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With a gentle moan, Oswald slumped into the soft couch, arm over his face. He was so frustrated that it was actually overwhelming; he couldn’t figure out of he wanted to cry or scream. That entire week had been one thing after another piling on his already burdened shoulders. Edward escaping his icy prison. Ivy disappearing without a word. Sofia Falcone suddenly appearing and taking some strange interest in him. The spiral of depression and self-loathing had not been set off by any of that, though. Perhaps it was a combination that lent to his swirling emotions, but the catalyst for his sorrow had been something which he couldn’t fix, couldn’t control, couldn’t scheme his way out of.
His leg.
The pain had been intense and distracting that entire day, but the final straw had happened when his ankle had given out on him after his closing words on stage that night. He had stumbled, making him look drunk and weak. It was beyond humiliating, and once the patrons had been dismissed for the night, Oswald had retreated to the apartment above his club to let out his frustrations on the expensive décor of the dining room. Anything not bolted down or exceptionally heavy was torn from its spot and dashed to the ground. His fury had given way to an overbearing numbness, an internal resignation that he could never be fixed in more ways than one.
It was difficult to feel like a king when one’s own body was in constant rebellion.
Dual tears slipped from the corner of his eyes only to soak into the sleeve of his jacket. A soft sob broke free from his throat. His own emotions frustrated him further; why was he allowing himself to get so worked up? He had gone through worse trials than this, and the pain in his leg had been there since he first got the injury years ago. It was a biting reminder of Fish Mooney, the mother figure whom he had rekindled a friendship with and who was subsequently killed shortly after. It was his curse.
“Penny for your thoughts, boss?” A soft voice, one that always seemed to hold a hint of amusement regardless of the setting.
“Leave me alone.” Oswald spat, arm still draped over his eyes.
“Okay.” Victor Zsasz said, but Oswald heard no steps leading away. Instead, the click of his heeled dress shoes moved closer, stopping next to the couch.
“I said leave me alone, Victor.” Oswald pulled his arm away, looking up at the bald man who towered over him, looking down without the slightest hint of judgment in his eyes.
“Leave you alone as in go away, or leave you alone as in you’re too busy moping to talk?” Victor asked.
“Leave me alone as in leave me ALONE.” Oswald spat bitterly, arm moving from his face to flick a throw pillow at the man standing over him. The pillow smacked him in the chest and fell harmlessly to the floor.
“Need a hug?” Victor offered, shifting to sit down on the coffee table in front of Oswald, who balked at the question.
“A hug? Of course I don’t need a hug.” Oswald was always thrown off by Victor’s mannerisms. The man was bizarre, and it was strangely endearing.
“I think you do. I’m gonna hug ya, alright? C'mere.” Victor said softly.
With strong, capable hands, Victor gathered the smaller man into his arms. Before Oswald could so much as blink he had switched their positions, shifting to sit himself on the couch. Oswald ended up practically in his lap with one of Victor’s arms around the middle of his back and the other holding his thighs. After a split second, he was in Victor’s lap, head held to the taller man’s chest. Oswald’s protests seized in his throat at Victor’s touch. He had removed his gloves at some point, too quick for him to have even registered the motion.
“See? Not so bad, right boss?” Victor said, voice taking on a gentle tone. One hand stroked his back in slow, tender circles as he spoke. Oswald’s eyes slid shut, as soothed by the hand on his back as he was by the one that cupped his cheek in hand.
“You don’t have to call be boss. Please call me Oswald. Why… why are you?” Oswald looked up, trying not to fixate on how unbelievably soft Victor’s skin was.
“I’ll call you Oswald when we’re alone, if you want. Why am I what? Holding you?” Victor glanced down, a little smile quirking the corner of his lips.
“Yes, please. And yes to the latter as well. This is… confusing. Maybe a little embarrassing.” Oswald mumbled, though he had no intention of removing himself from the safe comfort of Victor’s embrace.
“I’m holding you ‘cause you seemed like you needed to be held. Everyone needs to be held sometimes. Even the King of Gotham.” Victor remarked.
“I’m not a child!” Oswald snapped, pulling away and sitting up on his lap. His natural instinct to assume an insult was meant, and anger flared up in him instantly.
“I know you aren’t. But you’re super stressed out, and I know you’re in pain, so I thought maybe a bit of human contact might help…” Victor was almost pouting at Oswald’s shift in mood, head tilted to the side. He looked a bit like a puppy, and Oswald could feel his resolve crumbling.
“What does it matter if I’m stressed out? I’m always stressed out. The pain is… negligible.” He lied; even in a private setting, in the arms of someone he had known for years, Oswald had a hard time admitting anything he saw as a weakness. Victor watched his face, hand moving towards his the focal point of his pain. Oswald recoiled from the touch, shifting uncomfortably to avoid it.
“Oswald, stop. Shh – it’s okay. I’m not gonna pinch you or anything. Can I see?” Victor asked. Oswald’s brain buzzed with confusion and paranoia. Why would he want to see his leg? Everyone knew it was ruined. The entire world had given him a moniker because of his walk, everyone knew he was crippled! Why would Victor need to see? Was he trying to humiliate him further?
“No!” Oswald snapped, making a move to get off his lap.
“Okay, okay. Relax, okay? I’m not gonna hurt you. I don’t have any honor to swear on so I’ll swear on my guns. It’s just you and me, okay? If I hurt you by mistake you can punch me in the face. And that means a lot coming from me. I’m too pretty for black eyes.” Victor told him with a teasing smile.
One of his arms slid back around Oswald’s lower back, resting lightly on his hip as the other hand moved carefully. Victor’s gaze, usually intense, had softened as he broke eye contact and looked to his leg. Oswald wondered if he had fallen into some strange fever dream world where Victor had suddenly become something more than the unflappable assassin that Oswald could call on at a moment’s notice. Maybe he was dreaming up some alternate reality where Victor was suddenly made up of some odd amalgamation of things that Oswald was attracted to. The efficiency and conviction of James Gordon, the eager nature and surprising tenderness of Edward Nygma, and the strength and simplicity of Victor Fries.
Oswald’s breath caught in his throat as it occurred to him that this was no strange dream.
That was exactly what Zsasz was.
He was everything that Oswald had ever sought out in a man.
Closing his eyes, he laid his head against Victor’s chest as his hand slid up the cuffs of his pant leg. Carefully he rolled down Oswald’s sock, wrapping his fingers around the bared flesh of his ankle. Oswald winced instinctively, reflexively expecting him to squeeze. The tightness never came; Victor’s touch was as gentle as could be, massaging his skin carefully. There was pain, but that came with the territory; the heat of his touch was actually soothing.
“Why are you doing this?” Oswald asked. He felt Victor’s shoulder shrug.
“I don’t like seeing you all stressed and upset.” Victor replied.
“I’m always stressed and upset.” Oswald remarked bitterly.
“No you aren’t. Maybe you’re always a bit stressed, but you usually handle it really well. I really like it when you’re happy, running things the way you want.” Victor told him. As he spoke, he laid his cheek against Oswald’s head.
“You do?” Oswald stammered, the intimacy of Victor’s touch becoming all the more apparent at his words.
“Yeah. I always admired you, once you came up in the world. Hell, even after you got knocked down a bunch of times. You always bounce back, I respect the hell out of that. You’re great at what you do, and…” Victor trailed off a little in a way that was wholly uncharacteristic of the usually forthright man.
“And…” Oswald urged, simultaneously hungry for praise and curious for the next thought.
“You have a really pretty smile.” Victor said.
Oswald felt as if his heart was ready to collapse under the weight of such a simple, sweet admission. He opened his mouth but found himself unable to speak.
“… Is it weird to call a guy’s smile pretty? Saying you have a handsome smile doesn’t sound right. I’m not great with words.” Victor muttered. Oswald could almost feel his brows furrow.
“No, it isn’t weird. I- it’s… incredibly flattering, actually. I don’t think anyone’s ever said that to me. You’re doing just fine with your words.” Oswald stammered, daring to slide a hand up to rest on Victor’s shoulder. He meant it; with Victor, there was no double meaning, no second guessing.
“Oh, good. Then it wouldn’t be weird if I said you had beautiful eyes, right?” Victor said, chuckling softly.
“Oh, no, not at all. T-that’s… that’s very kind of you.” Oswald said, trying to keep his voice even as the blush rose to his cheeks.
“How ya feeling now? Any better?” Victor asked as he continued to massage Oswald’s leg.
“Much… Thank you, Victor. I never knew you were such a charmer.” Oswald gave a soft sigh, hand sliding from his shoulder to rest against his chest.
“I’m not charming. I’m just honest with people I like. Sometimes it just takes a little longer for me to say things when the person I’m into seems to like every guy around but me.” Victor admitted. Oswald’s eyes shot open, and he shifted to look up at him. Zsasz raised his head to accommodate the movement.
“Are you saying that you like me in… a more than friendly way, Victor?” Oswald sputtered in disbelief. Even after the affection Victor had shown, it still came as a shock to hear it outright.
“Yup. You don’t have to say you’re into me or anything if you aren’t, I’d understand. I know you tend to go for straight cops or sexually repressed eggheads.” Victor smirked at him a little, causing Oswald’s blush to deepen.
“Shut up. You aren’t allowed to mock my taste in men. As for your… feelings, I… can you just hold me for now, and we can talk about it another time?” Oswald asked softly, resting his head back on his chest.
“Sure thing, Oswald. I’m not going anywhere.” Victor said.
“I know, Victor.” Oswald replied.
Oswald relaxed into his touch, allowing the warmth and security of Victor’s embrace soothe him in a way he hadn’t realized he needed.