Chapter Text
When Oswald gets back to the hideout, Edward is nowhere to be found.
Well, to be more specific, Edward the dog is there, happy as a clam and snoring away on the built-in seats by the bookshelves. That Oswald had ever thought a bulldog – whose breed name implies ferocity and whose actual demeanor does anything but – would be of any use as a guard dog seems ridiculous now, in retrospect.
In any case, though, Edward the human remains elusive, even after Oswald calls out several times. The dog, seemingly thinking that the calling is for him, awakens and waddles over, begging for pets – and Oswald happily obliges.
For all his failures as a guard dog, Edward is a delight.
Perhaps he should’ve given the dog a different name.
Too late for that now.
Turning his attention back to the state of the room reveals that most of Ed’s things are accounted for – so he hasn’t made a break for it by himself… presumably. Given that it’s Ed, though, and given his occasional penchant for a do-it-yourself mentality that veers towards the extreme, as well as the fact that he isn’t, presumably, in earshot…
Walking over to the table, Oswald immediately notices two further things.
Firstly, that wherever he may have gone, Ed has taken the pager with him – good.
Unless he’s thrown it out, of course – but, somehow, that feels unlikely.
Secondly, that Ed has, for some reason, left the revolver behind – bad.
Unless he has another gun, of course – but, somehow, that too feels unlikely.
All the enthusiasm Oswald had been feeling from finding the old plane carcass and having it stripped down to parts for the submarine is starting to feel a little bit hollow, now.
Without Ed, there is no submarine.
God damn it.
A defeatist attitude, perhaps – he doesn’t even know how long Ed has been gone.
He could, technically, still be in the building (he probably isn’t) or he could’ve gone to… to…
Scanning the array of papers on the table, Oswald notices more than a few schematics pertaining to sonars, laid out next to a map of Gotham. Ed had mentioned a sonar, now that he thinks about it: loudly and insistently and many, many times.
Staring at the papers for what feels like weeks but is probably only a few minutes, Oswald contemplates what to do next.
To go after Ed? He doesn’t have a clue as to where he might be. What would be the point?
To remain here, waiting? Tempting, and the safest, most comfortable option, but…
To be fair, Ed is a grown man, at least somewhat capable of taking care of himself. Then again, he is Ed…
An insistent beep! from the pager Oswald has in his pocket saves him from the inane thought process. Enclosed in the message is an address – somewhere near the Dixon Docks, if memory serves; a look at the map indicates he’s correct – followed by ASAP and SOS, with three question marks he assumes have been included as an indicator of the message’s author finishing the message – completely unnecessary, that tagline, in Oswald’s humble opinion. Who else would it be? It’s not like he’s been handing out pagers to the unwashed masses.
Oswald stares at the message for a moment, unsure of how exactly to proceed. Ed has given no indication of what to expect aside from the SOS, which, considering select prior experience with Ed’s messages, could be interpreted as anything from a life-threatening emergency to a headache.
“Well, Edward,” he says, looking at the dog who is staring up at him with wide eyes, tongue lolling out, “looks like you’ll have be a good boy and hold down the fort while I go rescue Ed the human.”
The dog pants in response, wagging its stubby tail, completely oblivious as always – and yet, he’s smarter than half the people in Oswald’s employ.
He gives the dog a few more pets for good measure.
Speaking of people in his employ…
***
When Ed comes to, he finds himself strapped to a chair by his arms and legs with a not-unimpressive number of buckles and in the throes of a headache the like of which he’s never felt before.
Struggling against the restraints sends fresh waves of pain up and down his injured leg, leaving him nauseous and breathless.
I’m stuck in a chair in a random warehouse with no way out, I might have a broken leg and quite possibly a concussion as well. What am I?
The answer, he thinks, is implicit.
The situation is dire – and becomes even more so when he hears a scuffle somewhere behind him. “Hello?” he manages to croak out, throat rough like sandpaper.
“Oh, you’re awake!” the same voice from before, the one he knows to be attached to a very, very unhinged woman, replies. She dances – or skips, more like – into view, hauling the same mallet with her that, by the feel of it, left a goose-egg sized bump on his head when it made contact an indeterminate time ago. “I was wondering when you would.”
Ed blinks, once, twice.
“You could’ve killed me,” he says eventually, and the woman – girl, more like, given her demeanor, but then again, who knows? – scoffs in response.
“A strange man is skulking around my place, I’m protectin’ myself before I start askin’ questions,” she says, crossing her arms. “Besides, I had dibs.”
Ed blinks again, trying to reach a mindset wherein the applicability of the concept of ‘dibs’ makes even a small amount of sense in this context. “What?” he ends up prompting when it becomes apparent she won’t elaborate on her own.
She stares him down with nothing but an amused look in her eye. “Dibs, as in, this is my turf so stay the hell away. Duh. I thought you were supposed to be smart. Aren’t you the riddle guy or whatever?”
A flash of pride, mixed with no small amount of annoyance, crosses Ed’s heart before he suppresses it – for the moment, at least. She knows who he is, if merely by reputation; he can use that. Somehow. Once his headache alleviates enough to let him think. “I’m the Riddler, yes. Sorry for intruding on your… turf.”
The woman giggles, all previous irritation seemingly forgotten. “That’s all you had to say! I’m Ecco, nice to meet ya.”
An unexpected response, but not an unwelcome one – so, Ed smiles in return, and is about to nicely ask her to let him out of the chair when her giggling stops, leaving her to furrow her uneven brows at him once more.
“Wait a minute,” she says, “what are you doing here?”
A beat, as Ed tries to figure out a way to give her a reasonable reason (hah!) without revealing the submarine plan. There’s trouble enough as is, and if she’s who he suspects her to be, her involvement is the last thing they need.
They…
Wait. Did his message even go through? How long has he been unconscious?
Where is Oswald?
“Hey!” the woman – Ecco – shouts, knocking his knee with her mallet to get his attention. “I asked you a question.”
Ed winces from the impact, shockwaves of pain travelling down his leg to finalize themselves into a knot of pain around his ankle. “Right. Yes, well…” he starts, trailing off once he realizes he’s drawing a complete blank.
She scoffs and turns away, apparently disinterested now – up until she drops her mallet and reveals a small pistol, tucked into the lining of her jacket. She pulls it out, examines it, and trains it on his face.
Ed’s mind seems to be working at speeds slower than when he was on ice. “Why are you here?” he ends up blurting out.
Fortunately, though, it seems like today is his lucky day, because Ecco lowers the gun, a curious kind of assessment in her gaze. “Because of Mr. J, of course. Duh,” she says, rolling her eyes as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Right.
“And that is…?” Ed asks, a desperate bid for time to think with a question he already knows the answer to.
If he can get her talking and keep her doing so, he can figure out a way out of this mess in the meanwhile.
Somehow.
Probably.
Fortunately, fortune appears to smile on him, because she launches off into a tirade about the seemingly endless merits of her Mr. J and doesn’t seem particularly concerned whether he’s actually listening or not.
Still, better to err on the side of caution – so, Ed nods and hums and haws his agreement in the appropriate moments, all the while pondering whether there’s a way he can wiggle an arm out of the restraints without causing any more damage to himself than has already been done.
Five minutes later, he’s no closer to an answer than he was before, and Ecco is still, somehow – miraculously, even – talking.
What is easy to get into but hard to get out of?
A chair, apparently.
Time to switch tactics, then.
“Sounds like you really care about this Mr. J,” he says, watching as Ecco, who has been pacing back and forth in front of him for the past two minutes or so, closes her mouth around whatever word had been coming out of it and comes to a complete standstill.
“Took you a while, huh,” she says, crossing her arms. “Maybe you ain’t as smart as you’re made out to be.”
Ed takes a deep breath and counts to three. Just to get through this, and never again.
Just to get through this, and never again.
“Perhaps,” he says, the word like lead on his tongue, “or perhaps I, too, have my reasons to be distracted. I’ve heard about what happened to him, you know. Awfully sad, that.”
A mix of anger and sorrow flit across the woman’s face. “Tell me, Mr. Riddler,” she says, pointing the gun at him once more, “have you ever been in love?”
Whatever question Ed had been expecting, it certainly wasn’t this. “What?” he says, uncomfortably aware of the impression he’s doubtlessly giving her of himself and his level of intelligence.
No wonder she thinks he’s a moron.
Ecco rolls her eyes. “Love? Ever heard of it? Ever been in it?” she repeats, accentuating the questions by waving the gun at him.
He’s at the questionable mercy of a madwoman with no way out and, presumably, no help coming.
For some reason, the only thing he can think of is the stupid dog.
But perhaps…
Ed opens his mouth to start spinning his story, hoping to buy himself some time, when there’s a terrible, loud bang and a familiar voice calls out his name.
Ecco draws back, looks him dead in the eye, and grins.
Fantastic.
Ed closes his eyes.
***
As it turns out, Ed’s SOS had been of the life-threatening variety after all – bursting into the warehouse, the first thing Oswald sees is the back of a bizarrely-clothed woman. The second thing he sees, and inevitably the one he focuses on, is Ed, strapped to a chair with what looks like an impressive array of belts, sporting an immense goose-egg on his head and an incredulous expression.
It takes everything Oswald has to not rush over immediately, especially once he realizes the woman is holding a gun to Ed’s head. “Let him go,” he manages to force out instead, somehow keeping his tone even despite the erratic flutter of fear around his heart, pointing his automatic rifle at the woman. “Now.”
After a moment, the two goons he’s brought with him manage to do the same. Whatever he’s getting from them, it sure isn’t his money’s worth; loyalty is purchasable enough, but a functioning brain…
Apparently not.
The woman only tuts in response. “Mm, not gonna happen.”
Oswald’s heart feels like it’s being gripped by an ice-cold vise. “Let him go,” he repeats, “or I’ll paint this place with your blood faster than you can–”
“–than I can put a bullet in his big ol’ head? I’d like to see that,” she interrupts, smiling genially as she moves to stand behind Ed, running the barrel of the gun through his hair as she does.
As much as Oswald hates to admit it, she’s right – and Ed must realize this, too, because he quietly says, “Just… just do whatever she asks, Oswald.”
For the love of…
Gritting his teeth, Oswald voices his agreement.
“Excellent!” the woman chirps. “First things first, tell the muscle to wait outside. And no funny business.”
As if they could muster up the brainpower for it, Oswald thinks, but signals for the goons to leave nonetheless.
They wait for a minute in tense silence as the men lumber off, doubtlessly to attempt to commandeer the vehicle they’d arrived in.
Good thing Oswald took the keys with him.
Once they’re gone, the woman speaks again. “So, just so we’re all on the same page: green-man here tried to steal from me. You can see how that worked out for him. But, more importantly: underneath this lovely chair, as you can see, is a pound of C4 that’s going to send this place sky high if you so much as move a muscle without my say-so. Clear?”
Ed’s eyes widen almost comically.
He didn’t know.
The thought hits Oswald like a freight train; the persistent nagging of this is familiar, something like this has happened before and it destroyed everything quiets and is replaced with the realization that not only is this real, but their lives are at the whim of a clearly unhinged woman.
Taking a deep breath, Oswald lowers his gun with shaky hands. “Alright,” he says, unable to keep the nervous quiver from his voice. “What do you want?”
The woman, who thus far has been jovially grinning at him, drops the smile rather quickly at that. “I want to be left alone,” she replies, voice cracking on the last word. “I lost my Mr. J, and when I finally get myself a place to rest and recuperate, this–” a trembling hand presses the gun closer to Ed’s head– “guy shows up to steal from me!”
A moment passes in silence, accentuated only by the woman’s heavy breathing.
“How about we make a deal,” Oswald finds himself saying; either his meager luck holds or it doesn’t, but he will not die without trying. “Let us go, and we’ll never bother you again – in fact, I’ll make sure no one does. How does that sound?”
“Oswald…” Ed starts, but is cut off when the woman smacks him with the pistol.
“Quiet, you,” she says before turning back to Oswald. “You can do that?”
Oswald smiles, the expression as false as the promise – but she doesn’t know that. “Of course. I’m the Penguin, am I not?”
The woman scrunches up her face, deep in thought.
“Okay,” she says eventually.
The sigh of relief that escapes Oswald’s body with that leaves him feeling a hundred pounds lighter. “Excellent,” he says, but it rings hollow once he realizes she still hasn’t lowered her gun.
In fact, she’s rooting around in her pocket.
What is she…
With a triumphant shout, she pulls out a detonator.
“I know you’re lying,” she says, pointing the detonator at him. “You’ve got a minute to figure out if he is, too.” With that cryptic note, she’s backing away quick as can be, and disappears into the maze-like depths of the warehouse as a soft ticking begins to echo metronomically throughout the warehouse.
All thought of the woman vanishes once the meaning of the words registers. Oswald throws his rifle from his hands and rushes over to the chair. “Help me with this, will you,” he tells Ed, shaky hands on the restrains to undo the buckles on Ed’s right arm.
“Oswald,” Ed replies, voice shaky and eyes wide. “You need to get out of here.”
“I’m not going anywhere without you, Ed.”
One arm free. Twenty ticks of the detonator gone.
“There’s no time. You need to go.”
Oswald expects anger. Wants it, even – wants to be angry that this is how he’s going to die. In its stead, there is only acceptance.
Thirty-three ticks have passed.
“We’re partners,” he manages to say; the tears collecting in his eyes make untangling the straps around Ed’s other arm more difficult by the moment. “I’m not leaving you.”
Forty-six ticks, now.
The other arm is free. Ed leans down to open the buckles on his left leg while Oswald kneels to work on the right.
Not enough time.
“Go,” Ed says again, quieter this time, reaching out to press his palm against Oswald’s cheek. “Please, Oswald.”
Fifty-four ticks.
No time.
“Oswald,” Ed repeats softly, tears streaking his cheeks.
Fifty-seven ticks.
Oswald presses his mouth to Ed’s.
A choked noise of surprise in return.
A moment, suspended in time.
***
A fraction of a beat, wetness on his cheeks – his tears or Oswald’s?
Doesn’t matter.
His hands in Oswald’s hair; Oswald’s lips against his.
The taste of salt and fear on his tongue.
Fifty-eight ticks.
If this is how he dies– Ed realizes he’s fine with it.
Fifty-nine.
Come what may.
The ticking stops.
Ed’s heart does the same.
Instead of the blackness closing in once more, however, there is – nothing.
The world keeps spinning.
Oswald draws back, blinking as if seeing Ed for the first time. “Are we– What the hell just happened?” he says, eyes wide as saucers.
Ed shakes his head, breathless, the same question on his mind but not the same meaning.
Oswald squints at his feet. “Get out of the chair,” he says, standing up.
Ed does his best to loosen the last two buckles remaining. Standing up on shaky legs – his left can, to some extent, hold his weight, so it’s probably not broken, just sprained – he turns to kick the chair over.
Underneath it is a neatly wrapped red-and-black package. A tiny flag with the word BANG! written on it sticks out from the top.
“She…” Ed starts, trailing off.
Oswald howls. “I can’t believe this–”
What do Feste, Touchstone, and Yorick all have in common?
“Right,” Ed says, masking the turmoil of rage, surprise, and relief in his chest with a veneer of calm as he watches Oswald kick at the box. “We should get out of here.”
The box finally tips over, spilling out the equipment Ed had collected before Ecco’s interruption. Oswald pauses, staring at the spilled contents of the box. “Let me guess,” he says quietly, “this is what you came here for.”
Ed nods, a lump in his throat.
They stand in silence for a moment, eyes trained on the tangled mess of electronics on the filthy floor.
“So,” Ed forces out eventually, heart pounding methodically like the fake timer as he turns to look at Oswald. “What now?”
Oswald takes a deep breath, his expression unreadable. “Get your things. I’m sick of this place,” he says, turning to retrieve his rifle from where it fell when he’d lunged for Ed what seems like a lifetime ago.
“I couldn’t agree more.”
Perhaps it is childish of him, but Ed ends up confiscating the mallet; finder's keepers. Besides, it does make for an excellent makeshift cane – and isn't that an idea worth considering.
Well, someday – not while more pressing concerns beckon him at the threshold. Quite literally.
***
One car-ride, two dead goons, and three hours later, they’re finally back at Ed’s hideout.
The boxful of electronics sits on the table, the only tangible proof of what the day has wrought.
Edward the dog pants happily in Oswald’s lap.
Ed the human, however, is restlessly pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace just as he has been for the past ten minutes.
Something, however, appears to change – perhaps he makes up his mind, or gets tired of the repetition, or realizes the motion is taxing his sprained ankle, it’s hard to say – because he comes to a standstill in front of Oswald. “Did you mean it?” he asks, and – ah.
So that’s what he’s been thinking about.
Oswald wants to laugh. “I’m holding a dog that bears your name,” he says instead, scratching said dog behind the ears. “Does that answer your question?”
“So he is named after me.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny.”
Ed chuckles at that, and – God, isn’t it a beautiful sound.
If Oswald were still harboring any doubts, they’d have been obliterated with that laugh. So, he smiles in return – and remembers there’s one more thing he can offer. “By the way,” he says, “I’ve got a present for you.”
The twinkle of mirthful curiosity in Ed’s eye is a delight to behold. “Really?”
“I found the remains of a plane. It’s being dismantled for parts for the submarine as we speak.”
This time, it’s Ed who surprises him with a kiss – and Oswald doesn’t mind one bit.