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The fact that it only took Oswald three days to find Jeremiah should’ve tipped him off.
The first time Jeremiah had disappeared—after the bridges had been blown—they hadn’t been able to find him for three months. How anyone could possibly disappear so thoroughly on this tiny island baffled Oswald, and yet it happened. There had been no sign of him for months and he had been starting to wonder if Jeremiah had somehow managed to get out of Gotham. But, before they could give up hope, Oswald had gotten a hit and, well, the enemy of my enemy is my friend. At least, that’s what Oswald imagined Jim muttered to himself every time they joined forces.
Then Jim rushed in without him and people died. Then Jim, Harvey, and Mr. Wayne were captured and Oswald was four minutes out. Then Mr. Wayne saw that they needed to buy time and—. Well, Oswald had always respected Mr. Wayne—more than most people he came into contact with in this uncivilized city—and his estimation of him hadn’t lowered in the slightest. In fact, it might’ve even raised a little bit.
But, all of that was for nothing, because in a spectacular display of GCPD patented incompetence, Jeremiah had escaped within two hours.
It didn’t matter that this had clearly been a backup plan put in place by Valeska for if he ever got caught, Oswald had blown his top (ignoring the scratchy giggles in his mind, a leftover from his latest stint in Arkham). For the most part Jim had just taken it silently, despite the frenzy Oswald worked himself into (“I love it when you get all wound up, Pengy-Poo. You’re like a watch attached to a time bomb—wind you up and watch Gotham go boom.”).
“I’m going to go find Valeska,” Oswald had finally said, when he was calm enough to speak in binding promises, “And this time, I won’t be calling you when I do.”
“Oswald…” Jim had murmured before reaching out and placing his hand on his shoulder. The two men had looked at each other silently as six years of history flowed between them. But, like every other time, Jim pulled away first and Oswald hardened himself as he’d learned to over the many years’ worth of interactions he’d had with the good cop. And when he turned to leave, Jim didn’t stop him.
But, when Oswald had made the declaration, he honestly hadn’t thought much of it. He figured he send out his spies yet again and hopefully they’d catch a scent before the bridges were rebuilt. But, almost immediately they came back to him with an exact location. The old chemical plant on the docks, they’d said, he’s holed up with a handful of followers and barely any resources. It seemed too good to be true.
Oswald will admit that he’d held a gun to their heads to make sure Valeska hadn’t paid them off.
But seemingly, he hadn’t and this information was legitimate. So, with far more of a handful of followers, Oswald prepared to storm Valeska’s castle.
Except that it wasn’t.
Oswald’s brow furrowed as he took in the barren factory around him. He’d expected to see this place lively like Jeremiah’s previous hideouts, but instead there was only silence. No sign of life or that anyone had even been here in the past few days. His people sent him concerned looks as they all considered the same thing.
“Well, go search the place,” Oswald commanded, his shrill voice hardly concealing his true feelings. But, no one said anything and did as he said—spreading out across the seemingly abandoned building as Oswald seethed. Clearly he would need to rotate out this current batch of spies and find some that could actually do their jobs.
But, before he could fully let himself escape into his fantasy of replacing his inept informants, the sound of gunshots echoed throughout the building.
Instead of letting his people check it out or even just waiting for them to join him, Oswald rushed upstairs alone. It was mostly just creaky old gangways overlooking large vats that were either empty or worryingly full, but Oswald soon caught sight of a door. He didn’t even attempt to be subtle as he stalked towards it and bust into the room. But, he did stop short when he came barrel-to-barrel with Ecco, whose fierce expression and feet surrounded by Penguin’s men were illuminated by a lantern on a table beside her.
“Penguin,” she hissed with a poisonous smile, “So nice of you to come all this way, but unfortunately we’re not accepting visitors at this time.”
“I’m not interested in playing games,” Oswald growled, shaking his gun slightly as he did, “So tell me where Jeremiah is before I rip that bullet out of your head with my bare hands!”
Ecco’s eyes lit up in hellish delight that nearly sent Oswald into a panic attack he recollected a very similar manic glare in a fellow ex-Arkham inmate. But, before either one could do something violent or even just spit more vitriol at the other, a familiar deadpan came from the darkness behind Ecco.
“Relax, Darling. He’s only here to kill me.”
Ecco faltered for a moment and her arm drooped, but she clearly resolved herself and the gun was back to being aimed at Oswald’s head before he could take advantage of her distraction. But, it didn’t matter, because Oswald’s attention was now past her as he finally caught sight of a hint of white skin and bright eyes moving in the inky blackness of the unlit part of the room.
“I can take care of this, Puddin’—you get back to resting,” Ecco said, Oswald’s eyes narrowing. He knew firsthand that getting arrested and then escaping custody was an ordeal, but that had been three days ago. Whatever required Jeremiah to rest undoubtedly spelled disaster for everyone else.
A rather undistinguished snort came in response before the sound of movement filled the room. Vague shapes were just visible to Oswald’s eye, and so he only realized what was happening a moment before Jeremiah stepped out of the darkness and was finally completely revealed by the warm light of the lantern.
Except…
Except this wasn’t Jeremiah Valeska.
At least, not the Jeremiah Valeska Oswald knew. That Jeremiah was a narcissistic mastermind, obsessed with always displaying an image of complete control. He was fully convinced of his superiority over every other person in Gotham and he made sure everyone knew that in the careful way he cultivated his speaking patterns, appearance, and actions. But this Jeremiah…
This Jeremiah was a fucking mess.
He still wore remnants of his usual three-piece suit, but the jacket had been discarded, vest unbuttoned, and his tie was loose and askew. The dark green hair that was normally gelled into a clean style was all over the place—like he had slept on it and hadn’t tried to fix it—and he didn’t even bother to push away the strands that fell into his eyes. But, most revealing off all were his slumped shoulders as he strolled over to a table and poured something himself something dark from an ornate decanter; throwing the whole glass back in one go.
“Honestly, Ecco. Stand down,” Jeremiah said, as he poured himself another drink, “Go and play with Mr. Cobblepot’s men downstairs.”
Oswald didn’t even protest at that, he was too captivated by the strange scene that he had stumbled onto, and Ecco walked past him with a concerned expression. It was obvious that she didn’t want to leave him alone in his—well, whatever state this was, but knew better than to question his direct orders.
For a moment it was quiet as Jeremiah grabbed the only lantern in the room and brought it with him as he stumbled back over to his couch and plopped down onto it. Now that he could see him lounging, Oswald felt all the more uncomfortable; the way he was sprawled across the couch made him look more like a middle-aged alcoholic than a prolific criminal. His body language was open—too open for the situation he was in right now.
“Well?” Jeremiah asked with an impatient expression, raising his glass and letting his words echo into it, “Get on with it, won’t you?”
Oswald hesitated for a second, and then two, before finally resolving himself; taking a few steps forward and leveling his gun at Jeremiah’s head. Who cared if Jeremiah was acting very strange when he was getting a chance to put the madman down for good? Why should he care that there was clearly something very wrong with him, especially since that weakness seemed to be the reason he was getting such an easy shot? What did it matter if this wasn’t the execution he was expecting, and rather an assisted suicide? Jeremiah would be gone—hopefully for good (never could tell in this town)—and they’d all be better off. Just put him down. Just pull the trigger. Just…
Oswald hesitated for a second.
And then two.
“What’s going on here?” Oswald demanded, lowering his gun so his skeptical expression could do the talking, “What’s the trick?”
Jeremiah rolled his eyes (the only familiar thing about all of this) and slouched even further into the old cushions.
“Well, that is… disappointing,” he muttered, swirling his drink, “I would’ve rather it was you than Kean, or what remains of the GCPD, or—god forbid—Selina Kyle. Wouldn’t want to give any of them the satisfaction.”
Oswald’s eyes narrowed as he shook his head, hardly able to believe his eyes or ears.
“You were always many things, Jeremiah, but never pathetic,” Oswald hissed, hoping that would get a response, but when it didn’t, he pressed on, “Why, three days ago, you were just as obsessed with your insane goals as ever. What on Earth happened?!”
“I thought I’d achieved them. I was wrong.”
Jeremiah’s words were short but they were enough.
There was a beat of silence.
“Are you moping because Bruce Wayne tricked you?”
Jeremiah didn’t reply and his expression betrayed very little, but it was clear that those incredulous words were what motivated him to stand and stalk past Oswald to pour himself yet another drink. Oswald watched him do so with eyes that were full of disbelief, but now his lips curved upwards slightly as realized just how ridiculous this situation was.
“No, no, no. Excuse me—that’s not quite right, is it?” Oswald said, his voice scathingly sarcastic, “It wasn’t that Mr. Wayne tricked you, it was how he did.”
Jeremiah spun around and levelled Oswald with a dark look, finally starting to look like himself again. But, instead of being intimidated, Oswald laughed directly in his face—not giving a damn that his sharp jeers only made Jeremiah’s gaze that much more poisonous.
“That is precious. You know that? You’re adorable,” Oswald said with a grin, “You really thought that Mr. Wayne liked the tunnel. You thought you finally had him.”
Jeremiah looked away and mumbled something under his breath as turned his back to Oswald and walked back over to the couch. But, before he could get there, Oswald spoke again—all humor gone as he spat his words at Jeremiah’s retreating figure.
“And here you are; sulking in a warehouse because Mr. Wayne was smart enough to know he was your one blind spot. He gave you everything you wanted and then he tore it away from you. He ripped out whatever poses as a heart in your hollow chest. So now you’re daring me to kill you because you think he doesn’t care about you. You think that being dead would be better than feeling this pain. Well, guess what, Jeremiah!”
Jeremiah continued to face away and didn’t say a word, but it didn’t matter, because Oswald sure did.
“Bruce does care about you!”
Jeremiah jerked around to face Oswald; his normally schooled expression lost to the wind and replaced with wide eyed shock. For a moment, Oswald recalled the day Jim had given him a rundown on Jeremiah Valeska, and who he had been before whatever concoction Jerome had cooked up had pushed him over the edge (Oswald always suspected he’d gotten to the precipice on his own, and Jerome had just given him a shove). The picture that Jim had painted was of a brilliant, but paranoid young man who had been locked away from the world for far too long. Oswald had never met that man—he’d only known the cruel mass murder in front of him—but in that moment, he could see the reflection of the person he’d once been in the expression of the person he was now.
“He does! I can see it in him. And even if I couldn’t, I would know because there is no one on the planet who could make that trick work the way he did. Not unless there was truth to it. Bruce Wayne cares about you, Jeremiah,” Oswald continued, taking a few steps towards Jeremiah, who remained silent, “Maybe even loves you. And now that you know that, and you know that all hope is not lost, I’m going to kill you.”
And there it was, exactly what Oswald had expected (wanted) when he stormed in here: Jeremiah Valeska—a man who very much did not want to die— at his mercy. All he had to do was pull the trigger and Valeska would die knowing that there had been a sliver of a chance that he could’ve gotten what he desired. That he could’ve gotten Bruce if he’d had more time. That Oswald had been the one to take that chance away from him.
Oswald’s finger tightened.
He was back at the docks.
Or the GCPD. Or the Umbrella Club. The campaign office. The Van Dahl Mansion. The Mayor’s Office.
Oswald was back to having a fluttering heart and starry eyes. To sweaty palms and nervous giggles. To words on the tip of his tongue, but never to spill past his lips. He was back to looking at the big, strong police officer or the nerdy and loyal partner-in-crime and feeling so much warmth in his chest that he felt like he would burst.
He was back to the day Jim had given him the full story on Jeremiah Valeska—when he’d spat out the part where Bruce had treated Jeremiah so kindly and all he got in return was suffering—and Oswald’s mind had put together the pieces that Jim’s never could. Probably because Jim had never lived it.
And despite the fact he hadn’t ever been there, Oswald was at Jeremiah’s labyrinth, where a lonely young man was experiencing companionship for the very first time (at least, the good kind). Because although Bruce Wayne was dark, brooding, and (frankly) disturbingly good at physical combat, he was also the most generous, kind, and compassionate man Oswald had ever met. He couldn’t imagine what it must’ve been like for Jeremiah, being alone for so long, only for the best of Gotham to come knocking on his doorstep.
And Oswald was back at the docks.
Always the docks.
Or maybe he was at his new, but empty club; waiting for the only invitee that mattered. Or the full, but empty dining room table in the Van Dahl mansion; waiting for the guest of honor to arrive. Or maybe he was right the first time, and he was back at the docks; the pain as the bullet pierced his guts nothing compared to the one that had lived in his chest for weeks.
The only pain that could turn a cold and calculating mastermind into a fucking mess.
Oswald hesitated for a second.
And then for two.
He dropped his gun and swore.
“Don’t think for a second this is going to become a regular thing,” he spat out, hurrying over to Jeremiah’s makeshift bar and pouring himself a brimming glass; considering swiping the second (full) bottle, “Just this once, Valeska. Got it?! Just this once!”
Jeremiah said nothing, only watched Oswald with wary but shielded eyes. He was almost back to his normal self, that was clear, and Oswald wondered just how much his time in Arkham had damaged his sanity. Letting Jeremiah live was a mistake and he knew it. Oswald drank half the glass in one go.
“And while I’m here, let me give you some advice,” he said once he gotten past the burn in his throat, “Stop hurting people Mr. Wayne loves. Take it from someone with experience: killing a love rival won’t work. He’ll find out and he’ll hate you for it. Oh, and you are awful at gift giving. I know he’s a billionaire, but material items can go a long way. Chocolates, wine, stuffed animals, whatever. No one wants the city they live in to be isolated from the outside world. Got that? No one!”
“I built him a tunnel,” Jeremiah pointed out, and even though is voice was much meeker than normal, Oswald still rolled his eyes.
“With slaves!” he exclaimed, finishing his drink before continuing, “Consider the next time you fuck up—because knowing you, you will— just an apology and maybe some flowers. Every time you’ve endeavored to make some grand gesture, it falls apart so spectacularly that all you achieve is making Bruce even angrier with you. Truthfully, it’s getting embarrassing. So the next time you try another one of your ham-fisted attempts at wooing Mr. Wayne, consider the fact that Bruce loves Gotham, and if it in any way harms this city, don’t do it!”
Oswald swept around—aware that he might’ve been a little dramatic in the way he whipped his coat—and headed towards the door. He could spend an eternity screaming at Jeremiah Valeska, best to cut it off now.
“Thank you for your fine advice, Mr. Cobblepot. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you,” Jeremiah called after him, sounding back to his normal, bastard self.
Oswald winced but continued on his way. Letting Jeremiah Valeska live was a mistake and he knew it. But, as Oswald limped out of the room he would never admit he’d been in, he knew that this was just another mistake he was willing to make in the name of love.
“I’ll see you in Hell, Mr. Valeska!”
“I know you said you’d take care of it yourself, but did you catch any wind of Jeremiah?”
Jim’s office was warm, yes, but all of a sudden it was feeling stuffy. Oswald nearly sighed out loud at the question; they had been having such a nice time discussing how to best deal with those awful military people, why did he have to go and ruin it? Sure, he’d been a mob boss and a politician, so he liked to think he was a master of the art of lying, but he’d always had a little trouble when it came to Jim Gordon. Plus, he was in the (fairly) unique position of actually feeling some guilt over his actions. He wasn’t used to that.
“It took me three months to find him before,” Oswald finally said, fairly convincing if he did say so himself, “I imagine he’s buried himself deep this time.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Jim muttered, rubbing his near-constant tired expression, “I can’t believe I let him slip through my fingers after all we went through to get him.”
“I can,” Oswald replied, sighing when Jim sent him a dirty look, “You’re on an island, cut off from the rest of the world. Of course things slipped. Especially when it comes to someone like Jeremiah Valeska.”
Jim smiled slightly at the floor before turning his eyes back to Oswald with that genuine expression that always twisted a knife inside of him.
But, before he could reply and maybe say one of those rare compliments that sent Oswald right back to being a young man desperately trying to find his place in Gotham, the door was flung open. Both men looked to see Bruce standing there with an expression that foreboded nothing good to come.
“You shouldn’t be playing favorites. Especially not with me.”
“Playing favorites…?” Jim said slowly, exchanging a lost look with Oswald “Bruce, what’re you talking about?”
Bruce raised his hand and brought their attention to an ornate, glass decanter full of some dark (undeniably alcoholic) liquid.
“I found this in my bag,” he said simply before sighing, “Jim, if this is about—.”
“I didn’t put it there,” Jim interrupted before that could delve into territory that would make Oswald want to run out of the room, “That’s not from me, Bruce.”
The two men exchanged confused looks for a moment before they both turned their gazes onto Oswald, as if he might know the answer behind this puzzle. And, looking at that gift, he did. But, Oswald simply shrugged.
“Secret admirer?”