Chapter Text
Oswald sucked in a breath of cold air as he walked down the sidewalk, the cold air nipping at his cheeks as a cool breeze danced in the air, ruffling the loose strands of hair resting on his forehead. He tried to ignore the tickling sensation, deeming it futile to let the feeling irritate him after the first handful of times he unsuccessfully attempted to tuck the long strands out of the way. The noise of Gotham's city streets was unrelenting, a constant stream of honking horns and skidding tires played on a loop whenever Oswald found himself outside. The sounds were just a blur to his ears, a steady background noise, grounding and comforting all at once.
His countenance was set in a slight grimace, a soft downward slope at the edge of his lips as he pursed them together in a thin line, causing a little indentation to form between his furrowed brows. He prided himself on concealing the signs of his distress from nosy onlookers; his expression didn't give away the true nature behind the cause of his latest anxiety.
It had been a little over two months since Oswald rose up the ranks to political notoriety, securing his position as mayor of Gotham while retaining his hard-won status as kingpin of Gotham's underworld. It was a difficult balance to maintain, seeing as he had come to realize the extent to which his two occupations were not mutually exclusive. Saving face for the naive public of Gotham proved to be nearly as challenging as presenting the cutthroat front he portrayed to his more lucrative business associates.
Still, the days passed by, one after the other, a slow succession of time as he settled into the new role he was positioned to play. He had barely realized the passage of time, the entire concept seemed to have escaped him as he concentrated on establishing himself.
It wasn't until time itself forced him to remember, and that's when everything he thought he knew about himself came crashing down in a heap of shattered glass the day he discovered one of the many knives he had tucked away in secret crannies in his office at City Hall.
He'd been rummaging through one of his lesser used desk drawers, looking for a document he recalled having shoved away somewhere when a burning sensation began to radiate from the center of his palm, and a stinging pain coursed through his hand. He bit his lip in shock, holding back a hiss as he pulled his hand out of the offending drawer with eyebrows drawn in an almost comically quizzical appearance.
His eyes roamed over a thorn patch of skin on his palm, a vertical gash straight down the center. Viscous liquid was seeping over the sides of the wound, the broken skin unable to prevent the overflow of blood from spilling out. He lifted his gaze back towards the drawer, spotting the familiar glint of silver shining up at him, poking up from underneath a pile of discarded papers.
When he first assumed the position of the dutiful public servant, he'd taken to equipping his office room in the city with the necessary precautions should his two jobs converge in an inopportune moment. While it was never a good idea to mix business and pleasure, Oswald found it increasingly difficult to tell the other apart these days, besides, he's had one too many close calls in his lifetime to go into any situation without a contingency plan or two. Knives were stowed away throughout the room, as well as a few magazines for the police-issue handgun he'd nicked off Jim a while back, inside a hallowed out finance book. Considering the city's current disaster of a budget, he rationalized the book was now put to a better use.
His eyes drifted to the small circular dark spot now embedded into the wooden drawer besides the knife. The corner of the modest stack of papers in the draw was glued to the stain, blood coloring their once white tips.
He briefly considered that he was going to have a hard time removing the stain from the wood, as was explaining to Tarquin the nature of the spoiled spot adoring the documents. He brushed those thoughts aside as inconsequential when another sting radiated from his palm, reminding him of his new injury.
With a sigh, he pushed his chair back, using his good hand to grip along the edge of the desk and steady his movements as he made his way to the adjourning bathroom. This unforeseen set back in his day rattled his already fragile nerves. He moved through the process of cleansing the wound mindlessly, going through the motion like he's done countless times before, allowing his mind to wander as he tended to the abused skin.
The methodical procedure reminded him of when he used to sneak around the apartment he and his mother lived in as a child, beads of sweat pooling at the nap of his neck as he soundlessly made his way to the bathroom to attend to the wounds he'd incurred at school that day. It would break her heart to see him like that, he knew, blood still trickling from the split lip he'd received as a parting gift on the bus not barely ten minutes ago. She always knew though. She could see the truth behind the stolen makeup he wore to conceal fading bruises and deflect any questions from overly concerned teachers and staff to make his lies more believable when he assured them that he was fine.
She always knew, and at night before he went to sleep, she'd pull him close to her, his side pressing into the silky fabric of her evening gown, his head resting against her chest. One arm wrapped around his thin frame, clutching at his shoulder, the other smoothing down his sweaty hair, fingers caressing the strands dampened from the summer heat and lack of air conditioner. He could hear the beating of her heart in his ear, the noise pounding in his head and chasing away all the negativity he had conditioned himself to believe was normal.
Thud, thud, thud.
Thud, thud, thud.
The noise always grounded him. Similar to the roaring of Gotham's streets. It meant comfort, security, familiarity.
Tiny drips of red landed on the stark white porcelain sink, washed away as quick as they appeared in a whirlpool of water pouring out of the facet. Oswald stared blankly into the basin, eyes lazily watching the red swirl of blood and water mix and empty down the drain.
His eyes fell shut and he let the lids tighten, face contorting as he squeezed them closed even more. The sound of the sink water rushed around him, the noise magnified, too loud and smashing, pounding on his temples and muddying his thoughts to slush. His hands braced along the basin's rim, fingers grasping at the smooth surface, body leaning over, head bowed. His tongue jut out to swipe across his lower lip, the metallic tang of blood a familiar taste in his mouth. Did he bit his lip? He can't recall, doesn't know how that familiar taste suddenly accosted his senses.
The water is so loud. It's pulling him in, calling his name. A chill comes over him and he shivered uncontrollably, unable to stop himself. The water is like ice, suffocating him as it pulls him in, deeper and deeper, the ice cracking and freezing around him all at once.
And then he hears it.
Thud, thud, thud.
Thud, thud, thud.
The sound is faint, too far away, but the distance doesn't deter him. He reached out, grasping wildly without purchase even as his the skin of his fingers began to split in the extreme cold. Thin slivers appear over his extremities as he plunges his hands in deeper and deeper, trailing lines forming on his skin and freezing over before any blood can escape.
He can't feel it. He can't feel anything.
All he can hear is the beat of a heart, the gentle thud, thud, thud, pulling him farther and farther away, but closer too to its comforting sound.
It's louder now, he knows it. He's getting closer. The water is near pitch black as he allows himself to be taken into the inky depths. It's just him and the heartbeat, the only indication that anything is alive in the frigid water. For a moment, there is nothing but silence, his own heart clenches painfully and everything stills around him as if he is suspended in ice.
A beat. And then he hears it.
Thud, thud, thud!
Thud, thud, thud!
Everything is moving so fast. Too fast. Water is swelling around him, pushing him further and further, but he hears it! He's close, so close!
His fingers are stiff and rigid as he uses the last of his strength to reach out one last time towards the halo of light. A soft glow emitting in the darkness.
He moves into the light, hand grazing lightly over the source of the light.
Thud, thud, thud.
Thud, thud, thud.
And then nothing.
Shock paralyzes him, or perhaps his body finally surrendered to the unforgiving cold encasing his very being. It doesn't matter. His hand thaws as soon as it brushes against the light source and it burns as blood runs to revive the dying digits. The pads of his fingers caress the object in his hand, the source of light and of the hammering thudding sound. His senses feel as though they've been kicked into overdrive without a way out. Everything is just, too much. His fingers burn as if stroked by flames, ears pounding so loud he thinks blood may be pouring out of them. He cradles the object in his hands, the source of light, the source of the noise. A heart. A beating heart coated in deep red now stilled in his palm.
NO!
It can't be!
It was beating! He heard it! He saved her!
Rage filled him, overcoming anything else until all he could hear was his own scream ringing in his ears, a shriek of pure agony and terror seeping into every available space, surrounding him and suffocating him with its intensity.
His fingers closed over the stilled heart and he squeezed them tight, squashing the small organ of life in his hand. It exploded, covering him in blood, stingy tissue, and mashed flesh. His nails dug into the soft meat, scrapping, tearing, ripping it apart. His other hand was balled in a fist at his side, fingers mirroring the actions of the hand holding the mutilated heart, nails digging in and puncturing his own skin.
The pain brought him back to the present, to reality.
He was standing in the bathroom, water still rushing around him, sounding as though it was pouring in torrents all around him. The mirror in front of him was cracked in the center, as if a blunt object was swung into it.
He stared at his reflection, at the image of a battered, broken man.
Shards of glass littered the sink basin, water pounding lightly on the reflective surface. The larger pieces were covering the drain and caused the bowl to fill up, the water tinged a soft red.
Oswald lifted his hands, his arms shaking and body trembling. Embers of broken glass were embed in his right fist, the same hand still leaking blood from his wound, droplets mixing with the water, turning the light shade of red a darker hue.
He unclenched his other fist and his eyes widened in surprise as shards of glass fell out of his grip, hitting the floor and shattering further into smaller pieces. His hand was full of cuts, gashes strew across the smooth surface of his pale skin, smaller pieces of glass sticking out of the opened wounds.
His head felt so heavy, and he could faintly hear the uneven sound of his own panting as if it was emanating from another room before he sunk to the floor, his weak leg quivering and giving out from under him.
His hands gripped the sides of his head, pressing against his ears in an attempt to silence the noise all around him, blunt fingernails dragging across his scalp, smearing blood into his hair as his fingers tangle themselves in the black stands.
He tried to steady his breaths, like his mother used to tell him to do when he was scared or panicked as a little boy. To just focus on inhaling and exhaling.
"Mr. Cobblepot, Sir?"
There was something pounding on the door.
"Sir? Oswald? Oswald!"
He thought he heard the doorknob rattle, the sound of a lock clicking open. His head felt like cotton, fuzzy and unaware, nails digging into his skin so hard he's sure fresh blood had been drawn. He can feel the substance underneath his nails, making his finger pads sticky.
"Oswald!"
He jerked to the side abruptly, head spinning with the force of the moment as he looked up at the source of the voice calling his name.
The door was thrust open and Oswald heard an exclamation of shook come from above him. He lifted his head, squinting at the figure looming over him.
"Oswald, what's going on in here?" said a confused voice.
Ah, it was Tarquin. Just his luck.
Oswald tried his best to glare at the other man, but given his position currently crumbled in a ball on the bathroom floor, he knew that he failed in the meek intimidation attempt.
Tarquin stared down at him, eyes bulging comically large as though they were a second away from popping out of his skull.
Despite his undignified state, Oswald managed to let out an exasperate sigh, eyes rolling at the other's obvious lack of understanding at what to do next. Oswald was pretty sure they didn't teach students how to take care of their bloodied-up boss in whatever prestigious prep school his assistant went to.
The fool was just standing there, and every second that passed with no motion left Oswald increasingly irritated.
After about a minute or two, Oswald gave in.
"Well," he started, injecting a semblance of authority tinged with just the right amount of irritation to get his foul mood across, "are you gonna help me up or just stand there like a wet fish?"
Tarquin jumped at his words. "Oh! Oh, of course Mr. Mayor."
He rushed to Oswald's side, fixing his arm underneath Oswald's arm pit to help hoist him up. Oswald refused to hiss in pain as his leg protested to his movement, instead he just grinded his teeth hard together.
Tarquin helped to make sure Oswald wasn't going to immediately fall back to the ground before he moved a few steps back.
"Sir, do you want me to get someone to clean up this mess?"
The exasperated look on Oswald's face was enough. Still, he waited for a verbal confirmation.
"Well, duh!" Oswald exclaimed, hands flailing outward. "Get it taken care of. Now."
Oswald looked over his left shoulder and glimpsed his reflection in the broken mirror. His hair stood up on from its roots in a mocking resemblance of his usual carefully controlled bird's nest of a look. Red streaked his temples, trailing a line across his face before the color disappeared into his disheveled hair. However, it was the look in his eyes that caused him to suck in a breath, abruptly spinning on his good leg and hobbling away.
With that, Oswald shut the bathroom door on Tarquin before the man could say anything else and limped back into his office.
Thankfully, it was already nearing on the edge of late afternoon, which meant it was highly unlikely for him to have anymore mayoral duties to attend to. Unlike his other occupation, this one at least kept to regular business hours.
The image of himself was painted in the forefront of his mind. Darkness shadowing his eyes was nothing new. He thought of the little patches of discolored skin as nothing more than another characteristic of his appearance.
No, that wasn't what had him troubled so. The man looking back at him in the mirror was nothing but a shell of the man that called himself Oswald Cobblepot. The image dredged up one of the many fears he had thought he buried long ago. The fear that had guided him to strive further than many would deem possible for a man of his disposition. It was a fear he found himself unable to come to terms with, suppressing the vestiges of feeling whenever it threatened to take hold of him in his most vulnerable moments.
Fear of loneliness, fear of unimportance, of uncertainty. The man in the mirror epitomized this weakness. What had become of his ambition, his drive and determination?
It was the culmination of all those fears that he ran from. He should have recognized the signs when he first felt the stirrings of anxiety in his chest shortly after winning the election.
Oswald always had something or someone to live for, even in death, the memory of his mother and then father had inspired the need for vengeance to take hold of him, preventing him from taking even a moment to stop and collect his thoughts.
There had always been something more, a higher goal that, to any other, would be unobtainable, but not to Oswald. To him, locked doors were just another challenge, another obstacle in his way, preventing him from becoming who he knew he was always meant to be.
And now, here he was. The ruler of Gotham in more than just title. The city was in the palm of his hand and yet, he felt as though his fingers were clutching at a thick veil with a void of nothingness behind it.
He'd gotten his revenge. He had the money, the power, and the respect, but still, loneliness clenched at his chest, making his knees weak and head heavy.
He had all these things, everything he dreamed of while cooking pasta and straightening utensils when working for Maroni. He had everything and more, and still, he was alone. And it was this truth that hurt him more than any knife in the back could.
His tenure as mayor had lulled him into a sense of routine, a comforting monotony of life interspersed with the occasional stabbing when one of his "business" partners decided he didn't want to pay his taxes. Even those infrequent, spur-of-the-moment murders didn't bring him the same thrill they used to.
The thought of this was beyond troubling.
After his little episode, Oswald tried to put the entire thing behind him, to shove it into the recesses of his mind and leave it there. Festering malignant thoughts be damned. He was embarrassed with himself for acting out as he did. It wasn't as though he was a stranger to the inability to control his more volatile emotions. The amount of emotional outbursts he suffered over the years may rival Zazsz's tally marks, but this was different.
Regardless- Oswald didn't want to think about it. He was just reacting to his new position as governor. And he never truly had time to properly mourn for his deceased parents. Nothing more. It was the spillover of pent up stress that had been building for months now. That's all it was, or so Oswald tried to tell himself as he walked down the sidewalk of his city.
Spring had come to Gotham, which meant the ice had started to melt. Between the cold and the distance, the walk wasn't particularly enjoyable, nor was it kind to Oswald's aching leg. His stunt in the bathroom exacerbated his injury, causing spasms of pain to afflict his leg earlier as he made it back to his bedroom to calm down.
Now, there was just a slight throbbing to the offending limb, one which Oswald had long since resigned himself to. Physical pain was expected, familiar even. This feeling of loneliness, of emptiness so profound that it left him breathless and clutching at his chest, that was even more crippling than any physical wound.
Oswald shook his head again, ridding himself of those thoughts. While walking long distances came with a degree of strain, Oswald had found that it gave him something to focus on. Usually, when he was feeling restless with pent up energy, he'd find release through the slick blade of a knife or in the resounding echo that accompanied a fatal gunshot. However, the urge to liberate himself in such a manner hadn't been felt in quite some time if he was to be honest with himself. Walking, he had come to realize, while a far less adrenaline pumping exercise, calmed him in some odd sort of way. Nothing but the sounds of Gotham's busy streets filled his ears; police sirens and half overheard conversations, the click of his cane on the ground and the whisper of his exhales, all of it drowned into one muddled noise, a blur of the sounds of everyday life passing him by.
Oswald let his mind drift, thinking of nothing in particular, not even really thinking at all really. Just existing. The idea of stopping to get a drink or a quick bite to eat filtered through his head, but he let it slip away. He wasn't in the mood to deal with the young, righteous , and hardheaded baristas who refused to serve him because he was technically a "criminal." No, experiencing that particular event once was one too many times, and besides, he didn't feel like getting his hands dirty today if he were to come across anyone unagreeable.
Oswald hadn't realized where exactly he was walking towards. He had some general sense of the of direction, at least, he knew that if he kept walking straight, he'd end up outside the GCPD, however far that was, he couldn't say. The thrill of surprising Jim had diminished ever since he started seeing that Dr. Lee Thompkins.
Lost in his mindless thoughts, Oswald neglected to take notice of the handful of people exiting a door towards his left and instead, walked right into them
"Uhff," he let out, crashing head first into the unsuspecting stranger, his cane clattering to the ground.
"Oh! My apologizes mister!" said a woman in a voice too cheery to be appropriate at any time of the day.
"Yes, excuse you," Oswald muttered back in reply.
The woman made the bend down and pick up his cane, but Oswald waved her away with an indignant huff.
"Leave it," he commanded, and he saw the woman nod and turn away before he bent down to retrieve the fallen object.
The nerve of some people, he thought, so self-absorbed and inconsiderate-
He didn't get to finish the thought, however, as he rose up from the ground, his eyes made contact with the backside of a man bent over on the other side of the glass window separating the building where the woman just exited from the streets of Gotham.
Oswald's grip on the tip of his cane tightened, and he ignored the accompanying sting which came with the added pressure on his recent wound. He stood up, legs creaking with the slow pace of his movements. The room inside the window was mostly empty save for a few stragglers hovering together near a shelving unit. The room itself was void of almost all furniture save for a small wooden bench pressed up against the back wall near a closed door.
The figure which had attracted Oswald's attention turned around abruptly, and Oswald was unprepared when he suddenly was staring straight into the other person's eyes. Oswald jumped back without thinking, quickly trying to put distance between himself and the man who he had just been caught ogling.
The man wasn't deterred by Oswald's reaction. Rather, Oswald watched as he lifted up a hand in a small wave, a smile spreading across his face. From his more retreated location, Oswald took in the appearance of the man before him. His legs were thin but sculpted and clad in pink tights, leaving only his feet exposed. He wore a long tight fitting white t-shirt over his torso. His hair was mused, light brown bangs flopped over his forehead, looking as though they had fallen out of place from a carefully gelled style.
The sound of a bell chiming shook Oswald out of the dazed stupor he hadn't even realized he'd fallen into. The man's hand had fallen limp at his side, and he simply stood there, his smile replaced by a quizzical expression.
Oswald decided he had suffered enough indignity for the day. He pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders and turned around, ready to cut his walk short and have Gabe come and pick him up.
"Wait!" he heard a voice call. Oswald paused, debating if he should turn around or keep going.
The decision was made for him, however, as he felt a hand on his arm. At that, he spun around, a snarl forming on his lips and a snarky comment at the tip of his tongue. Perhaps his expression gave his discomfort away as the hand was quickly pulled back by its owner.
Oswald found himself looking into the eyes of the man from the window.
The man opened his mouth, opening and closing it like a fish as no words came out. Oswald let out an irritated huff.
"What?" he demanded.
The man shut his mouth, taking in the barely laced annoyance in Oswald's tone.
"I- uh, I saw you looking at my studio and I thought, er, well, I thought you seemed interested."
Interested in what?
Oswald's gaze shifted passed the man to fall on the sign just above his head.
GC Yoga & Dance
How original.
"No, I am most certainly not interested-"
"Maybe I can give you a tour?"
Their words overlapped each other, both in a hurry to speak first.
Oswald raised an eyebrow at the man standing before him. Did this man know who he was? Why would he even entertain the misguided notion that Oswald would be remotely interested in dance, let alone have time to attend classes. Oswald narrowed his eyes, taking in the expression the man was sporting, a mix between hopeful and anxious. It set something inside Oswald ill at ease. He couldn't remember when, if ever, someone had looked at him in such a way.
"If you haven't already noticed behind those thick glasses of yours, I'm not exactly able to partake in such lovely activities," Oswald sneered, not even trying to disguise his contempt at the man's suggestion. His words were accompanied with an angry shake of his cane.
The man's doe-eyed gaze followed the movement, eyes resting on the aforementioned cane briefly before moving back to meet Oswald's. He opened his mouth as if he was about to reply, but his lips just hung open for a second as he tried to formulate a proper response. It was then that Oswald realized how close they were standing as he had to tilt his head back slightly to meet the other's gaze.
"Now, if you excuse me," he said, pushing his cane into the man's chest as he backed away. "I really must be going."
Oswald turned back around and began walking at a faster pace than was really comfortable, not caring about how ridiculous his limp probably looked and definitely not waiting for the other man's reply. His hand was already reaching into his pocket for his phone, ready to call Gabe as soon as he crossed to the next block.
So much for a stress-easing stroll.