Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Oswald had just wrapped up a meeting with a fellow mob boss when the green clad stranger entered the lounge.

Through the open-curtain entrance he carried himself with a peculiar gait, hands behind his back and chin up. He froze for an instant, head swiveling mechanically as he scanned the semi-crowded room.

In the lighting he could make out the man's outfit; hideous green pants, a button-up with its sleeves rolled-up and a bulletproof vest, proudly worn over like a lion wears its mane. Around the mans neck was a dogtag.

After surveying the room, his gaze fixed on Oswald, and he felt himself try to compact, make himself smaller, but any attempt failed as the man smirked and strode over to his corner booth.

As he approached, he appeared to bounce with each step, and which each of those steps a clump grew in Oswalds throat. Then, they reached the table.

Now, standing a mere few feet from The Penguin himself, the audacious stranger took it upon himself to slip into the opposite side of the booth from Ozzie.

He smiled, lips sealed and Oswald finished his analysis by picking up on the man's brown skin and a particularly odd shaped chin.

Oz huffed, pulling his cigarette extender from his lips and blowing a cloud before beginning. He glared at the man across the table, daggers thoroughly stared.

And at this, the man's smile seemed to grow three sizes. He laid both hands on the table's surface, caressing the wood. Then he spoke.

‘Nice place you got here.’ his voice was crisp, words like butter on his tongue. ‘Did you do the decor yourself?’

‘Out with it.’ He heard his own gravelly tone, sandpaper to an already tense atmosphere.

The man tilted his head, readjusting his glasses. ‘I'm sorry?’ he asked, letting a sly smile cross his face.

 ‘What do you want?’

He perked up, hands flying to his lap. He then spoke.

‘I come in all sizes - some major, some compact; you get what you seek, you give what you owe back;’

He then leaned across the table inches from Oswalds nose.

‘what am I?’

Shit.

He'd heard about this guy in the papers, some maniac who kidnapped the mayor's daughter and held a gameshow for her release. He'd read it and scoffed—just another lunatic—but now that the perpetrator was across the table, he felt the slightest inclination to run away screaming.

But he stood his ground, hoping he didn't appear too freaked out. He took another drag from his cigarette.

‘A riddle, is it? Really living up to your street name, eh?’

The man—The Riddler—frowned, ‘Yes, I suppose. The Gotham Times has a tendency towards the overdramatic.’

‘And you don't class yourself among their bracket?’

‘Certainly not Mr. Cobblepot, I just like a certain flair in my work—makes it stick in one's mind.’

Oswald frowned, ‘And your work is… what, terrorism?’

The Riddlers eyes narrowed in on him. ‘You're avoiding my question, Oswald.’

A shiver ran along his shoulders and he hoped to god it appeared faint.

He bluffed, ‘I'm one bad glare away from sendin’ you out, you know that right? Dragged by your tailored green coat tails and thrown on the pavement.’

Riddler smiled, and began fiddling with the lamp that was sitting on the table. Oswald had in fact decorated this place himself, right down to the floor they all stood on, and that lamp had been the result of countless decisions and backtracks. This man dared walk into his establishment and play with his belongings; he'd better have reason.

Then the Riddler spoke again, words passing from his lips in idle fancy.

‘You know, I don't have much family, right? My mom and pop passed a while back and I never really knew my grandparents,’

He looked Oswald in the eyes.

‘but when I talked with Gertrud I think I finally understood what that connection feels like, you know?’

His mother. He wouldn't let him do this—he couldn't. How on earth had this psychopath located his mother?

‘Now you listen here-’

‘No.’ The Riddler grew dark, eyebrows furrowed. ‘First, you answer my riddle. Then, I'll leave your old lady be.’

He by all rights should have grabbed this menace by the scruff of his neck and pounded his face into thick red pulp… but he allocated a moment of thought. Thinking it through, he calmed down, leaning back against in the booth.

He sighed, ‘...what was it again? Somethin’ about comin’ in different sizes and owin’ somethin’, right?’

Riddler's presence softened, now smiling. ‘Yes, I can repeat if you wis-’

‘Nope, no worries. All good.’ If he heard another rhyme out of this guy's mouth he was gonna go ballistic.

He looked inwards, drumming the table with his fingers as he raced through possibilities. Money? Nope, too vague. A dept? Maybe… but what would him or Riddler owe each other?

It then struck him, and the dawning realisation must have been plastered on his face as the man across the booth grinned ear to ear.

‘A favour.’ He breathed it out like he'd been deprived of talk, breaking his silence and letting himself feel semi-accomplished.

‘Very well done,’ he clasped his hands together, ‘few appreciate the art of a good question.’

Oz nodded, feigning understanding. A favor… he thought, this'll be good.

‘Now.’ Riddler began, placing his palms flat on the table, face cast in dim light from the green glowing lamp. His eyes were stark black, pupils like vast cavities.

‘I'm asking you—as a friend—’ he smiled mockingly, ‘to fulfil an itty bitty little favour; one which I will pay back in due time!’

His tone reminded Oswald of a infomercial he'd seen a few days back, where the man on the television was trying, very earnestly, to sell him blackout shower curtains. He admired his bravado, but he'd need to be a bit more specific.

‘Go on,’ he uttered, gesturing for him to continue while taking an absentminded sip of his now-cold lemon tea.

The Riddler nodded, checking over his shoulder into the booths behind him and around. Finally he looked back to Oswald, his smile tapered but not gone.

‘I want you to kill James Gordon.’

He spat out his tea; whether through surprise or hilarity he himself didn't know, but the effect was still felt.

‘Oh dear, sorry,’ he fetched a handkerchief from his breast pocket, wiping up the wet splodges on the table before handing it to Riddler who now sat dazed with an unpleasant frown on his face.

The frown struck him as particularly unnerving, it seeming in contrast with the man's entire being.

‘I am truly sorry,’ he finalised his apology, looking Riddler in the eyes, ‘you are joking, right? It is a joke?’

The look of annoyance on The Riddler's face made his intentions clear. The shorter man felt himself sink into his seat.

‘Oh. Right. Excuse me,’ he ushered a waiter over, ‘can you bring me and my associate the strongest gin we have?’

The waiter left and Riddler scoffed, ‘I knew it would be difficult, but I thought you would at least-’

‘Difficult?’ Ozwald felt his eyes nearly bulge, ‘You're asking me to kill the police Commissioner, I'd bloody well hope it'd be difficult.’

‘It will be,’ Riddler began, ‘I never said it wouldn't be! I was asking for your help in return for a favour, one which could prove very valuable to you!’

‘And what could you give me?’ The waiter came back, laying a large bottle of gin and two shot glasses on the table before vacating. Oswald forsake the glasses, instead pouring it directly into his mug.

Riddler breathed in, clearly preparing some monologue that Oswald was all too clear-headed to endure. He took a swig from his mug as the other man started.

‘As of recent, I've found myself employed within the Gotham City Police Department as a private detective. I don't care for the position itself—god forbid I help those fools—but it's given me some leverage I doubt many other costume criminals have.

‘The police never suspect me of anything, never question my motives or what I do in my spare time, and any that do…’ he smiled, ‘well let's just say I have adequate backgrounds on all employees. Those on the force usually have skeletons they'd rather keep closeted.

‘However,’ he said with spite, ‘in the past while, I've become personally engrossed in this whole Batman nonsense. I'm sure you know.’

He'd said Batman in airquotes, and Oswald nodded in understanding. The bat had interrupted a drug operation he'd carried out a few months ago, rounded up all of his lackeys and laid them right out for the police. He'd lost thousands, all of it due to some high and mighty masked vigilante.

‘Well,’ Riddler piped up again, ‘I've set up various schemes trying to catch him, kill him, the sort. None have worked so far and still the man proves elusive. Then, earlier this morning, Commissioner Gordon rocks up to my private office and claims that I'm “abusing my power as a member of the police force” in order to catch him or some jargon I can't bring myself to remember, saying he'll boot me out or put me in Arkham.

‘I suspect he's onto me, and I want him gone. You know how fixated he is on cleansing the city of our kind, and I think we'd all benefit from Gordo taking a long walk off a short pier.’

Silence fell across the table as Oswald searched inward, churning over Riddlers words in his mind. He was right; he knew that. If he had a nickel for everytime he'd wanted to see Gordon's head on the chopping block he'd be a regular Wayne, and having him gone would certainly make criminal living in Gotham much easier.

He looked for a reason not to, and only found a long list of why to's. ‘You know what, sure.’

The green clad man made a sigh of relief, taking the glass and pouring himself a shot.

‘However,’ he spoke up again, ‘I do hope you have a real plan for this, not just “kidnap him and make him play Russian Roulette with himself on GNN” or whatever nonsense you usually do.’

Riddler shot a hand to his heart, mimicking a sting, but a sly smile still crept out, ‘How you wound me! But you're right, and I do have something planned; not my usual shindig, but I hope you'll find it equally painful and deserving for our little Commissioner.’

As The Riddler took his shot, Oswald spotted a familiar glint in the man's eyes, one he usually only saw in those of great value. He saw purpose in this man, something many residents of Gotham lacked.

‘So I help you,’ Oswald began, ‘lend you some of my men, some of my money, till Gordons good and buried, right? What could you offer me?’

The Riddler paused, staring up at the ceiling, and it occurred to Oz that the man likely hadn't planned to get this far.

Finally, he jolted back into talk, ‘I'll be your personal mole, free of charge; how's that?’

Oswald imagined it, and he could see the value in having a GCPD mole he didn't have to pay a C-note a month to, especially one with an intellect as vast as Riddlers.

‘Fairs fair. We got a deal.’

He reached out a black-gloved hand and Riddler shot his purple one back, meeting in a firm shake. ‘Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Cobblepot.’

‘Please,’ the shorter man insisted, withdrawing his hand, ‘call me Oz.’

Riddler raised an eyebrow, then let it relax. ‘Then you can call me Edward.’

In this brief moment of silence following this, Oswalds attention was drawn to the staged singer at the other end of the lounge; her tones not honeyed, but honest. He insisted on private auditions between himself and all acts that performed here, and during hers he nearly wept at how forward and directed her lyrics felt.

That's what he loved about Gotham; it could belong to anybody, you just had to seize it by its roots and give it new soil. The man on the other side of his table was attempting to repot the city, and he'd ensure care was taken in its gentle, bloody planting.

Chapter Text

Although Oswald had failed to give “Edward” a proper avenue of contact, he still awoke the next day to find an envelope slid under his apartment door. How The Riddler had found his abode he did not know, but he took the action as a slight threat.

Sitting on his balcony overlooking Robinson Park, he took his letter opener and slit the top open, pulling out a folded piece of paper that read, in typeface;

Hello Oswald. Meet me in the park today at 1300 hours. and I'll share with you my plans on the Commissioner Gordon business. I'll be sitting on a bench beside the Arkham Monument. Hope to see you then.

Signed, your new partner.

He scoffed at that last remark and folded the page up, sliding it into the pocket of his dressing gown.

After their meeting the previous day Oswald had spent the last night delving into the man's various crimes online, none of them pretty; He'd stopped himself short of clicking on a LiveLeak link called “Real riddler finger snapping video (real)”. He'd come to the inevitable conclusion that he not someone to fuck with.

Another thing he'd noted was his surprisingly large internet following, although Riddler himself lacked an account on any platform. Various users on multiple sites Oswald had checked saw the riddle-spouting prick as some kind of prophet, here to punish those who deserved righteous retribution.

Reading these, Oz couldn't help but wonder how they'd react to Gordons death; would they laud his killing of a cop, or say he'd gone too far, that Gordon was “one of the good ones”?

Oswald committed himself to finding out.

He was surprised by how well Edward blended in.

The previous night he'd rocked up to the Iceberg Lounge like a peacock strutting its feathers, trying to draw in a mate; but now he seemed fairly unambiguous. Well, as unambiguous as a cop can be in Gotham.

He'd really drummed up the cop act too, sat on a bench twiddling his thumbs, legs crossed and wearing a police-issued coat with the GCPD initials emblazoned on its breast. He wore the badge too, also having abandoned the ridiculous green and purple bowler hat. In the light of day he could see the man's dark roots emerging through his copper dyed hair.

Approaching the bench, Oswald was similarly dawned in his best civilian apparel; a ratty old cardigan, tweed pants and a grey flat cap made him look like a miser, but he was certainly not going to draw attention.

Edward looked up, catching his eyes and letting a smug smile cross his lips. ‘Good to see you Oswald; glad you read my letter.’

Oswald sat down beside him, ‘Do I get to ask how you found my home address, or is it just gonna be another non-answer?’

‘A little birdie told me,’ he replied, then reacting in faux shock at his own answer, ‘oh! Sorry, would you take offence to that? I was joking,’

He then nudged Oz's shoulder, ‘we're friends now, aren't we? Friends are for joking with, after all.’

‘Business partners,’ Oswald affirmed, ‘and our business is puttin’ the Commissioner in the past tense. Now, have you got the plans or not?’

The Riddler sighed loudly, ‘Yes, I do, but can I not bask in our togetherness right now?’

‘Togetherness isn't a word.’

‘Is too. Oxford Dictionary, 1986, “the state of being close to another person or other people”.’ He laid back, hands behind his head and staring at the sky, ‘Read a book next time.’

He'd felt the oncomings of a migraine and decided to abide by Riddlers advice, taking in the scenery around him.

Robinson Park was located in the more impoverished part of Gotham, but you couldn't tell from its environment. Hibernal leaves scattered the cobbled paths and the trees were bare having lost their mass in the months leading into the new year.

The obelisk before him was the only man-made structure in sight, crafted from stark black granite and reaching a height of about thirty feet. At its base was inscribed the name Arkham, alongside various names of influential Arkham family members.

Oswald was aware of a sister monument at the other side of the park, one dedicated to the Waynes, but the Arkham one held a particular aura to it, like it was actively enforcing those within its vicinity. Maybe it worked by reminding spectators of the homonymously named asylum, but he could only speculate.

Either way it gave him the creeps. He looked over to Edward who had his eyes closed, still facing the sky. Up close he was actually decently attractive, and Oswald could put together why he was well loved by the internet. If it weren't for his grueling personality he'd have been quite the catch.

Edward must have somehow sensed his gaze as he quickly flicked open his eyes, staring him dead in the face. ‘Whatcha starin’ at, partner?’

He'd said it in a bad southern accent and Oswald felt his face flush, but quickly averted his gaze, crossing his arms, ‘Nothing. None of your business.’

Edward smirked and went back to cloud gazing.

Sensing the moment and keen to make an exit, Oswald spoke up, ‘What is your plan anyway? Surely you can tell me.’

‘Oh don't worry my fine feathered friend,’ Riddler stretched his arms, ‘you'll learn in due time.’

‘And what time will that be?’

Edward looked to his wrist, on which a neat silver watch displayed the time 1:15 p.m.

‘Now actually,’ he stretched his arms and stood up, adjusting a messenger bag he had sling over his shoulder, ‘just follow me. I have something to show you.’

‘Are you not worried about bein’ recognised?’

They'd continued on the park's path under dappled light cast through leaves, eventually exiting through wrought iron gates and into Old Gotham proper. They were heading south, through now crowded streets.

Oswald was never worried about being caught in the open; he wasn't exactly a public figure and if someone were to know him they'd be faster to light themselves on fire and jump out of a tenth story window than approach him.

But Edward… he'd made a name for himself; he'd hacked into the screens of Gotham Square on numerous occasions, projecting videos of himself doing heinous acts for the whole world to see. Every citizen knew The Riddler, and he still had the gaul to strut down the street like the pavement itself owed him a buck.

He'd asked the question, and Edward seemed baffled. The man stared blankly at the path before him, hands stuffed in his pockets and his mind deep in thought. He started speaking, slightly louder than he probably should have in order to be heard over the crowd.

‘Liar's nose, liar’s chin, liar's eyes and cheeks and grin; never shifting, ever staring, not a thought or feeling sharing;’ he looked to Oswald, ‘what am I?’

‘Another one?’

‘Yes; it is my shtick after all.’

Oswald, while trying desperately to match Edwards pace, wrung his brain out looking for an answer. Lies and face parts, never shifting, always staring–what the hell was he talking about?

Edward looked down on the shorter man, eyes giddy in anticipation of an answer. ‘Do you want help?’

‘No, no, I've nearly got it, just-’

It struck him. He looked up to meet The Riddler's eyes.

‘It's a mask, right? A lying face that doesn't shift or change.’

Edwards grin marked his face like a crescent moon, ‘You are on a roll my pint-sized compadre,’

‘Don't push it.’

‘Okay,’ he smiled, ‘but truly, well done. I'm glad you indulge my habits—so successfully, might I add.’

‘Not a problem, but what does it mean?’

‘It means that I don't need to worry because I wore a mask—that dainty purple one that really brings out my eyes, you know?’

Oswald thought back to those videos he'd seen last night and remembered the small mask that he'd seen Riddler wearing. It was purple, only covering his eyes and, in Oswalds personal opinion, lousily hid his identity. It did bring out his eyes, though he avoided mentioning it.

‘You mean the rag?’

‘Yes; it appears someones done their homework.’

‘But- that doesn't hide anything!’ he replied, his voice raising in protest, ‘Everyone can still see your whole face and hair and mouth and all,’

‘So glad that you noticed my mouth snookums–really endearing–but you fail to recognise how dense this city can be sometimes.’ Edward looked down at him with the gaze of someone wiser, informing a pupil.

He continued, ‘That bat-freak has infested this city for, what, a year or two now? His whole jaw on display and no one bats an eye. Hell, just a town over we have a self-proclaimed alien who doesn't even bother hiding his face, and yet no one knows who he is or where he lives,’

‘So your point is..?’ Oswald butted in.

‘That they don't care!’ He exclaimed, 'That, or they can't recognise a crook until they're blowing riddles down their neck-ala-you.’

Oswald thought back to their first encounter, ‘...Okay, you may have a point.’

‘So,’ Edward said, staring forward and through the crowd, ‘I don't need to worry.’

A beat. A cog turned in Oswald's head.

‘Wait, you know who supes is-’

‘Well looky where we are!’ Riddler cut him off, ‘we've just reached our destination.’

Oswald perked up, scanning the surrounding buildings, ‘And where would that be?’

‘To your right.’

His gaze shifted, climbing up the ornate stone brickwork, to the large tinted windows, to the bullet-ridden façade, to the flag hung above the entrance displaying an overfamiliar badge.

As they headed through the front entrance Oswald felt his hand shoot to Edwards, gripping it tight. Edward looked down and smirked, but didn't say anything.

He told himself that he wasn't scared, that it was just intimidation from the GCPD officers surrounding him; the way anyone acts when they feel an oppressive force on all sides.

But he still held Edwards hand.

At a brisk pace Edward dragged him towards the stairs located at the other end of the open air workspace. They'd only made a few steps when a woman stood her ground in front of the leading Edward.

Oswald tried to make himself feel smaller, more compact, hiding behind Ed's back while the taller man eyed this woman down. She was short, hispanic, and had her dark hair tied back in a stressed bun. A gold pin attached to her breast pocket labelled her Montoya.

‘Nygma, I swear to god,’ she had a hand to her hip, another hand pointing an accusatory finger towards Edward, ‘if you brought another crook in here I'm gonna rat you out to Gordon.’

‘That won't be a problem Reneé, I promise,’ Ed replied, but Oswald could see the fingers crossed behind his back. This was The Riddler.

Then she seemingly noticed Oz standing behind him, ‘Oh, whose this then? Your sugar daddy?’

Edward paused for a moment, phrases forming in his mind slowly. Oswald butted in.

‘Your Detective Nygma is just helping an old friend, miss,’ he said, feeling his heart beat faster, ‘rather private business really, wouldn't want you worried.’

The woman–Reneé–frowned, but found herself turning back to her desk. ‘You're off the hook for now Edward, but I better see no more Isleys or Tetches, you hear? Anymore and you can kiss that badge goodbye.’

‘I hear you loud and clear Reneé.’

She shot him a death glare, rage swelling behind her eyes, ‘That's Montoya to you, Nygma.’

She turned and Edward quickly regained his pace, both of them reaching the stairs still hand in hand.

‘Don't mind her,’ Edward leaned down, whispering like they were school children, ‘she's all bark.’

Edward held the door open–’For you Mondamoiseau,’–and Oswald walked into what must have been the cushiest private office he'd ever seen.

It was on the corner, so afternoon light poured through windows on two adjacent walls, illuminating a desk far too neat to have had any actual work done on it. On the walls were various framed newspaper articles, all sharing a negative perspective on The Batman.

Edward crossed the room, ‘An “old friend?” Really Oswald,’ circling the desk and sitting down in an armchair, staring at Oswald, ‘I thought we were more than that.’

‘I had to make up something, ‘kay?’ Oswald followed suit, planting himself in the chair across the desk from Ed, feet not touching the ground, ‘Or else you'd start blabbering and we'd still be there for the night shift.’

Edward chuckled and reached for a desk drawer. Pulling it open, he retrieved three folded pieces of paper, placing all on the desk before Oswald. Placing a gloved hand on one, he looked the shorter man in the eye.

‘They hark my arrival with firework displays, in grand resolutions, in hope of new days;’ he smiled that now familiar grin, ‘what am I?’

Not even a second passed when Oswald shot back.

‘New Years. Out with it.’

Without breaking eye contact Edward turned over the page, revealing a flyer of some sort. It was printed on light pink paper, with unconventional comic sans text reading Parade up top in black ink.

Penguin breathed.

‘You're gonna Kennedy his ass?’

‘Close, but not quite.’ Edward handed the page to Oz, letting him scan the whole page;

Parade!!

Reminder to staff that the parade held on thursday will require all officers in full uniform – any deviation will result in reprimand and you will be disqualified from the staff raffle at the afterparty!!

sincerely martha

‘Whose Martha?’

‘Receptionist–lovely lady–but let's get down to it,’

Edward pushed himself from his chair, pacing over to the window. He followed the man over, peering down on the street from the fifth story.

People below walked like ants on pavement and Oswald felt an odd amount of yearning for their lifestyle. He'd tried to be a noble citizen once upon a time, but life had a way of beating people into a mold.

Still, he wished to protect them.

‘You only want Gordo, right?’

Edwards' eyes turned wary, ‘Do you have a problem with that?’

‘No,’

‘Good. For the record, I don't want anyone else killed. If some are…’ the man shrugged, ‘it's their fault.’

‘So what are you planning?’

Edward turned, retrieved another unread page, and came back to the window. He handed the sheet to Oswald, who was half-surprised half-disappointed the man hadn't propositioned him with another riddle.

Looking at the page, Oswald saw it was sparse of text, mainly consisting of blueprints for a parade float. It was typical, perhaps lacking flair but he could see the reason for simplicity.

Edward, from behind him, pointed to a particular section of the float that held the motor.

‘I snuck into the warehouse and slightly changed the functions; they continue as normal until I activate a command on my laptop, which will then cause the float to lock direction and roll forward at an increasing speed.’

He looked down on Oswald, smiling intimately, ‘I'm planning to launch him off the harbour.’

Oz gulped, but the plan sounded… sound. I've seen wackier stuff pulled off, he thought, remembering the time an Alice-in-Wonderland-obsessed psychiatrist hypnotised half the city's population. All things considered, he was on board; although he had one other question…

‘...so why do you need me?’

‘Ozzie, you are crucial—well, your men are. I'm going to need goons stationed on the float to tie Gordon down and stop any potential interference, and I've heard excellent reviews from past enemies of yours.’

‘Oh,’ he replied, feeling a bit sore that Ed only needed his influence. ‘but if you only need men, why not ask after Dent or Joker?’

‘Neither of them are reliable co-conspirators–especially the clown–and I must admit I've grown quite fond of your whole soif de vivre.’

This made him feel better, and a shoulder pat from the man as he passed made him feel like he was king of the world, ruler of the universe–and even better, confidant of The Riddler.

‘Wait,’ he thought, turning around to face the desk once more, ‘so what's on the other page?’

Edward perked up, turning around and unfolding the last piece of paper on the desk, holding it up for Oswald to read.

‘Reservation for two at Étoile for Thursday,’ he smirked, ‘care to join?’

Chapter Text

Although their next meeting was scheduled for the following Thursday, Oswald couldn't take his mind off of Edward for the entire week.

He'd continued business; providing bodyguard services and operating the lounge took up a lot of his time, but every spare second was spent thinking of that charming man he was going to have dinner with—who had invited him. Rare enough that someone spend time with him, even rarer for them to enjoy that time enough to prompt him.

Every morning he'd wake up, wrap himself in his morning robe and hobble to the front door, expecting—hoping—to find another letter slid under. Every day the search proved fruitless, nothing but empty floorboards and letters from the landlord asking him to turn down the late night opera music.

When Thursday rolled in, he found the floorboard before his door occupied by a familiar crisp-white envelope. Stooping to pick it up, he soon hurried to the kitchen, flicking on the kettle as he grabbed his sharpened letter opener.

Slitting the envelope open, he withdrew a piece of paper alongside a polaroid stashed inside. The paper read, in typeface:

Happy New Years Oswald. I'll be looking forward to our date at Étoile later today. I've attached a photograph of the place for reference; and do make sure to dress for the occasion, we will be celebrating a tremendous victory for all of us rogues.

See you at 1800 hours.

Signed, your dearest partner.

‘Woah,’ Oswald said, catching himself only after saying it aloud. However down bad he'd felt for Edward, Ed must have been fifteen floors lower. 

He shifted his gaze to the polaroid; the lighting was warm, showing the wide glass storefront of the bistro, perfect for spectating the afternoon parade from. If Ed knew anything, he knew planning.

He folded the letter back up, trodding over to the kettle to pour a cup of earl grey before planting himself in his living room armchair. The added comfort let him dig into the man's words further, this time for solace.

Dearest, huh? He privately thought, maybe I ought to call him sweetpea or sugar or some other shloky pet name; even-out the playing field.

In the end he landed on a retort in the form of a riddle, one that took him far longer to create than he'd like to admit, and one he planned to present to the man himself later at dinner.

In only a few days, The Riddler had easily become one of the most intriguing people Oswald had ever known. He sincerely hoped the man would stick around after their plan went through, but that could only be revealed with time.

At 5.00 p.m—or 1700 hours, as he'd learned by habit through Edward—he hastily left his apartment outside Robinson Park and hitched a cab down to Old Gotham. He wore his nicest suit—also happening to be his showman suit, with appealing purple accents and long coat-tails. He thought he looked quite spiffy, even if he did vaguely resemble an oil baron.

In his hands he clutched one of his many multipurpose umbrellas; this one's purposes being to deflect rain as well as emitting a smokescreen when in need of a quick exit. He wasn't sure he'd need this, but being sat in public for that long forced him to consider potential threats.

Oswald made his way two blocks over, landing on a street that looked rather similar to the planned diagrams he'd glimpsed in Edwards study. In an hour or two the parade would begin, floats rolling down this street, which ahead held only the canal. He presumed this was the “harbour” Ed had been talking about, the one he'd planned to send Commissioner Gordon soaring off.

We, Oswald corrected himself mentally. We planned to send Gordon soaring.

He hopped out of the cab, sending a generous tip the driver's way, and carried on down the street until reaching the façade of Étoile. It was a deep red, almost brown, and the rich, fleeting light of the day made the glass almost blinding to look at.

It was beautiful, and glimpsing at his watch made Oswald realize he still had another half hour until the appointed meeting time. He'd jumped the gun a bit early, but saw that now was the perfect opportunity to wow Ed with a gift of some sort.

Looking from his point on the curb, he scanned the shops around the block and landed on a familiar looking florist, the entrance nearly blocked by piles of green and warm shades of purple and magenta.

He'd previously ordered from this shop, dubbed the Flytrap Boutique, in an attempt to spruce up the Iceberg Lounge for a particularly wealthy client, and it had gone off without a hitch. In terms of Gotham flower shops, of which he knew zilch about, he held it in high regard.

Squeezing through the entrance, the shop was even more lush inside. Gotham street shops tended to be narrow—but here it worked in the boutiques favour, allowing vines and ivy to climb the wall and mark the worn red brick with young, blooming flowers.

The counter was at the very back, needing you to pass all of the greenery to reach it. His umbrella, which he favored moving like a cane, planting it alongside his body as he walked, rat-a-tat-tatted against the dark wooden floor.

The counter was small but high, embellished with an old cash register and a golden service bell. Only barely tall enough to reach, Oswald rang the bell and awaited some sign of staff. 

After thirty seconds he rang it again, this time additionally yelling for the only member of staff; ‘Pamela dear!’

The response was immediate; ‘Just a minute—hold on!’

From the back a tall, angular woman emerged carrying a box, curly hair dyed a crimson red bouncing as she walked. One of her eye sockets appeared empty and, peering around the shop, she failed to notice Oswald who was seemingly hidden by the counter.

He called, ‘Here.’

She looked down at him, eye widening in surprise, lips curling in a fashion that reminded Oswald of a night-blooming flora.

‘Oh, Oswald!’ She gasped, ‘So sorry, geez. Lemme just–’

She crouched, dropping the box to the floor with a heavy thud. Wiping her hands together, she came back up to face Oswald head on. In the poor light of the shop and surrounding greenery, her skin had a viridescent quality.

Oswald tapped his umbrella on the floor, ‘Salutations Ms. Isley-’

‘Oh hark it Oz,’ she waved her hand, ‘keep the fancy talk for the lounge. Now, what brings you here anyway? You usually send your goons for collections.’

Oswald blushed, embarrassed at this. It wasn’t often someone took control of a situation he was involved in, but Isley had a pass. He'd seen what she was capable of last summer, when she'd turned both Robinson and Lemmars Park into a buffet spot for her carnivorous plant species. Many were injured, few died, and all together she gained quite a reputation for herself as a free agent.

He had admired that in her; it took power to gain a status like that, especially at such young an age. The least he could do in support was buy flowers.

He huffed, ‘Fine, I'll skip to the point; I've arranged a meeting with a fellow rogue and wish to greet them with a fine bouquet of flora.’

At this Pamela squealed, clapping her hands together, ‘Oooooo– I have the best bunch of carnations that I've been dying to sell,’

She hurried past him, weaving through the harsh green of the shop. She was tall enough that her stark red hair often stood above the plants, but occasionally she would crouch, disappearing and leaving Oswald alone. She yelled across the shop to him, ‘D'you mind me askin’ who for?’

Oswald tapped his cane against the floorboards, ‘It's really quite personal Pamela, I'd rather keep it to myself.’

Hearing this she rose again, this time looking at him directing with a funny glint in her eye. ‘Wait, it's no business meeting is it?’ she said, a sudden knowing smile spreading across her face, ‘It's a date-’

The blush started all over again. ‘I'd really rather not disclose Pamela if you would mind–’

Pamela made her way back, clutching a bunch of purple carnations with occasional violet eustomas mixed in. She continued, teasingly, ‘It's alright if it is Oswald—I do a couples discount.’

She said the last bit teasingly, and this made him more a mess, shrinking in on himself. He only let up when he noticed something odd.

A venus flytrap, placed on a shelf beside the till desk, rose up in Pamela's presence. It moved fast, faster than it ought to, and perked its “mouth” upwards, towards her ear. It spoke, moving its leaves in a way to simulate speech and Pamela absentmindedly moved her ear closer, barely glancing at the thing before doing so.

Her face was first intrigue, then shock, letting out a small laugh before becoming a full grin.

She leaned across the counter, whispering her words and looking at Oswald like he was some specimen in her lab. ‘The Riddler? Really?’

‘What did the pot plant tell ‘ya?’

‘I'll have you know Donny is a very reliable resource,’ she quipped back, beginning to arrange the bouquet, ‘and one that tells me you're going on a date with a psycho.’

He shifted on his feet, leaning on his cane, ‘You have no room to talk Isley; haven't you eaten people before?’

She looked off, clearly trying to recall a memory long since pushed into the library of her mind. ‘If you're talking about my park-takeover then I guess, but that was only the hivemind feeding me information. Like, if I had a juicy steak and was telling you about it in heavy detail—you could visualise the taste maybe, but it's not in your mouth. Disappointing really.’

Oswald tried to suppress a shudder that wracked his body, ‘Interesting I'm sure Pamela, truely, but I really must be going. Flowers?’

He slid money across the desk—far more than flowers should usually cost, but he was paying a sort of rogue-tax that all villains in Gotham paid for eachothers services.

Pamela sighed, beginning to hand him the completed bouquet, when she suddenly pressed them into his open palm, holding his hand tight. ‘Watch out for him,’ she said, ‘you should know what he's capable of.’

He thanked her reluctantly and went back out onto the street, the sun turning the block into an orange dyed fever dream. By now it was 5.45 p.m., and Oswald made his hobbled way across the street and to the relatively small entrance of Étoile.

The interior was beautiful, and made him yearn for some of its design to be incorporated into the Iceberg Lounge. The floor was widespan, occupied by many tables of various sizes that each had unique names attached. The walls were furnished with clocks of varying ages and sizes, all analogue and correctly displaying the time.

There was a wide star chart across one wall, made of wood with the stars and names individually burned in. It was an odd astrology themed joint, but knowing the name of the restaurant itself it came as no surprise.

A peppy server came to him as soon as he'd stepped in the door. She greeted him—’Greetings, monsieur,’—and upon hearing he had a reservation, led him to a table placed right up against the large plate window.

He waited, tapping his fingers against the dark blue table cloth, biding his time looking out onto the street. People were beginning to rally for the parade, wearing various questionable attire with slogans like “I [heart] GOTHAM!” and “GOTHAM PRIDE!” embellished on the front and back. These comments are wholly undeserving but the thoughtless citizens displayed them nonetheless.

It was as Oz signalled to one of his men, many of whom were arriving on the scene and readying for Edwards' plan, that the man of the hour finally arrived.

Dressed head to toe in a green 3-piece suit, he strutted over to Oswalds table before the server could even address him. The waistcoat beneath his jacket was purple, one strikingly similar to Oswalds personal shade, and it struck him that he may have had the suit made specifically for this occasion. Over one shoulder he had slung a messenger bag.

‘I see I've had you waiting,’ he uttered, pulling the wooden chair out before sitting down. ‘what have I missed?’

‘Nothing much,’ Oswald replied, ‘just getting my henchmen in position. They await your command.’ He finished with a sweep of his hand towards the exterior street. His men were easily noticeable, each wearing a dress coat with a penguin embroidery on their breast.

‘Fantastic,’ Edward noted, his attention drawn to the wooden plate on the table. ‘we're sat at Ara?’

Oswald skewed his face, confused before reading the plate, showing the table was named Ara. All of the tables must be named after constellations, he thought.

‘The altar of the gods,’ Edward continued, ‘where they made their oath before battling the Titans.’

‘You know greek myth?’

‘Doesn't everybody?’ Edward shrugged, ‘It turned out good for Zeus and his lot, so let's hope it carries over to us.’

‘Amen to that,’

‘What can I get you two Gentlemen?’

The waiter appearing almost made Oswald jump, but Edward readily replied, ‘Confit de canard, as well as a bottle of white wine please. Oswald?’

He looked to the waiter, suddenly feeling rather foolish in his tailcoats and ribbons and tophat. ‘I'm, uh, not exactly familiar with the menu.’

Edward chuckled, ‘How about quiche? I hear they have crab—is that correct?’ He looked to the waiter who nodded in response.

His nerves relaxed, ‘Uh, yeah, sure.’

The waiter scribbled their orders into a tiny notebook and returned to the kitchen. Oswald felt like he could finally breathe once he was alone again. Well, alone with Edward, he supposed.

‘Not exactly a big talker, eh?’ Edward looked him in the eye, absentmindedly organizing the knife and fork left on the table before him.

‘Just a bit flustered is all.’ Oz fidgeted with the handle of his umbrella which he had lay across his lap.

‘Was it the confit? I know you're rather partial to birds.’

‘Trust me, I am, but it wasn't that,’ He shifted the bouquet behind his back, ‘it's just that I got you something while waitin’ ‘round the block for 6 p.m. to roll in.’

Edward tilted his head, Intrigued. ‘Whatcha’ hiding Oswald? It's not a bomb, is it?’

In a quick motion Oswald brought the flowers before him and presented them to Ed, whose face was first full of confusion and then genuine surprise. His eyes fluttered back to Oswald and Oz suddenly felt like the man was trying to examine him, trying to see if he was lying and gonna pull a fast one on Ed, but all he got in return was sincerity.

Then he smiled, not an ounce of sarcasm behind it. He took the bouquet into his hands and glimpsed the eustomas, ‘Thank you, Oswald. This is… a pleasant surprise.’

Oz waved a hand, ‘Don't go all mopy on me Einstein; I know you probably get plenty of fanmail, but this is my little token of appreciation.’

Edward chuckled quietly, but still maintained his genuine demeanor as he placed the bouquet to the side, ‘Yeah, I mean, sure I get a lot of fanmail, but most of it's just teenagers asking me to butcher someone they hate. This is a shock, coming from you especially.’

He was slightly offended at that, but Edward quickly added on, ‘And not in a bad way, it's just… I mean, I threatened your mother only a few days ago and kind of blackmailed you into this, right? Surely I don't deserve an award—hey!’

Oswald had begun to giggle and Edward seemed almost annoyed, which proved to be a cute look on him.

‘No, It's fine,’ Oz wiped an imaginationary tear away, ‘it's just that—back then—I called your bluff, in my head at least. I knew you wouldn't actually do anything; you have a tendency to broadcast your crimes, and maiming an old woman on live tv who only I know about would only serve one purpose: making me hate you, which you, evidently, don't want. You needed me, and using my mother as a bargaining chip was smart, I'll admit—but there was no real risk.’

The man across the table was awestruck, and at the same moment their plates arrived. Edward was momentarily offset by the presence of food, but still remained slack jawed.

Oswald tucked a napkin into his collar, ‘Lastly, I just want you to know that, while I knew there was no risk, I still chose to follow you. I don't know why exactly—chalk it up to stupidity or curiosity—but I think you should know that.’

Edward picked up a knife in his gloved hand, looked up at him and smiled, ‘I appreciate that, Oz; I really do.’

They ate. Oswald found the quiche decent but nothing to write home about. He usually overstates his taste for seafood and the crab did nothing to exceed his expectations. Edward seemed to enjoy his Confit, though Oswald resisted asking for a bite.

At some point in their dinner the crowds outside seemed to surge, and Oz realized the parade had reached their street. It seemed Ed had realized too, as he'd cleared his plate to the side and reached for his messenger bag placed on the floor by his side. From it, he withdrew a thin laptop.

‘Sorry to interrupt our supper,’ Ed spoke, ‘but I just want to be composed when the moment arrives.’

Oswald nodded, ‘Understandable. All considered, I'm actually feeling a bit excited.’

And he was, although he wasn't sure how much of it was actually excitement and what was just nerves firing off. Edward smirked, ‘Good to hear it,’ and went back to his computer.

And in a few minutes he saw it; the giant float rolling mass was wider than the others, and taller. Oswald wasn't sure if he himself would have been able to climb atop but his bodyguards were all spry and would have no trouble.

Atop the float was a fold-up gazebo, and standing under, waving to the crowd from a fixed pedestal, was the Commissioner himself. Jim Gordon was tall, built like a barn, and would have been imposing if it hadn't been for his deeply kind features. He was fitted out in a grey suit, and one of Oswalds goons looked to him for a signal. Oz looked to Edward for confirmation and, receiving a thumbs up, nodded to his henchmen.

In an instant they were upon the float, pushing civilians out of the way and climbing aboard. They threw the few other policemen atop the moving platform down onto the street below, and soon Gordon was outnumbered nearly 20-1. Three of them, rope in hand, tied him to the pedestal, forcing him down as he yelled for backup.

They couldn't hear this yelling of course, as they still sat behind the glass window of Étoile. Oswald's eyes were fixed on the scene, Edward's were too, and the man opposite him let out a low chuckle as the rest of the restaurant's customers moved to the window to look out. His hand brushed a button on his laptop, and he knew their plan was in motion.

Something Edward didn't notice though, and something Oswald only managed to catch from the corner of his eye, was a figure. Standing above the street, on a rooftop way up high, was a man dawning a cape. His costume nearly bled into the night sky, but Oz's heart rate picked up when he noticed the yellow-embossed symbol of a bat on his chest.

Shit.