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It was only after Oswald had risen from the dead, hollowed-out, heaving, and hungry for Ed’s blood, that Ed had realized it wasn’t the bullet that he regretted most.
For there Oswald had stood before him, declaring war with red-rimmed eyes and the sunken face of a corpse, hands gloved and shaking at his cane, when it had struck Ed: no, it wasn’t the gunshot, or even the push into the water, but his own physical recoil that had haunted him most. Oswald’s hands tied but reaching for his face, Ed’s hand smacking him away.
It’s odd, Ed knows, to fill guiltier at so seemingly small a thing than the murder, the torture (physical and otherwise), but that first time he’d seen Oswald after the dock all Ed could bring himself to focus on were his hands, covered, folded in toward himself, so different from the ones that had reached out to him, even underwater (even bleeding, even bound).
They’d warred, just as Oswald had intended, for several months, Ed’s heart never really in it, the thought of having to heap yet more reactionary violence onto this man he never stopped loving more punishing than any of the hits he himself took.
Ed had broken eventually, extended an olive branch that wasn’t really his to extend at all, not after what he’d done, but Oswald, miraculously still clinging to that innermost tenderness that had always shone through all his rage and violence and pain, had taken it, misty-eyed, words failing him and his hands in his pockets.
And so they’d healed from there, brokenly, like a bone that will never bend or move the same way again but functions nonetheless, livable. They met when they had to, talked quite civilly, Ed always eager and Oswald always curled in on himself, quiet and withdrawn but with a twinkling warmth that sustained Ed for weeks afterward every time.
They’re in one such meeting now, huddled in a conspiratorial circle of several of Gotham’s most unsavory types. Ivy, Butch, and Tabitha are propped between them, and it’s always moments like this that force Ed to dwell on how different things might have been (and maybe are, on some other earth): Oswald right at his side where he belonged, Ed’s hand at the small of his back, maybe, like a secret just between them, a union both seen and not.
As it is, all these lesser bodies stand between them, and when Oswald intervenes into the muddling talk with an idea far sharper than anything else the room had heard (of course), Ed’s fond smile goes unfelt, Oswald’s eyes and attention elsewhere.
Afterward, when the circle has broken, its members dispersing into their appropriate cliques, Oswald wanders off to a corner, alone, Ed solitary in his own, and he can’t help but to move towards him, ever hopeful, adjusting the bowler hat atop his head in a nervous tic he’s practiced enough to know looks smooth, the anxiety that propels it masked.
“That was a brilliant suggestion,” Ed chirps, gesturing vaguely toward the center of the room where they’d all been standing not four minutes before.
Oswald turns to him, blinking as though surprised, eyes pale green and clear as a pond.
“Thank you,” he responds, a little stiffly, arms crossing, hands hidden, and, gosh, what Ed wouldn’t give to see them reach for him again, happily this time, confidently, Ed’s flesh warming all over as it welcomes the touch.
Despite Oswald’s discomfort, his freckled cheeks go pink, those sharp edges of his face rounding softly. Ed is so invigorated by the sight, so overcome to know he can still incite feelings pleasant in Oswald ever after all the savagery, that he wants nothing more, suddenly, than to deepen Oswald’s rose-nosed relish.
“I’m liking the new look, too,” Ed continues, smiling when Oswald blinks, bashful, again, “I always told you purple was your color.”
“Ed,” Oswald laughs, blushing fully now, mouth twisting skeptically as his voice trails off.
“What?” Ed asks, hand at his hat again.
“Nothing. Just - “ Oswald laughs once more, turns more fully toward him, arms uncrossing, limbs loose, “I wish I could say the same of your new look, but I’m conflicted on the hat.”
Ed smiles wide, too gleeful at Oswald’s open body language and friendly tone to care about the criticism, light as it is.
“I like the hat,” Ed protests, still smiling as Oswald cocks his head to one side.
“Hmm,” Oswald considers, eyes fixed above his head now, “I don’t know.”
And then his hands are moving, reaching, palms white-pink, veined wrists exposed, and Ed’s heart is in his throat.
Oswald avoids his skin but reaches for the hat on tip-toe, wobbling dangerously off-balance as he lifts it off Ed’s head.
Ed reflexively brings a steadying hand to his waist, another to his shoulder, and Oswald lets out a sound not unlike a giggle as he lowers back flat onto his feet, Ed’s hat triumphantly in hand as they both grin, Ed’s hands rubbing softly at Oswald, comforting and fond and trembling with restrained yearning.
“Yeah, that’s better,” Oswald nods, deciding. “The green speaks more fully for itself without the hat diverting attention.”
“Well, I’ll take the compliments where I can get them,” Ed’s smile softens, hands still on him despite the needlessness of it now that Oswald’s off his tiptoes.
Oswald places the hat over his own head with a playful grimace. It’s a touch too large for him, sitting too low on his forehead, and he looks ridiculous but charming, somehow, youthful, skin contrasting paler and smoother against the hat’s solid black.
“I doubt this look is faring any better on me than it did on you,” Oswald declares, self-consciously, after a moment, feeling Ed’s stare and tipping the hat experimentally.
“I don’t know about better,” Ed replies, moving the hand at Oswald’s shoulder to re-straighten the hat, “But it’s faring quite well nonetheless, I think.”
“Maybe I’ll incorporate a hat into my look,” Oswald says, lips pursing contemplatively, “Not a bowler hat, though.”
“Tell you what,” Ed proposes, “If you agree to wear this hat for the next hour or so, I’ll take you out to dinner. My treat. Maybe it’ll grow on you.”
Oswald looks up at him, curious, conflict clouding the brightness of his makeup-lined eyes.
Ed holds his breath, grip at Oswald’s waist relaxing cautiously.
“I suppose we do have some time before all the action commences,” Oswald concedes, light in his eyes again, “And I could eat.”
“It’s decided, then. Away we go.”
Ed takes his hands off Oswald, then extends an arm. With a pretty flush, Oswald slides his arm against his, locking them together, laughing as the too-large hat atop his head slips down onto his brow when they begin moving toward the exit.
Once they’re outside, the air crisp and the sky grey-blue, Oswald shimmies his arm away, Ed’s face falling until Oswald takes him by the hand instead, skin to skin, palm warm and soft.
Ed squeezes his hand back, thumb stroking lightly.
“I’ve missed you,” Ed admits after a few more steps, unembarrassed now that they’re alone and now that Oswald has yielded his palm and fingers over to him.
Oswald only presses his face into Ed’s upper arm in reply, hat tipping precariously to one side.
Eyes wet, Ed lifts his free hand to tilt the hat back into place, fingers grazing over the smooth skin of Oswald’s brow with intimate purpose.
“I’ve missed you too, of course,” Oswald confesses, body melting at Ed’s side as he breathes the words aloud.
A bruising chill cuts through the air, strong and aggressively cold enough to still their steps for just a breath.
He nuzzles against Oswald and rubs their palms together, the frictive heat traveling up his arm, and Ed is sure he’s never felt warmer in his life.