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In the quiet of the night - when every tick of the grandfather clock in the foyer echos throughout the lonely mansion, when all he needs is a cool glass of wine in his hand, when a leather chair is a suitable throne to sit upon - Oswald studies his frozen trophy like it’s the most important test of his life. And in a way, he knows it was.
“Hello, old friend,” he whispers, as though the man in the ice could somehow be woken from his voice like a princess from some ridiculous fairy tale. “I trust you’ve been well? You’ve become quite a popular conversation topic amongst my friends. They wonder how well you’ll do at the Iceberg Lounge.”
Oswald smiles to himself, the feeling of victory not yet faded. He’s successfully outsmarted one of the cleverest men he knows, and it honestly feels invigorating. The future looks bright, a path paved by blood and sacrifice leading the way. Fish’s last words still ring in his ear, telling him to rule Gotham or burn it to the ground; she’s still looking out for him, even now.
“I know you don’t have much of a choice, but I think it’ll be nice to see. Guests at the most esteemed club in Gotham greeted by a wall of ice encasing The Riddler.” He scoffs at the moniker, because it’s still so stupid and unoriginal for someone who marketed himself as brilliant.
With another sip of wine, Oswald traces his tired gaze over his prize, trying to memorize every last inch of the sight. It’s poetic, it’s beautiful, and he attempts to delude himself into thinking this is the best thing he’s ever done.
Edward Nygma’s expression is one that continues to entrance him. The man’s eyes portray more than just fear or anger or sadness - it’s a bittersweet yet satisfying mixture of all three. His gloved hands are still outstretched, lips curled in a half-snarl, clothes wrinkled and still disheveled from their previous scuffle. It’s a moment literally frozen in time - a version of Ed that is now Oswald’s alone to have, to look at, to remember.
He’ll never forget, and having his old friend this close only makes him feel the distance. It aches, a deep pang in his heart he once described to Ed when he lost his mother; he knows he’s finally gotten back on his feet since Jim shot Galavan (and all that happened as a result), but he can’t help but feel lonesome all the same. Ivy, Freeze, and Bridget are suitable friends, but they aren’t best friend material - they can’t ever understand Oswald as a person, merely as a fellow freak.
The pure connection he had with Ed was something special, something that can’t be replicated. It went beyond their mutual interest in murder and revenge and power - it was a close bond that Oswald can’t ever afford to seek again. For more reasons than one, Ed can’t be replaced, and that frustrates him.
“I hope Isabelle was worth it,” Oswald snorts, almost hearing Ed correct, ‘IsabellA!’ in his mind. Truthfully, though, he knows the girl played an innocent part in their fallout, merely being the catalyst that severed Ed’s trust in who he called his best friend.
Oswald’s emotions continue to get the best of him, even now. Even as he stares at the motionless man behind the walls of ice, he can feel his eyes sting. The sight is still overwhelming and his stomach unsettles itself, making him put down the wine chalice in disgust for now.
Sitting here mere days after their final confrontation, Oswald can’t quite recall what made this man so attractive to him. He tells himself that it was merely that Ed was saying all the right things at the most opportune times, but there are quiet moments - moments he truly knows himself - where he realizes that’s not true. There has to have been more than simple infatuation with Edward Nygma, as Oswald had once been willing to die for this man.
Ed’s brilliant , and clever, and handsome with a charming smile. He’s a wordsmith when he needs to comfort someone close to him, and yet still shows a blunt lack of social awareness when talking to complete strangers. His devotion to complex crimes is admirable, as Oswald has never cared much for puzzles. He desperately wants validation, and has a pattern of compulsions and rituals to carry them out. Ed Nygma is a riddle himself, sillily sewn together with fancy linguistics and enough distracting contradictions to make one really think while trying to solve him.
But if you solve enough riddles, there begins to be a pattern. Words have double meanings, there’s a set route of thinking to follow, and the answers become easier to find. After Oswald truly figured him out, he could predict Ed’s next move once they became enemies - and that became The Riddler’s downfall in the end.
Like Icarus, Ed’s desires to get closer to the sun ended up with his wax wings melting, and Oswald made sure he drowned in the sea. No matter what happens in the future, the failure remains the same; if Ed is ever conscious again, he will not forget that he was outsmarted. Oswald knows his obsessions, knows he can’t get certain intrusive thoughts out of his head, and a dark part of his heart hopes Ed is never free of the memory.
“A part of me does miss you,” Oswald hesitantly admits. “The real you, not whoever you were pretending to be.” But he knows it’s pointless to yearn for the old days, for their friendship has been lost in a blaze of betrayals and bullets. Sometimes, even though he knows it’s all in his mind, he can feel the scar on his abdomen throb, pulsing along in rhythm with the grandfather clock and what he imagines to be Edward’s continuous heartbeat behind the ice.
He stands up abruptly, limping over to the ice block. Being this close to Ed again awakens the instinctive urge to hold him close; there’s still a tiny, insignificant part of his heart that still burns for this man, but he must freeze it like his new centerpiece.
In a way, their paths continue to intertwine. Oswald’s world is now encased in ice, just like Edward’s.
There’s nothing but a numb sensation as he touches the surface, skin growing red from the cold. His hand is close to Ed’s outstretched one, close enough to imagine their fingers intertwining to give each other warmth. He allows himself one last fantasy, closing his eyes and imagining the two standing proudly as kings of Gotham. The gangs and crime lords are at their command, and they are invincible. They are happy.
He imagines Ed smiling towards him like he once did. It’s been ages since he’s actually made that genuine smile, but Oswald remembers it perfectly.
Oswald returns the expression, and feels the smile settle onto his lips back in reality. When he opens his eyes again, nothing has changed. Ed is still in the ice, he’s still in the process of making his new club, and the grandfather clock ticks on and on in the dead of night.
His world settles, feelings reset, and Oswald takes a deep breath to steady himself. He turns to click off the light, not glancing back once when he retires for the night. Ed will still be there in the morning.