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Euphoria doesn’t begin to describe the thrill of yet another successful scheme. Edward is practically skipping as he lets himself into the derelict apartment he’s taken as his new home, having once again run circles round the cretins at the GCPD, walking away a quart of diamonds richer and no doubt another front page more infamous than before. Or no, not home, he reflects. He has no home now, not since his public reveal, via a frankly dazzling and ingenious array of puzzles if he does say so, of himself as orchestrator of Oswald’s demise.
Taking credit for the death of the infamous Penguin had earned him instant credibility within Gotham’s underworld, which had proven helpful in gaining allies to assist him in avoiding Tabitha Galavan’s continuing ire and the inevitable assistance Barbara Kean had provided to ensure said ire reached its ultimate, fatal conclusion. But while reputation as Oswald’s killer may have advanced his criminal standing, killing the Mayor also put Edward at the top of Gotham’s Most Wanted, and that, while immensely satisfying, was something of an obstacle to long-term residence.
Headquarters would be a better term for the string of places he’s moved between since leaving the mansion. Yes that’s much better. Professional. A criminal of his calibre has no need for something as quaint as a home, with its time wasting chores – the constant cleaning and tidying, the senseless attempts to keep it ‘presentable,’ dusting shelves, vacuuming floors, polishing silver. Stoking fires. Making tea. Having it made for you. Cooking breakfast. Basking in smiles offered from the opposite side of the table.
Edward frowns, slamming the door behind him with more force than is necessary or prudent given the rickety frame. Stupid, stupid of him to be thinking about things like this. He has become, to quote the intrepid Ms Vale, ‘the scourge of the city,’ everyone in Gotham knows his name and are soon to recognise his genius whether they will or no. This is everything he’s ever wanted. This. What cause has he for disappointment? What more could he ever need?
Someone to share it with, a voice whispers, the cadence all too familiar.
He takes a moment to close his eyes and draw a breath, pushing the words back to the far crevice of his mind they’d escaped from. He has no time for foolish sentiment.
Foolish and pointless, he reflects. Because there’s always time to pontificate. For who could possibly share this life with him? Not Isabella, even if she were still alive. She was too good, too pure, for a life of crime at his side.
Though of course, with her at his side he would never have turned to a life of crime.
Well, aside from his various legally questionable duties as Mayoral Chief of Staff, but that hardly counted now did it? If the last few months have taught him anything it’s that there is a difference between committing crimes and being a criminal, and he is most certainly the latter. Can’t imagine being anything else, or why he ever wanted to be. The rush. The fame. The glory. This is what he was born for. When he thinks back to his time with Isabella, or even Kristen, it’s like it all happened to someone else, the Ed who loved her – them – a distant memory, a faded dream.
He’s not that man.
He doesn’t need, or want, another Kristen. Another Isabella.
You need me, Edward Nygma. Just as I need you.
The voice is closer, louder, this time, making him gasp. When he opens his eyes a figure stands before him, dripping wet, with algae lining the shoulders of his satin jacket, bound hands outstretched, eyes pleading.
Not again.
He blinks and the phantom is gone. Just another figment that’s all. A persistent one, certainly, but he has it under control. Yes, okay, it still appears unannounced and remains unconstrained to reflective surfaces, but far less than it used to and it rarely engages in actual conversation anymore. Plus there’s been no repeats of that first night back at the mansion after… after the docks. When he’d woken in the morning curled into a ball at the bottom of the stairs, knuckles bloody, half the mirrors in the place smashed to pieces. But even that had been a blessing in the end, inspiring him to use the mansion and that ridiculous painting Oswald had commissioned as one of the clues in his triumphant debut. Yes, that night had been a revelation, not a breakdown, showing him how to focus and channel his intellect. That’s why he’d left so fast, he’d been anxious to get started with his new career. Not out of some irrational fear of the rooms and the furniture haunting him with memories, and with doubt.
Ghosts aren’t real. This lingering… afterimage is just a reminder of an early success. A way for his mind to push his limits. The form it takes doesn’t mean anything. Certainly not remorse. Certainly not guilt.
After all, he had to. He had to. Oswald betrayed him. His friendship was a lie, just like Jim Gordon’s, just like Barbara Kean’s, as fake as every other show of affection Edward has ever known. Save for one – the one that Oswald took from him. He has no reason to regret his actions. No reason to – to miss the man.
With a shake of his head Edward steps forward into the dimly lit hallway, clapping his gloved hands as he turns the corner into the sparse living quarters come planning room where he’d left a few thugs guarding his cumulative loot and various inventions.
He’s just feeling the come down of an adrenaline high, that’s all this maudlin thinking is. And the best way to counter that is to start planning the next caper, which means it’s time to rally the troops.
“Another flawless execution of a perfect plan, good work boys!” he cheers as he steps through the doorway. “But I already have an even better one in mind, so I need you to go out and get me a pineapple, some piano wire and what is this?”
This last is directed at the chair positioned artfully in the centre of the room, under the bulb with the broken lampshade, and more specifically the slumped figure bound to it, burlap sack around the head concealing their identity. Aside from this oddity the rest of the room is precisely as he left it, various crates and bags of weapons and equipment littered about the edges, with just one glaring exception – all of his men are missing.
Edward’s fingers have barely touched the handle of the knife in his pocket when a voice from the shadows speaks in answer.
“It’s a gift, for you.”
Again, so soon?
Except, no, there’s a shuffle of movement at his side. The tap of a cane over creaking wooden boards, followed by the well known drag of a limping step. Tap, drag, tap, drag, tap, drag and slowly the speaker moves into view. Solid, not a figment – the way the light reacts to him proves that, spiked up hair casting shadows across his face.
Mr Karlo, Edward thinks. Only it can’t be. Even if his old associate had been inclined to trick him this way, which he has no reason to save a substantial paycheque perhaps, Edward knows for a fact that a recent resurgence of memory has Basil Karlo deeply involved in a personal vendetta against some old work colleges. He is, at this very moment, infiltrating the Gotham Broadcasting Company in order to spy on them.
The speaker stops halfway between Edward and the unknown in the chair, clasping the bird-shaped handle of his cane with both hands so he can better rest his weight on it, eyes flashing within their crisp, dark circle of eyeliner, lips twisting in a smirk sharp enough to wound.
“Hello, old friend,” Oswald Cobblepot says and Edward’s heart stops. He readjusts his glasses, but the image through the lenses doesn’t change.
This can’t be. It can’t. He was shot. At point blank range.
And yet –
A tightness forms in Edward’s chest and it’s as though their roles have reversed, the bullet meant for his friend – former friend – now lodged in him. When his heart starts to beat again it’s with a wild almost bruising pace and he can’t help but press a hand to it, hoping against reason this will calm him, lips parting wide in a gasp that never comes because he’s too paralysed to even draw breath.
A million questions swarm at the edges of his mind and every one of them is overpowered by the intensity of the single truth that Oswald. Is. Alive.
Laughter flies out of him and it’s like being purged of a poison.
He should be furious, of course, at best. Despairing at worst, at such catastrophic evidence of his failure. Yet each joyful breath he takes is pure relief because Oswald is alive. And that means –
It means that Ed is no longer alone.
If Oswald is surprised by the hysteria he doesn’t show it beyond a mild lift of his chin.
“You’re no doubt wondering,” he starts. “How I –”
“No! No don’t tell me!” Edward interrupts, reaching out a hand, purpled leather fingertips pointing to purple silk brocade. It’s only when he stops to smile at the matching colours that he realises his face is already split in a wide and open grin, like a kid on Christmas morning. Well, not any of his Christmases, but he assumes this must be what it was like for others – the warmth and wonder of a mystery package just for him. It’s an experience he wants to savour, wants to unwrap bit by bit until he’s uncovered the truth for himself. Can’t let Oswald spoil the surprise. “Give me some time – a few hours, maybe a day – I’ll puzzle it out.”
There’s a pause as Oswald considers this, gaze moving slowly down and up Edward’s body, all the way from his green boots, over his green pants, green jacket, green tie and up to his hat. Green eyes on green. The attention might have embarrassed Edward once, even as he craved it, but now he preens, turning his hand palm up and waving it aside to better display the outfit. It’s a gesture he’s made often these past few weeks, to new allies and old, to victims and police, to flashing cameras and silent CCTV recorders, perfected to the point of being second nature. But suddenly all those times seem nothing but practice, dress rehearsals for this moment here and now, awaiting judgement from the only audience that matters.
“Hmm, yes,” Oswald reflects and if Edward were still harbouring any doubt about an imposter this would dispel it – the way Oswald’s lips press together just so, the angle of his head as he nods, these things can’t be faked. “You have built quite the reputation for that these days.”
Puzzles he means. Games. Tricks. Traps.
Riddles.
Almost everyone he’s had dealings with can’t resist a jibe at some point – ‘what’s with all the kiddie stuff, anyways?’ ‘can the dumb parlour tricks and maybe we can talk’ ‘oh yeah, you’re the loser who leaves clues for the cops, rookie mistake man.’ Imbeciles, not enough brain cells between them to stay out of jail longer than a week let alone see the genius in what he does. Still, they rarely insult him twice.
But this time is different. The gentle curve of Oswald’s lips and the steady eye contact might as well be a standing ovation because it isn’t mocking, it’s respect, and for the first time Edward finds himself not defensive but proud of his accomplishments.
“Yes,” he chuckles. “I have.” He curls his fingers to his palm and presses a knuckle to his lips, needing a physical outlet for his glee. “You know,” he continues, leaning forward. “Life is so much easier when you have a theme. You should try it.” His hand darts away from him again in his enthusiasm, fingers splaying. “You could really go to town with the whole penguin-umbrella thing.” He draws a circle in the air with his palm, a symbolic capture of Oswald’s latent persona.
“I’ll bare it in mind,” Oswald nods, and maybe it’s just politeness or professional curtsey, but even so it’s better than the usual rebuttals Edward endures when he tries to advise his peers.
It’s all so perfect it takes a moment for the sombre reality to sink in, because in truth a confrontation with the man you tortured and tried to kill is unlikely to be social. Disregarding how, the more pressing question becomes – why?
“In the meantime,” Edward continues, schooling his expression into something more business-like. “I have some more pertinent questions. First –” He holds up a finger. “Where are my men? Second –” He lifts another finger, forming a V, and nods at the unconscious form on the chair. “What is that? Third –” One more finger joins the rest. “Why are you here?”
He draws each finger slowly back to his palm and waits. With bated breath no less, earlier heist already forgotten, the heart-pounding rush of it dulled to insignificance in comparison to this new game.
“Well,” Oswald begins, twisting the top of his cane and drawing the hidden dagger from it.
There’s another question in that, Edward realises, as he tightens the hand in his pocket about his own concealed weapon – he’d returned that cane to the mansion himself, how had Oswald retrieved it?
But that puzzle is a minor one all things considered. Of more immediate concern are the crimson stains coating the dagger’s edge.
“Your men are dead,” Oswald tells him, sweeping the blade before his face. Edward admires the gesture – dramatic without being flashy. His gaze is drawn to the pointed tip, leaving no doubt as to how his men met their end. “Kind of pathetic, really,” Oswald continues, bending forward, nose scrunching up – giving a paradoxical effect of both camaraderie and disgust. “How easy it was. You’ll need to learn to be more discerning with the hired help.”
With that he turns and moves towards the figure on the chair, leaving Edward to loosen the hold on his on blade and ponder the assumption of a future in Oswald’s words – a future in which he is expected to continue recruiting personal henchmen.
“And this, like I said –” Oswald carries on, pointing the dagger at the bound figure’s shoulder before wiping the blade clean – or at least cleaner – on the creased fabric there. The clothing is already so stained and threadbare it makes little difference. “– is a gift. Because I’m here –” He looks up to Edward again, slipping the dagger back in its case. “– to negotiate.”
“Negotiate?” Edward repeats. “Negotiate what?”
“My return to Gotham’s underworld, obviously,” Oswald shrugs, like this should go without saying. “You have become quite the member of the criminal elite, which makes you the obvious choice for discussing terms.”
Edward chuckles.
“Flattery can only take you so far, Oswald.” It’s been so long that the name feels strange on his tongue, like a favourite spice he’d forgotten the taste of. Even with his figments he’d avoided using it as much as possible, unwilling to grant the illusions greater power by defining them in such a way. “Wouldn’t you be better served talking to our new keen Queen?”
Proud of the wordplay, Edward smirks and is delighted to find his efforts acknowledged by a matching smile.
“Dear Barbara,” Oswald nods. “I considered her, of course. But I find planning to overthrow someone can make discussing business rather awkward.”
“So, that’s your play then?” Edward starts to move closer and Oswald moves in tandem, both of them circling until the tied up body lies between them. “Take back the throne?”
“What can I say? I like being on top.”
There’s an innuendo there, furthered by the way Oswald’s eyebrows quirk up, that Edward doesn’t know what to do with. He just knows it leaves his cheeks hot and starts a flutter of something in the pit of his stomach.
“And why do you think I would help you with that?” he asks, more clipped than intended, words rushed as he hurries to move the conversation on.
“Oh, common sense, mostly,” Oswald answers and before Edward can scoff he adds – “Yours, I mean. Or perhaps you’ve lost that along with your fashion sense.” The jibe almost has Edward back on safer ground, until Oswald follows with – “Although, I do admire the gloves.” Slowly and deliberately, Oswald grips both hands back over the handle of his cane, the purple leather across them another match to Edward’s. As it should be – the mimicry of Oswald’s wardrobe was intentional after all. A homage, Edward had told himself, to a fallen adversary. Only now, faced with the knowing gleam in Oswald’s eye, he finds himself unsure if this is truly the reason he chose the colour. “Anyway, let me spell it out for you.” Oswald continues. “Tabitha Galavan wants you dead. Which means Butch and Barbara want you dead, because for some inexplicable reason Miss Galavan has claimed both of their affections and so they will not deny her her whims.” He pauses a moment to shake his head, lips thinning, eyes growing distant. “How that backstabbing fiend can possibly inspire such feeling is… simply beyond me…” A blink and he snaps back, eyes on Edward once again. “But, well, love makes fools of us all, doesn’t it?” There’s the briefest of hesitations, a flash of something cold in Oswald’s eyes. Then it’s over. “Now, unless you want to spend the rest of your life with an assassin forever at your back, you need someone new running Gotham. Someone who will let you pursue your own interests, freely. Someone who supports your… creative endeavours.”
Edward does scoff here, glad of the opportunity to escape the mess of emotions threatening to encroach on the discussion with some easy sarcasm.
“You, you mean? Really?” He crosses his arms. To intimidate, naturally, and not to hide his gloves, because that would be ridiculous. “You honestly expect me to believe you would be willing to give me that kind of freedom? To let me operate unsupervised, in your kingdom?”
“Why not?” Oswald says, calm and cool. Too cool. Edward feels backfooted again. He needs to up his game. “There would be minor details to work out,” Oswald presses on. “People and places I’d request you not to touch. But Gotham is a big city, we can share.”
“Share?” Edward repeats, incredulous. He’d been expecting something more along the lines of ‘this town ain’t big enough for the both of us.’ This must be a trap of some kind and if Oswald thinks he’ll fall for it he’s in for a rude awakening. “Forgive me if experience makes me distrustful of your ability to share.”
It’s the closest they’ve come to mentioning their sordid history and threatens to dispel the delightful pomp and circumstance of their reunion so far – a little peek behind the curtain wafting the odour of something rotten in their faces. But there’s no point in regret, it’s said now, so Edward merely stares Oswald down. If nothing else it’s worth it to see Oswald’s calm falter, eyes turning cold, nostrils flaring.
Only then he surprises, blinking and dropping his lashes, gaze downcast as he nods.
“Fair enough,” he says, quiet, like a confession.
Edward is still trying to work out if this is a victory or not when Oswald draws a breath through his nose and looks up again.
“But the point only stands if you assume we want the same thing,” he starts and it’s a marvel, truly, the way he’s always so quick to find something new to say. It had almost been Edward’s undoing back at the docks and oh, what he wouldn’t give for a silver tongue like that. As far as he’s come, improv is still not his forte. “But we don’t, do we?” Oswald continues, stepping around the figure in the chair to move a few paces closer – favouring his left side even more than he used to, Edward notes. Like Fish, it seems he’s left a lingering mark on the Penguin. He wonders, fleetingly, if there is a scar and what shape it healed in. If it still hurts. “That was my first mistake with you.” Oswald stops a moment to lift a hand, finger pointing upwards, while his other grips tighter about his cane to compensate. “You did so much for me. Not just as my Chief of Staff, but before, in Arkham and after my mother…” He lets his hand rest back over the knuckles of the one on his cane, looking briefly to the side as he swallows back feeling. Astonishing, that after all this time since Gertrude’s passing her memory should still affect him. “I was sure that you must want something more from me than guidance and advice for your trouble,” he continues, turning back. “That you wanted power by proxy.” He takes the last few steps needed to be standing before Edward, head tilting back to stare up at him while Edward is forced to dip his own forward to meet the gaze. “And you should know I would have given it to you,” he says, earnest. “I would have given you anything, no questions asked. You could have ruled Gotham at my side.” Oswald sighs out a couple of deep breaths and Edward is surprised to find himself sighing with him, recognising what could have been. And letting it go. “But that’s never what you wanted.” Oswald holds Edward’s gaze as he shakes his head. “Everything you did for me, the effort you went to, the scheming, the planning, helping me recover, helping me be Mayor, it was never about the power. You don’t want to rule Gotham. You don’t want to rule anything.”
Like any decent showman, Oswald pauses before voicing his conclusion and Edward finds himself holding his breath.
“You just like the game,” Oswald tells him and for a second Edward wonders if this hasn’t been one of his fever dreams after all because it is so deliriously true, and who could possibly recognise such a deeply ingrained truth of him other than himself?
A voice whispers in his ear. I am the only one in the world who truly sees you as you are. He steps back, lifting a hand to bat the phantom face at his shoulder away so he can better concentrate on the real one in front of him.
Oswald’s eyes track the gesture, but he doesn’t comment, just lifts up the corner of his mouth.
“Help me take back the throne and I promise you, Ed, this city will be your playground,” he says. “I’ll run it. You can use it, abuse it, whatever you want.”
Whatever he wants.
It’s tantalising.
But he can’t weaken himself by seeming too eager.
“And if I refuse?” Edward asks.
Oswald drops his head, lips spreading wide.
“You’ll live to regret it,” he answers, matter-of-fact.
Well now, if bravado is the game, Oswald will discover that Edward has become quite adept.
“Oh I doubt that,” he grins back and in that moment they reach a happy equilibrium, both sure of their own power, waiting to see where the next move will take them.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Oswald says by way of an opening gambit.
That you’re hardly a threat, considering how easy it was to defeat you? Edward muses.
“You’re thinking that because you bested me once, it will be simple to do so again.”
Ah.
“But consider –” Oswald bends forward, offering more of that faux camaraderie. “Here I am. Alive.” He gives a hum of laughter. “Despite your best efforts.”
Smugness practically radiates from Oswald’s smile, pride glowing from his eyes, and not just from whatever trick or stroke of luck saved him from his watery grave, no, the conceit is as much about Edward’s ignorance as it is about any skill Oswald perceives in himself. The arrogance grates and Edward can feel his own smile begin to dip. It’s on the tip of his tongue to tell Oswald that in truth the murder – attempted murder – had not been his best effort at all, and so the pride is misplaced. For had it been a best effort Oswald’s corpse would be rotting underwater with a bullet hole in the skull. But that would require a closer revisit than Edward is comfortable with of that moment on the docks and the reasons behind his struggle to perform, so instead he scowls in silence while Oswald continues.
“And remember, we were friends when you tricked me before.” The soft lines of Oswald’s smile drop away, lips curling instead to bear his teeth. “You no longer have that advantage,” he hisses. “And believe me when I tell you, you do not want me as your enemy.”
Strange. Logically, Edward knows their friendship has long been over, his choice on the docks the final nail in the coffin. Yet hearing Oswald describe their time as friends in the past tense still feels like a loss.
“I found you here, didn’t I?” Oswald is insisting, while Edward blinks away the out of place sorrow. “Stripped you of your defences. Killing you would have been child’s play.”
Now there’s something concrete to latch on to.
“Ah ha!” Edward points, fingertip just shy of Oswald’s nose. “But you didn’t. Why is that, I wonder? Part of a bigger plan? Lulling me into a false sense of security? Waiting to strike until the right moment? Rest assured, whatever it is I’ll figure it out, you can’t fool me.”
He doesn’t expect to intimidate, at least not outwardly. If anything Edward imagines Oswald will brazen out the deduction, then attempt to distract from it by changing the subject. What he doesn’t expect is for Oswald to flatten his lips, eyes softening as they lift from Edward’s pointed finger and up his arm to lock on to Edward’s own.
“You’re overthinking it, Ed,” he says and his tone is all wrong. No longer harsh – just sad. Sad and sympathetic. “You should be careful about that, it’ll get you into trouble. You’re right, there’s a reason I didn’t kill you. But it’s not a secret. You already know why.”
For several frantic seconds Edward begins to replay the conversation since Oswald’s arrival, searching for clues. But then Oswald’s lips part in a gentle sigh, his eyes scanning Edward’s face with familiar longing, and Edward jerks back with a tut of understanding.
“Don’t be absurd!” he snaps, flattening his palm upward and holding it in front of himself, as though to physically ward off the truth. A useless gesture in any case, but especially with another beseeching Oswald flickering into existence the other side of him to announce I did it because I love you! Edward shakes his head as he drops his hand, unable to stop a low growl of frustration. He shot the man – that this… this complication to their relationship should remain after that is utterly nonsensical. “Even now?”
Oswald gives a wry smile.
“Most people aren’t like you, Ed,” he says. “We can’t just switch off our feelings when they become inconvenient.” There’s a squeak of leather as his fingers circle tight about the rod of his cane. “So yes, even now.” He opens his mouth to continue but stalls, parted lips divulging nothing but air and a bizarre sense of déjà vu until he snaps his mouth shut and swallows, eyes dropping. He fidgets a moment, polishing the silver beak of the cane’s handle with his thumb, before finally choking out a whispered – “Always…”
The air grows heavy with this admission, clogging Edward’s throat as he tries to breathe it down.
So what? he tells himself. So what if Oswald still loves him? Loves him in a way that is madly, irrationally unconditional as no one else has? Or, no – Isabella did, of course she did, she accepted him regardless of his criminal past didn’t she? Her love too would have endured.
Unlike her of course, being dead and all.
While Oswald – oh, Oswald is very much alive. So very very alive. The heat of him within reach, Edward need only hold a hand out to touch –
“But regardless,” Oswald says and Edward snatches his hand back as though burned, just as Oswald lifts his head. “I don’t need to kill you to make your life hell. Trust me. But it doesn’t have to come to that. Providing your… need for revenge is sated, there is no reason we can’t go separately and amicably about our business.”
His need for revenge. Edward can barely fathom the passion now, though he remembers well how consumed by it he’d been. All that’s left is cold logic and he is more than happy to drop everything else and focus his mind to that.
So, the facts are – He loved Isabella. Oswald killed her. He had suffered. She had died. Ergo, Oswald in turn had to suffer and die.
But is a near death good enough?
A quick calculation suggests that with the addition of extra suffering involved in a near death experience, plus the evident heartbreak Oswald had borne, Edward thinks that the equation balances out, yes.
There is, however, one problem remaining in regards to Oswald’s proposal.
“Assuming I am… sated. You’re wrong, there is a reason that going our separate ways may prove problematic,” he starts, slipping his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels, more relaxed now they have settled into proper negotiations. “My reputation, while impressive, if I do say so myself –”
“And evidently, you do,” Oswald interrupts. But he doesn’t contradict the claim. In fact he too relaxes at the turn in conversation, shoulders rolling back as he shifts his stance.
“While impressive,” Edward repeats, least his rise in criminal stature be forgotten. “My reputation is built on rocky ground. Namely that under which you are supposedly buried. Having you walking around the city free as a –” The apropos of the phrase catches him off guard and he gives a breath of laughter. “ – well, as a bird, would reflect badly on me.”
“Yes. You did rather put all your eggs in one basket there, didn’t you?” Oswald responds, but the jibe is light-hearted, no more threatening than Edward’s casual observation that Oswald is more use to him dead. Both of them, it seems, are as eager to make this work as the other. “But it’s a problem easily resolved when people see I have no interest in retaliation.”
“Because they’ll recognise we have an understanding, you mean?” Edward presses. “How will it help me to be seen making deals with the man I failed to kill? I’ll have moved from a position of strength to one of weakness. No, it’s entirely untenable.”
“You’re overlooking my reputation,” Oswald counters. “I have not been… kind… to those who’ve crossed me.” His lips quirk up, eyes glinting. Fond memories of his vicious, and thorough, dealings with Galavan perhaps. Or Fish – the first time at least. “If I leave you unharmed, the weakness won’t fall on you. On the contrary, you’ll be the man the Penguin refuses to fight. It’s me they’ll lose respect for, but your position? That will be assured.”
Even before Oswald finishes Edward is nodding. Of course it makes sense, it was foolish of him not to see it himself.
“And you would accept that? The disrespect?”
Oswald stares him in the eye.
“Anything for you,” he shrugs. “Besides, I can earn it back. I’ve done it before.”
True enough.
Still it all seems too easy.
Which brings them to one final question.
“Why should I trust you?”
The knowing smile Oswald gives tells Edward this line of reasoning was expected.
“Oh, you can’t, obviously,” Oswald grins. “Can’t trust anyone in this city. Really I should thank you for being the one to finally prove that to me. But that’s what this is for…”
He turns with a flourish to indicate the figure in the chair and Edward steps forward to examine them more closely.
“A good will gesture,” Oswald explains. “To show how sincere I am about this venture.”
The slow, steady rise and fall of the figure’s chest reveals they are alive, whoever they are, albeit unconscious, and the physique suggests a man, late fifties perhaps early sixties. Pants and shoes are as old and tattered as the shirt, as well as being liberally stained – crusted splatters of what appears to be vomit coat the toes of what might once have been a pair of heavy duty work boots. The kind that leave large, dark bruises across the back when used just right, as Edward had learned the hard way growing up. Add to that the whiff of alcohol escaping the untied edges of the sack with each breath and ‘old drunk’ would seem a suitable conclusion. Homeless? No, a small key-shaped bulge in the pants indicates the man does have some place to stay at nights at least.
It’s not very inspiring, especially considering the use of the burlap sack and the way Oswald had called the man a ‘gift’ is clearly intended to hearken back to the dear Mr Leonard Edward had gifted his friend all those lifetimes ago. But Mr Leonard had been special, carefully chosen to meet and appeal to Oswald’s needs with the understanding that his, lengthy, demise would rouse both Oswald and Edward to new heights, bolster their confidence, lift their spirits and enhance their skills. Not to mention how the joint undertaking was meant to secure Edward’s place in Oswald’s affections – a plan that had worked all too well, Edward reflects.
This ‘gift’ on the other hand is meagre in comparison.
“And what am I to do with an elderly, intoxicated man tied to a chair?” Edward asks, not bothering to hide his disdain.
“As I recall you were handy with a blade,” Oswald answers, either misinterpreting Edward’s tone or choosing to ignore it. “I thought you might like to keep him for recreation.”
“I can procure my own goons to torture,” Edward counters and adds, by way of a dismissal, an insincere – “Thank you.”
Though in truth he’s disappointed – the idea of the two of them being allies, as criminals of both equal and individual standing, had appealed, but if this is the best Oswald has to offer then it seems he is not the equal Edward hoped him to be. He can play off Oswald as an enemy just as well of course, but can’t help thinking Oswald would be a rather obvious opponent, every move made predictable by their history and intimate knowledge of one another. If he must have a long-term enemy, or nemesis say, it should be someone… unknown. Someone with whom his relationship is not clouded by personal matters, so their battle is purely one of wit. Manipulating emotion is easy, manipulating Oswald’s even more so, he’s mastered that, so if he wants to challenge himself it’s his intellect he needs to prove. Ah well, Oswald will keep him sharp enough Edward supposes, until he can find someone better.
“Oh yes, of course,” Oswald simpers, clearly still hopeful they can come to some arrangement. “You are more than capable, I wouldn’t dream of implying otherwise. It’s just…” He waves a hand across his face, as though dismissing his own words before he’s even voiced them, and Edward frowns at the gesture because he recognises it. It’s one he’s seen Oswald make often at underworld business meetings, an exaggerated kowtowing to the other party so it seems as though they have the upper hand, before a reveal of some hidden truth that puts them firmly under Oswald’s control. “It’s probably nothing, but, well. I noticed you hadn’t ‘procured’ this one.” He nods to the man in the chair. “And he wasn’t exactly hiding, in fact he was passed out on his own front porch when I found him. So I thought perhaps you needed some assistance.”
Whatever trump card Oswald thinks he has up his sleeve Edward can’t imagine, so he stays quiet.
“There would be no shame in needing help,” Oswald continues, pressing a hand to his chest, voice filling with a cloying, exaggerated sympathy. “I know better than anyone how family can blind you.”
He pauses, triumphant, but Edward is none the wiser.
“What are you –?” he starts, then remembers the boots.
Heavy duty. Dark leather. Old.
Unbidden, his eyes flick back to them, discounting the stains this time and focusing on the binding around the edges that indicates the shoes have been resoled again and again, year after year. Thirty years at least. And on the heel of one is a dark patch soaked deep into the fabric, older, much much older, than the other stains, noticed too late for it to be washed clean. Just like Edward remembers. Just like.
‘Family’ Oswald said.
Already Edward’s heart is racing with the realisation but the rest of him rejects it.
It can’t be, he tells himself, as he steps trace-like towards the man. The very notion is ludicrous, he insists, as he lifts a shaking hand to the corner of the sack.
But what if –
And to think how close he is to the man now.
A glance behind the chair reveals both hands are securely tied, wrists entwined with thick, newly bought rope that loops round and round the chair’s wooden back, holding him fast.
Good, Edward thinks. Then shakes his head when he realises he’s actually starting to believe this really is –
His fingers toy with the edge of the sack. Untied at the neck, unlike Mr Leonard – Oswald must have planned for him to do this. But Oswald’s expression when Edward glances back at him is enviously enigmatic.
Swallowing, Edward bunches the coarse fibre into his palm and yanks the burlap away.
It falls from slack fingers moments later as Edward stares, paralysed and gasping, at the familiar unshaven face. The skin has greater wear than when Edward last saw him, deeper crows feet at the corners of the eyes, and the hair, like the curling tufts of beard, has been neglected and allowed to grow beyond what memory dictates as normal. But despite the age and incapacitation, Edward’s shoulders still hunch up on instinct, mind and body tensing in preparation for the inevitable attack – verbal, physical, or more likely both – not trusting even unconsciousness to offer respite.
Harsh splutters of air drift in and out of him as he grasps for something to say.
“H – How did you –?” he manages.
“Oh it was easy,” Oswald is quick to reply. “I told you, he was passed out intoxicated on the porch, I just had Gabe scoop him up and –”
Edward shakes his head because that’s not the question.
“Know,” he snaps, then growls when he realises the verbal ambiguity of the word. “Know, how did you know?” His hands ball into fists at his sides as he looks into Oswald’s oh so calm and superior smile. “I cut all ties.”
“Well, you changed your name,” Oswald corrects. “Hardly foolproof.”
“No,” Edward insists. “I – I did more than that, I erased all evidence, there’s no way you could have –”
“You forget, Ed,” Oswald interrupts, voice clipped, hard as ice. “I’ve been doing this much longer than you. And if I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s that any secret can be uncovered, if you want it badly enough.”
And just like that all of Edward’s hard won reputation, all the power he thought he’d amassed comes crashing down around him, leaving him shaking and red-faced amidst the wreck. Like a child caught cheating, exposed and humiliated.
Far from being too beneath him to be an equal, it seems Oswald has regained a greater mastery over him than ever.
“But don’t worry,” Oswald carries on. “I tied up the loose ends for you. It would take a… a really great detective to discover your parentage now.”
A kindness? Or a dept to be repaid? Either way, Edward is not inclined to appreciate the effort. And there’s still too much he doesn’t know.
“Why would –?” he starts and again Oswald interrupts, making Edward grit his teeth at the blatancy of the power play.
“Consider it part of the gift,” he shrugs. “A package deal.”
“Why would you think I’d want… him… as a gift at all?” Edward clarifies.
“Oh, I couldn’t be sure, of course,” Oswald answers, maddeningly confident despite the claim. “But, well –” He shifts his hold on the cane to one hand, freeing the other to dip into the inside of his jacket and pull out a crumpled brown file. Despite the strain it must put on his bad leg he lifts the cane off he ground so he can use both hands to open the folder. “– after reading these Child Protection reports I assumed…” He tuts as he looks at the pages, folding them over into white curls as he flicks through, eyes darting left to right and left to right, as sharp as a blade peeling back skin. “Six investigations in three years, all ruled as inconclusive. Seems you were a really clumsy kid.” He glances up, mouth twisting in a cruel curve, before looking down again to quote. “Fell down the stairs. Fell off your bike. Walked into a door.” This last dissolves into mocking laughter. “Really,” Oswald chuckles, flipping the pages back into place and closing the file up. “It’s all a bit… cliché, don’t you think?”
He waggles the file in the air for emphasis, still humming with amusement, and fury explodes inside Edward at the casual mocking of those dark and painful days, at Oswald’s eager uncovering of everything Edward has spent his life trying to forget.
“How dare you!” he yells, striding forward. “Those are confidential, you had no right -!” He snatches at the file, but Oswald simply whips it away before he can grab it.
“Oh, I think you lost the right to privacy when you shot me and left me for dead!” Oswald yells back, nose wrinkling, tone dark with anger and bitterness of his own.
The blunt laying out of Edward’s crime stops him in the act of reaching again for the pages, forcing him to confront yet another memory he’s been trying to bury and finally see what happened at the docks for what it really is. And the bare truth of it, like the shock of seeing his father again, tears down everything Edward had put in place to try and cover it up. The fancy suit, the hat, the graffiti, the catchphrase, even the name – all of it nothing but window dressing, an attempt to turn what happened into something fun, something to be proud of, anything to hide the stomach churning reality that he had wilfully murdered his best and only friend.
Bile rises in the back of his throat, just like it had that first night, with its inescapable visions of Oswald sinking into a growing red cloud, blooming even across the backs of his eyelids. Back when he first understood that Oswald was truly lost to him, forever. Lost because of him. One in a long line of vile and despicable acts.
He drops his head and draws a shaky breath as it dawns on him, not for the first time, that this is not a game, none of it.
“Fair enough,” he chokes, mimicking Oswald’s earlier admission of guilt.
Silence for a moment. Then –
“For what it’s worth, though,” Oswald says, softer now. Almost, Edward dares to think, apologetic? “It was smart, changing your name. Nashton doesn’t suit you. But then –” The sound of shifting fabric – a shrug. “– you’ve always been an Enigma to me.”
It’s been over ten years since Edward officially changed his given name, ten years since the gleeful first writing out of Nygma after his initial, the shadow of his past made bearable as he realised he could make a game out of his escape. Yet in all those years no one, not once, had bothered to point out the word Edward had so carefully woven into his identity. Not even Isabella. And while he’s never admitted to it, Edward sees now this has been a greater disappointment to him than he realised, because the name is more than wordplay. It’s a starting point. A test. To see how much someone truly cared to know about him.
To hear Oswald, of all people, speak it aloud, especially now after everything he’s done to reveal the mundane truth behind Edward’s artifice is –
Overwhelming.
Because this is more than an olive branch – which is itself astonishing and something Edward is quite sure no one else in Oswald’s position would offer – it’s acceptance of whoever Edward chooses to be, it’s Oswald telling him that he sees the game and he wants to play.
The smile Edward offers as he lifts his head is pure gratitude. The one Oswald gives back, along with a sigh and shake of his head, is something more.
The moment breaks when Oswald raps the back of the file with his knuckles.
“When I read this I thought you’d want retribution,” he says. “But if you prefer forgiveness, that’s your prerogative.” He sucks on his lower lip, assessing. “They do say it’s good for the soul.”
“Yes,” Edward nods, eager, then chastises himself for what must sound like a naked plea for his own absolution. “I mean,” he adds quickly, touching the side of his glasses in an attempt at nonchalance. “I’ve also heard, that they say that.”
Oswald taps the file to his lips, growing thoughtful.
“I’ve always considered it a weak philosophy myself,” he notes. “There are some things that don’t deserve to be forgiven.”
His gaze is inscrutable and Edward fidgets beneath it.
“How do you know?” he asks, suddenly breathless. “If something is… unforgivable?”
Oswald’s expression doesn’t change.
“You don’t,” he answers. “You just have to...” He holds out the file for Edward to take. “Wait and see.”
Very slowly, half fearing Oswald may change his mind and take back the file, and everything its exchange represents, Edward puts his hand to the edge of the paper.
“I didn’t make any copies,” Oswald tells him as their eyes meet across the folder and Edward nods, confident this is the truth. This is a private matter, if Oswald had any intention of airing Edward’s secrets to the public he would have done so already.
They both drop their gaze as Oswald lets go and Edward busies himself with tucking the pages into the lining of his own jacket. Something small shifts and shakes to make way for the folder and it takes a moment for Edward to remember the bag of diamonds from his evening heist – it’s hard to imagine this is still the same day.
A sense of finality fills the air. Oswald’s case is made, his gift received – it’s time for their ‘negotiations’ to draw to a close.
Except Edward doesn’t want that. Things still feel… unfinished.
“Oswald… I…”
I’m glad you’re alive. I’m sorry I tried to kill you.
The moment stretches and Edward is just starting to wonder if he should leave off apologising for now and send a note later – though he suspects Hallmark may lack his particular needs in this instance – when a grunt and anguished groan puts an end to his dilemma.
“Wha -? Where?” A screech as wooden chair legs scratch across the floor. “What is this? Why am I tied up?”
The voice is the same deep gravel it’s always been and Edward’s breath catches in his throat as he turns and meets his father’s eye. Even a decade and not insubstantial criminal record later he still feels small and pathetic beneath the glare.
“It’s you is it?” his father snarls. “Should have known. I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, but you better get me out of this right now or I swear –!”
He struggles against the rope but Oswald’s binding holds and the chair merely rocks from side to side.
“Did you hear me boy?!”
It’s ludicrous, but Edward actually jumps at the command, already two steps toward obeying before he registers what he’s doing.
“You’re really in no position to bargain, Mr Nashton.”
Oswald’s cool voice seems to float down from somewhere on high, drawing Edward back to the present. His father’s eyes – both bloodshot, Edward notes distantly – swivel to Edward’s side as Oswald steps next to him.
“Who the fuck are you?” he says and fresh shame stains Edward’s cheeks.
“I’m sorry?”
“I said, who the –”
“No, no, I heard you,” Oswald interrupts. “I just didn’t think you were being serious. You have been living in Gotham these last few years?”
It’s impossible to say how many times Edward has cowered under the sneer his father gives to this, and if it weren’t for Oswald holding steadfast at his side he suspects there would be at least one time more.
“What of it?”
“Well, not to blow my own horn,” Oswald says with not a shred of modesty whatsoever. “But I’m quite a well-known figure in the city these days. I mean, I was the Mayor.”
A snort.
“I don’t give a damn about politicians. Criminals the lot of ‘em.”
Edward’s cheeks burn hotter, but it’s a strangely welcome heat this time. Not the simple shame and fear his father typically invokes but a new angry kind of embarrassment at his ignorance and disrespect in front of a friend. It frees Edward’s mind from thoughts of how worthless and stupid he is in his father’s eyes to thoughts of how critical Oswald must be of his father’s words and behaviour. Having never had a friend growing up Edward realises he’s never had occasion to experience this until now – this feeling not of shaming his father, but of his father shaming him. It’s unpleasant, but oddly empowering.
Meanwhile beside him Oswald chuckles.
“You’re not wrong there,” he concurs. “But you’re wrong about Ed, he didn’t do this to you. I did.”
“Put you up to it did he?”
“On the contrary. Your abduction was entirely my idea. A surprise, for a dear friend.”
Claims of friendship drop easily from Oswald’s lips, Edward has learned, and not always with sincerity, so he doesn’t attach much significance to this one. But nevertheless it is a bold statement and Edward watches, fascinated, for his father’s reaction. He can practically see the cogs turning in the man’s dull little brain as his watery, reddened eyes switch from Oswald to Edward and back again, disbelief warring with factual evidence.
Then his gaze moves inch by inch to Oswald’s cravat, down the rest of his suit to his gloves and his cane, before glancing back over Edward’s similarly pristine and polished attire. A glow of scornful epiphany crosses his face and Edward’s stomach drops at the thought of whatever ignominious conclusion his father has jumped to.
“Oh I see, I see how it is, I see what’s going on here.” His father turns his attention back to Oswald. “You got a thing for him, huh? Some kind of fetish for freaks?”
“Don’t –” Edward mutters, but as always his father talks over him.
“And I bet he’s told you a bunch of dirty lies about me, so you thought you’d rough me up a little to get on his good side. Well you’re outta luck there, cos he ain’t got one.”
“Stop it,” Edward tries again, only his voice fails to rise above a whisper, unable to fight the long ingrained instinct to stay as quiet as possible in his father’s presence.
“Seriously,” his father continues while Oswald listens, head tilting to one side. “He’s so many kinds of fucked up he ain’t man enough to satisfy a woman –”
“I’m not –” Edward hisses, stronger this time because he has memories of Kristen and Isabella’s blissful face – faces – to prove his father wrong.
“– so I doubt he’s capable of satisfying a man neither,” his father continues without pause. “If I were you I’d take your sick, perverted desires somewhere el–”
“That’s enough!” Edward yells.
Criticism of himself he’s used to, knowing deep down that it’s more than likely the truth, but to hear Oswald condemned – and, out of all the Penguin’s legitimate sins, for something as morally blameless as sexual preference – snaps something inside Edward.
His reaction is such a wild, thoughtless, animal thing, he doesn’t even realise what he’s doing until his knife is already buried to the hilt in his father’s thigh, the man himself howling above him.
There’s a second of horror, all of him frozen at the thought of what his father will do to him for daring to commit such a heinous act.
Only all his father does, all he can do, is continue to scream and spit out impotent curses because, Edward understands in a dizzy rush, he has no power here.
“Oh, don’t worry, father,” he says, leaning close to his father’s snarling face. “Below the neck, above the knee. No one will see the scar.” He twists the blade in a slow circle, watching with glee as the defiance his father had been building shatters, gritted teeth parting in a new scream. “Don’t say you never taught me anything.”
“You…” his father gasps as Edward steps back, releasing his hold on the blade and leaving it to jut out of the now shaking leg, keeping the wound nicely plugged, for now. Since his strike wasn’t precise he can’t be sure he didn’t hit an artery, and it wouldn’t do to let his father bleed out quick and easy just when this is starting to be fun. “You fucking psycho!”
Now, now, that won’t do at all.
Edward dashes forward again to slap a hand over his father’s mouth.
“I think we’ve heard quite enough out of you,” he says, grapping the pocket square from his jacket with his free hand and lifting his other just enough to stuff the fabric down his father’s throat.
That done, Edward clamps his hand back over his father’s face to prevent him spitting the handkerchief out and scans the room for a means to secure the gag. He should have some duct tape somewhere…
The crisp sound of tape being pulled from its roll cuts through the air and he turns to see Oswald ripping off a conveniently sized piece from some he must have located while Edward was busy. He passes the tape over without comment and Edward smoothes it over his father’s lips with a short ‘ha!’ of triumph.
Too thrilled to speak Edward clasps his hands together and presses both thumbs to his lips, literally biting back his excitement as he surveys his and Oswald’s handiwork. His father’s eyes bulge as his screams are reduced to muffled, high pitched humming, as pathetic in his pain and neatly contained fury as any other man.
Edward waits until his excitement has reached its peak, knowing it’s pointless to try speaking before, he’ll be incomprehensible. Finally, with a burst of laughter, he lowers his clasped hands below his chin.
“Thank you,” he breathes, too transfixed to look at Oswald while he says it, but he knows his friend will understand. “I’ll need some time,” he adds. “To consider your offer.”
“Of course.” The words are soft, but loud. Oswald is closer than Edward realised. “Whatever you need. But, Ed –”
The address makes Edward turn, dragging his eyes away to find Oswald at his shoulder.
“Don’t take too long.” Oswald’s lips close to a stern line, but his eyes betray him, bright and warm and aching. He must realise it because he blinks and drops his head, tapping his cane lightly to the floor a couple of times as a distraction that doubles as dismissal.
With a final nod he turns to go but Edward’s heartbeat quickens at the thought of having Oswald no longer in sight, at being left with just the cold, dark absence of him. Again. It’s wildly illogical, this is not death just a temporary departure, but regardless he has another urge to reach out, to hold the proof of Oswald’s life in his hands. To gather him in his arms. To bury his face in the crook of Oswald’s shoulder and breathe him in, press his lips to the pulse of his neck and taste the salt of his skin.
No – what?
That isn’t – he doesn’t –
There’s no time to make sense of the sudden longing because Oswald is fully turned around now and about to take his first step away and panic is rising in Edward, unbearable, bursting out of him in a desperate –
“Wait!”
Only there’s no relief when Oswald does, turning back to him with a small frown, eyes questioning, because Edward has nothing to say, no reason to keep his friend here.
He glances back to his father for inspiration, finding him with eyes closed now, sweating as he tries to endure the pain – a wonderful gift indeed. And that’s it, of course. Of course. Oswald’s gift had proven such a treasure it had dazzled him, that’s all. The flutter of his heart, the way his fingers still itch to touch and embrace, it’s just affection born of gratitude. Obviously it is. What else – what else could it be?
And it’s important that Oswald understand that. That Edward’s excitement about his gift doesn’t give Oswald the wrong idea.
“I can’t be bought,” Edward says. Firm. Clear. “But I can be stolen with a glance. Use–”
“Useless. Priceless. Etcetera etcetera,” Oswald finishes. “You need new material, Eddie. I know this one.”
Eddie? That’s new. Not bad, just – different.
In fact it’s rather nice. Edward’s never had a nickname that wasn’t derogatory.
But that’s beside the point.
“Then you know that whatever happens between us, there are some things this can’t change,” he says, adding a follow up to ensure there is no doubt as to his meaning – “I don’t love you, Oswald.”
He waits for the disappointment to hit, for Oswald’s eyes to flood with pain like when he’d said this before. Back then Oswald had reached out to him, desperate in his disbelief, and even slapping the man’s tied hands away hadn’t been enough to shake his faith. But this fresh announcement, and the bullet he’d fired, must make his position clear, surely? Even if it can’t destroy Oswald’s own love, as it seems nothing can, it should dispel any and all illusions of reciprocation. Shouldn’t it?
Only Oswald doesn’t crumble with sorrow and his eyes don’t water with tears, instead they narrow, penetrating into Edward’s own.
If anything he seems curious as he begins to limp closer. Each new tap and drag echoes about the room, quiet again now that the screams and whimpers of Edward’s father have dulled to a series of laboured breaths.
“No need to remind me, I heard you the first time,” Oswald tells him once he’s stopped, a hair’s breadth from where Edward is standing. “But –” He reaches out a hand and this time, too distracted, Edward doesn’t stop him. Instead he shivers as Oswald’s fingers curl about his arm, just below the elbow. “– if it helps to keep telling yourself, don’t let me stop you.”
There’s a strange confidence behind the words that has Edward second guessing himself. No, he – it was Oswald he was telling, because it’s Oswald who needs convincing. Isn’t it? Except then Oswald is stroking his thumb across the soft inside of his elbow, layers of leather and cotton an ineffective barrier to the pressure that leaves Edward’s skin tingling, not just there but all over, the warmth and the thrill of it all he can focus on.
Oh my. Was this the real reason he’d batted Oswald’s reaching hands away before? Did some hidden, primal part of him know this was how it would feel? That knowing the touch was loving would make it keener?
But then, it’s only natural, given how few kind touches he’s known in life. Yes, it makes sense he would find this one affecting, particularly coming so soon after circumstance that would more than justify physical harm instead. It doesn’t mean he – it doesn’t –
Then why is he reaching back? Gloved fingers slowly crossing his body to tremble over Oswald’s own, aching to rest there, or more – to draw Oswald’s hand away and entwine it with his.
A sharp intake of breath pulls him back to his senses and he jerks his hand away, fisting it against his chest. Because this isn’t – He’s not –
The cattish satisfaction in Oswald’s smile scares Edward more than he thinks any act of violence could.
“I’ll see you around,” Oswald says, giving Edward’s arm a quick, proprietary squeeze before moving away, eyes flicking down Edward’s clothes in a last once over. He nods and Edward assumes another tried and tested ‘old friend’ will be his final address, but Oswald leaves him as he found him, namely reeling, by leaning forward and announcing, with apparent relish – “Riddler.”
Not many people use the name. He’s ‘Nygma’ or ‘Edward’ more often than not and that had been disappointing at the start, after the papers first christened him. He’d been eager to take on the new mantle – new name, new life, new him. It promised to complete the process he’d started when he dropped ‘Nashton’ from his identity. Only the people who did use his title had done so with scorn, and it was like his father’s taunts all over again, or Bullock’s or Dougherty’s or even Kristen’s. No change at all, just the same sad little story, rebranded.
But the way Oswald shapes the name, extending the first ‘r’ like a drum roll, gives it promise again, makes it sound like a prize, and watching Oswald walk away no longer sends Edward into a panic.
On the contrary, he feels refreshed. Rejuvenated. Revitalised. Resurrected. As though it were him who fell beneath the waves all those months ago and is only now emerging, breaking the surface to breathe anew.
And though Oswald may be gone for now, his influence lingers, like a warm embrace, a reassuring hand on his shoulder. For while tonight could easily have been an execution, his name dead and gone before he’d even had the chance to build it, here he stands baptised instead.
Or not quite. Oswald had not completed the ritual, merely given Eddie the tools to do so himself.
With that in mind a new frenzy takes hold of him and he starts to pace the edges of the room, looking for matches. He has several stashed away with his other toys and once he has a box in hand he drags an old metal bucket, still crusted with blood around the edges from one of his previous games, into the centre of the room and pulls the folder from his jacket.
He’s aware his father is watching him now, bleary eyes following his every move, but Edward just sets his shoulders and lifts his chin. Let the bastard watch, the days of hiding from him are over.
For a moment he just stares at the brown paper, debating if he should open it. But he already knows what’s inside – old photos of his childhood self staring sullenly at the camera while it immortalises black eyes and broken arms, early crimes before his father learned to hide his sins, then beneath the pictures bored paragraphs from doctors and police, insisting his wounds are accidental and attesting to what an upstanding member of the community Mr Nashton has always been. A testament to his weakness and the failings of the legal system. How naïve he’d been when he signed up to the GCPD to think he could actually make a difference, to think law and order was a doctrine worth pledging his allegiance to.
He fumbles a moment with the box, but soon enough is striking a match along the side and watching as it flares into life. A few strategic applications of the flame sees the pages catch – all of them are old and dry and soon consumed and Edward lets them fall from his fingers into the bucket below, throwing the spent match and the rest of the box in after them for good measure. There’s a brief, golden glow, then the fire burns itself out, leaving nothing but a mess of smoke and ashes.
Purification by fire. Perfect.
Goodbye weak, cowering, pathetic Edward Naston.
Hello, Riddler.
“Riddle me this,” he says. “I’ll never catch you, though you’ll always outrun me, wherever you turn, I’m always behind you. What am I?”
Predictable silence from the last remaining member of his audience, but the blank look in his father’s eyes as Edward turns tells him ignorance would have held the man’s tongue as sure as the gag.
“Don’t know?” he mocks. “Of course you don’t. You were always better at using your fists than your brain.” He taps a finger to the side of his head, beneath the rim of his hat. “It’s ‘the past,’ obviously.” Dropping his hand he stalks forward, stopping a few feet away from the chair to bend over, hands on his knees, so his face is level with his father’s. “Of which you are part.” He licks his lips. “The final part. All I need to do is take this knife –” His eyes drop to the blade still lodged in his father’s thigh and he taps it once, firmly, revelling in the moan of pain this elicits. “– and run it across your carotid artery, here and here –” The world around him grows dim as he traces a finger across his father’s neck, right to left, other sounds muffled by the rush of blood in his ears as he imagines his father’s draining away in thick, hot bursts. There’s a glimmer of fear in his father’s eyes now, a final, shocked understanding that his chances of leaving this room alive are very low indeed, and it pumps adrenaline through Edward in waves. “– and I’ll be free. Free to be who I was destined to be. Who you were always trying to stamp and beat out of me! Free to do what I want. To say what I want, and like what I want, and love…” He straightens up, shoulders heaving as he draws in breath after breath. “And love…”
Stupid, pathetic, virginal Edward Nashton – he’d always been a poor excuse for a man. Needed to grow a pair. Needed to get laid. And even Ed Nygma needed the love of a good woman to keep him sane.
But not The Riddler. He doesn’t need any of that.
“And love who I love, how I love,” he gasps, shoulders dropping, head dipping back, like he’s just thrown off a lifelong yoke.
Until new uncertainty sets in.
“If he’ll still have me…”
This sees him press his eyes tight shut and shake his head, so hard he has to put a hand to his hat to stop it toppling.
“What am I saying?” he snaps, closed eyelids tensing as he conducts internal recriminations.
Then, as he opens his eyes again, his lips snake slowly upward.
“Of course he’ll still have me!”
Hadn't Oswald told him as much?
‘Always’ he'd said.
He’s out there right now just waiting to be won over. All Edward needs to do is find a way to explain. Explain that it wasn’t that he didn’t love Oswald before. He simply couldn’t. But The Riddler – he can. He can do whatever he wants.
It won’t be easy. But luckily for both of them, Edward Nygma is always up for a challenge.
“I just need to send him a message,” he nods. “Let him know how I really feel.” He bites his lip as he thinks. “Perhaps…” The corner of his mouth twitches as his gaze falls once more to his father and he leans down to circle a finger over the left side of the man’s chest. “A heart? Still fresh?” His father’s eyes widen – terrified, then pleading. Which pleases Edward. “Gifted body parts are traditionally a show of aggression between mobsters,” he says, gleefully ignoring the plea. “But Ozzie will understand. Because we’re different, you see, to the rest of the rabble. We’re something new. Something better. Don’t you think?”
This time he offers the chance for an actual reply by ripping the duct tape and now sodden handkerchief away.
“I – I think you’re insane!” his father gasps, and it’s always been this slur hasn’t it? Over and over ever since he was a child. Even an official certificate hadn’t stopped it. But for once the fury at the slight doesn’t come. Instead Edward finds himself full to the brim with a cool, calm certainty that soon enough he will have put paid to this misconception for good.
“There is no great genius without some touch of madness,” he quotes. “And this city will know my genius, you can be sure of that. And Oswald’s power. Between the two of us, we’re going to own this town.”
His father trembles, actually trembles. Even in his wildest dreams Edward couldn’t have imagined him brought so low.
“Then god save us,” he mutters and Edward has to laugh. Because his father means it – growing up it had been church every Sunday, grace before meals and prayers before bed, and heaven help Edward if he ever missed just one, no matter the reason. Oh yes, what a decent, god-fearing man his father was.
“Oh dear, no, I’m afraid ‘god’ can’t save this city.” He leans in, bracing one hand on the back of the chair over his father’s shoulder so he can better hiss in his ear. “No one can.” He presses a finger to the bridge of his glasses to fix them tighter on his face, not wanting to miss one second of what comes next. “Just like there’s no one who can save you.”
There’s no gush of blood as he removes the knife – it seems he didn’t sever an artery then. Excellent.
He can take his time.