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Bruce doesn’t know why he stays. Maybe it’s the empty bedside, the lack of even a friend to hold his hand. Maybe it’s the way they’ve broken his nose, the dried blood down his face. Maybe it’s all the injuries. Maybe it’s the desire to know what truly went down in that alleyway. Bruce doesn’t know. But he’s not going anywhere soon.
It’s not easy to sit in the costume, but he makes do, eventually, lowering himself into a position that he could stand to be in for longer than a few minutes. There’s nothing to do in this room apart from watch the man lie unconscious. Even his breathing makes Bruce unhappy. It’s slow, not quite right.
There’s no explanation as to why Bruce, the Batman, Vengeance himself should feel as much sympathy for Oswald Cobblepot as he does. He’s never seen the man look so pathetic, so beat down and broken, even after they’ve faced an encounter together. Bruce never intentionally winds people up in the hospital. Maybe it happens. He’s never around long enough to see.
But he knows Cobblepot, has fought the Penguin many times, has dined in his Lounge for a discount because he’s Bruce Wayne. There’s an air of familiarity that comes from being around someone so much, even if Bruce knows for a fact that he’s no good. He’s not flat out evil, but everyone with a brain knows about his tendencies.
Yet here he still is, by his bedside, waiting for him to wake up and inevitably squawk about how Bruce should leave immediately, how dare he humiliate him by staying over him. Waiting for him to wake up so he could hand him into the police who will inevitably turn a blind eye for the right slip of cash. Or maybe he wouldn’t care. Maybe he’d just need the presence.
Is Oswald truly alone? The nurses did say they were calling for any loved ones, details stored on his mobile. He tries to remember if Oswald has ever mentioned a wife, a family. Even just a network of people outside of his employees. Bruce can’t think of anything. Will nobody else come? There’s almost a sadness to that aspect.
Surely a man like Oswald has strings of people pawing at his feet for his power and money and pure attention; Bruce gets it all the time. The man shows less restraint than Bruce does, he knows that intrinsically, so perhaps there’s someone who will show up just to get the edge over the others? Or does Oswald never think to stock his phone with whoever’s after his offers?
He’s never thought much about Cobblepot’s personal life, it’s a weird thing to think about, but seeing a man trampled and broken in a way not even the most despicable person deserves makes it hard not to. There’s a mental image of the nurses coming back into the room, cowering because of the cowl, asking him if he wants to stay because nobody else is here, nobody else is coming.
Admittedly, Bruce isn’t much better. He’s only got his army of birds and bats, Selina if they’re in a good mood at the same time, and Alfred. But even he is sure, if anything this dire were to happen to him, they would all scramble to get there as quickly as they could. He’d do the same for them. He’s done it for Dick countless times since he flew out on his own. There’s no doubt about it. He sighs and tilts his head as he watches Oswald breathe.
What if he dies and only Bruce is there to see it? There might be a family alive but unable to reach him in time and Bruce will have to adorn the mask and tell them about how they lost their son, brother, perhaps even uncle. It’s a horrific way to go, even if he’s sure a man like the Penguin could pull out of it. He’s resilient. He’s strong.
He’s about to go off on another tangent when he hears the slam of an open door. He barely looks up from Cobblepot, certain it’s some more medical equipment being rolled in, when a terribly shrill and disturbingly familiar voice fills the entire space of the hospital room.
“Oh, Birdie!”
Bruce snaps his head around, expecting to fight the Riddler in another epic battle of miscommunication and wits. But he’s not faced with the Riddler, not in his full glory at least. He’s in an overly large T-shirt and hastily pulled on joggers. He’s breathing like he ran, and he runs a hand across his forehead. This isn’t Riddler. This is Edward E. Nygma.
Ed glances at the Bat in the chair cautiously, before concluding perhaps he doesn’t recognise him, and instead collapses by Oswald’s bed and stares wetly at him. It’s confusing as to why it’s Edward who comes to visit him, of all the rogues in the gallery. He can’t pin it on him thinking it could lead him to Batman, either, because the Riddler has an icky tendency to be a step ahead at all times.
“A friend?” Bruce ponders aloud, and Ed looks up at him with a frown. He nods, strained.
“Something like that.”
“Nurses call?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be a detective?” Ed asks, that irritating smug grin spreading. He then must remember that he’s pretending to not be the incessant smart ass he parades around as. “Sorry, that was rude. I’m just-“
“Worried, I get it,” Bruce concedes, and his face does show it. He wracks his brain to remember that yes, these two have in fact gone on sprees together on the occasion. It would make sense that a man as personable and as cunning as the prized Prince of Puzzles would form a no doubt beneficial alliance for his grander schemes and plots. Ed looks away from Bruce and back at Oswald. “How long have you known him?”
At this, the Riddler smiles again, but it’s so soft that it almost takes Bruce aback. As if he’s remembering his fondest memory. He knows his acting is good, Bruce has come into contact with it many times, and even he doesn’t quite know if the smile is real or a rehearsed bit. He’s here to prove something to Oswald, Bruce thinks. To strengthen their alliance. He has to be.
“Five, maybe six years, now,” Ed says and tilts his head as if to get a better look at Oswald’s face. There are tear streaks down his cheeks. “He found me, and never once looked back, that’s what he said. I don’t know why, I was… in a dark place, to say the least.”
Six years ago, the Riddler was in the middle of Gotham, surrounded by his own convoluted traps, yelling and screaming in the middle of a long overdue mental breakdown. Bruce cannot remember the Penguin ever being there. Not even in a nearby restaurant, always at the crime scene but never involved enough to be charged.
“Did you do this to him?” Riddler asks, almost defeated, out of sheer thin air. Bruce shakes his head. “Good. Did you get them?”
“No, the police are still searching.”
“Why aren’t you helping them?”
It’s short, it’s angry. It’s vengeful in a way and Bruce wants to dispel it as soon as possible.
“He looked lonely.”
Edward cries out in a very strangled way and flops his head on the mattress, eyes intent on staying on the Penguin. His hand rests on Oswald’s arm and Bruce allows him this moment of privacy almost instinctively. He looks anywhere but.
“You didn’t have to stay, I’d have come,” Ed practically blubbers, “I always come. I’ll always come for him, he knows that, I’m always here.”
‘Something like that.’ That’s what Edward said. Bruce frowns and looks back at them.
“He’s going to be alright. He’s tough.“
“I know that,” the Riddler snaps in that way he always does when the not so obvious is pointed out to him but he just has to be in charge. “He’s stronger than I am. If I’d been beaten senseless, oh, he’d already be filling out the forms for my medical insurance.”
“Not that you’d have any reason to be beaten down, right?“
“Right,” Ed says but looks up from staring at a bruise on his accomplice’s face. “Of course.”
They stare at each other. There’s an unspoken agreement in the air. Ed runs his hands through Oswald’s hair so tenderly that he barely even moves his hands at all. He flinches as his fingers intercept a tangle fused together with dried blood.
“What’d he say he’d be doing tonight, do you know?“
“Working the club, staying back to handle some more… financially complicated dealings.”
“I’ll pretend I don’t understand what that means.” Bruce tries to get a laugh from the Riddler, but either he doesn’t hear him or he’s just so involved in his little speech that he can’t bring himself to acknowledge it. He knows him too well to consider the first option too deeply.
“But he was on his way home! He texted me that, and I put the kettle on and- and his tea ran cold.”
“You live together?”
“Somewhat. I’m simply staying at his place until he decides to kick me out.”
“And how long has it been so far?”
“Four years,” Ed says, then pauses. “I guess you’re… somewhat correct in your assumption, but it was an assumption, so I won't sing your praise too highly.”
If he’s still acting as if he’s someone else, someone the Batman doesn't know, he’s doing a terrible job at it. He doesn’t even curse himself or restrain his smug pout.
“Is there anyone after him that might attack him that you know of?”
“Not particularly. There’s a lot of names that get thrown around, I can’t keep up, honestly. It’s best to let him run out of steam.”
“Is there anyone that he works with, say a high ranking rogue, who might see him as useful bait?“
“If you’re referring to the Riddler, then no. I doubt he has other enemies as of now. Apart from…” Ed’s eyes flicker to Bruce’s for a fleeting moment, and he nods.
There’s a healthy pause as Ed goes back to cooing over Oswald’s entirely unconscious figure. He tries to straighten his hospital garb, proclaiming he looks uncomfortable, but he barely moves it. It’s as if he’s just trying to comfort him, trying to do something to help him. He’s shaking, and he’s still crying. He’s never stopped crying.
Bruce watches him try and tie his own shirt more tightly around himself. He looks between the two of them, their size and the way Ed keeps touching him, and nods. As if to tell Ed ‘ah. I get it now.’ As if to tell himself. Oswald isn’t entirely alone, and as much as that’s a terrifying thought for the citizens he’s protecting, it’s somewhat reassuring. He tries to stop himself from smiling as Ed, now happily in the clear, rests his forehead to Oswald’s before slinking back down to lean on the side of the bed.
“He means a lot to me, you know,” Ed says and returns his attention to him, “there’s not a guy like him.”
Bruce hums. He’s starting to feel the need to leave. Edward sighs, sadly, and there’s a hitch to his breath.
“I don’t want him to die.”
“No. I don’t either.”
“You’re a lot nicer when you aren’t trying to get me tied up and sent away.”
“Because I didn’t wish death on him? Your standards are low, Nygma.“
Ed finally laughs. He weaves his fingers with the stiff ones he keeps himself by. It’s a nice sight, really, to see the two of them so real and so vulnerable and so not trying to get him trapped or killed or a bit of both.
“I’ll look for them,” Ed says, steely. Bruce doesn’t want to be the one to tell him he can’t, so he just nods once again. “I’ll look for them, and when I find them, I’ll make them pay.”
Bruce makes a note to find them first, or at the very least keep Riddler under closer surveillance for a while. He watches as Ed strokes Oswald’s arm slowly, methodically, and decides it’s his cue to go. Knowing that the man won’t wake up alone, knowing that if the worst happens, he won’t die alone. Knowing that any family that may be here is here, Bruce decides he can leave.
He stands, and Ed is almost surprised in the way he looks at him. He follows Bruce with his eyes until he reaches the door. Just as he’s about to leave, the saddest sound halts him.
“Can you stay? A little longer?”
He’s almost convinced it’s a trick until he turns around and remembers just how undeniably exposed the Riddler is. He’s covering himself more than the ghastly skintight suit does, but somehow he’s baring more in the moment than any uncomfortably flamboyant get-up could. Bruce shuts the door, not sure on what he can do anymore, but unable to turn his back on someone who needs his help.
So Bruce stays.
And in the next days, weeks, months, he decides that maybe the sightings of the Riddler cruising along on a bedazzled, oversized motorbike aren’t worth his trouble. And when they find a group of Falcone’s men strung up by their ankles by a large length of rope, dangling from a streetlight, Bruce decides that maybe the riddle tucked into the knot is best solved later in the morning. And if he notices that the usual overly complicated jobs that always arrive with a puzzle return in striking accordance to the reinstatement of the Iceberg Lounge’s owner, Bruce decides that it’s not something all that worth mentioning.