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The laundry room at 2465 Grundy was in the basement of the building, at the end of a flickering hallway, behind a metal door that had to be propped open with a brick, lest the broken lock keep one sealed inside until another tenant came to clean their linens. The fluorescent lights added a further uncanny feeling to the room, as if it were some in between place where friendly neighbors ought to be but weren’t. Edward had attempted to talk the super into letting him fashion a working keypad and install it himself at no charge, but the man had only scoffed, clearly suspecting him of some kind of laundry lechery. Ed was not worried for his own sake as he had no fear of forgetting to keep the door open—when is a door not a door?—but the inconvenience did take extra time he sorely missed at the moment.
The illustrious, injured kingpin Oswald Cobblepot was asleep in the bed of Ed’s studio loft. His unexpected houseguest had been with him for eleven days, and Ed had to work at stopping him from excessive movement every single one of them. The struggle lay, not only in the restlessness of Oswald’s paused underworld machinations, but in their incongruent sleep schedules. Oswald, without much to do when Ed was at the GCPD, slept during the day, while Ed curled up on the sofa at night to allow the recovering man his bed. This nicety was not appreciated by Oswald, who kept from the bed when Ed was home anyway, manically monologuing into the night at his sole source of communication. Ed forwent sleep most nights as Oswald paced his worn floorboards, much in the same way Ed himself did, ranting about the ruination of the empire he had fought so hard to obtain. It was fascinating to listen to a mind so shrewd to the inner workings of Gotham, to analyze the webs of thought that caught the entire mob in its tendrils—but Oswald had agitated his stitches open four separate times and Ed hadn’t entered REM in three days.
It was a Sunday, so Edward had time to make bolognese for their dinner instead of the quick take-out they resorted to during the week or when Oswald’s injury required extra attention. The turkey had its expected psychosomatic effect on his patient—either the bittersweet nostalgia of a hearty family meal or the well-known myth that such a small amount of tryptophan within the meat could make the eater physically tired had caused Oswald to groan with satisfaction. He had sleepily curled up under Ed’s quilted blankets at only seven in the evening.
The opportunity to sleep himself was tempting, but, for the same reasons Ed stayed awake at night, the hamper in his bathroom had been neglected for nearly as long. There was no denying he had been depleting his sleepwear twice as fast as usual, and Oswald was wearing his last clean set.
Edward placed his full basket on the adjacent washing machine and selected alike clothes to place in the open drum. He succinctly tossed each garment in without interruption, until he picked up a pair of royal blue flannel pajama pants and distinctly remembered the way they had looked hugged loosely on Oswald’s hips. Ed had shimmied them onto his sick acquaintance himself in those early days when he couldn’t stay conscious for more than a few minutes, and his fingers had brushed skin in a way that sometimes felt more than clinical. Ed fought off the wildly inappropriate thought by shucking the offending garment into the washer. Lifting more laundry into the first load, he came across the button down top of the same plaid set. He struggled to ignore a tremor expanding from his spine when his fingers felt the utilitarian fabric. The sophisticated Penguin had experienced that very sensation on his own body, Ed’s clothes in an imperfect fit on a surprisingly, incredibly human Oswald—cuffs brushing his knuckles, lapels revealing the delicate skin draped over his collarbone, the crisp stitching of the pocket square surely dragging across his nipple.
Impulse brought the shirt to his face, and it wasn’t a conscious decision to inhale deeply.
Edward was sure that Oswald had a distinctive scent formulated by cologne and cigarettes—he had smelled the hints of patchouli and tobacco himself when he met the man at the GCPD for the first time. Under Ed’s care, Oswald had only had access to Ed’s own variety of odors, cigarettes strictly forbidden while he healed up and aftershave the closest cologne on offer. Despite this, the smell of the pajamas Oswald had worn did not suggest they had been Ed’s at all—and a hot iron poked at his guts when he categorized the musk as Oswald’s sweat, set thoroughly into his clothes.
His hand moved automatically down to cup himself through his trousers, mouth open to taste the fabric—but as soon as his fingers made contact with his body he gasped, dropping the shirt in a panic. His head swiveled about the very public room that he shared with his albeit scarce neighbors. He was still alone, and no one had seen his lapse in self control.
“That would have been embarrassing.”
No one—except himself. A vision he hadn’t endured since disposing of Ms Kringle’s body appeared next to him, grinning and prodding at the dirty pajama shirt that dangled over the washer.
“Not that I disapprove of this little escapade. Penguin, huh? You were always so weird about him; it makes perfect sense in retrospect! And now we have him right where we want him—at our mercy.”
“I’m not going to kill Oswald,” Ed grit out, bracing himself on the cool metal in front of him, pinching his eyes closed against the rogue spiraling of his thoughts.
“Easy there. No one said anything about killing,” the shadow chirped, legs crossed as he sat on the next machine over. “This time.”
“I’m not doing anything else to him either,” Ed reluctantly replied. He poured detergent into his laundry and snicked quarters into the slot to start the cycle.
“Patently untrue—you’re keeping him locked up in your home, wearing nothing but your clothes, doing nothing but keeping you company.” Ed set a timer on his watch and turned away from the vision, intending to leave it there in the shady room, along with the stray impulse therein. “I’m just suggesting—“
Whatever it was, Edward did not find out as he removed the brick from the entryway and let the heavy door slam shut behind him.
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Edward stood at Oswald’s tie drawer, fingers dancing over the silk and satin, considering which options would best compliment the suit Oswald had requested for the Founders’ Dinner. The walk-in closet was built into the Victorian era Van Dahl estate not long after Oswald had moved in, a perfect update to prime the home for its next generation. The room’s luxury design mimicked the color scheme of the attached master bedroom, but it was modern in both style and function. A four-by-five foot dresser was inset into the wall that held all manner of accoutrements, from pocket squares to sock garters. Watches and lapel pins were displayed in the glass top of an island in the middle of the room. Suit jackets and trousers hanged in multiple alcoves in the walls, the recesses for jackets stacked on top of each other in a grid. A mirror divided the space, floor to ceiling.
The closet was about the size of Isabella’s entire bedroom. One day, perhaps they would share a closet this extravagant together. He pictured her waltzing gracefully around the room, offering him these cufflinks or that hat. He was getting ahead of himself, even as a small smile tightened his lips.
Despite Oswald’s many servants, Ed enjoyed helping his friend and employer look his best. Like himself, Oswald knew that appearance can mean everything and that every detail was important. It was a matter of showmanship, a display of confidence and control. Isabella understood this too, her coiffed hair perfectly in place the entire night they had stayed awake talking. Ed selected a pair of ties to offer Oswald and walked them to the hanging jackets.
He held the ties up to the selected blazer, debating the effect of either color scheme. The gray and black silk pattern highlighted a classic sophistication, but the purple brocade suggested complexity and innovation. The gray was the easy choice, a sternness expected of the Mayor; the purple was more daring and accentuated the hints of blue in Oswald’s eyes. Ed hummed, his mouth pursing as he considered. His left hand lifted the brocade to the suit—right hand, the gray—left hand, brocade—back and forth, over and over.
“That decision any easier yet?”
Ed didn’t look over at the mirror next to him, though he could see his reflection facing him in his periphery.
“Go away,” he hissed through his teeth, hands still lifting each tie up to the rack.
“Sure, as soon as you make up your mind.”
“It’s only a tie.” Though the pieces of fabric blurred in his vision. He blinked his eyelids tightly, attempting to focus.
“Then it’s a simple choice!” his own voice chirped. Suddenly it bristled in the opposite ear, escaping the mirror, “Right?”
Edward swiveled on his heel to face himself, but the room was still and empty. He became conscious of his quick breathing, almost dizzy from spinning around. Each hand still held a tie, and he gripped them as his back hit the divide between the racks.
Instinctually, without thinking, he lifted the ties to his face, feeling the texture on either cheek. The gray was smooth, but so much so that it felt like nothing. The purple was rough immediately, but the fibers flattened into a pleasant consistency when rubbed the opposite way. They both had an indistinguishable floral scent. This wasn’t helping.
Eyeing the mirror again, he crouched down to the lower of the racks. If he tucked his knees, he could fit into it alongside the hanging jackets, hidden entirely from his reflection—so he did.
He used to hide in his own closet as a child, door closed and clothes muffling the sound of his parents screaming. This was immensely more pleasant, the excellently maintained finery reminding him he was safe here amongst Oswald’s possessions, and in the quiet of Oswald’s home. Ed breathed in slowly, Oswald’s scent steeped into the clothes surrounding him. The ties laid forgotten on the floor outside of the alcove. He clutched a suit jacket and exhaled into it.
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There was an untied cravat draped across the back of the sofa.
Oswald’s housestaff usually kept the Van Dahl mansion in impeccable condition, the wrath of their employer felt keenly. Upon his triumphant return to the Mayor’s domicile, Edward had chased them all away under the guise of grief.
It had been an easy decision: returning after his weeks away. He felt he had no choice but to revel in his success in the King of Gotham’s own castle, to have taken everything Oswald has ever had from him down to his very history. Oswald had received Fish’s club after her supposed demise after all—dead fists forcibly unclenched from around their material possessions as power changed hands.
The dour reality of living in the house he had inhabited with Oswald was not going to stop Ed from gloating that he had won. He just needed to get rid of that cravat. It was visible from his position at the room’s desk, and he couldn’t get any work done with the lustrous silk shimmering in his periphery. Burning or tossing it were options he briefly considered before discarding—burning would leave fibers and an inspection of the house would reveal it in the trash. He may have defeated Oswald, but the police were bound to show up eventually with their own investigation, scrutinizing anything Ed may do now that he was suspiciously alone in the manor.
Ed snatched the tie from the couch, crumpling it in his grip as he stalked up the staircase to the second floor. He ignored the family portraits lining the walls and the distinct grooves in the steps where Oswald’s cane had worn away the finish.
By the time he stood at Oswald’s armoire, he realized that the tie had definitely been worn and should probably have been washed before he put it away. Which was ridiculous. Because Oswald wouldn’t be here to wear it, clean or not. Because he was dead. Because Ed had killed him.
His hands brought the cravat up to his face with a mechanical motion, though the cogs were rusty and so his arm bent jerkily and his head turned away. He gasped as the familiar scent wafted to him from the movement anyway. He pinched his eyes closed and bunched the silk up the way it should not be handled and breathed it in deeply. It was as if, had he opened his eyes again, Oswald would be in the room with him. A wretched noise clawed its way out of his throat as he breathed back out.
Oswald was not there despite his olfactory sense to the contrary. There was no reprieve here in this room, in this house, as Edward had hoped. He had been chasing that feeling of relief since his best friend had sunk into the river two days ago, but, as he ventured deeper and deeper into Oswald’s estate, the density of his memories of the man only grew to a fever pitch.
Ed sat heavily between the posters of the bed, mindlessly draping the tie around his neck as he considered his pyrrhic victory. Oswald had stolen something from Ed that hadn’t been his to steal. His response wasn’t a choice—it was a necessity.
He dropped his back onto the duvet and his hands busied themselves autonomously, tucking the tie under his collar. He stared at the soft lines of the thick canopy above. All this luxury, but Oswald had only wanted more.
It’s a relief, he thought to himself.
Oswald had been a black hole, devouring everything around him with his incessant hunger, and it had only been a matter of time before Edward had fallen victim himself, no matter what he had claimed. But Ed was no longer the “pathetic, jittery loser” Oswald had rightly accused him of being at the GCPD. If someone were to insult his dignity, there was a price to pay. How had Oswald been so foolish to think Edward wouldn’t retaliate? Did Oswald really think that little of him that his vengeance hadn’t even registered as a threat?
He huffed as his fingers wrapped the long end of the cravat around the short end twice and then looped it through. He had only ever tied Oswald’s cravats and ascots this way, his own ties preferably a more simple, traditional look. Still, the frequent act was a skill he had fast locked into his procedural memory, his hands moving as if by rote rather than active thought.
He adjusted the cravat to his throat, a little too tightly, his reclined position throwing off the usual give at the neck. Memories more recently made quickly emerged from his mind: Oswald’s mouth, open and wet, Oswald’s eyes, framed by tears. Bound to Isabella’s car and pleading with Ed for another chance, the thought of Oswald’s pathetic face filled Ed’s entire body with a hot anger. The erection beginning to strain his trousers was a natural reaction to such intense stimuli.
Ed’s own mouth opened, his breath growing heavy as a subsequent thought formed. The one thing Oswald could never have. Right here in his own bed.
He shimmied up the bed and both hands abandoned the tie and grabbed for his belt, undoing the buckle and fastenings underneath until his cock met the air of Oswald’s bedroom. Every fiber of his being felt as if it was on fire, and there was a poetic irony that Oswald had respectively been doused in frigid water.
“Haa,” Ed panted aloud, alone, as he spit in his hand and wrapped his fingers around his prick. There was no need to luxuriate—he was aroused by his triumph over the Penguin, not the man himself. He closed his eyes and licked his lips. His thoughts became abstracted, only images surfacing as he stroked himself with purpose.
Oswald’s jugular vein, bulging underneath his collar as he screamed. Oswald’s sinewy hands, gripping the jeweled head of his cane—no, holding his bloody bullet wound. Oswald’s bewildering laughter, telling Barbara he loved Ed still.
Ed’s eyes snapped open to his reality once more.
For all the terrible anamnesis of his mind, his memories did not live up to what it had actually been like to brush his fingers on Oswald’s throat as he tied his ascot in the mornings, to choke Oswald with his own tie until he gasped for air, or to fist his hand into Oswald’s shirt as he pushed him into the Gotham River. With time, he won’t be able to recreate his face at all, like he had almost forgotten with Kristen before meeting Isabella.
A whimper pried itself from his lips. This was, again, a natural response as he twisted his index finger around his frenulum to elicit a more direct reaction.
He tossed his head to the side—a mistake, for he inhaled the scent of Oswald’s sheets, the distinctly expensive scent of oud still lingering in every linen, and a blockage developed in his esophagus. His free hand reached for the cravat, intending to loosen it, but found the silk to be reminiscent of that last tie Oswald had worn. He tightened it, instead, as firmly as he could one-handed, to his throat.
The effect was immediate. The pumping of his fist ricocheted from his sac to his tip. His back arched off of the mattress, the distribution of his weight to his shoulders choking him further. He spluttered and coughed and drooled the way that Oswald had when Ed had him pinned beneath him, begging, crying, his eyes brimmed with the emotion Edward had observed for weeks before it had burst from the man in a bitter, undignified mess. He dove his face into the fabric of the bedding, breathing it in lieu of the air the cravat was denying him. He couldn’t make himself think of anything but his one last grasp of Oswald’s clammy skin underneath his wet shirt.
Ed’s orgasm hit him in waves, hips rolling against nothing until he could no longer hold them up. His hand undulated further and further away from the knot he made of Oswald’s tie as the tide waned. The shivering gasps Ed took above water didn’t save the blankets from his dissatisfied tears.
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The Riddler’s first actions as a free man—an unencumbered man—were spoken for: he had promised to rescue Penguin’s ward from Sofia Falcone’s men. Oswald had helped Riddler find himself again, and breaking him out of the asylum was the price he had agreed to. The additional task set before him required a supplemental ask; and, though a favor from the Penguin held great value, there was no denying his current resources were limited. There was only one thing on Riddler’s mind anyway, or rather, not on his mind—the location of his bowler hat.
It wasn’t like he couldn’t get another hat. He had other hats. But the specific bowler that had still been in Oswald’s possession up until his arrest was different. The tacky secondhand hats that Ed had acquired in the Narrows could not compare to the one that Riddler had chosen out of Oswald’s closet himself. The fine weave of the felt and the quality of the ribbon set a standard that he was not about to slip beneath. Settling for second best was no longer an option.
Speaking of second best, Barbara had taken the opportunity to re-open the Sirens nightclub while the corpse of the Iceberg Lounge was still warm. Riddler couldn’t pretend to mourn the establishment; if he was to perform, consenting or not, he’d at least like to be conscious for it. It was here, however, that Riddler could find a lead as to the boy’s whereabouts, the threadbare truce between the new Falcone family and the Sirens begging to be exploited. It also happened to be the last known location of his hat, according to Oswald.
Unkempt as he was in the ragged suit that Ed had been sporting to check himself into Arkham, Riddler was able to push his hair back, actually tie his tie, and dance his way into the Sirens with little fanfare. Night had long settled over the city, and, with it, business occupied the co-owners from their club floor. Luck would have it that their adopted alley cat was also not to be spotted. Still, it didn’t hurt to mix with the patrons as he cut through them to the office; if security cameras were checked later, Barbara would see him clearly in the crowd. It was delightful, hiding in plain sight rather than lurking powerlessly in the back of his own mind.
At the edge of the dance floor, he dipped his head—a maneuver that accentuated his need for the bowler—and ducked into the back hallway towards Oswald’s old office.
His short time working with Barbara left all the details of the establishment within his reach, and he grinned as he so easily fetched them from his memories. Ed thought he could blur it all out with his drugs and his sentimentality, not willing to recognize that an objective mind was the only way to make sense of the pieces of the puzzle. To him, following logic and obsession and everything that made him the Riddler had only resulted in more pain. He had lost faith in his own ability to learn, to use the information he had gained from even his lowest point. Oswald had shown him before—when he was a vulture with a broken wing, when he was mayor, when he was dead—the life one wants must be fought for. He saw Oswald again, and in his eyes was the burning truth: that it must be desired. It was why Riddler was here now, and Ed was the one cordoned off in his brain.
He was pulled from his reverie by the sound of two voices approaching from the adjacent hall. He hastily jumped into the nearest door, which was mercifully a storage closet. The men talking walked closer as Riddler was forced to maneuver silently around several sticky broom handles.
“—hassle. I mean, I heard the kid’s a cripple.”
“Like Penguin?”
“No, he can’t talk s'all.”
“That doesn’t make him a cripple.”
“What?”
“He’s mute.”
“So?”
“That’s not a cripple.”
“Wise guy over here. Okay, what’s your definition of…”
Riddler heard their voices trail away until the reverberation of the bass swallowed them entirely as they entered the club proper. As they passed by his door, the urge to open it into the closer one’s nose with a satisfying crunch was nearly irresistible; unfortunately, logic dictated that he allow the two buffoons to live so that they may lead him straight to Oswald’s charge. He didn’t plan on being long after all, just a short snatch and he’d be on his way.
Riddler had the fortune not to meet another soul before he reached Penguin’s former office door, which may as well have had Barbara’s name scratched into the wood. The signage that had previously hung there was conspicuously missing, a garish stripping of the paint underneath it leaving behind an umbrella-shaped scar on the door.
Riddler envisioned a couple of children in the schoolyard pulling a toy back and forth until its head popped off. And what a day that will be, he thought gleefully.
He crouched before the wounded door, using a hairpin to pick the lock open. He hadn’t had much practical use of the skill he had taught himself years ago until he had moved to the Narrows, where lockpicking was nearly a requirement of residence.
In the office, two not-so-dissimilar styles melded together, any one piece of furniture ostensibly belonging to either Barbara or Oswald. The wing-tipped throne of a chair caught his eye specifically, Ed's instincts telling him to whom it truly belonged.
The cabinet stood not far from the desk, and it wasn’t intuition this time that told him it was Oswald’s. It was a tall vintage piece with carved, sloping woodwork that boasted old, old money.
"If she hasn’t thrown it out yet,” Oswald had told him, avoiding his eyes for some reason, “that’s where it will be.”
Riddler strode to it promptly, grabbed the handles, and swung the doors wide. He hadn’t anticipated the wave of scent that washed over him as he did so, Penguin’s signature smell still keeping residence in his ancestral furniture. Oswald hadn’t had much of his natural nor artificial aroma about him when Riddler had last spoken with him, as Arkham’s overpowering smell of bleach, blood, and excrement contaminated every molecule in the facility.
Scent memory was a funny thing when exposure to the odor was recurring—the amygdala didn’t activate an emotion that can be attached to a long-term memory, familiarity smoothing over unremarkable moments. Arkham had one smell in his recollection, clinging to dozens of unpleasant if nondescript memories; however, even though Edward had lived with Oswald multiple times, every minute in his presence was admittedly of unique consequence. The fragrance that wafted towards him now held the hindsight of Oswald in this very club, telling him he saw none of his former self in him anymore—telling Ed he was no longer worth his time, or effort, or affections.
Upon this recollection, he blinked repeatedly until his vision finally registered through his thalamus, placing Riddler fully back in control as his mind organized the sensory input. The scent was no longer important as he spotted his objective on the top shelf, the bowler taking up the most space out of any knick-knack within the cabinet.
Feeling it a momentous occasion, he spun around to the mirror across the room and lowered his head to don the hat once more. He grinned, feeling more alive every moment since he’d found himself again in Oswald’s words. He had been the key to Riddler’s becoming, and nothing was more symbolic of that fact than this bowler.
Ed had seen the hat for the first time pushed into a back corner of Oswald’s closet in a simple hat box. It was such a fine specimen of millinery that he had wondered about its neglect often. Eventually his curiosity had won out, and he accessorized an entire outfit for the mayor based around the hat. When he had offered it as the finishing touch, however, Oswald’s face had drained of blood—a look he had only seen when Oswald had been mourning his mother in Ed’s former loft.
“Oswald?” Ed had asked, naive and supplicant.
Oswald had sucked in a sharp breath, and some color had bloomed fresh on his face again as he looked away from the hat to his Chief of Staff.
“A family heirloom, from my mother’s side, but I don’t care much for the style, I’m afraid.”
“Well, I, for one, think you’d look rather dashing in it.” Stupid, stupid, stupid, Riddler called from across his memories.
Oswald had only smiled softly, insisting that his grief was still too raw. Ed had suspected that to be the truth, if couched in ambiguity. There had been many things Oswald did not fully disclose with him back then—more than he had ever even suspected—but that had been the beginning and end of their discussions about the bowler.
The next time he had seen it, Riddler had been shuffling through all of the Van Dahl mansion’s closets, looking for something just right, something that would satisfy his fully-realized identity. That was when he came across the hat box once again, and he knew. The hat that Oswald had rejected fit the mold perfectly, equal parts ironic and confusing. It was intrinsically Oswald’s, so that was why it now belonged to the Riddler.
He had only seen Oswald actually wear it the one time—when he had tricked Riddler into taking him to the pier. He made no comment but wore it proudly from the police cruiser’s driver seat, as if to mock Ed’s affinity for it. He had to admit—only to himself of course—that Oswald wore it well, and the fact had only made him more upset, and more foolish. He had played right into Oswald’s hands. Riddler huffs under his breath now, lip curled. Back then, they had not harbored reservations about twisting the knives dug into each other’s backs with vicious accuracy, neither of them considering the gaping wounds they’d made a price too high.
After, Riddler hadn’t been surprised to learn that Oswald had kept his bowler from his time on ice. Penguin was a sentimental man, prone to trophy-keeping—an exceptional instance of his stepmother’s head as a centerpiece arose from Riddler’s memories, though it was with less generosity now that he remembered the tale than when he was told it. The hat was a prize for Oswald to look back upon when that heart of his began aching, a way to remember that he had triumphed over Edward and the sentimentality he held for their friendship—or so Riddler had assumed.
His grin sloughed off his face when he turned back to the cabinet. The shelf the hat had been displayed on was not empty. A peculiar note which read “but I’m your friend” was folded up next to a couple of framed photographs. The patina of the metal frames gave a clue to their age, even if Riddler hadn’t recognized the faces looking out of them. Oswald’s family—a gold-plated oval frame around a young and ethereal Gertrud Kapelput, a small but ornate bronze frame featuring a portrait of Elijah Van Dahl, and the note, presumably from his young ward Martín.
He stood at the cabinet, struggling to reconcile the fact that his hat hadn’t been stashed amongst the curios of little victories but intentionally placed with the one thing that he believed Oswald truly held dear.
Oswald had been the first to see him, but Riddler truthfully had given little thought to Oswald’s own feelings on being seen himself. Sure, his fatalistic confession had been seared into Ed’s memories forever, but his supposed “love” had been entirely self-serving, born from an unquenchable desire to own rather than a sense of devotion. Considering the facts, Oswald’s own belief that he had been in love with Ed had perhaps taken root, even beyond their back and forth game of revenge.
“Oh, Oswald,” Riddler enunciated, a smile creeping back across his features.
Their play at friendship was refreshing but likely short-lived. This was a convenient advantage he could manipulate when that time came. He pocketed the frames and the note and clicked the cabinet closed, his task complete. The rest would be just as simple—all he had to do was follow the men who were assigned Martín duty. Riddler slid his pinched index finger and thumb along the starched rim of his hat once more as he strode from the office, and he didn’t look back.
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Edward blinked awake to a room filled with the hum of electricity and the fluctuating of green neon lights. He had to blink several times after that, assuring himself that he hadn’t been transported back to his loft from so many years ago. He was sitting on a chair in an empty boiler room—one that didn’t fit into his well-trod mental map of Arkham Asylum.
“Hello?!” he yelled hoarsely, looking for any response.
“Anybody? Anybody!”
Patience was not a virtue appreciated or instilled by the asylum, nor was Ed’s brain working faster than his facility-mandated sedatives allowed. After ten years on a periodic pause, he was growing frustrated that he was unable to keep up with this rapidly developing situation. He stood, eyes darting to either side of the room over his cracked lenses.
He looked at the only thing of note in the concrete room—a letter placed on top of a trunk. He read it aloud, just because no one was here to tell him to shut up.
“Dear Ed, my old friend…,” he recited, each word naturally releasing dopamine into his brain in a way he hadn't known it was still capable of. “Follow the instructions. Oswald.”
Without further delay, he lifted the lid of the trunk, and was splendidly shocked with Oswald’s gift.
“Oswald,” Ed teased, a grin stretching across his face as he looked down at the bomb, “what are you planning?”
He read the note again in search of some cypher or code, but only found the words he didn’t know he had been waiting to hear. After finishing it for the fifth time, he held the letter to his chest and twirled on the spot. He hadn’t been so incandescently happy in a decade, since he had last tasted freedom, since he had last seen Oswald.
As he spun, his eye caught on something peculiar in the flickering viridian light—a glimmer that he hoped wasn’t a wayward hallucination. He stepped towards a horizontal section of vent, just out of reach of the daylight filtering in from the windows, and brought in a sharp gasp. The flash had been glitter, winking at him from a pile of neatly folded garments, on top of which sat a black bowler accompanied by a flashy pair of Chelseas. He stood before the clothes and lifted up some green lenses that had been placed carefully on the rim of the hat.
Someone had been thinking about him.
He moved the hat and glasses off to the side, so that he could pick up the folded pile—and shove his face into it to release a small shriek. He couldn’t inhale quickly enough, keeping his nose buried in the fabric and awaiting that scent he’d yearned to experience again for so long now. Patchouli and tobacco and amber and some unidentifiable flora and black oud and—he pulled his face from the clothes, confused. He sniffed them again. They did not smell like Oswald.
A sick feeling dripped into his gut, but he was accustomed to ignoring the sensation, powerless as he’s been to have even the slightest influence over his own affairs. He allowed himself to worry that he had forgotten Oswald’s musk for only a moment more.
“They’re just new,” he decided. “Straight from the tailor!”
He placed a hand flat on top of the jacket, which he now saw was emerald green and emblazoned with black question marks, and smiled.
“Oswald, my friend, how I’ve missed your debonair flair. Ha!”
He set the pile back on the vent as he stepped out of his Arkham uniform that hadn’t been cleaned in a month. It was unfortunate that he couldn’t wash up before getting into the new clothes, but he would remedy that soon enough with a shave and a haircut. He knocked the rhythm onto the vent next to him with a metallic echo as he skipped back to the clothes.
Despite the warmth of his joy, Edward shivered in the cold of the room as he layered each piece of the suit onto his body. His scent on them or not, Oswald had picked them out for him, thinking of Ed like Ed was thinking of Oswald now…or maybe not exactly how he was thinking of Oswald now.
Then again, he hadn’t felt this much hope in ten long years.
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Edward’s question-mark-ridden, filth-covered overcoat was next to Oswald on his own vintage loveseat.
Oswald had been patient with Edward. During the cataclysm, each offer of peace had been cut from Oswald’s own pride, bleeding out in secret as he extended Ed the courtesy of the platonic reciprocation that Oswald had previously denied him. It was worth it. When Oswald had taken a step in their friendship, Ed had taken two, and before long, they had finally met with no distance between them—an embrace that Oswald would remember until his dying day.
Unfortunately, Jim Gordon had other plans, tearing them apart before they even had a fair chance to…it didn’t matter now. Time and distance may have finally stripped them of any romantic fantasies Oswald had dreamt up. Ed had stopped writing years ago, and Oswald wouldn't stoop as low as to keep up his correspondence unbidden.
He remained patient still, having grown accustomed to his yearning after sixteen years of it.
Ed had given him the first stirrings of hope that night in his limo, grinning that devastating grin of his with a gleam in his eye of an inscrutable nature. Oswald had at first hoped it was affection, developed by distance, though he has since settled for believing it to be manic excitement, triggered by his jailbreak. This much had seemed obvious when they had retreated to one of Oswald’s safehouses, and they had barely exchanged more than a few sentences before Ed had skittered out of the door. Ed had kept in touch since they’ve been free, but like a summer storm, striking with a sudden ferocity but dissipating just as quickly.
The infrequency of his visits to Oswald’s newly re-established Iceberg Lounge made sense—Oswald was a legitimate businessman, after all, and Edward was an escaped convict, three times now. Despite assurances that he would keep the Riddler safe in his establishment, Ed only ever drank until he was drunk before whirling back out into the streets.
What was more difficult to parse were the trips to Oswald’s mansion. He didn’t know how Edward even knew when he would be staying at the estate rather than his Diamond District penthouse, but from time to occasional time, Oswald would walk into his sitting room to find Ed—already draped over a chair reading his books or pacing a maze around his furniture and ranting about the Bat. Oswald would enter the room, silently or with a quip, and pour himself a drink.
Sometimes Ed would talk for hours into the night, Oswald content in his presence alone; but others Oswald would send him home early, frustrated that he could not satisfy the demands of his traitorous heart after a long day.
Today was the former, descending rapidly into the latter.
“—fair! He cheats, Oswald!” Ed basically screeched and threw his arms into the air. He’d lost his dirty coat to the loveseat, testing the patience Oswald was not famous for, and despite the impudence the buckles on the back of his waistcoat had been threatening Oswald with indecent thoughts all evening. “I set up a maze and he flies above it, I leave him clues and he bulldozes down my door! I broadcast his incompetence, but does public opinion sway? No! He gets to look like he beat me! When he and I both know that is far from—”
“The truth, yes, Edward. I, more than anyone, know of your passion on the subject.” Oswald held his temples with his middle finger and thumb, his hand over his brow. Ed’s rants only furthered the discrepancy between Oswald’s imaginings of their relationship and the grim reality—Ed saw him as a convenient conversation partner, and little more.
The flames flickering in the hearth were reflected in Ed’s glasses as he stared motionless at Oswald. The lenses were a thinner style than the ones he had worn in ten years worth of Oswald’s fantasies, but they rendered his aging features more handsome than Oswald could ever have dreamed anyway. The intensity of Oswald’s appreciating gaze finally caused Ed to look away, running a hand through his hair but remaining just as tense.
“Forgive me, I haven’t even cleaned up since I’ve been here. I’ll be right back and give you a chance to…” He didn’t conclude that sentence but pointed with gloved hands towards his destination up the staircase. Oswald inclined his head to confirm, and Ed fled the room.
Once he could no longer hear Edward’s footsteps on the stairs, Oswald allowed his head to fall onto the loveseat’s back. He was nearing his fifties now, and the stress of running his continued arms dealing empire from behind bars had duly taken its toll. Time had twisted brittle muscles around old wounds—the largest and most pertinent of which was the scar tissue around the perimeter of his heart, when Ed had cut it out of him and years later sewn it back in with an all too cautious hand. He’d almost rather Ed just hold it raw and pulsating in his grip again than have it beating so pathetically in his chest this way.
Alone and indulging himself because of it, Oswald heaved a sigh for the sorry mess of his heart. His neck swiveled to the side as his gaze slid lethargically across his sitting room. He huffed a laugh through his nose when his focus again landed on the vile, green coat draped over the space next to him. Some cruel notion urged him to reach out a hand to stroke a single finger down the sleeve, but he resisted it. He sat up fully to consider the jacket instead, his right foot that had been lifted on an ottoman settling on the carpet next to the other.
Sliding the jacket from the loveseat and into his own lap, Oswald supposed that the shade of green was “forest” and deemed the coat one of Edward’s more subtle. After his escape from Arkham, Riddler had taken no time reestablishing himself, wardrobe included. Thankfully no glitter was sealing itself into Oswald’s upholstered furniture tonight, as the trenchcoat he was holding was a classic gabardine. With that in mind, he couldn’t help but wish that he had been smoking a pungent cigar this evening, the sequence of events from there unfolding deliciously—the tobacco would set into the tight cotton fibers, Ed’s nose would become accustomed and he’d neglect to clean the coat, he would think only of Oswald whenever he wore it again.
This was the type of impulse, though, that he had learned to curb as it pertained to his oldest friend.
Plans made by the Penguin were informed by intuition and logic, utilizing his gift of reading people to predict a given outcome. He only questioned his greatest ability after the fiasco with his then Chief of Staff. Despite his observations to the contrary, Ed had in fact not loved him—which wasn’t to say that the looks they shared in those few scant weeks over a decade ago didn’t still keep Oswald awake at night. Either way his possessive actions then had wrought chaos and destruction instead of comfort and love as he had anticipated. Since he was allowing himself to become so sentimental, his relationship with Edward was too important to him to risk. With the odds as they were, it would not be worth the cost.
Besides, Riddler had said that he had fashioned a new attachment for his umbrella, and Oswald was curious if “'Round and ‘round I’ll go, but far above those wheels below. I have wings but cannot fly; in two weeks’ time I’ll touch the sky!” meant what he thought he did.
He raised the coat up with both hands and gave it a shake, intending to fold it and lay it aside quickly now as Ed would be back any moment—and the Riddler seeing him in such a state was beyond question. However, the movement wafted the scent of the fabric to his nose. It was but a moment, but Oswald detected the old familiar smell of Ed’s cologne—mint and vetiver and lemongrass when he bothered to wear it—amidst a stronger and less pleasant mixture of motor oil, sweat, and blood. The first notes made him want to bury his face in the garment and live there forever, but the second reminded him that it was in fact quite filthy.
It was not like Edward to be unsanitary voluntarily, and it was only when he was driven to distraction or desperation that he would overlook his hygiene. Then again, they had only been reconnected for six months out of the last ten years. Oswald worried his lip, thinking about how Ed hadn’t had the accessibility in Arkham that Oswald had made for himself in Blackgate, private showers and a clean uniform daily an early necessity to him. Listening to Ed speak of it, the conditions at the asylum were still beyond inhumane. That he had recaptured any dignity at all was a miracle. It made Oswald’s heart glow with affection for him and anger for their city’s prejudiced judicial system, the treacherous James Gordon, and the unrelenting Bat. Considering that dignity, he refrained from invading Edward’s personal space any longer and indeed folded the coat.
Oswald gripped the ebony head of his cane, several of his joints cracking from the act of getting to his feet after resting for only one hour. He placed the coat neatly back on the loveseat, grime and all, and brushed down his own lapels. It was all he could ever do but to preen, especially in his gaining years, to wear the honor he stole from those who would seek to keep it from him. There had always been rules in Gotham—whether they were within the old mafia hierarchy or outright law and order. The Penguin—and the Riddler, as a matter of fact—had built their way on the foundations of those principles, if only to later dismantle the status quo in their favor. Oswald had sacrificed—his escape, his treasure, his eye—for Gotham even in the absence of that structure he sorely missed, but it had not been enough. The judgement of the righteous did not deem these sacrifices worthy, and it was the last time that Oswald had to learn that only the just and true got second chances. If his city was destined for an endless reign of chaos now, he would simply dig in his talons, balancing on the shifting tides of power.
He hadn’t realized that he was pacing, clicking his cane past the fire in the hearth and the coat on the sofa, until Edward finally slunk back into the parlor.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Ed asked as he clinked decanters to glasses, pouring them both a well-timed drink.
“I will need a great deal more than a penny to accomplish what I’m thinking of,” Oswald responded into the fire, one hand planted against the bricks containing it.
“Oh? You know I’ve always enjoyed the sound of your surreptitious scheming. Do tell!”
“Bam Bam’s number is finally up,” Oswald substantiates, focusing only on the warmth from the fire instead of Ed’s words. “Even after buying him off during reconstruction, he still had the nerve to cower at the District Attorney’s feet during our trials. The insult of his presence in the courts will be tolerated no further.”
“You have a replacement in mind?” Ed’s voice became closer but not louder, the pitch calming next to the crackling fire. Edward did not pretend to be the man he was when Oswald was mayor all those years ago, but he still retained the rare quality to soothe Oswald’s frayed tempers—or to further unravel them if the occasion demanded.
Oswald did not turn as he approached and simply held out his hand for his drink, not wanting to let the power Ed had over him sway his determination. Ed silently bumped the glass into his fingers, his own slotting into the spaces between Oswald’s, their knuckles bumping up against each other, as he ensured Oswald had a definitive hold before pulling away.
“I do—or rather I have several—but that isn’t what’s important—“ Oswald continued to watch the flames in their unpredictable dance, but was unable to finish his sentence. Edward had entered into his periphery, had grown much closer than Oswald had anticipated he’d come—and closed his eyes as he inhaled a deep breath.
Oswald, suddenly and completely torn from his thoughts of vengeance, gawked at Edward. He exhaled with a contented smile that was so genuine Oswald’s heart throbbed in recognition. As Ed opened his eyes again, however, his expression soured, brow furrowing and smile dropping from one edge of his lips.
“Hm.”
“Did you—Edward, did you just smell me?” Oswald tried to grasp the situation.
“It’s been driving me,” Ed laughed, then, “well, crazy. And I guess I could have done some fairly simple investigating once I was free, but I couldn’t—I couldn’t. I knew I had to go to the source—as soon as you let me close enough—because it was entirely possible it was just me, and I couldn’t remember—“
“Slow down, my friend. What are you talking about?”
The lighthearted mania and frenzied frustration in Ed over the last few months seemed to coalesce into a focused intensity. His eyes were darker than Oswald had ever witnessed them behind his thin lenses, and a shiver wracked his body upon the realization that Ed’s pupils were blown to the edges of his irises, intent on Oswald.
“The floral note in your cologne—is it roses,” minutely Ed bent at his knees, as if to lean in to sniff Oswald again, as if to get closer to his prey without scaring it away, “or lilies?”
Oswald stared at him for just a moment before shaking his head in disbelief, his smile cracking what had long felt like a permanent scowl. He shrugged off his suit jacket with care, folding it between them but then simply tossing it onto an armchair.
“Lilies are of course a known sentiment of mine, my mother’s favorite, as I’m sure that steel trap in your skull does remember.”
He began to work on his sleeve—pinching off his umbrella-shaped cufflink, dropping it into his pocket, unbuttoning his cuff, and rolling his shirtsleeve up his forearm. Edward’s gaze was heavy on his movements, and the weight of it slowed him even further. They had waited this long after all, so Oswald idly pulled, daring something to snap.
“But roses, they can cover even the foulest of odors. The most stalwartly romantic of them all, don’t you agree?”
The bare skin of Oswald’s wrist was revealed, and it felt absurdly obscene. He lifted his arm, fist wound back perpendicular to his offered wrist.
“But I'm no expert in aromatics. Perhaps you ought to test it again?”
Edward silently stepped forward, but Oswald didn’t hold his breath. There was no smile on Ed’s face, and Oswald could read his anxiety in every movement, each manifestation so known and dear to him. They both watched, slow motion as his fingers wrapped one by one around the back of Oswald’s hand.
Ed slowly dipped his head around the wrist when he brought it to his face. He grasped Oswald’s arm with both hands as if he’d been deprived of it. His nose hooked firmly over the crease where his palm met his wrist, and his mouth delicately covered the purple veins visible under the thin skin there, surely giving away the intensity of his pulse. Ed breathed in deeply through his nose, letting his chest fill with Oswald’s scent. He held the pose, considering for several moments, until his shoulders fell again like the tide washing out to sea. Oswald shakily exhaled with him.
“It smells…” Ed paused, his lips still burning his words onto Oswald’s wrist, “like you.”
The furrow of his brow was gone as he placed an unmistakable kiss on the proffered wrist, his eyes snapping up to Oswald’s again.
“Ed,” he croaked, whatever control he had over his composure entirely exhausted in an instant.
“I missed you, Oswald, desperately,” Ed confessed, a beat, and his eyes rolled to the ceiling as he elaborated, “deliriously, some of my cohorts might say.”
“And yet,” Oswald allowed himself to say, choking down his heart in his throat. “You stopped writing.”
Ed abandoned Oswald's wrist to pull his tie from his waistcoat. He averted his eyes down now as he stroked it between his index and middle fingers.
“Well, yes, I may have, um,” he mumbled.
“What was that?” Oswald lifted his chin rather than ducking his head to try to meet Ed’s gaze. He could meet Oswald where he was at this time, as endeared to the man as he was.
Edward sighed and finally looked up from the tie. “I used a pen to stab Tetch.”
A laugh bubbled up and out of Oswald’s mouth, and he decided that it didn’t matter what brought this happiness to him, just that it was his.
Ed, upon seeing this reaction, curled his lips into a smile until he was laughing just as heartily alongside his friend.
“And his ridiculous paper hat.”
The noise echoed around the ceiling of the mansion, the room saturated in their beatific display. When the laughter waned, they curled together like a pair of mourning doves, foreheads touching, hands clasping.
“I missed you too,” Oswald admitted, in turn.
It was as natural as their next breaths when their lips met. Their mouths opened in simultaneous gasps, the long-held emotions behind the kiss manifesting as youthful inexperience. Oswald quickly found his hands in Ed’s hair, clutching for dear life. Ed jerkily wrapped his arms around Oswald’s shoulders, the curl of them relaxing the longer they kissed, a tension of years melting off of him.
It wasn’t long until Ed started in on the rest of Oswald’s clothes, but Oswald hadn’t expected him to place so much reverence on the process. Ed’s hands shook as he unbuttoned Oswald’s collar. He wrapped Oswald’s mussed tie around his hand before prodding into the knot. He slipped fingers between Oswald’s suspenders and his dress shirt until he met the fastenings. He licked his lips as he traced the seam of the shirt before opening it, one shaky button at a time. He was a ghost of a memory before Oswald, his Chief of Staff, his partner, and best friend diligently—too diligently, too carefully, too lovingly—helping him.
Oswald was helpless but to release a low whine at the contrast in his memory when the present Edward dropped to his knees and kissed Oswald’s belt buckle as he slid the belt from its loops. When Oswald’s trousers hit the floor, Ed grappled his calves, considering his sock garters and ultimately leaving them as they were. Ed allowed Oswald to hold his shoulders as he pulled his slippers off, Ed’s hands caressing along his soles. And it was only once Oswald was clad just in his socks and union suit that Ed’s breath brushed over his clothed but burgeoning erection.
“Edward,” Oswald said, biting his lip when Ed looked up at him over the rim of those thin glasses, perched on the edge of his nose, just a whisper away from Oswald’s groin. “As loath as I am to stop you…would you care to join me?”
Ed slid his gaze up Oswald with a grin. “In all your glory?”
Oswald felt heat gather across the entirety of his upper body, surely casting him in an unflattering palette of reds.
“Eddie, I’m far too old to be teased,” he admonished, both deeply gratified and equally embarrassed.
“Teasing implies a level of insincerity that I really do not have right now,” Ed responded, taking Oswald’s hands to stand and hastily strip himself with an awkward carelessness that spoke truth to his words.
When his impropriety matched Oswald’s, he wrapped him in his embrace again. The scent of Ed’s bare skin where Oswald’s nose was pressed into his neck had a profile all its own, and Oswald was glad for the intensity of Ed’s hold, for the smell made his head spin. This turn of events was wholly unexpected and terribly awaited, flowering before them in the middle of the night.
“Can we really have this?” asked Oswald, in between delicate kisses along Edward’s pulse point as Ed’s hands sprung into action, roaming over all the curves and crevices of Oswald’s body. “Can it be this easy?”
Oswald was graced with a beautiful hum of amusement, the one that Ed would always employ to suggest an unspoken understanding between confidantes—partners. “You call everything that led us here easy?”
“I suppose not, but—”
Ed dipped his head to bring his mouth to his ear. “Perhaps we can finish this conversation in the bedroom?” he asked roughly, palm cupping Oswald through his union suit. “Preferably with you wearing nothing but your robe?”
“My robe?” Oswald pulled his head back to look at Ed curiously, temporarily ignoring the heat building in his thighs.
“Oh, yes, I cannot count the amount of times I thought about you in it…taking you, opening the tie of it, spreading it out underneath you, opened for me like a present.”
The teeth in his smile were so straight, they were sharp, and somehow still so white. Oswald swallowed, blinked, and finally lowered his head with a disparaging grimace.
“My dear Ed, if you’re thinking of my heirloom brocade robe, it no longer fits. The belt can tie, but the sides will not meet. I’m afraid I look much like a sausage bursting from its casing.”
Before Oswald finished speaking, Edward was pulling him by the hand out of the parlor and towards the staircase. If Oswald had thought he had seen happiness in Ed’s face before, it was nothing compared to his exaltation when he pleasured himself, one of Oswald’s ties wrapped around his prick, or when he came inside Oswald, who had his robe bunched up at his waist. The swelter of their requited lust suffused Oswald’s lonely rooms, and the loving words he could scarcely believe permeated the chambers of his heart.
Oswald sincerely hoped that his house staff, encouraged by the presence of their discarded clothing in the hall, found Ed’s jacket and cleaned it.