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The cold of the late night wind cools down the burn of the scotch as Oswald empties the glass in one final, decisive sip — Not quite meaning to push it all down like this, but it ended up happening anyway. An attempt to wash down the bitter taste in his mouth, perhaps.
One that doesn’t work nearly as well as he’d hoped.
Through the haze of the liquor and the scenario of the veranda — What it meant to have one attached to his office above the Iceberg Lounge included — Gotham almost looked beautiful, it should look beautiful from here, but its shine had since faded in Oswald’s mind, across all those years, even when at least a part of it belonged to him.
He breathes in. The air tasted fresh and crisp at a floor this high, well above the pollution the common people needed to deal with. Marking the years of hard work, blood, sweat and tears — mostly blood — put into reaching a position so far. Owning the Lounge, rising in the ranks of the elite, ruling over the mob with an iron fist.
He wasn’t just Oswald Cobblepot. He was the Gentleman of Crime, the Penguin, a terror plaguing this city, controlling the routes it took in its flight, from the shadow of the criminal underworld and the light of the illuminated offices he’d seal deals in.
He breathes out, cleansing smoke-damaged lungs—
But even then, the bitter taste doesn’t leave.
His brow furrows as he stares down at the cars driving around on the streets, the dotted glow of windows that appeared and disappeared as people switched their lights on and off. Everyone an insignificant, indiscernible dot on the seemingly endless stretch of the city. A cog in the machine. He wasn’t like them. He knew he could never be, either.
Oswald knows he holds a whole world in his hands. But he knows that just as much as the fact that he doesn’t have the image required for that to be celebrated.
He’d known that since childhood, maybe for the first time when he’d been taken to the doctor by his parents to discuss surgery for a condition he’d been born with — Complex syndactyly, both hands. Fused, malformed middle fingers were split apart, the faint lines of scars stayed there to this day, mostly behind gloves, the only troublesome feature he could really do something about.
But that didn’t erase the mark it had left in his thoughts. As he watched his bandaged hands as a small child, feeling the bite of the stitches on his skin as the painkillers faded from his system, he’d understood then and there that in the world he lived in, nothing mattered more than appearances.
So he’d grown from an unpleasant looking child to a completely unpleasant man, an elite that didn’t quite have a place among his peers even as he gathered more skills, more power than them — The presentation wasn’t the right one, it never mattered if he had been good or not back then if everyone refused to do as much as look at him.
Short and round framed, brows frozen at a perpetual furrow that accentuated wrinkles that had been there since way before they should have, nose long and pointed like a beak. The clumsy penguin between the graceful lineup of swans and eagles that made up the top of Gotham’s food chain, no matter how much he tried.
The problem wasn’t just because of the looks, of course, and he’d claimed that label for himself at this point. Penguin or not, he was still someone to be feared, a person of merits, he’d attempted to communicate to the world. He had a place in that scenario, even as others ever so subtly, and sometimes blatantly, rejected him.
But a penguin was still a penguin, unable to fly the way he saw others do, the way he so wanted to do. His eyes would zero in on them like an instinct, he’d take in every movement, every word, and he’d wish it was him, the one surrounded by those genuine smiles in a circle. The one others wanted to be around for reasons beyond the status and money.
He’d gone way past wanting to be like them, wishing to be them instead, and so much so that his blood turned caustic, ready to corrode the walls of his veins. How deeply embarrassing it was to think this, really, especially when he had so much wrapped around his finger already, but what was a businessman without his greed?
He’d gotten so far because of it. And now that he’d reached as high as someone like him could, he’d dig himself a grave with it, too, the double-edged sword it was.
Tonight, it had been Bruce Wayne who had spread his wings so gorgeously, shooting across the sky in the perfect, lightning-fast fly of the eagle he was, tracing a straight line onto the inky black of the night. A stark white smile accompanying words so poised you’d think he rehearsed them — Yet it was so strikingly clear he didn’t, with how in his element he was.
Bruce seemed to be the polished diamond out of the Waynes. The family itself, another one inserted in the context of Gotham aristocracy Oswald was in, had always had a reputation as good as the hold they had on the forces controlling the inner systems of the city, but Bruce seemed to have taken every good trait the Waynes before them had and arranged them together beautifully, lined up so perfectly that they linked and highlighted each other.
A golden statue of a man, someone so beloved by the people of the city.
Oswald wants to laugh. He steps back into the office to pour himself more scotch instead, though an embittered smile twists into his expression, caustic as his own thoughts and blood.
What little comfort he’d gotten from the pleasant wind of the night doesn’t seem keen on following him inside the office, either, but he doesn’t pay it much mind. Sitting down on his chair, sinking into comfortable leather cushioning, he grabs at the bottle and pours himself another much needed drink.
It’d been a difficult night. A successful one, the Iceberg Lounge and Wayne Enterprises were on wonderful terms after discussing the philanthropic gala they’d hosted together, it seemed, but every time he saw Wayne, looking into those eyes that only stared forward at the achievements he was yet to reach, all Oswald could think about was that his own fatigued retinas had nowhere else to look up at.
Everything about him was so infuriating.
Oswald takes another long drink, letting the burn spread along his throat, easing all those feelings, if only for a second. Uniquely infuriating, too, in a way he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Maybe it was because Wayne was so much more of a golden boy than any other he’d had the displeasure of dealing with, he’d thought, but even that didn’t seem fully right.
Nerves begin to settle, bringing the feeling of boiling anger down to a simmer. He comes to wonder why he even feels like this, sometimes, gaze scrolling over his decoration, the contrasts of gold and silver against the dark brown of wood. He logically knew he had so much to be proud of, but it never seemed to fully make its way into his mind, the thought fluttering just outside of it, unable to be integrated.
Like him, among all those other elites. Next to Wayne, especially — He recalled an especially bad dinner party shortly after he’d been freed, one that had him in a similar position to now, meditating on the effects of alcohol to try and not think about it. All eyes on Wayne, versus all eyes on him, and not in the same flattering way. The unspoken comparison, how he seemed like an aged star next to somebody so newly brilliant.
Has-been is a word he so desperately wanted to avoid, but it seemed he couldn’t ever really run from it, especially since he’d truly become that, when it came to villainy at least.
Not too long ago, he was the feared Penguin — Thriving in the full reclamation of that comparison that seemed to haunt him — but then he’d been jailed, dragged down to the ground and humiliated, and in the end that terrifying star had faded, crashed like a shot bird, really.
And it had been a job done by a single man, Batman, his nemesis, the vigilante he hadn’t seen since the crushing defeat that put him in jail had happened.
Does he want to come back to these days? The answer to the question isn’t nearly as simple as it seemed. He misses the pride he carried himself with then, but focusing on business had been working well, and Oswald had the sense to not risk that for the sake of thrills. Wayne, however, sparked something within him that felt so much like hunger. Not a desire to go back, but a need.
Someone as seemingly perfect as him just called, so desperately, for some sort of one-upping. Wishing to be someone else was ludicrous, pathetic, sad. Having that condense into a wish for competition was better. He couldn’t be the perfect businessman, but he could be a good nemesis, and so he was above. The obsessiveness he’d keep carrying still felt ridiculous, but—
Doesn’t it all come down to charm? Wayne’s charisma was a combination, a heady drug brewed through his looks, his voice, his riches, all things that had been running in his blood. If he tried to compete, Oswald couldn’t…
He sees him again, sitting on one of his armchairs, that charismatic smile on his face like he’s actually happy to be here. Perfect, perfect, perfect. Doesn’t that just make you want to reach forward and pry all the gold leaf off him? Find out how he looked underneath all the masks?
Oswald keeps coming back to Batman again, his other biggest frustration. Ah, he’d wanted to pull that mask off his face alright, just as much as he wanted to do to Wayne, though he supposes that took on a literal meaning when it came to him. He wanted to tear away what made this man so powerful, shine a flashlight into all that darkness that surrounded him — He couldn’t possibly be this perfect, could he, is a question he always comes down to when thinking about both men. It might be what links them so tightly in his mind, why one reminds him so much of the other…
The impossible perfection, the desire to rip it all to shreds until he got to something flawed. Something closer to him.
Like maybe they’d switch places if he succeeded at that.
But of course, that was just a fleeting daydream. More of something that he wanted to happen rather than something he thought was possible.
Because that was all the jealousy talking — Not the facts, the things he’d see happening. Oswald’s envy wanted him to be fallible, to be hiding something as repulsive as him, if not more, behind all the presentation, but what did he have to prove it? Nothing.
“Mr. Cobblepot, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” He recalls Wayne saying, extending a hand he’d caught in a firm shake, smiling. “How long has it been since last time?”
“Way too long.” He’d replied, equally as amicable in tone, yet painfully aware of all the gaps between them.
The roughness Oswald’s voice carried. The crookedness of his smile. The faint lines on his fingers hidden under his dark gloves. All things Wayne didn’t have.
And they sit in his office, facing each other, smiling commercially. “Would you like a drink?” He’d offer, and Wayne would laugh.
“No, thank you, I have to stay sharp today.”
He would make a noncommittal noise, and pour some scotch for himself, some water for Wayne. They would launch into conversation, small talk that turned into business discussion, they’d mention these events they planned together, think about planning new ones.
Wayne would always set the pace. And it was such a small detail, something frankly ridiculous to fixate on, but it’d still always be the one thing Oswald could consistently see — I have a new proposal for you, I would like it if you signed this, all those polished words spin around in his head like birds flying in a whirlwind, uncoordinated, he feels his eyes twitch.
Would the day come where he’d be able to be the one proposing something to Wayne? The one sliding over the contract he didn’t come there expecting to sign? Every tiny detail of their interactions builds up into that frustration he was constantly choking on. Maybe he just couldn’t win at all. Maybe he’d be stuck watching Bruce Wayne being perfect and beloved until the end of his days, taking everything until there’s nothing left for him.
And without anything to control, Oswald would be pushed aside and ignored, as he knows the rest of Gotham’s elite wanted to do to him. He didn’t fit in there. He wasn’t a Bruce Wayne, or even one of his copycats. There’s always someone better than Oswald, an unreachable goal he can’t help but chase.
The dim lights of the office grow blurrier. Glancing at the bottle he’d reach to pour himself another drink, Oswald notices it had become emptier. Him running on automatic as he wallowed in self pity.
Staring at the chair Wayne had been on earlier, he reaches for the absurd again. Oswald couldn’t help it, really, he’d always want to win, no matter how impossible it seemed to be, for someone like him…
He’d still want to find a way to deface Bruce Wayne. He wanted to stop marvelling at him already—
...his brow furrows. Marveling? Was that the right word to use? He’s not quite sure himself, but maybe it fits. What else could one do, when presented with a man like Bruce Wayne? He just had the entire room wrapped around his finger the second he stepped into it.
His strength — Physical, mental, social — was something not only Oswald couldn’t grasp, but most people who even entertained going up against him in some way couldn’t either. He wasn’t that perfect for no reason.
A snicker leaves him, bitter as always. Now that he thought about it, had he ever gotten any proof of Wayne’s strength beyond how built he looked? He doesn’t think he has. For some reason he just felt like the man was that much stronger than anyone else he’s met. Well, his image certainly did enable a train of thought like that.
Maybe if they freed themselves from the confines of high society politeness, turning that poised, sugar-coated unspoken rivalry into a true battle, he’d be able to win. Even if Wayne turned out to be stronger than him, raw strength wasn’t everything that mattered in this case. He couldn’t possibly have the sort of experience someone like Oswald had.
He’d killed people with his bare hands. It took a capable man to do that, mixing fast strategic thinking and well delivered strikes — Ah, something about this is rather thrilling to think about. Had he found a way in which he could realistically be the one in the role of the powerful eagle, between him and Bruce Wayne? A part of his considers it might not be the way to go, but closing in for the kill is just so tempting.
Emptying a glass once more, he finds himself entertaining all these scenarios. How would he even get into a fight with Wayne? Maybe he’d just put him on his knees out of the blue. Would that get the billboard smile out of his face? Would he be angry and defile that perfect image by himself, without needing any further efforts from Oswald?
He pictures it clearly. In one way or another, pushing him down so suddenly he couldn’t help but oblige, a hand on Wayne’s head, him looking up in pure confusion, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop the perverse smile from making its way into his face. Would Wayne feel diminished? Would it hurt his ego? Did he even have one? Oswald finds himself questioning all sorts of things.
But then...what?
The image freezes in his mind. The hand on his head sliding down, resting on his shoulder for a minute, he’d wonder how he really feels to the touch. And the position takes a bit of a vulgar subtext, something he doesn’t think had crossed his mind before, and—
Well, one couldn’t deny that Bruce Wayne was objectively attractive.
He’d never thought of him this way, not before. Oswald wasn’t exactly interested in men, never seeking something like this before, he already had all these others flying around him in threatening circles, waiting for an opportunity, he didn’t need to give them yet another reason to take a dive and attack him… but he wasn’t some blushing virgin, if that’s where the moment took him, then maybe he wouldn’t mind indulging. Wouldn’t that be another way of breaking that oh so perfect composure? Surely he’d be curious about where that would lead them, were he in a situation like that.
Just the thought gave him this rush of power he so craved.
“...Mr. Cobblepot?” The Wayne in his mind questions, eyes wide. He doesn’t struggle, doesn’t act repulsed or offended. Even as a businessman, he holds this sort of purity to him, despite having an image so surrounded by grandiose.
“What is it, Mr. Wayne?” He’d ask back, pressing him further to the floor. The thought makes him feel oddly warm.
The liquor was definitely doing most of the talking now, but he finds that he doesn’t mind that. He knows he’d run his hands over him, tracing his outline, feeling up the power he didn’t have. A thrill rushing across him, he’d look at Wayne like a sort of forbidden fruit, like Oswald would be tainting not only him but also himself by doing this, putting another crack on his frail image.
(Something buried deep within his mind whispers at him that it’d be worth it, so long as no one knew about the imagined affair. The lines between rationality and appetite blur, giving in to each other’s demands.)
It’s a different sort of fantasizing, not really your usual definition of attraction, was it? At least it wasn’t comparable to what Oswald had felt towards the women he’d thought about, and the ones he’d been with. It’s not like either option wasn’t as genuine as the other, they just worked differently. Some bizarre daydream of pinning Bruce Wayne to his office floor wasn’t the same thing as the heiress to some failing business empire hanging off his arm, hoping she’ll be able to save herself like that.
Wayne wouldn’t just give himself up and hope for a reward — He wasn’t the one getting that here. If he let Oswald have his way, it wouldn’t be for any sort of gain, because all he earned from the exchange was the confirmation that he was more of a man than a god.
Would that sting, Bruce? You were switching places with Oswald Cobblepot of all people now. Don’t you want to have all that control back?
“Do you hate it? The fact I’m doing this to you.” He’d ask, crooked smile still on, putting his weight and strength on the way he’d hold him down, and he’d hope that Wayne’s breath would hitch now. “The fact that it’s me.”
Out of fear? Anticipation? It didn’t matter. Power was what he was looking for. He couldn’t be him, but if he could strip his position away from him, if even for a moment, Oswald thinks he might be able to do anything at all.
To spread wings he didn’t actually have, and jump into a graceful soar.
It’s hard to imagine them going anywhere further, Oswald feels all the strange forms of magnetism that linked them together tangle up. Is it attraction that he feels? Really? He can’t fully grasp that concept, somehow. The thought of handling Wayne the way he’d handled any other partner felt…
But then again, if it was about stealing the power, maybe he could just break away from his usual restraints. He wouldn’t have to think about it. If he managed to knock Wayne out of his pedestal like this, would that change anything about either of their situations at all? Would Wayne see himself differently?
Would Oswald see himself differently?
He realizes, like this, how little he knows about the guy, and following that train of thought, it’s somewhat familiar. Like these girls who didn’t tell him anything beyond their heritages and career goals, true interests ever so subtly pushed towards him. And he wonders for a second if he wants to know more.
So there he was again, marveling at Bruce Wayne.
Even when the corners of his vision blur pleasantly from the drinks he’d had, gears spin inside his mind, regarding this situation.
“Do I?” The Wayne in his mind mutters before he even spells the question of ‘how would he react’ to himself, looking up at Oswald, voice soft like in few other times he’d heard him speak.
Does he want Wayne to hate it? Does he want him to like it? The images grow less stable, strange warmth spills into his thoughts, starting from a trickle but eventually evolving into a full flood.
Through the few slivers of information he had on that man, Oswald gets the sense he might be much more pliant than he’d take him for.
...he had dived into the daydream with thoughts of stealing power, but that sets itself aside for a bit. There was indeed one thing that made Wayne different from every other elite, and it was that sort of softness he had to his personality. It wasn’t always visible, but when it came to light, it made him stand out.
Ah. Wayne may seem like an eagle, but from up close, those feathers aren’t nearly as sharp. And Oswald feels like he should hate that, that it should feel like Wayne had given up halfway through a fight and let him win, but it doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it would.
Maybe he’d accept the defeat so gracefully it wouldn’t quite be one for him. A part of Oswald, mostly keeping to itself in the background of his thoughts, lets him know he was taking an unrealistic turn with all of these musings, but now wasn’t the time to pay attention to something like that. What started off as violence turns somehow tender, he thinks of Wayne’s amiability as he pictures him, still on his knees, taking Oswald’s hand in his and pressing a kiss to his fingers like a subordinate — Or ritualistically, maybe it was like the spread of a peacock’s feathers to the strange, unidentifiable bird in front of him.
Of wordlessly conceding to him that sort of permission, and Oswald’s hand tightens just slightly on the back of his head, his heartbeat felt in his throat with the strange rush it’d give him.
He thinks of that gentleness of his, that always had Oswald both wondering how he could survive in that bloodstained reality of Gotham aristocracy, creeping into their exchanges. Smiles and maybe, just maybe, a tentative touch back, while still waiting for Oswald to give him full permission to do that as well. A meeting that wasn’t just a meeting anymore, him taking the lighter from the coffee table when Oswald reached for a cigarette.
“Here, let me light that for you.”
And maybe their eyes meet as the flame flicks up—
Oddly enough, it’s now that a clear line between Wayne and Batman is drawn. If he could find power over Wayne like this, maybe he could do the same to the other person sharing the spot of his nemesis.
In that case, it would be nothing other than violent — And in would come the ending. To let Batman go, even if he could force him down like this, would mean giving him an opportunity to plan an even worse counter attack. He could have a split moment, perhaps, maybe it was something he even craved, he found now that he had floated along this daydream with Wayne.
But to reach him meant he’d have to kill him. Neither of these men were truly untouchable, it seems, but they came with different conditions for that.
That jarring reality makes him blink back into reality, the images of the office unblurring steadily. Regaining a good chunk of his common sense, he notes the bizarreness of the moment he’d just had.
Well, that couldn’t be helped, Oswald thinks, the grin turning into just a dry laugh as he feels around on his table for his cigarette holder, attaching one to the tip and lighting it. The smoke floods into his lungs, settling nerves that had begun to gather with the sudden enthusiasm from the bizarre ideas swirling around in his mind.
He exhales, blowing out smoke, the holder between his fingers.
That had been no more than that — A daydream, maybe the strangest one he’d ever entertained. But thinking about it, Oswald considers trying to take both his nemesis down for the thousandth time, although maybe not following that plan down to the last detail.
...although, he finds that he’s still not opposed to any of these ideas, even when he isn’t deep into the musings anymore.
He stares off at the wall, at his table, his empty glass. There was work to be done, if he wanted to try it all again, put himself through the things his greed tempts him to do.
There’s always this cyclical motion to it.
He tries to fly — Running as fast as his short legs would take him, spreading his wings, jumping as high as he could muster. Then he falls from that grace, deep into his own failure-induced misery, eyes pinned to the things above him he couldn’t reach.
He gets up. He tries again.
Oswald Cobblepot wasn’t Bruce Wayne, the Penguin wasn’t Batman, that much was obvious, but for now, Oswald entertains the notion that even a penguin like him could fly, one day — If he managed to take down the right eagle.