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There are 3,652 days in ten years and Edward Nygma counted every single one. Every day was a tally mark he’d carved into the wall of his asylum cell using a shiv he’d crafted from the handle of a broken paintbrush. The years stretched on, blurring into one another as Edward plummeted into a maddening spiral. However, despite his current drug-induced manic state, Edward was beginning to wonder if Oswald had been the one to lose his mind in their isolation.
“Have you even been listening to me?” Edward barked, his hands raised on either side of his head, fingers splayed. His crudely chopped hair stuck out in all directions. Oswald had offered to clean it up for him, but Ed was too wired from their encounter with the terrifying vigilante and couldn’t sit still.
“No,” Oswald answered bluntly and folded the takeout menu over to look at the backside. He frowned. “Should we just order one of everything?”
Edward felt his face twitch. Any semblance of a mask had been ripped from him during his time in Arkham. He was no longer the cold logician in control of his faculties. Now, he truly was the jibbering loon he’d been accused of being years ago. “Are you really that hungry?”
Oswald didn’t look up from the menu, but Edward noticed the man’s eyebrow raise.
“I want to indulge,” he answered with a sigh.
Edward gritted his teeth as tightly as he gripped the edge of the table. He’d commandeered it as a makeshift desk so he could work out the details of his “Return to Gotham Heist.” It was all he could think about after they’d safely escaped the masked vigilante. He and Oswald agreed to deal with the matter tomorrow, but Edward wanted to be prepared. More importantly, he wanted to put on a show-stopping performance that the madman, Valeska, didn’t influence. He refused to let him take the Riddler’s limelight and he intended to make the city pay for locking him away.
However, Oswald wasn’t at all interested in his plans aside from the assurance that he would pay for it. Oswald guaranteed his friend the resources to execute his comeback, whatever they may be, and Edward was inclined to push the offer as far as he could just to see the extent of his friend’s power. He assumed Oswald would at least want to know where his money was going, but all Edward could pull from him was a quiet hum and the occasional head nod. It was infuriating.
The safe house was cozy and fully furnished with all the proper amenities. One detail that struck Edward was that there were two bedrooms, albeit small, and the pantry was filled with Edward’s favorite brand of coffee.
After Oswald informed him that it had been Jeremiah Valeska who orchestrated the Riddler’s escape from Arkham Asylum, Edward felt a pang in his chest—a familiar pain he didn’t want to name. However, it was clear to him now that his friend had every intention of sharing his freedom from the start. That realization energized Edward and he hadn’t quite come down from that emotional high.
His eyes trailed all along Oswald’s form starting from his double chin down to his protruding gut and round thighs.
Ed smirked. “It appears you had no problem indulging before now.”
Truth be told, the Penguin never lost power while inside Blackgate. If anything, he was even more powerful because he was untouchable. He maintained his empire safely from within the walls of the high-security prison. He had enough people loyal to him from his time as a warlord during No Man's Land and there was enough fear surrounding his moniker that it was a simple enough task.
Despite having all his power, it still took him a decade to infiltrate Gotham’s legal system to secure his release. The Penguin had only planned on his stay to last one or— maybe— two years. The extended confinement worked partly in his favor, but the solitude had been brutal. The lingering effects were evident in Oswald’s sharpened features and an even more pronounced waddle.
“I recall you saying you liked the way I looked.” Oswald leaned back against the sofa with his arms spread on either side of him. His legs were equally parted.
“I did,” Ed admitted. His voice sounded husky and he cleared his throat. “It looks good on you. I’m just pointing out that you seem to have done well for yourself during imprisonment, unlike some of us.”
Edward gestured to himself and his lithe figure. It made Oswald wince and Ed wasn’t certain if it was out of guilt or disgust. Whichever it was, it made Ed self-conscious and he hated how it felt. His chest caved in and he coiled in on himself, folding his arms in front of him to hide. It was an annoying habit he thought he’d gotten rid of when he buried that part of himself deep within his psyche. The glasses Oswald had gotten him (which were unfortunately not quite his prescription) slid down the bridge of his nose and he pressed his fingers against his closed eyes.
Oswald, sensing the obvious distress, promptly changed the subject. “It’s a shame that the original owners died during No Man’s Land.” Oswald held up the menu for the Chinese takeout service. It was the same restaurant they used to order from when they lived together briefly on Grundy Street. The safe house was only a few blocks down from the old loft apartment, though the green sign that used to adorn the facade was sadly also a casualty of No Man’s Land.
“The menu is the same,” Ed said. He turned around to shift his focus back to his project.
Oswald pouted. “You and I both know it won’t taste the same.”
“Well, it certainly beats Arkham’s mystery porridge.”
Edward clicked open his pen to jot down calculations and attempted to dredge up an old memory for an explosives formula he figured out when he worked in forensics. It had been long enough and his mind was still sloshing around in a cocktail of pharmaceuticals that he couldn’t recall the precise measurements. They were written down in his old zibaldone journal, but he’d lost it when he was arrested. He assumed it was either in an evidence drawer somewhere or tossed out with the morning garbage a decade ago.
After a moment, Oswald asked, “Why don’t you allow yourself to relax for the evening?”
Edward turned around and stared at his friend incredulously. “Excuse me? Did you not see the man dressed as a bat?”
“I was there, Riddler,” Oswald said in a mocking tone. “But can’t it wait until tomorrow like we decided?”
Edward made a sputtering sound. His mouth hung open in shock and his nose scrunched. “What did they do to you in there?”
A light flickered behind Oswald’s eyes. His posture was more upright as he spoke. “They didn’t do anything. I saw to that.”
“No.” Ed shook his head. “This…” he gestured to Oswald’s form, “This isn’t like you. You’ve lost your fire.”
“My fire?” Oswald chuckled. “What does that mean?”
“Where is the Penguin I remember?” Edward felt himself tremble, but he hoped it was hidden beneath his jacket. “Where is the man that tore through the GCPD when they arrested me and sent me to Arkham?”
“I’m right here,” Oswald spoke in a low, vicious tone. His eyes were narrowed and the angle accentuated the scars above his right eye.
The arrest of the Riddler had been what sent Oswald over the edge and eventually sent to Blackgate. They’d made plans and had carefully crafted their rise back to the top, but one misstep left Edward in chains and Oswald didn’t tolerate a second of it. He threw it all out for Edward because, in his own words, there was no point in being King if he couldn’t share it with his friend.
“The Penguin I knew wouldn’t be wasting this opportunity to fight back!” The Riddler punctuated his words by curling his fingers into a tight fist and shaking it.
Oswald, to his credit, perfectly juxtaposed Edward’s rage with a cool nonchalance. “The Penguin you knew was ten years younger.”
“Yeah, well, while you were enjoying your vacation, I suffered shock treatment that numbed my brain to the point I couldn’t even pronounce the names of the medications they forced me on.”
“You have no idea what I went through. How I suffered.” Oswald shook as he spoke. “I had no one and I had to do what I had to to survive, just like you. Now, tell me what you want to order off of this damn menu so I can finally spend time with the one person I craved the company of most, you arrogant ass!”
“...Come again?”
“I missed you, Edward. I missed you and I just want to spend an evening with you, especially after the exhausting day that we both had. Is that too much to ask?”
Edward deflated. “I suppose not.”
Oswald rolled his eyes and pulled something out from behind the sofa. It was a long, narrow box wrapped in a lush purple with a silver bow. He held it out for Edward to take, but stared at the floor.
“What is it?” Ed asked with a frown. He crossed his arms and stared down his nose at the box.
“Valeska spoiled my surprise today,” he explained. “I had your suit made for you and I had intended on giving it to you once I secured your release from Arkham. Evidentally, his minions missed a vital accessory.”
Edward slowly tore the paper away and occasionally lifted his gaze towards his friend. He trusted Oswald —of course, he trusted Oswald— but Arkham left his nerves raw and he assumed everything was an explosive or worse.
What he unwrapped took his breath away. The handle of the cane was wrapped with polished stingray leather. The grip had a beautiful curve to its cooked end. Edward twirled it in his hands and admired the weight and balance. He noticed something protruding near the handle and pulled it toward his face for a closer look.
“Is this my design?” Edward asked with a grin. He pressed the button and, just as he suspected, a bayonet protruded from the shaft end and revealed a hidden gun barrel.
“It is.” Oswald pulled a tattered black book from his breast pocket. “You dropped this when they arrested you. I kept it.”
Edward stepped forward and plucked the book from his friend’s hands. The spine was well-worn and cracked. The pages were yellowed and the glue holding the wefts in place had long ago dissolved into a powdery mess. There were bits of tape here and there holding it all together that were no doubt Oswald’s attempt at salvaging it.
“Why?” Ed asked. “Why would you keep it all these years?”
Oswald carefully took the book from Edward’s grasp and opened it to a page of poems without even looking, like he’d memorized every crease and knew every page by heart. He smiled as his fingers trailed over the words.
Oswald recited with fondness, “O never give the heart outright, For they, for all smooth lips can say, Have given their hearts up to the play. And who could play it well enough If deaf and dumb and blind with love? He that made this knows all the cost, For he gave all his heart and lost.”
“William Yeats,” Ed said, recalling the original poet.
Oswald chewed at his bottom lip. “I always wondered if it was one of yours.”
“No, I’ve never been much of a poet.” Oswald looked up at him with an unconvinced expression. Ed clarified, “I’m not really good at expressing myself like that. The last time I wrote a poem it was to Miss Kringle and that only ended in embarrassment.”
“Your riddles are a kind of poetry,” Oswald said. He turned to another page and pointed at the words, but he looked at Edward as he spoke, “Two knives, not embraced. A wound and a tether. I linger where you left me. What am I?”
Ed plucked the book away and tucked it underneath his arm. “Did you memorize my journal?”
“Every word,” he admitted. “It was all that I had of you.”
Ed’s chest tightened and he thought he might burst. He looked down at the cane in his hand. “How do I repay you?”
“You know you don’t have to.” Oswald’s words sounded like they had been stuck in his throat for years. “But I will gladly accept you shutting up for one night and just sitting with me.”
Edward smiled and plopped onto the couch. He picked up the menu and then sprawled out on the sofa with his head in Oswald’s lap. It made the plumper man squawk, but he made no attempt to move his friend. Instead, he huffed and then ran his fingers through the brunette’s hair like he wanted to memorize every follicle.