. Hands grab his face and yank his head back, Oswald squints through smoke and can catch a shine, a reflection of light bouncing from the lenses on the gas mask. The hands clench, not painfully, but it catches Oswald’s lack of breath nonetheless. Thumbs push, sculpting wet clay, pulling his bottom lip down. Those thumbs descend, releasing his lip to smack back into place, a track of saliva trailing as his thumbs come to rest on his chin. Oswald realizes how quiet it is in the elevator, in between his own gasping he can make out the heavy breathing of Edward as it comes in bursts through the mask. It’s sick how even blind and disoriented he longs for the man. Heat licks up his twitching thighs and gut, an unbearable concoction mixing with the shocked nerves. The noise that bursts through his throat is animalistic and more honest than he can handle, Oswald’s teeth gnash down against it.

“After you.” The elevator dings and in sweeps new smoke, any bit of Edward he was starting to make out is eradicated. They push through, taking flight once more. In the distance he can make out Jay yelling inside, calling out for him in this disaster but it’s too late, Oswald’s hauled through the back doors and out through the loading dock.

Edward’s shoulders carry leftover smoke, dissipating into the late evening air as he comes to face Oswald head on, “Your chariot awaits!”

Oswald will remember the unceremonious way he’s loaded into the back of the odorous fish van for the rest of his days, or hours. Edward shouts an apology as Oswald is rolled into an empty wooden crate that is horrifyingly slimy. The front door slams shut and the van peels out from the alley at a rate that makes Oswald squeeze his eyes shut. If not a shot to the chest on the dock, they might just die in a mundane car accident. His leg kicks out when he tries it, there’s hope for him yet. Control is coming back to him, slowly and awkwardly, but Oswald bets he could overtake Ed before he wrecks them. 

The breaks are slammed and Oswald tumbles into more fish crates. Sliding doors are swung aside and he’s trampled by a woman in a gas mask accentuated by a police cap of all things.

“Oh, shit!” She yelps, trying to roll off of him but is impeded when yet another woman jumps in behind her, swinging the door shut once more. There’s no time to sort the mess they’ve become entangled in before they all go tumbling together when Edward hits the gas once more.

Oswald’s head smacks the floor, weighed down by the gangly woman and stuck by a leg that’s unfortunately slid inside a crate somewhere in the commotion. 

“Dammit, Echo!” The woman in the police cap yells from the cushion of his body. She throws said cap playfully at Echo and laughs bodily, shaking him in the process.

“How was that my fault?” Echo is also laughing, righting herself to sit against the door, a hand gripping a crate for security.

“Query, you might want to get off of Oswald, he should be able to use his limbs again shortly.” Edward calls back over his shoulder, he’s grinning so hard his dimples are craters in his cheeks. 

“Right-o!” Query sits up and gives him a pat on the stomach, “Sorry about that, Mr. Penguin.”

Edward had best hurry or Oswald might just beat him to the punch and die from the indignity of it all.

Since it’s no longer any use playing dead, Oswald lashes out with his free leg, crated leg thunking threateningly, and kicks Query off and away from him, “Stop touching me!” His growl is slurred and wet, but it sounds as spiteful as he means it to.

“Oof, watch it, old man!” Query smacks his foot, pain rattles up his bad leg and kicks back at her in a responding loop.

“Knock it off!” She pulls a gun out on him, finally, Edward’s henchwomen aren’t very well trained if they’re willing to play around with him like this. Oswald harrumphs and manages to keep his limbs to himself the rest of the ride, though he does intermittently send venomous looks to Edward’s stupidly gleeful face.

“We’re here.” Edward whips around after throwing the van into park. If the man had a tail it would be wagging. Oswald’s leg is dislodged from the crate by Echo while Query maintains the sights of her pistol aimed at him. He’s sliding out of the van with sore limbs, his bad leg is throbbing excruciatingly. Edward offers his arm to lean on and Oswald snorts at the gentlemanly offer under the circumstances.

“Not a chance, Ed,” Oswald hisses, hackles raised, “let us get this over with.”

Edward looks put-out and Oswald has to dart his gaze away for what it does to him, “Suit yourself, Oswald, I’ll meet you inside.” Edward walks away, glances over his shoulder are sent back to Oswald and he pretends not to notice. The man disappears behind a rusted metal sliding door.

Oswald knows this place, Oswald knows every place in Gotham. He knows every place Edward haunts, every place he’s ever called home. It’s not an extensive list but not many can claim to know them all the way Oswald does.

From the outside it’s another dilapidated building in the Narrows, the street it resides on has been void of life since the bridges blew ages ago. Gotham has healed since then, but this section of the Narrows never did. Edward must be pleased to have this preserved just for him to utilize. Oswald’s sure Lee Gordon’s heeled boot would be on the man’s neck for setting up shop inside her charity case otherwise. 

It’s not that Edward hides the Riddle Factory though. From the outside, the grey washed building has a large blinking question mark that definitely looks to be handmade, scrap pieces of metals in varying colors make up the panelling. Painted, green question marks also decorate the chipped walls of the building’s facade. Oswald has to wonder how Ed hasn’t been raided enough times to have been forced out, though the traps he’s inevitably stocked the place with probably has something to do with it.

There’s two separate entrances, one is to the warehouse Edward has shut himself into, preparing for who knows what. The other door is framed by another flashing sign that’s not usually on save for special occasions. The Riddle Factory sign flashes just for Oswald at this moment. Strong and dainty hands shove him through the door.

A floor of empty theater seating leads up to a stage. On the stage is a spotlight, lit and focused on a chair that’s been properly fitted for holding him hostage. Green leather belts hang from the arms, legs, and neck of the chair. The green holds match the dusty cushioned seat and back, at least Oswald would have a modicum of comfort in the end.

Lead down the carpeted aisle, Oswald holds his head high. Throbbing leg relieved to be accompanied on either side by both women. At least there’s no audience in attendance, Oswald would not stand for any further humiliation. The tall woman nearly floats him up the stairs to his astonishment, though he tries to play it off with a grouchy grumble.

“There’s no need for that, I can walk on my own, you giantess.” Oswald shoulders away from their holds on his arms and each hand slackens, hovering but allowing him the space.

“Alright, big man, go sit in your chair then.” Query gestures grandly to the seat.

Oswald hobbles forward, stubborn to the end with his pride. The spotlight casts an ethereal glow in the cold theater, dust floats and spins in the light. Mites spill up into the air as he settles onto the chair, he sneezes and grumbles some more.

“Suppose you need help fastening yourself in, huh?” Query mocks, she wags her gun as she sweeps her gaze over his figure. There’s been a knife up his sleeve this whole time, unless she confiscates it he’s sure he can give Ed a run for his money, but not yet. Not while his enormous henchwoman has her gun on him.

Oswald offers a tight lipped smile and splays his hands open where they rest on the arms of the chair, a beautiful facade of good behavior.

“No funny business.” Echo wags a finger as she kneels in close to strap him in. Aside from an eye twitch, Oswald makes no sudden movements, relaxing into the dusty cushions with regal refinement. Many have tried and all have failed, Oswald doesn’t worry about dying at the hands of men anymore, but Edward was the closest to ever putting him in his grave. A flexed wrist manages to give him an appropriate amount of wiggle room after the strap is tightened. He keeps his arm tought, he’ll relax it when he’s ready to stab Edward in the gut. As soon as the man leans into him as he’s sure to do, he never could keep out of Oswald’s space. He'll get what’s coming to him if he thinks he can take down the Penguin.

Query and Echo take a moment to appraise their work before they nod to each other and leave the stage. Oswald is surprised to see them leave the floor, a pistol is fairly short range and it’s the only weapon that’s been associated with Edward’s little crew. Aside from the impromptu close range weaponry that is, Oswald’s heard of plenty of battery afflicted to Gotham’s finest. 

“It’s showtime!” Edward’s voice booms through speakers, a second spotlight hits the curtains on stage right. A cane fitted to resemble a question mark breaks through the heavy curtains. Oswald imagines beating him with it. The curtains split further apart to reveal Edward in the shiny number he’d picked the man up on the night of their simultaneous release. A few years hasn’t worn down the shine of the green satin coat and its question marks. The coat has been left open to reveal even shinier pants and shoes. Those green tinted glasses that Oswald swears Edward cannot see out of are perched on his swollen nose. Though Batman had gotten his hands on Ed, it was apparent the vigilante didn’t get his spirits down; Edward’s face must hurt from how deep that grin is. Those pearly whites glint in the spotlight and remind Oswald that no matter how foolish the man is dressed, that he is dangerous indeed.

“Welcome, ladies and gentleman,” Edward enters, a wink from lively eyes and cane twirling on nimble fingers; Oswald has to tear his eyes away from him, “to a show you’re sure to remember!” From the recesses of the theater Oswald can hear Query and Echo cheer and clap. They must be in a control room moving along the spotlight that follows Edward as he come to a stop near his chair. A bow, a bowler hat tipped to the empty room, he’s a showman through and through. Even in his wrath Oswald cannot help but admire him. The knife in his sleeve burns hot against his skin.

A rushing whip of air startles Oswald, Edward’s lips are so pink up close. 

“Up here.” The whisper is steam to a hot room, Oswald is simmering somewhere between love and hate. Eyes dutifully move up to meet Edward’s crinkled gaze. Fondness Oswald was not expecting to find there leaves him wrong-footed. Those crows feet deepen as Edward watches him replace righteous anger with confusion; he would count confounding Oswald as yet another victory.

“Edward.” He wants to ask a hundred questions, a thousand vile words, but he loses them somewhere in the space between his and Edward’s noses, a space that closes in on itself as Edward brushes them together. A whisper of a kiss of crooked noses; his nerve is gone, he’s a goner.

Edward is lent in close, a secret moment in a vacuum, stomach brushing over Oswald’s tense arm. Those soft insides so close to meeting his knife, it would only take Oswald relaxing his arm and unsheathing the blade. A short journey into a vital space where Oswald would stake final claim over the man who nearly killed him. His arm relaxes.

He does nothing. 

Edward’s eyes are so warm under this infernal light.

“Ready?” Edward is gorgeous and horrible, face gone utterly soft, awake from a dream. Oswald hopes the man knows what he’s doing, who he is to him, and how a look and voice like that would cause Oswald to lay down his arms. His back relaxes back into the cushioned chair, an air of control when the reality is that Edward has ripped that from him ever since he spared him in the woods eighteen long years ago.

“I guess I had better be.” Even in their solitude, Oswald only manages a whisper back.

“You are.” It’s reaffirmation from the smartest man in all of Gotham, it’s enough to straighten his shoulders. The voice inside him that usually screams for him to fight, to maim, to overcome is quiet. Oswald’s not sure why but this kidnapping turned game show hostage situation doesn’t make Oswald feel threatened. Edward’s edges are curved, blunting Oswald’s serrated skin.

Oswald lifts his chin, though he’s tied down to this chair he makes it his own, “Carry on then, you went through a lot of trouble to get me here.”

“Right where I want you.” Years have made Edward’s face gaunt but there’s a rosy flush that makes Oswald ancient to his youth; insecurity won’t do. He tilts, paints over Edward’s figure with purpose.

“You should’ve just asked, my friend.”

“Like you would have come.” Edward scoffs but lingers in the moment with Oswald smirking back at him. His eyes drop to the leather straps, “Will you stay?”

Uncertainty warps the word and hurts to hear for some odd reason.

“Release me, Ed.” An order passes his lips like second nature, any weakness is blood in the water. Edward’s eyes dart back up, they search his face even as his body moves to follow through.

“Stay.” Edward orders him back in return, even on his knees as his fingers blindly undo the binding on his ankles and wrists. Edward waits, gaze never leaving his. To move forward he knows he must give in return, though it makes him sniff away some pride, he nods. Acquiesced, Edward is grinning away again, he gives a quick rub to Oswald’s leg and leaps to his feet.

“Welcome to the Riddle Factory!” Recorded applause echos off the walls and he bows once more to a crowd of none. Oswald is wont to roll his eyes though he can’t help but huff a laugh through his nose as well.

“Today, we have a very special guest,” The cane is flipped and caught, swung to address him, “Oswald Cobblepot, or as all of Gotham knows him by, The Penguin.” A recording of an audience’s awe crackles back.

“We all know the rules, but for the sake of my dear contestant, allow me to elucidate,” Edward walks the stage waning between him and his imaginary audience, “I give you a riddle,” 

“No, really?” 

“You have sixty seconds to come up with the correct answer,” Edward continues over his outburst, “then, should you successfully answer, you will have the chance to win it all if you can give me a riddle that can trump me,” Edward spins on his heel, arms akimbo, “the Riddler!”

“Just what am I aiming to win here?” Oswald drawls out, fingers tapping away at the wooden arm of the chair, “My life?”

“Ah, hah! Very close,” Edward claps, gleefully wicked, “It is indeed a life.”

“Whose?”

“No more questions from you!” Edward sings over him, “At least until you can answer my riddle.”

“Okay?” Oswald stops tapping, preferring to gesticulate his impatience with Edward’s performance, “Go on, then, we’re not getting any younger, Riddler.”

He sucks in a breath, exhaling out his words, “Right!” A snap of the fingers and the back curtain drops open, dust mites scatter in a frenzy, Oswald blinks rapidly to clear his eyes.

“What the hell, Ed?”

A third spotlight shines, illuminating cold, shiny metal and polished glass. It’s interesting to see what Edward deems worthy of dusting up for him. The massive hourglass looms beside a spinning “prize” wheel, each spot has its very own envelope with the Riddler’s green signature stamped on its center. Oswald doubts there’s an all expenses paid spa resort trip in any of those spots. 

“Exciting, I know.” Edward leans in to give him a salacious wink.

“If you even think you’re putting my head in a rat cage,” Oswald’s temper flares briefly, remembering some of the so-called prizes losers of Edward’s game have won in the past, but he’s interrupted before he can make his own threat.

“Ah, ah, ah! Guess you’ll have to trust in the game, Oswald,” Edward taps the ground with his cane, he looks at Oswald like there’s something else being said. Oswald’s sure there is; he purses his mouth against the words that foam on his tongue and stares back. A piercing moment passes where Oswald gives control once more, though it itches to do so, he barely blinks back at Edward. 

“You said you’d stay.” He’s checking in, looking between Oswald’s mismatched eyes.

“I am.” Oswald is stern even as anxiety courses through him. He feels very awake and very exposed.

Edward’s lips move in aborted twitches, whatever he’s refraining from saying must be uncomfortable to sit with. That gives Oswald some sense of retributive comfort, let them both be uncomfortable and exposed through Edward’s own facilitation. Faltering expressions finally settle in sight of Oswald’s own resolve; whatever this is for Edward, Oswald will allow him it, Oswald would allow him most anything if the man would just ask.

“Time has tested me, good and bad, rich and poor, I finally give you this and forsake the world.” Edward’s words are blurted in quick succession, a hurried tune pushed through a flute. 

“Come again?” Oswald leans forward, trying to make out the hasty recitation.

A throaty noise erupts from Edward’s throat, Oswald would joke about a frog but he’s beaten to his teasing as Edward recites once more, “Time has tested me, good and bad, rich and poor, I finally give you this and forsake the world.”

He pauses, unblinking, “What am I?” 

Oswald is statuesque.

“Time’s ticking.” Edward looks sick to his stomach, the cane he leans on is gripped with a shaking, white-knuckled grip. He clips it against the stage floor, a gun shot echoed through the theater.

The minute is a prison that’s locked away Oswald’s tongue. Vertigo keeps him heavy to the chair though he sways with the earthquake that’s rattling his cellular make up. He knows the truth, and is only surprised to have all expectations of disappointment, disaster, and despair thrown from the moment. They could both puke on this very ground and it wouldn’t compare to the way Edward has already spilled his guts. Oswald slipped on them and bit off his tongue in the fall.

The sands of time are slipping away to the bottom of the glass. Still Oswald can only breathe in heavy aches. Well over a decade’s worth of suffocating longing ironically starves his lungs of air. How could Oswald be expected to speak in these fleeting seconds? What a cruel way to go.

Edward has gone pale, wide eyed, he looks desperate. He’s pulling his bottom lip back and forth through his teeth till blood blooms. 

“Please.” Edward’s voice is small and choked and it clenches Oswald’s racing heart to hear.

“Love,” Oswald clears his throat, watery eyed and so very in love with the absolute ass, “you love me.”

“I do.” Even through green glasses, Edward’s eyes appear misty, he has to clear his throat as well to go on, “I love you, Oswald.”

A strangled laugh escapes Oswald, surely this is about to go all wrong. Perhaps this is a hallucination waiting to expire in the most horrid way, maybe fear toxin had been pumped into his office and he’s been hallucinating this whole time. The fear spreads from his racing imagination into his abundance of trust issues, locking his joints into a hunched position. Cover the vitals and brace for impact. Oswald shakes his head and has to laugh again, watching his knees blur under tears that well.

“The game’s not over, Oswald.” Green covers his knees, he desperately blinks the tears away, sick that they fall onto green sleeves that darken where they land. When Oswald looks up, Edward’s face looks happy of all things, gone is the pale, stricken expression that Oswald resonated with. Once more he’s taken Oswald for a ride, knelt before him again like a guardian walking him through this, he smiles despite his nerves at the humor of it,

“Let me guess, I have only another sixty seconds to come up with a riddle for you now?” 

“More like twenty by the time I’m done talking, but yes.” Edward’s blunt words are softened by his bright eyes and soft mouth. Oswald doesn’t need time to come up with a riddle at all, he leans further into Edward’s crouched form and feeds him back the riddle that’s haunted him for years on end,

“I can’t be bought,” Oswald watches as Edward’s breath hitches, it gives him the confidence to continue, “but I can be stolen with one glance,” Oswald slowly pulls the glasses from Edward’s face, “I’m worthless to one but priceless to two.” He drops the glasses onto his lap in favor of recreating the heart Edward had once drew with his own fingers between them.

Fingers dart into his hair and yank at his scalp, Edward is hungry against his mouth. The kiss is relief and appetency, Oswald leans as far from the chair as he can, winding his arms around Edward’s shoulders. Edward rises from his crouch up into Oswald, his fingers grip the hairs he’s wound even tighter. The tight pull is painful and delicious, feeling Edward’s need to mash their faces closer than possible. Oswald’s mouth is invaded by tongue, his lips are sucked raw. Edward’s mouth is frantic yet cannot move away far enough for Oswald to catch his breath, he gasps and pants through nose and mouth. 

“Ed!” Oswald groans, earns sharp canines digging into his bottom lip for the trouble.

“Stop talking.” Edward growls into his mouth as Oswald gapes for oxygen. A tongue licks the roof of his mouth, exploring. Oswald struggles to keep up and doesn’t know why he’s even attempting to in the first place. Hot breath puffs over his face, small noises from Edward’s chest reverberate against the hands he’s balled against the man’s back. Oswald tries to move his face away but Edward only allows him a corner. Deep, tide breaking breaths are taken as Edward continues to kiss and lick and bite at the corner of his mouth. Every plush push and pull weakens him.

“Scoot.” Edward surges upward, shoving Oswald bodily back into the seat and he acquiesces in the way a rag doll would, head bouncing off the seat back, helpless to watch as Edward climbs atop his quivering thighs, folding his long limbs in to cover him in delicious, hot weight.

“Ed.” His chest moves with deep breaths, Edward is beguiled with each in and out, hands pushing against it. Those hands massage through Oswald’s layers, malleable skin gives to those deft fingers. Edward’s eyes follow the motions until Oswald can take it no longer, covering Ed’s hands with his own. His eyes break away from the clothed chest and find Oswald’s plumed face, he’s quick to cover it with his own once more. Eager lips push Oswald back even further, craning his neck back. Pecks begin to carve a titillating path from mouth to neck, brief sneaking of tongue littering the way. Oswald can feel sparks all the way down to his toes, they curl inside his leather shoes.

It’s a heady feeling that settles inside Oswald’s thighs, the pits of his stomach burn with euphoria. Having Edward cling to him and kiss him breathless is everything and yet not enough. As if Edward could read his mind, his hips dip forward into a filthily and long grind, Oswald is lost to the fire of pleasure as it spreads to his fingertips. He’s waited so long for this moment to have and be had by Edward. The proof that Edward needs him as much as he needs Edward is all the signal he’s been waiting for. He digs his fingertips into Edward’s waist, using the hold he had over him to guide those hips over his own. Edward’s neck snaps back and he lets out a moan that seeps and prickles Oswald’s skin; not enough, he needs more.

“Ed.” But he’s not above teasing. Oswald pulls Edward back by his hips just far enough that he can no longer press his hard cock into him.

“Do we really need to talk at the moment?” Edward grouses, bending at the waist to latch back onto Oswald, mouthing his way up the side of Oswald’s neck. It’s a good attempt at distraction, Oswald allows it only for a moment, those swollen lips do feel so very nice under his ear.

“Did I win?” 

Edward nips at his earlobe, frustrated before responding back in a huff, “What?”

“You didn’t answer my riddle in time.”

Edward shoots upright, indignation twisting his flushed features, it’s as adorable as Oswald hoped. Sitting on his lap, green suit uncomfortably tented, out of breath and red as can be; Oswald is delighted, his mind has tried to picture it before but it’s done him no justice. A springy vision of debauchery and ego, Oswald loves him ardently.

“Seriously?” Edward has been embarrassed enough, for the moment. Oswald has much more in store for the man for making him wait this long, he can deal with being inconvenienced momentarily. Oswald brings a hand to cup a warm cheek, he knows his eyes are too saccharine, knows he looks weak in the knees as he strokes his thumb reverently slow across the cupped face. Edward leans into the touch, a zealous hand grips his wrist to keep him there.

“Does that mean one of those envelopes is for you, dear?” If Oswald had said it any less sticky sweet, he’s sure Edward would have choked him, he looks close to it anyhow and he wouldn’t be the first. Those kiss swollen lips thin, are sucked into his mouth and the grip he has on Oswald’s wrist tightens painfully. Oswald’s cheeks hurt under his splitting grin.

“Right now?”

“The game’s not over, Edward.” He mocks back.

“You’re horrible.”

“You love me and now we both know it.”

“Those two things are not mutually exclusive.” Edward sneers, sliding from his thighs to stand on wobbly legs. Oswald luxuriates, head cushioned as he watches Edward walk awkwardly to the prize wheel. Oswald tuts, those sinfully tight suit pants must ache against his erection. He admires as much as he sympathizes, eyes hungrily taking in the shape.

Edward stops by the wheel, his expression waning between frustration and amusement, he should be happy that Oswald is entertaining this game of his. The wheel is spun and his eyes don’t leave Oswald, it stops and Oswald doesn’t look away from him either.

“Well? Go on, what’s your punishment?” 

Edward’s face breaks into a devious smile, snatching the winning envelope from its spot, “Oh something truly wretched, I’m sure.” He finally breaks those eyes away from Oswald to look inside, pulling out a card and releasing a bark of laughter, “La petite mort.”

“You’re vile.” Oswald fires back, flaring his nostrils in vain attempt to hide his own amusement.

“Well, it was supposed to be your prize, I didn’t think you’d best me at my own game,” Edward slinks closer, “though you did cheat.” He slides onto Oswald’s lap once more, slapping the card against Oswald’s chest.

“I did no such thing.” Oswald snatches the card and holds it up to read, it does indeed read those words. He has to chuckle at Edward’s tenacity when it comes to pleasure, “I suppose I had better enact your punishment before you beat me to it?” Oswald hauls Ed in close again, pointedly sweeping around the stiff shape of him.

“Yes.” Edward hisses, curling over him, lips locking over Oswald’s magnetically. The card is tossed aside like all cares for the possibility that they’re still being watched by Ed’s henchwomen. This perilous fancy that’s plagued his mind and soul for so long is finally his. His life, one eye, and his reputation that one time is all it took to hold the man he loves and he’d do it all again.

“Stop thinking and touch me, Oswald.” Oswald laughs against those softened lips with a joy he’s never known. 

With tears in his eyes he pushes the words into Edward’s mouth, the man will be filled by his words and his confession only, “I love you.”

“I love you too.” And he’d do it again, and again, and again just to breathe those words in and have them for himself. Oswald is a dangerous man who covets and takes everything for himself and there is no one in Gotham more aware of that than the man taking his pleasure against Oswald’s body, kissing confessions into his skin. The most dangerous men in Gotham are in love, nothing, not even a man dressed as a bat, will get in their way. Or a blown open door.

“Boss!” Lark.

“Oh, ew!” Raven.

“Aw!” Jay.

Nobody except his girls, unpunctual and brazen as ever. Edward breaks his mouth from Oswald’s, dropping to lay his head on his shoulder. His wet lips brush against Oswald’s neck as he laughs, “You owe me a new door.”

Oswald sighs, face falling into wiry hair. He breathes in the smell of Edward, drunk and stupid he promises, “Anything.”

Chapter Text

Their girls have been sent to run errands, Zsasz has been put on yard duty, candlelight flickers on sconces, Chinese takeout boxes litter the coffee table that has been pushed a safe distance away.

“Fuck!” Edward’s forehead slides against the sweaty skin of Oswald’s back. Constellations of freckles shoot through his vision as he presses deep inside, warm, hot, burning heat scorching his thighs. The vintage couch creaks dangerously with each thrust but Oswald doesn’t tell him to stop and Ed is finding that he can’t, even if they end up in the ruins of Oswald’s ancestral furniture. The fire crackles, it’s too hot in this freezing room. The last snow is falling outside before spring and they’ve done an amazing job at keeping warm in the meantime. Edward’s pants are twisted around his knees, his socks are still on but he has bared Oswald with a haste that’s left various articles thrown over the couch, overtop the game table with Edward’s winning checkmate, socks and their garters on separate sides of the room. Oswald’s brand new record player has stopped long ago but Oswald’s panting and grunting is music to his ears, his very own instrument to play. Touch and go, new noises for each discovery he can find in their race to finish.

Each thrust is met by plush skin that threatens to hold him and never let go. It feels as though even their cells would fuse, myoblasts merging to form the beginnings of myofibers until their skin could no longer separate. The heart and brains of Gotham finally become one being, they would have to set onto world domination immediately. Not a soul would be able to take them down; it wouldn’t be much different from their current dispositions. They spend their days apart running their own shows around the fools of Gotham and spend nights reverently wrapped around each other in different positions, different rooms, different pieces of furniture. It only matters that they find a way to release the fear that they’ve been without for too long and only have the rest of their lives to memorize every millimeter of skin between the two of them.

“Edward,” Oswald groans, shoving his hips back, impaling himself on Edward with an impatience that knocks him from the reverie. He’s drooled a bit onto Oswald’s back, a gut punch of pleasure knocks back into him as Oswald continues fucking himself on Edward’s cock. His hands slide from Oswald’s sides, running up to massage the little bit of spit into the skin of his back. Oswald is his entirely, the one man in Gotham that nobody could have except for Edward Nygma and he intends to mark Oswald as his in every way imaginable. They never know when Edward might spend the night in Arkham or if the Batman will put either of them out of commission for a brief or extended hospital stay. Every moment is charged with obscene adoration, worshipers at Aphrodite of Knidos’s statue; there’s nowhere he won’t try to mark skin with spit, teeth, or spend. They’re disgusting and so horrible; middle aged men that cannot keep their hands or anything else to themselves. To prove it, Edward pushes his massaging hands down, until Oswald buckles. With his chest against the cushion, arms crooked up to hold onto the arm of the couch, and hips tilted up just for Edward, he’s a vision that Edward holds down and rides.

The air is thinner further away from Oswald, the fresh air snaps him into renewed action. Obscenely wet noises resonate and flush Edward’s face with each quick thrust. The cushions might stain but it was worth the small bottle of lube that’s crushed under his knee to reduce Oswald to this boneless, desperate mess under him. Fluttering and clenching around him in encouraging spasms that makes Edward reckless with lust. He almost forgets himself inside of Oswald; Edward slows his thrusts to shallow and light strokes, pulling out as far as he can without leaving Oswald completely. The sound of garbled confusion from Oswald is delicious enough to keep Edward from forgoing his mission. A blotchy red face twists from the cushions, sweat streaks black and grey hairs across Oswald’s temples,

“What are you doing?” His breathless voice is extra reedy, it’s beautiful.

“Say it.”

“Oh, god.” Oswald shoves his face back into the fabric of the couch, his shrill groan brings a smile to Edward’s face. He drops a hand underneath them to stroke a finger against Oswald’s perineum, teeth descending to bite at the flesh over Oswald’s ribs. He squirms just as Edward had learned he would.

“Say it, Os.” He whispers, viperous tongue flicking out to taste the length of skin from his ribs to shoulder. His finger increases pressure, massaging in small bursts, letting go before Oswald can push into the pleasure. A strangled noise escapes Oswald, he gasps in air out from the cushion. Face turned up, a watery, dilated eye narrows at Edward.

“You cannot be serious.” Oswald huffs in steamy breaths, Edward raises his eyebrows expectantly, hips keeping a shallow and slow pace that’s sure to only itch and never scratch.

“Please,” Oswald deflates, he’s damn near whiny and so very attractive for it, “I need you,” Edward leans in close to catch the grand finale as it comes from Oswald’s lips and tongue, “Riddler.”

Oswald shouts as Edward thrusts in fully, picking up into an urgent rhythm. White hot tendrils lash about his pelvis, he races to feel each lash.

“Riddler!” Oswald spurs him on, a tumble in his gut that sends him down, covering Oswald’s back with his chest, arms winding around his torso for leverage as he hammers inside.

“Yes.” He’s hissing, mouth tasting Oswald’s sweat in hazy, open mouth kisses; salty, sweet, divine, “Oswald.” 

His arms crush into Oswald’s muscles and fat, Oswald is wheezing out a delirious laugh. The room is rosy pink, soft, and warm. He feels Oswald’s love in this animalistic conceding of control, this exposing of freckles and scars and crevasses. His hips try to bruise themselves against Oswald’s ass, a sticky symphony. The reins slip through his fingers and he chokes on a breath that’s stolen from the pits of his stomach as the massive knot there loosens and then unravels completely. Edward gasps for air against the skin of Oswald’s back, teeth grazing mindlessly as he spills deep inside of the man, the king, under him. His weight collapses against Oswald, clinging to his warmth in sunny afterglow. Oswald’s fingers wind with one of his hands that still crush into Oswald, he allows his hand to be guided easily. When Oswald gets Edward’s hand around his cock, he attempts to loosen his own hand and slide away; he doesn’t get very far at all. Edward winds their fingers around Oswald’s erection, squeezing them together, covering the sensitive silken skin. His hips buck into the hold, back arching and moving Edward with it. It gets his own hips twitching in the aftershock of added lust.

“Fuck, I love you.” Edward blubbers, hand rushing along Oswald’s oncoming orgasm with an onslaught of rapid strokes with their intertwined fingers. Oswald is quiet when he climaxes, but not still; hips buck like a bronco that Edward squeezes around to ride. Oswald’s neck strains, veins bulging as he heaves out, an open shiny, wet mouth that Edward is mesmerized by. He moves with Oswald’s heavy breathing as they collapse down into the sofa.

They lay, interlocked into a fleshy puzzle, quiet and catching their breaths in the midst of the roaring fireplace. Edward wonders if the Chinese takeout is still good. It sits on the coffee table four feet away but he can’t be damned to unstick his skin and become a single individual again just yet. His cheek is melting into Oswald’s skin, his hand has gone numb, crushed inside Oswald’s under his stomach. His own stomach growls.

“Pull the table closer.” Oswald huffs a laugh, stretching his bad leg out alongside Edward’s to keep from cramping.

“In a minute.” He kisses the mumbled words into Oswald’s back.

“We can’t fall asleep here, Ed.” Even Oswald sounds exhausted. His eyes are leaden, they fight valiantly to stay open, trying to plot a way to get the takeout box closer without leaving the couch.

“‘Course we can. We rule this city.” His lazy tongue is heavy with the words. He wants to extrapolate the ways they can get away with being gross old men but he’s tumbling head first into sleep before Oswald can make a counter protest. He hopes he doesn’t sleep for long, there’s more time to be spent with Oswald before he goes back to work at the Lounge tomorrow. When they wake up, he wants Oswald to feed him the cold leftovers while Ed straddles him at the table.