Work Text:
Future State
It wasn't the first time they had posed for a painting and it wouldn't be the last but Oswald had never felt the passage of time as much as he was feeling in that moment. True, Martin had been figuring taller than him on the canvas for decades; true, Edward had started dying his hair to hide the white for years; true, his bad leg and bad eye had been worsening steadily. And still, somehow, Martin had never seemed taller than as he was right there and then, standing behind his chair, fingers brushing his shoulder; and Edward's hair dye had never seemed too stark in contrast to his older features as it did as he looked down at him to fix his lapel, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose; and his own body had never seemed to hurt as much, despite having been well-acquainted with chronic pain ever since a young age.
Or maybe he was just being sentimental - he'd only become worse on that front as the years passed and even Edward had stopped teasing him about it, his own hard edges softened by time.
If anyone would have told him that one day he'd be posing for a portrait with his adult son, who had been taking on more and more responsibilities of his empire, and with his husband, who still was the same man he'd gone and fallen in love with when he'd been a nobody still, Oswald would have politely pointed them to Arkham.
Some things never changed and Arkham hadn't - it was comforting, in a sick and twisted way that only in Gotham could be understood.
“Do you need a break?”
Oswald smiled up at Edward “Please”
Martin's hand slid down his dad's shoulder, curling at the elbow to help him up even as he helped himself with the cane “Cup of tea?” At some point, Martin had found his voice; he still preferred signing or writing, especially inside of the house.
“A glass of wine?”
“No” Edward immediately rebuked him “Don't make me call your doctor”
“I don't snitch to yours”
“You don't have anything to snitch on”
Martin gently squeezed his dad's arm and watched the fight drain from his shoulders. There was plenty to snitch on and they both knew it but Martin didn't want the inevitable fighting to ruin their quiet family afternoon - it seemed that there never were enough of them.
“Fine. Tea, then” Oswald handed Martin his cane “Let me make it”
“Of course” Edward took the cane and their son's hand to tug him towards the table, ignoring Martin's little huff “Yours is the best, afterall” and even if it hadn't been the case, Edward still would have let Oswald do it: he knew how frustrated he got with his limited mobility; with the pain; with the tiredness; with the semi-retirement.
All considered, they hadn't even aged that badly.
All considered, it was a miracle they had gotten to their age at all.
They had lived long enough to make the city sing and dance to their tune; to rebuild what they had lost; to get their son back and watch him grow in a man; to step back and enjoy one another as their legacy kept unfolding.
Their mark wouldn't fade for decades to come, even after they'd both turned to dust.
Edward couldn't have asked for anything better.