Work Text:
Oswald rolls his eyes at Fish’s back as she starts to walk toward her office. He’s seconds away from flipping her the bird, too, when she suddenly spins on her heel and jabs her perfectly manicured finger in his direction.
“I expect your final draft on my desk no later than Friday,” she says forcefully. “Take this seriously for once, Oswald.”
Oswald has to bite his tongue to stop himself from telling her it’s difficult to take his work seriously when all he produces are puff pieces and feel-good stories. “As a heart attack,” he says instead, his tone unconvincingly solemn.
Fish narrows her eyes at him suspiciously, but ultimately lowers her hand and takes her leave of his desk.
Once the door to her office is shut, Oswald heaves a heavy sigh and looks down at his newest assignment: some interview with a breakout Hollywood actor.
He’s sure some of his more vapid colleagues would be chomping at the bit for this story—when else would they get the opportunity to meet a movie star?!—but this kind of subject matter just reminds Oswald of the types of stories he’s not writing. He got into journalism to write substantive, meaningful stories about real world news; investigative exposés that could make an actual impact; hard-hitting pieces that uncover corruption, exploitation, and injustice.
Instead he works at the local newspaper, writing soft news for the soft-hearted—restaurant openings, twins separated at birth reuniting, pet adoption fairs, and now, apparently, the life and times of a Gotham-born D-list actor, Edward Nygma.
Oswald flips open the folder and immediately feels the blood drain from his face.
Their interview is scheduled for 8:00am tomorrow morning.
He glances at his computer screen for the time—6:00pm. That gives him an incredibly short amount of time for research. Stupidly short.
Because as much as Oswald hates the current state of his professional career, he always, always does his due diligence when it comes to his work, which in this case involves delving into Nygma’s background, identifying key people in his life (personal, professional, and everything in between), compiling a detailed filmography of his work, and watching his latest release, which for some godforsaken reason has a two-hour-and-sixteen-minute run time.
Opening up his internet browser to begin the arduous task ahead of him, Oswald inwardly curses whoever this Edward Nygma guy is, already drafting ways to backhandedly insult him in print.
Oswald hates 5-Hour Energy. It tastes abysmal and makes his heart feel like it might burst from his chest like a scene from the movie Alien.
That doesn’t, however, stop him from downing two bottles on the way to Nygma’s loft. As the bus he’s on wobbles ahead, he fleetingly wonders if he’ll gain ten hours of energy, or if he’ll just be doubly energetic for five.
Snorting at the thought, Oswald shakes his head and peers down at his notes, doing his best to commit them to memory.
Nygma is the stereotypical “leading man” type, with cheekbones practically chiseled out of stone and expressive brown eyes that would make any person swoon.
He completed schooling at Gotham’s most prestigious private university, St. Ignatius, which charges an arm and a leg for tuition—after, of course, the alleged background check verifying the applicant’s direct bloodline to a hotshot Wayne Enterprises/LexCorp executive, or a powerful international diplomat, or the queen of bloody England herself.
At twenty-five, he moved out to Los Angeles (because, obviously, that’s where all leading men flock), and after only three years, with a few commercial gigs, a couple of indie film supporting roles, and anonymous extra work in a handful of mainstream movies under his belt, he miraculously landed the starring role in Hollywood’s newest blockbuster: They Did What?
Oswald’s night was certainly productive, and perhaps the most notable takeaway from his dedicated hours of research is that he hates Edward Nygma more than he hates 5-Hour Energy.
The fact that he lost precious sleep in favor of painstakingly combing the world wide web for information he could have easily gleaned by just looking at the man fills him with outrage.
Tall, dark, and handsome. Check.
Preppy, privileged upbringing. Check.
Pretty-boy luck in the soulless City of Angels. Check.
It certainly doesn’t help that he had to sit through over two hours of cinematic drivel, with Nygma playing a charismatic scientist in a post-apocalyptic world where life on solid earth is no longer an option.
The first half of the movie focuses on his journey to uncover the coordinates to a submarine which would bring him and his co-star, the reputable Lee Thompkins, salvation from the horrors of what once used to be their homeland. In an unsurprising surprise twist, Nygma’s character finds that the coordinates actually led him to a scrap metal yard, and he comes to the realization that he has to build the submarine himself.
Not a problem though—he’s conveniently an engineer, and a welder, and a pilot, and he has all the knowledge and experience needed to build the sub and escape the mainland with his doe-eyed, docile, female companion. They fall in love by the end of it, of course, locking lips 300 meters underwater as the credits roll, and no one questions what will become of them when they inevitably run out of food or need to empty the septic tank.
It was an absolute atrocity plot-wise, and Oswald’s convinced it was only a hit because of Thompkins’ reputation and Nygma’s shiny new looks.
Even so, Oswald has a multitude of generic, positive phrases to use while speaking with the general public and interviewees. He’s confident in his ability to gush about the film and how it changed his life and completely turned around his world view and would have definitely cured his cancer, if he’d had it. As an afterthought, he nixes the last idea, uncertain that a shitty Spider-Man meme from the early 2000s will translate with one of these Hollywood types.
Grimacing to himself, Oswald flips to the next page of his notes. He dutifully skims through the information and reluctantly internalizes the rather salacious buzz about Nygma allegedly dating a set of twins, Kristen and Isabella, praying to whatever god exists that he won’t have to resort to that line of questioning during their interview.
Soon enough, Oswald hears his stop announced and tugs on the cord above him, placing his printed materials neatly back into his portfolio. While disembarking, he checks his phone and is pleased to see he’s made good time.
From the bus stop, it’s only a five-minute walk to Nygma’s apartment. The area itself isn’t one Oswald frequents, being on the side of town known for its manufacturing, and truthfully, it isn’t what he was expecting when he’d read that their interview would take place at the man’s part-time residence. Maybe there’s some kind of trendy, industrial steampunk movement he’s not aware of, with cool guy Nygma right in the middle of it.
805 Grundy isn’t a difficult building to spot. At ground level there’s a large auto garage advertising repairs at 50% off. The second level, and the only other level, is presumably Nygma’s.
With his watch reflecting 7:55am, Oswald presses the buzzer to the second floor.
After a moment, the intercom crackles to life and there’s a hesitant “…Hello?” through the speaker.
“Good morning, Mr. Nygma,” Oswald says as genially as possible, feeling like an actor himself. “This is Oswald Cobblepot with the Gotham Gazette. We have an eight o’clock meeting.”
“Oh my!” There’s a nervous sort of tittering and then Nygma speaks hurriedly. “Right, of course, please come on up.”
The intercom releases a long, sustained beep and the door audibly unlocks. Oswald lets himself in and begins the ascent upstairs, steeling himself for what fresh hell awaits him.
He’s done one of these glitzy actor pieces once before, featuring a rising starlet by the name of Tabby Galavan. She arrived at their meeting place an hour late, was tight-lipped and standoffish, and spent half the interview texting her girlfriend, Barbara. The other half was spent texting her boyfriend, Butch.
Judging by their intercom interaction, Nygma wasn’t ready for him, and Oswald’s half-expecting the man to be unshowered and clad in just a dressing gown. When he reaches the upstairs landing and hears frenzied movement (and is that banging?) bleeding into the hallway, he doesn’t have very high hopes.
Pasting on his best smile, Oswald rings the doorbell to Nygma’s apartment. He’s barely brought his hand back to his side when the door slides open and his host greets him with another “Hello!”, this time enthusiastic.
To Oswald’s pleasant surprise, Nygma’s fully dressed and—and, well, quite different from what he’d initially imagined.
While his red carpet photos and magazine shoots always showed him dressed to the nines in some voguish, form-fitting suit with his hair perfectly styled back, Nygma is instead clad in a pair of slimming trousers in a muted tartan print and a soft, comfortable-looking knit sweater over a collared shirt and tie. He’s styled his hair this morning with what Oswald considers to be a little too much gel and too far of a side-part. It’s not a bad look altogether, though—just not what he’d been anticipating.
Maybe most surprising of all is the pair of horn-rimmed browline glasses he’s wearing to complete his ensemble. Ordinarily it’s a fashion choice made by hipsters and rockabilly types, but on Nygma it looks perfectly befitting.
Suddenly conscious of his staring, Oswald clears his throat. “Hello,” he says back in greeting, extending his arm out for a handshake, “my name is Oswald. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Nygma beams widely, looking impossibly young and boyish. “It’s nice to meet you too, Oswald.” He encircles Oswald’s hand with both of his, shaking it earnestly. “Edward. Ed.”
Oswald sends him a strained smile back, then slips his hand out from Nygma’s eager grasp after a frankly absurd number of shakes. “Ed,” he repeats with a nod. “May I come in?”
“Oh! Sure, yes, please do.” Ed moves aside and gestures into the apartment.
“Thank you,” Oswald says distractedly, stepping into the loft and gazing at the space in wonderment.
It’s not the posh, elegant abode of a movie star (though to be fair, it’s unlikely that any building in this side of town would have the elegance of a Los Angeles penthouse), but it’s large with an open concept design and it’s charming in an incongruous kind of way. The walls are a mishmash of exposed brick, stone tiles, and cementlike plaster, and large, sprawling windows on the far sides of the room allow for plenty of natural light to stream in.
As Ed slides the door shut with a loud, metallic clank, Oswald wanders further in, looking up at an embowed section of the ceiling constructed solely of skylight windows running lengthwise across the apartment from the living space to the kitchen. It’s a bit extra, and in any other apartment he’d call it pretentious, but it doesn’t put Oswald off here in Ed’s space. Something about the place just feels homey and natural.
“Can I offer you some coffee?” Ed says, materializing at his side seemingly out of nowhere.
Startled by his sudden appearance, Oswald’s eyes widen and he shakes his head quickly. With how much caffeine he’s already consumed, coffee would be a terrible idea for his heart, especially since Ed seems to specialize in jump scares and sneak attacks.
“No, thank you. Not much of a coffee drinker,” he admits.
Ed grins, bouncing once on the balls of his feet and leaning slightly forward. “What letter is a drink?”
“Is this…” Oswald stares blankly at Ed before remembering that he’s currently working. “Are you asking me a riddle?” he says, schooling his face into something more professional.
“Do you like riddles?” Ed asks eagerly.
Oswald doesn’t, but he knows that building rapport is an important part of any interview. With a gracious nod, he racks his brain for a suitable guess.
“Do you give up?”
“Tea?” Oswald offers. Then, more assuredly, because it’s really the only possible answer, “Tea. You’re offering me tea?”
Ed’s face lights up like a Christmas tree and he nods enthusiastically. “Yes!”
Oswald has to very carefully keep his facial expression as it is, otherwise he’d be giving Ed the strangest, most baffled look possible. “I’m…alright, but thanks. Do you have somewhere specific you’d like us to conduct the interview?”
“Sure, the table works,” Ed says, motioning toward where a circular table and two metal chairs sit under a hanging pendant light. “I’ll be right there.”
Oswald walks over to the table, absorbing the furnishings and décor on this side of the room, before placing his folder neatly on the table’s surface and taking a seat. Ed soon joins him, sitting across from him whilst sipping from a question mark-patterned mug.
“I’ve never really done one of these before,” Ed says sheepishly, clutching at his mug with both hands. “An interview, I mean. So it’ll be a bit new for me.”
Oswald noticed that last night—Ed’s answered a few questions on the red carpet here and there, but he hasn’t been on any late-night talk shows, he has virtually no presence in print media, and he wasn’t even part of the movie’s extensive press junket. It’s almost like media outlets have him blacklisted, but Oswald can’t imagine why that would be the case for someone so new to the scene.
After fifteen minutes of talking with Ed, however, he gets the sense that he’d had it all mixed up. It’s not that the media doesn’t want to engage with him—
It’s that his agent, or his manager, or even the whole damn movie studio, won’t let him. And for good reason, too.
The man is a disaster, an absolute trainwreck.
In fifteen minutes, Oswald has asked one question.
By comparison, Ed has asked two riddles (and then immediately answered them before Oswald could get a word in), explained the efficiency of a rhizomatic cross-index for use in filing and recordkeeping, described in shocking detail the effects of a frankly horrific street drug in LA called Viper, and recited an entire crème brulée recipe from memory. Oswald’s legal pad is a scrambled mess of tangential notes, written fully in the margins because none of what Ed has said pertains in any way to the list of questions on the page.
When Ed finally pauses to take a drink from his mug, Oswald jumps at the chance to redirect the flow of their conversation. Putting on his friendliest face, he rests a hand on the table between them and makes meaningful eye contact with Ed.
“Hey, it’s okay if you’re a little nervous,” he says, trying to sound as kind as possible. “First interview jitters, I get it. I find it helpful if there’s a bit of structure to the conversation. Would you be alright with me asking some of the questions I have written here, and then maybe we can revisit some of your other topics after?”
He’s skating a very thin line between gentle and patronizing, but Ed seems to respond positively enough.
“Yes, of course, duh,” Ed chimes, lightly smacking his forehead. “Ask away.”
After that, things move a lot more smoothly. Oswald asks about Ed’s experience filming the movie, his recent decision to split time between Los Angeles and Gotham, potential future projects, and the list goes on. He does still have to furtively steer Ed back on topic when he inevitably jumps to some new, out of left field subject, but they establish a comfortable enough rhythm between them.
Of all the information Oswald’s gaining from this conversation, perhaps the most significant thing he learns is this:
Ed Nygma is a fantastic actor.
Oswald is utterly blown away by the knowledge that this awkward, rambling man in front of him is nothing like the character he played on the big screen, and the fact that he could spend two hours presenting as the perfectly cool, confident—and at times even flamboyant—protagonist is a testament to his acting ability.
The way he holds himself, the way he moves and gesticulates—hell, even the register of his voice—it’s all so unbelievably, uncannily different. There’s acting, like the already suave Brad Pitt playing a charismatic anarchist, and then there’s whatever the fuck kind of soul-selling witchcraft Ed Nygma did, transforming himself from a nervous, jittery mess of a man into a strong-willed, assertive hero with razor-sharp focus.
“I’m curious to know, Ed, how did you get into acting?" Oswald asks keenly, steadying the nib of his pen on the pad in front of him. “Is it something you’ve always had a passion for? I mean, you moved all the way across the country for it!”
Ed laughs mirthfully, shaking his head. “Well, getting into the business was a pure accident. And honestly, I’d never really acted before.”
Oswald suppresses an eye-roll. Dumb luck, as he’d expected.
“I originally moved out to California because I wanted to consult on police procedurals and crime dramas,” Ed explains.
Intrigue piqued, Oswald nods attentively, remaining silent so that Ed can elaborate.
This turns out to be the topic that Ed, the eccentric little man he is, apparently deems uninteresting, because he just blinks at Oswald owlishly from across the table, as though waiting for the next question. This is the same guy who spent five whole minutes talking about non-hierarchical data paradigms.
“That is quite a specific endeavor,” Oswald says encouragingly, after it becomes clear that Ed is definitely done talking. “What kind of consulting do you mean?”
“Oh, something along the lines of forensics,” Ed replies airily. “It always grinds my gears when I’m watching a crime show and it’s full of scientific jargon for the sake of scientific jargon. It’s like, they expect the viewer to implicitly trust everything that comes out of the mouth of a crime scene tech, or a medical examiner, or any person wearing a white lab coat, when in actuality, the scripts are often fraught with inaccuracies. That’s just lazy writing.”
Oswald’s eyebrows furrow dubiously. “If you don’t mind me asking, what qualifications do you have that would help in that line of work?” He tries his absolute best to keep the skepticism out of his voice.
“Oh, it’s not too interesting. I have a Bachelor of Science in Criminal Justice and a Master of Arts in Applied Criminology. It was through a dual-degree program at my university, so I was able to finish both in five years,” Ed says simply. “After that, I spent a couple years recreationally studying entomology, botany, and mineralogy, and was published in a few academic journals.” Then, he gives a nonchalant shrug, as if he hadn’t just listed off the intellectual achievements of a wizard genius.
Oswald can feel his face doing things it shouldn’t be, but he really can’t help it this time. Absolutely none of this had come up in his research, and Ed’s taken him completely by surprise with his impressive educational background. “Ahh, understood. Those are certainly admirable accomplishments,” he says, trying to imitate Ed’s casual air. “St. Ignatius is the university you attended, correct? I didn’t even know they had dual-degree programs.”
Ed shakes his head. “Well, they didn’t, but after a lot of research, hard work, and persistent badgering, I was able to work with my counselor to convince the dean’s office to make one happen for me.”
A bit embarrassedly, he adds, “I was there on a full-ride academic scholarship that covered four years of tuition. I knew for certain I wanted to earn a master's degree, but there was no way I’d be able to afford it, at Ignatius or anywhere, really. So I created and proposed a program that condensed all coursework required for both degrees into the shortest possible amount of time—five, luckily—and then requested that they redistribute my total scholarship value across that interval instead. When they finally approved it, I got a part-time job to pay the remaining twenty percent each year, and it all worked out in the end.”
“Ed, that’s incredible,” Oswald breathes in amazement. “It sounds almost impossible.”
“Oh, the last two years were probably the worst of my life, that’s for sure. Between work and my accelerated course load, I had virtually zero free time and didn’t really have a social life… But the coursework itself was fascinating, and, well, we all have our coping mechanisms.” Ed says the last bit vaguely, trailing off at the end as if it wasn’t something he’d meant to share.
Oswald’s mind, unbidden, fills in the blank. Drugs, maybe?
Suddenly feeling very guilty for having been so cynical of Ed and immediately branding him as just another pretty boy who’s never had to work hard for anything, Oswald shoots Ed a warm, sympathetic smile. “Sure,” he says understandingly, “we all do.” He clears his throat, then tactfully segues into a less delicate subject.
“But yes, wow, what a ride. Now I’m really wondering how you went from ‘consulting on television crime shows’ to ‘starring in blockbusting motion pictures’. How did you end up acting?”
Ed smiles bashfully, seemingly relieved to be back on track with the interview. “Okay, that was 100% an accident, like I said. When I got to LA, I had no clue how to even pursue what it was I wanted to do… All of my emails and phone calls to television stations, production companies and studios were going unanswered, and I was a little bit at my wit’s end. One day I just drove up to a studio in—and please forgive me, I know this sounds absolutely ridiculous—Studio City, somehow snagged a visitor’s pass, and just started wandering around the lots in the hope that I could sneak my way onto a crime show set.
“A woman flagged me down and asked for my information, and for a second I thought she was going to have me kicked out, but then she introduced herself as a casting director. It turns out she was working on a commercial and I happened to be the right height and build for what they were looking for, so she invited me to an audition in Burbank the next day.”
Oswald can’t help but laugh out loud, finding the story genuinely charming. There was some dumb luck involved, sure, but in a goofy sitcom type of way that’s far more endearing than what his judgmental mind was imagining.
“Against all odds,” Ed finishes, “I managed to book it, and that was my first gig.”
Still grinning, Oswald throws Ed teasing look. “The grape juice commercial, right? With you and those two people dressed up as fruit?”
Ed rolls his eyes, but he has a fond expression on his face. “That one exactly. It was a cage match between a bunch of grapes and a strawberry, to determine which was the better juice. The costumes were big and unwieldy, so they wanted someone tall and pretty slim to be the referee. It’s probably the most bizarre thing I’ve ever been a part of.”
Oswald snickers to himself, remembering the first time he’d seen the commercial on TV. “I mean, you’ve got to start somewhere,” he says lightly.
“Yes…” Ed says, his tone suddenly taking on a sly edge. “We all start somewhere.” Then he gives Oswald a long, knowing look, leaning forward and folding his hands primly on the table in front of him.
Unfortunately, whatever message Ed’s trying to impart is completely lost on Oswald. He gives Ed a mystified look in return.
“I know who you are,” Ed says in a singsong voice, as if that will help clarify what he’s trying to get at.
Warily, Oswald glances down at Ed’s mug, wondering if there’s something stronger than just coffee in there.
“Did you know,” Ed continues, sounding quite smug, “that male emperor penguins keep their eggs warm by balancing them on their feet?”
For a moment, Oswald thinks his hearing might have failed him. Did Ed just…?
“Isn’t that neat?” With a massive smile on his face, Ed pops the ‘t’ deliberately.
Oswald stares at Ed, slack-jawed. “You…you know about The Iceberg Lounge?” he says incredulously, his eyes as wide as saucers.
The Iceberg Lounge: a now defunct website which was previously owned and maintained by Oswald himself, under the pseudonym Penguin. It was something he’d started his first year of college, an anonymous space in the digital world to exercise his writing skills and record some of his day-to-day. It started out rather humdrum, as all personal blogs do, but then he started to become aware of some rather suspicious things taking place around him. Seedy things. Criminal things.
He’d write about them when he saw them, because they were typically the most exciting part of his otherwise mundane day. After a number of entries, however, he started to discover patterns. Links. Connections. Before long he was doing his own civilian version of detective work, trying to piece together what it all meant and documenting the process.
(It should be noted that Oswald never published names or specific locations, of course, because he didn’t want to inadvertently ruin some poor, innocent person’s life—but that added challenge of being forced to rely only on strong, detailed descriptors really helped to develop his writing skills.)
After a few months, he’d managed to garner a following. His site received daily hits in the hundreds, strangers were messaging him to give their feedback, and there were actual people engaging in real discourse in the comments section.
The first time, however, he realized the extent of his success as a writer-slash-investigative-blogger was when he turned on the news one evening and saw Salvatore Maroni’s mugshot staring right back at him. According to the news report, he’d been the kingpin behind an illicit drug ring, and the GCPD had arrested and charged him just earlier that day.
Oswald was over the moon—all the clues had pointed him in Maroni’s direction, and this just proved him right.
And, as if it couldn’t get any better, the newscaster ended her report in the best way possible:
“Authorities were acting on a tip sent in by an anonymous source. The tip in question was a link to a website which detailed many of the drug ring’s movements through the harbor. With the writer’s observations and some good old fashioned police work, the GCPD were able to determine the time and location of the next shipment and intercept it. So, if you’re out there listening, Penguin—Gotham thanks you.”
“You won’t believe how hard it was for me to talk about myself for two hours when I’m literally sitting across from the Penguin,” Ed gushes, looking excited and boyish again. “I used to eat, sleep, and breathe The Iceberg Lounge. You and I even used to exchange messages, but well, neither of us knew who the other was, because of the internet and everything—anyway, what I mean to say is that I’m a huge fan of your work.”
Oswald lifts a hand up to the back of his neck, rubbing at it self-consciously. “Oh, Ed, thanks, I appreciate it, but that was such a long time ago. I don’t, y’know, do that anymore, I write…” He gestures vaguely between them, deflating at the very thought.
Ed just clicks his tongue. “I know, but I do like your current stuff too. The subject matter’s changed, sure, but your writing is still excellent,” he says sensibly. “Better now, of course, because you’ve obviously had more practice, but your voice is still you. That’s how I was able to make the connection between you and your old nom de plume—stylistically, you’re quite distinct. Unforgettable.”
Oswald’s face heats up. “That’s really nice of you to say.” One compliment from a handsome man and he’s blushing like a schoolboy, just perfect.
“It’s not nice, it’s a fact,” Ed corrects with a no-nonsense air, jabbing his finger down onto the table as if to punctuate his point.
Oswald smiles wryly at Ed’s candid display. There’s something refreshing about being in his presence, and Oswald’s glad to have had the chance to experience it.
He’s certainly not the man Oswald assumed he’d be, and at this stage in his life, and in his particular brand of journalism, being taken by surprise is a rare treat. Instead of being another walking cliché, he’s an eclectic jumble of rare talents and skills that all ought to be incompatible, but somehow, they come together to make Ed—overwhelmingly quirky, unbelievably talented, excessively modest, impossibly intelligent, deservedly accomplished, unapologetically authentic—the man he is.
“Well,” Oswald replies, sufficiently warmed by Ed’s support, “thank you, Ed. I don’t know if I’ve said this already, but I think you’re a truly gifted actor. There isn’t going to be a single household in America that doesn’t know the name Edward Nygma.”
Ed flushes pink as well, and they exchange soft, pleased smiles across the table.
Reflecting on his last words, Oswald reluctantly acknowledges that he perhaps ought to return to work mode. He does, after all, have a deadline.
“We’ll start with Gotham, of course,” he finally forces himself to say, moving to tuck his research notes and legal pad into his portfolio. “This is going to be a great article, I promise you that. Is there anything else you wanted to cover before we wrap up?”
Ed’s face takes on a panicked expression, and with a strangled noise, he slams his palms down on the table and jumps up out of his seat. “I have a confession,” he says abruptly, his eyes flitting around the room, looking everywhere but at Oswald’s face. He sounds nervous.
Oswald raises his eyebrows at Ed’s shift in behavior.
Ed exhales loudly, drawing his hands to his chest and twisting his fingers together almost unconsciously. “I asked for an interview with you for a chance to meet you face-to-face, but that’s not all,” is the cagey explanation.
“O…kay,” Oswald replies slowly, encouragingly. “What else is there?”
Ed gives him a tight-lipped smile that looks almost like a grimace. “Um, here, let me just…”
He crosses the room to the cluttered desk by the entrance and grabs a sheet of paper off the printer. He then spends a few seconds staring down at it, and a few more seconds folding it in half.
Just when Oswald thinks he’s going to walk back over to the table, he folds it once more, into quarters. The scene would almost be a bit comical if Ed didn’t look so anxious.
Finally, Ed returns to his seat, distractedly fiddling with the paper, and sits back down across from Oswald.
“I know I’m probably not what you were expecting,” he says quickly, the words nearly running together, “and I completely understand if too much time has passed and this isn’t something you’re interested in anymore, and honestly I wouldn’t be offended if you just ran out right now because yes, okay, this is undeniably a weird situ—”
Without letting Ed finish, Oswald snatches the paper from his hand, half out of curiosity and half because it seemed the most direct way to stop Ed’s word vomit.
Unfolding it, he sees an 8-bit messenger layout he hasn’t laid eyes on in quite some time, as well as a particular username that he hasn’t thought of in years.
>> RIDL LVR: it’s sad to hear you’re closing down the website. i wish you the best with whatever’s next in life for you.
>> RIDL LVR: sorry if this is tm, but i’ll miss talking to you.
<< Penguin: it’s not, i’m gonna miss you too.
<< Penguin: sorry if THIS is tm, but maybe…if we ever happen to meet in real life, would you maybe want to go out sometime?
>> RIDL LVR: yes, i’d like that.
>> RIDL LVR: if fate or whatever brings us together irl, i would love to go out with you.
<< Penguin: i’ll hold you to it.
Something warm flutters in Oswald’s chest, and when his gaze finds Ed’s, it spreads to the rest of his body. “Are you asking me out on a date?” he says slowly.
Ed adjusts his glasses nervously. “Technically, you’re the one who asked me out.”
Oswald huffs out a breathless laugh. “I can’t believe this is happening,” he murmurs, gazing back down at the printed screengrab.
Ed laughs too, though it’s a bit hesitant. “Do you mean that in a good way, or a bad way?”
Oswald’s eyes snap back up to Ed’s and the words are out of his mouth before he can even blink: “A good way, definitely. The best way.”
Ed’s face brightens and is face splits into a wide grin. “Good. Great. And who knows, maybe we’ll stumble upon suspicious activity—or a grisly murder!—and you can start The Iceberg Lounge back up.
Oswald chuckles. “If it’s a murder, we can use your forensic expertise to catch the killer.”
“We’d be a modern-day Holmes and Watson,” Ed says. “They can call us—”
“Penguin and Riddler,” Oswald says proudly.
“Penguin and Riddler…” Ed’s smile widens and his eyes glitter with excitement. “It’s perfect.”