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The first time it happens, Ed does not pay it any mind.
Well, that is not entirely true. Ed always pays mind to what is being said around him. But it’s something said in passing, on one of the many mornings when he is not in a great rush to go to work. After all, he’s got it all covered. All planned.
“Pass me the cinnamon, will you?” he smiles, not lifting his eyes from the bowl of pancake batter. Everything is coming together smoothly. He hears the familiar yawn followed by steps, slowed by the morning grogginess. Oswald is definitely not a morning person.
“There you go, Schatz.”
He stops for a moment, searching in his mind for the meaning of the unfamiliar word. He finds nothing, and the process of making breakfast soon absorbs Ed back, not leaving any room for senseless ponderings. It is probably some stupid insult anyway. He’s so used to those, it doesn’t even phase him.
The second time happens in the grocery store. Of course, the entire trip feels a little bit insane, but Ed does not protest too much. He can see Oswald is getting bored inside, and if a quick snack trip in the middle of the night is all that’s needed to keep him entertained, he can live with that. And they need chips and candy anyway, their games of Clue cannot proceed without candy as a prize. Oswald loves candy, Ed learned, and he tries way harder at the game when it is the motivator. Which is great, because finally someone doesn’t lose to Ed immediately. Well, of course, Ed wins most of the time still, but his friend doesn’t seem to mind. They share the candy anyway.
And so it is 1 AM on a Saturday, and the corner grocery store is empty as ever. They’ve played two rounds already and the wine is really starting to kick in. Ed is trying his best to choose between two different flavours of chips, but the calculations in his brain don’t work as smoothly as usual.
“What do you think?” he finally turns to his companion, lifting the two packets. “Fromage or spicy paprika? They are both delicious, and the paprika would go well with the candy, but fromage-”
“Why not just take both?” Oswald smiles at him as if it were the most obvious answer, but there’s no pity or malice in his eyes. “Come, Schatz, I need to beat you at the game already. You’re too good.”
There it is, that mysterious word again. Ed furrows his eyebrows for a moment, but again, he is unable to decode it. Oswald heads for the register as if nothing happened, with the confidence of a man who is not the number one fugitive in Gotham.
“Come on, we don’t have the whole night.”
And so, Ed follows.
The third time, Ed is having the worst migraine of his life. Well, that is not entirely true, but it sure does feel like it. He can barely look at things, even with the shades pulled down and every light in the apartment turned off. The noises of the street are too much for him, and he feels like he is drifting in and out of consciousness. He would much rather stay out of it for the time being.
But then, there is a cold sensation on his temple. He lets out a sigh of relief.
“There you go,” he hears Oswald say, his voice soft and quiet. “Better?”
“Better,” he whispers, trying not to dwell too long on that tone. It’s… different, once again setting Ed’s thoughts in motion. Oswald’s careful, neutrally American articulation is gone for a moment, a trace of an accent surfacing. It’s not unpleasant, it compliments his voice. And the intonation of the sentence changes. It isn’t pity, but… Compassion? Care? Whatever it is, Ed can’t focus on it for too long, or the thoughts overwhelm him further into a headache.
There is a knock on the door, and Oswald’s fingers brush Ed’s forehead quickly.
“I’ll get it, stay right here.”
So Ed stays, listening intently. There are muffled voices outside, and finally curiosity wins with the migraine. He slowly crawls out of bed, fingers squeezing the ice pack, and steps towards the living room.
“Who is it?” he asks, closing his eyes. Even from his spot, the light is too much.
“Just detective Bullock with some questions. He was just leaving,” he can hear the annoyance in Oswald’s voice. But again, the tone softens: “Go back to bed, Schatz.”
He smiles, taking a step back, when Bullock’s voice cuts the silence.
“And since when is Nygma your darling exactly, Penguin? Not that I mind. I mean, I do. But not like that.”
Ed freezes. His heart does what feels like the most elaborate jump. Oh. Oh.
“Hey, Bullock. Why did Fish call you baby girl?” comes the answer, disinterested. Or so it would seem. But Ed knows Oswald’s tones better than that by now. Fear. Stress? Worry? Not good. He blinks a few times and heads back to bed, his hurting head now filled to the brim with thoughts, ready to explode.
The door closes, and soon the familiar sound of Oswald’s steps is the only noise in the apartment.
“Sorry for that. Damn Bullock and his loud… Anyway, you should rest.”
“Os,” Ed finally says, the noise in his head nonexistent as he figures out the answer to this riddle. “Come here.”
He pats the spot next to him on the bed, and a few seconds later feels the mattress shift. He changes his position swiftly, laying his head in Oswald’s lap. A surprised sigh. He feels Oswald’s hand next to his own, holding the ice pack. Ed slowly reaches out, letting their fingers brush.
“Did she really?” he asks, breaking the silence.
“Did she really what?” Oswald echoes, voice tense.
“Call Harvey baby girl,” Ed smiles and allows his fingers to wrap around Oswald’s. There is short laughter in response.
“All the time. Drove everyone insane.”
The fourth time still manages to take Ed by surprise as he feels their fingers intertwining.
“How is your head?” Oswald asks, and even with his eyes closed, Ed knows that he’s looking right at him.
“Better now,” he answers.
“That’s good. You should probably try to get some sleep, Schatz. You need to be well-rested.”
And, once again, his heart flutters at that. He brings Oswald’s fingers to his lips and kisses them.
Tomorrow, they can talk about this. Tonight, for the first time in so long, he falls asleep knowing exactly what he is feeling.