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The October wind whips down the narrow street, a chilling precursor to the deep freeze of a Gotham winter. It carries the stench of exhaust fumes, stale rain, and the faint, coppery tang of the Narrows' less savory corners. The year is 1994, and the city, a sprawling, gothic behemoth of concrete and shadow, feels as if it’s holding its breath. Neon signs from dusty storefronts flicker, casting a sickly glow on the wet asphalt.
The scene inside the pawn shop is grotesque and silent. Three men, their faces a mottled collage of purples and reds, are sprawled across the linoleum floor. The one nearest the door lies contorted, his limbs seemingly afoot in different directions, a half-eaten cannoli still clutched in his stiffening hand. His eyes, wide and unblinking, stare up at the ceiling fan that spins with a slow, hypnotic hum. The other two, collapsed near the grimy glass counter, have a vacant, hallucinatory look on their faces, as if they’re watching a movie no one else can see. Their muscles have locked, their skin clammy and grey, a macabre ballet of stillness.
Oswald Cobblepot, a man whose very presence seems to contradict his surroundings, stands over them. He’s dressed in an expensive, tweed blazer over a burgundy turtleneck, his raven hair slicked back with a careful, almost architectural precision. He’s a small man, physically, but his aura is a dense, impenetrable cloud of self-assurance. He looks down at the three men, a flicker of cold amusement in his eyes, and a low chuckle rumbles in his chest.
“See, Professor? This is real-world arithmetic. Ten cannoli, three tablespoons of my special chili cream per cannoli. Generous. That’s thirty tablespoons of poison, right there.” His voice is a high-pitched, rasping sound, a discordant note in the solemn quiet of the room. “Now, where did they put the cash?”
His gaze drifts to a discarded duffel bag lying in the corner, a dark, bulky thing that seems to absorb the dim light. He hobbles toward it, his cane clicking rhythmically on the floor. His movements are deliberate, a calculated glide that belies the inherent clumsiness of his limp. The bag is full, bundles of crisp, new bills stacked haphazardly inside. He takes a moment to admire it, to feel the heft of the money in his hands, before a flash of something akin to boredom crosses his face. He’s not a thief. He’s a middleman, a purveyor of secrets and silent-takers, a humble student in the halls of Gotham University by day, a budding kingpin by night. This is not the life he imagined, yet here he is, an unwilling participant in the city’s grim opera.
As he turns to leave, his eyes catch the cannoli box, a pristine white cardboard container, sitting innocently on the counter. He snatches it, tucking it under his arm as if it’s a precious relic, and leaves the three bodies behind, the door clicking shut on the tableau of death.
He slides into the plush driver’s seat of his black sedan. The car, a vintage model he’s restored himself, smells of leather and expensive cologne. He touches his split lip, the faint soreness a reminder of an earlier disagreement, and pulls a small bottle of foundation from his glove compartment. A quick dab, a gentle blending with his fingertips, and the bruise is gone, a testament to his fastidious nature. He starts the car, the engine a low, confident growl. His mind is a swirling vortex of options.
Go home to his sterile apartment, where the only company is his own restless thoughts. Visit his mother, a woman who loves him fiercely but sees only the worst in his choices? Or… go to Jim. The thought of Jim is a warm, welcome sensation. He steers the car away from the grimy pawn shop, toward the more respectable streets of Jim Gordon’s neighborhood.
The elevator in Jim’s apartment building is a rusted relic of a bygone era, and like many things in this city, it’s broken. It has been for nine months, and the residents have long since given up on its repair. Oswald grumbles to himself as he begins the slow, arduous climb up the first flight of stairs, the heavy grocery bag in one hand, his cane in the other. He takes a moment to catch his breath on the landing before tackling the second flight. He’s halfway up when he sees him. A kid, no older than eighteen, hunched on the steps, his face buried in his knees. The faint, rhythmic sound of muffled sobbing hangs in the air. The kid wears thick, oversized glasses that seem to magnify the sadness in his eyes, and his clothes, a mismatched assortment of thrift-store finds, hang awkwardly on his lanky frame.
“Excuse me,” Oswald says, his voice a strained politeness. “Could you possibly move? I’m trying to get by.” The kid doesn’t move, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Oswald sighs, the politeness ebbing away. “Excuse me!” he repeats, louder this time. “Can I help you?”
The kid looks up, his eyes bloodshot and watery behind his glasses. “I don’t know. Can you?” he asks, his voice a wobbly whisper.
Oswald resists the urge to roll his eyes and instead takes a deep breath. “Look. Why are you crying on the steps? Let’s start there.”
The kid sighs, stretching out his long legs. “You’ll think it’s dumb,” he says, as if he’s already bracing himself for the inevitable judgment.
“Just… tell me,” Oswald says, his patience wearing thin.
“Okay. So… Lorie’s mother-in-law committed suicide, but staged it to look like a homicide, and now Lorie’s in jail for a crime she didn’t commit.” The words tumble out in a rush, a bizarre, convoluted story that seems to have no beginning or end.
Oswald blinks. That’s… unexpected. “Do you live here?” he asks, his curiosity piqued. “Can we go sit inside?”
“Oh! Yes. Your leg,” the kid says, finally noticing the cane. “I’m sorry. My roommate accidentally locked us out, and he’s with the locksmith now. We can go up there and wait if you’d like.”
“I’d like,” Oswald replies, the grocery bag feeling heavier by the second.
They make their way up the stairs, and as they near the top, Oswald’s heart sinks. The kid stops in front of a familiar door, one Oswald has knocked on a hundred times. The door to Jim’s apartment. A cold knot of realization forms in Oswald’s stomach. No way. This is not the roommate…
Oswald’s mind flashes back to a conversation from two weeks ago.
He and Jim are sitting in Jim’s old apartment, sipping on cheap Chardonnay.
“How much longer until you graduate, Jim?” Oswald asks, swirling the wine in his glass.
“I’m a criminal justice major, Oz. It generally takes a while,” Jim replies, a wry smile on his face.
“You’re twenty-three years old and still a junior,” Oswald complains. “Maybe someone can move in with you and keep you company?”
“Oh, yeah,” Jim says, his face lighting up. “I interviewed some people.”
“You didn’t tell me,” Oswald snaps, the words laced with a surprising amount of hurt. He quickly corrects himself. “Sorry. But, don’t you tell me everything?”
“Normally. But you’ve got Victor,” Jim says, shrugging.
“What does that mean? ‘I’ve got Victor’?” Oswald asks, his mind reeling.
“Aren’t you two together?”
“God, no. We’re roommates.”
“Oh, good. Well, I’m getting a roommate too. He’s just out of high school. His name’s Ed. Come by sometime, and I’ll introduce you.”
Oswald hasn’t seen or talked to his friend since that conversation. He had felt… discarded, a second thought to this new, young roommate. And now here he is, standing in front of Jim’s door with that very roommate. Everything clicks into place with a sickening finality. Oswald is slightly dejected but sets down the bag and pulls out his phone. The texts fly fast and furious, a staccato rhythm of unspoken feelings and awkward assumptions.
To: Jim Dear
From: Oz
I’m coming over tonight. Going to cook dinner for the 3 of us.
To: Ozzie
From: Jim
I’m @ locksmith. 3 of us?
To: Jim Dear
From: Oz
I’ll let myself in. You, Me, and your roommate
To: Ozzie
From: Jim
Sounds good. I think you’ll hit it off
Oswald pockets his phone, the subtle sting of Jim’s casual assumption that he and Victor were a couple still fresh. He grabs his grocery bag, a sudden sense of purpose filling him. He’ll cook for Jim. He’ll make sure Jim knows who his real family is.
He turns to the teenager. “Take this,” he says, thrusting the heavy grocery bag into Ed’s arms.
The kid’s eyes widen in surprise as he fumbles to hold onto it. Oswald, meanwhile, pulls out a tiepin and a heavy-duty paperclip. With a deft, almost elegant motion, he jimmies the items into the lock. The click is soft, barely audible, but it’s a sound of defiance. The door swings open. He collects his cane and walks inside, his posture radiating a possessive confidence. Ed, despite living here, trails behind, a bewildered expression on his face.
“C’mon, Ed. We don’t have all day.”
Ed blinks, and follows him inside. He shuts the door and carries the bag into the kitchen, his mind still trying to process the strange, fast-talking man who just broke into his own apartment. How did he know my name? he wonders, a vague sense of unease starting to settle in his stomach. He sets the groceries on the counter and turns to find Oswald missing.
“How did you know my name?” he calls out.
Ten minutes later, Oswald emerges from Jim’s bedroom. He’s no longer in his tweed blazer and turtleneck, but in a well-worn, grey GCPA hoodie and a pair of comfortable sweatpants, the soft fabric clinging to his small frame.
“Those are my roommate’s,” Ed says, his voice full of a faint accusation.
“Jim won’t mind,” Oswald says, his tone dismissive.
He walks into the kitchen, his movements confident and familiar. He opens a cupboard and pulls out a large pot, the clatter echoing in the quiet apartment. He grabs a few ingredients from the fridge, his hands moving with an assured ease that suggests he’s done this a hundred times.
Ed’s focus snaps back to the question that’s been nagging him. “Wait, how do you know his name? How do you know my name?”
“Jim told me,” Oswald replies, his back to Ed as he rummages through another cabinet. “And I’m going to be cooking dinner tonight.”
Oh! He must be Jim’s boyfriend! Why didn’t he just say that? Ed thinks, the gears of his mind finally finding a logical explanation. Cooking dinner? Well, I suppose I could go to the library. Or maybe Kristen will need… His thoughts are put on hold when he realizes Oswald asked him a question.
“What?”
“I asked if that was alright,” Oswald says, turning to face him. He holds up a large bell pepper, its skin a vibrant shade of crimson.
“If what’s alright?”
“I’m going to be cooking dinner tonight. For the three of us. And I’m spending the night. Is that alright?”
“Yeah, yeah!” Ed says, a nervous excitement bubbling up inside him. Does he want to cook dinner for me too? “That’s great. I’ll tell Jim.”
“Jim knows.”
“Does he also know you broke into his apartment to cook this meal?”
“Yes,” Oswald says, a hint of a smirk on his lips. “Ever since our first time.”
Oh, great. Now I’ve got that mental image. Jim and… who is this? Ed’s mind is a whirlwind of confusion and unwanted pictures. “Wait. What’s your name?”
“Oswald. Jim calls me Oz.”
The kitchen is soon filled with the warm, comforting aroma of paprika, garlic, and sautéing onions. Oswald’s hands move with a practiced grace, chopping vegetables with a rhythmic intensity. He’s making his family’s traditional Hungarian dish, paprikás csirke, a hearty chicken stew that smells of home and history. Ed sits at the kitchen table, his long legs stretched out, watching Oswald with a mixture of fascination and apprehension. The smell is… intense. He scrunches up his nose, the pungent aroma of spices and the faint, unsettling scent of something else – something metallic and vaguely unpleasant – filling the air.
“Smells like death and decay,” he blurts out, the words escaping before he can think.
Oswald’s hands stop. The knife, a long, sharp thing glinting in the fluorescent light, freezes mid-air. He turns slowly, his eyes narrowing into two dark, malevolent slits. For a moment, Ed sees it – a flash of something feral, a cold, predatory intelligence that makes his blood run cold. His heart lurches in his chest, a frantic hummingbird against his ribs.
“N-not your cooking!” he stammers, his voice a panicked squeak. “I was talking about… in general… and I was talking to myself.”
Oswald’s expression shifts. The feral glint is gone, replaced by a sneer that’s somehow more unsettling. He takes a step closer, the knife still in his hand, a silent threat. Ed’s eyes widen, his mind a frantic scramble of regrets. I shouldn’t have said that. I should have kept my mouth shut. Then, a low, husky laugh escapes Oswald’s lips. It’s not a sound of mirth, but a sound of triumph, a cruel, mocking thing that sends a shiver down Ed’s spine.
“Ah, kid, you’re a real charmer, aren’t you?” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He turns back to the counter, the knife a blur of motion as he finishes chopping the vegetables. “You know, I think you could use a shower. You’re starting to smell like sweat and desperation.”
Ed’s curiosity, a dangerous and persistent thing, gets the better of him. “Why do you smell like death?” he asks, the question a whisper on the wind. He regrets it the moment it leaves his lips.
Oswald’s eyes lock onto his, a glint of cold amusement dancing in their depths. “Let’s just say my day has been eventful,” he says, his voice a low, smooth purr. “I’ve been fighting, baking, and whatnot. And now that I’m cooking for Jim, I really don’t want to kill anyone accidentally tonight. So, go. Shower.”
The air thickens with an unspoken challenge, a warning that hangs heavy and dark between them. Ed nods hastily, his face burning with embarrassment, and retreats to the bathroom, his mind a swirling vortex of fear and confusion. What have I gotten myself into?
The sound of a key turning in the lock breaks the tension. Oswald’s face softens, a warm, genuine smile replacing the sneer. He stirs the simmering stew, the spoon a gentle, rhythmic thing in his hand. He assumes Ed is either hiding in his room or taking a leisurely bath, oblivious to the strange and unsettling encounter that just occurred. Jim Gordon saunters into the kitchen, his police uniform a crisp, professional barrier against the chaos of the city. His eyes, a steady, calming presence, scan the room until they land on Oswald, still in his hoodie. A playful grin spreads across his face, and he strides over to Oswald, his voice low and flirtatious.
“Hey, good lookin’, what’s cookin’?”
Oswald chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He gestures to the sizzling pan. “Just whipping up some paprikás csirke, courtesy of my ancestors.”
Jim’s eyes widen in excitement. “Oh, man, I love that stuff! You’re speaking my language now.”
As Jim leans in to inspect the dish, he playfully squeezes Oswald’s ass, a gesture so casual and familiar it speaks of years of shared history. Oswald leans into the touch, his expression softening into a warm smile. Jim plants a quick kiss on Oswald’s cheek, and Oswald’s eyes sparkle with amusement.
“Hey, watch it, cop. I’m trying to cook here.”
Jim begins to unpack his desk bag, the contents – a notepad, a worn-out pen, a half-eaten bag of chips – a stark contrast to the grim reality of his job. “Hey,” he says, his voice casual. “Did you take care of that little money problem we discussed?”
Oswald’s expression shifts, his eyes taking on a darkly satisfied glint. “Just took a little cannoli,” he says, his voice low and smooth.
Jim’s eyes meet Oswald’s, and for a moment, they just look at each other, the air thick with unspoken understanding. A silent exchange of secrets, of grim necessities, of shared burdens. Jim’s voice is barely a whisper. “I’m glad.”
The moment passes, and Jim’s expression turns cheerful once more. “So, how’s your mom doing? Still giving you a hard time about your life choices?”
Oswald snorts, his eyes rolling good-naturedly. “You know it. She’s still convinced I’m going to end up in a ditch somewhere.”
Jim chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Well, at least she cares.”
As they banter back and forth, the kitchen fills with the warm, comforting sounds of friendship, the clatter of pots and pans, the savory aromas of the cooking, and Jim’s low, rumbling laugh. Ed, still in the shower, is oblivious to the easy camaraderie between the two men, but he can’t shake the feeling that he has stumbled into something much more complex than he had initially thought.
Jim begins to shed his uniform, his shirt and pants carelessly tossed onto the couch. Oswald, still cooking, can’t help but sneak glances at his friend’s toned physique, a playful grin spreading across his face. Jim, aware of Oswald’s gaze, shoots him a cheeky smile, his eyes sparkling with amusement. Oswald chuckles, shaking his head as Jim rummages through the laundry closet for some clean clothes. He emerges with a wrinkled but passable outfit, which he quickly changes into. As he returns to the kitchen, he snags two beers from the fridge and a Yoo-Hoo for Ed, who is still in the shower.
As Jim hands him a beer, Oswald teases, “You’re not letting Ed drink, huh? What’s the matter, don’t trust him with a beer?”
Jim shrugs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Hey, I let him have wine when he wants. He’s a sophisticated kid, after all.”
Oswald laughs, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Oh, sure, wine is sophisticated, but beer is off-limits? You’re a tough cop, Jim.”
Jim chuckles, taking a swig of his beer. “Hey, it’s not like I’m filling up on alcohol, I don’t want to miss out on your cooking.”
Oswald laughs, his eyes sparkling with warmth. “Fair enough. So, how’s Harvey doing? Still riding you hard at the academy?”
Jim’s expression turns thoughtful, a small smile playing on his lips. “Yeah, he’s still got it in for me, but I kind of like the old guy. He’s a hardass, but he’s fair.”
Oswald’s eyes narrow slightly, his gaze intense. “I’m not sure I agree with you there, but hey, if you like him, that’s all that matters.”
Jim raises an eyebrow, his eyes sparkling with curiosity. “You’re not plotting something, are you, Oz?”
Oswald’s expression turns innocent, his eyes wide with feigned surprise. “Who, me? Never.”
Jim’s eyes widen as he takes an exaggerated whiff of Oswald’s person, his face contorting in mock horror. “Dude, I hope you haven’t been around any other cops today. You reek of decay.”
Oswald rolls his eyes, a wry smile spreading across his face. “I’m wearing your sweater, Jim. I should smell like you.”
Jim chuckles, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “The sweater is clean, Oz. You’re getting ‘dead people smell’ all over it.”
Oswald’s eyes roll heavenward, his expression exasperated. “You’re being dramatic, Jim.” Despite his protests, Oswald hands over the spoon to Jim, who takes over stirring the paprikás csirke with a flourish.
“I’m just saying, you might want to shower when Ed gets out. You don’t want to traumatize the kid.”
Oswald snorts, but he knows Jim is right. He nods, handing over the reins to Jim. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll go grab a quick shower. Try not to burn the food, okay?”
Jim grins, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “I’ll try my best, but no promises.”
As Oswald heads towards the bathroom, Jim calls out after him, “And Oz? Make sure to really scrub off the ‘dead people’ smell.”
Oswald flips him off, but his laughter echoes from the hall as he disappears from view. Oswald knocks on the bathroom door, his voice low and smooth.
“Hey, Ed, I need to get in there and wash off the decay.”
Ed’s voice is muffled from the other side of the door. “I’m in the bath, Oswald. Can it wait?”
Oswald’s response is a low chuckle. “Not really, kid. I’m starting to feel like a biohazard.”
Without waiting for a further response, Oswald picks the lock with his tiepin and paperclip, a quick, silent click, and swings the door open. Ed’s eyes widen in surprise as Oswald strides into the bathroom, the latter’s gaze flicking to the teenager before he continues, “If you’re so bothered, cover up.”
Ed’s face flushes as he hastily hides himself behind a wall of bubbles in the bathtub. Oswald, seemingly oblivious to the teenager’s discomfort, begins to strip naked with a complete lack of concern for Ed’s modesty. He runs the hot water in the shower, the sound of rushing water filling the small bathroom as he rifles through the linen cupboard for a towel. As he turns to step into the shower, Oswald catches Ed’s gaze and smirks over his shoulder, his eyes glinting with amusement.
“See something you like, kid?”
Ed’s face turns an even deeper shade of red as he looks away, his eyes fixed on the wall as Oswald steps into the shower, the sound of water cascading down his body filling the bathroom. As Oswald steps under the warm stream of water, he lets out a sigh of relief, feeling the stress of the day melt away. He runs a hand through his raven hair, the water cascading down his face like a soothing balm. He reaches for Jim’s body wash, the one that smells like lightning on a summer day, and lathers himself up, the scent invigorating his senses.
He picks up the penguin-shaped loofa, a quirky gift from Jim, and begins to run it all over his body, the soft bristles massaging his skin. Unless Ed has defiled his property, nobody else uses this loofa, and the thought of the strange teenager’s hands on it makes Oswald’s skin prickle with unease. But as he begins to stroke himself, his mind wanders back to Ed, and he can’t help but wonder if the kid is watching him through the blown-glass door.
The thought sends a thrill through Oswald’s veins, and he feels his excitement grow. He knows he needs to be quick, though - he still has to finish the paprikás csirke, and Jim is counting on him. But for now, he lets himself get lost in the sensation, the water, and the loofa, his eyes drifting closed as he savors the moment.
When Oswald closes the door to the shower, Ed’s initial reaction is to slide under the bubbles and hide. But something about the sound of the water and the thought of Oswald’s gaze makes him hesitate. Instead, he pulls the plug and steps out of the bath, his eyes fixed on the shower door as he towels off. As he dries himself, he catches sight of Oswald’s hand reaching for the penguin loofa. Ed’s heart skips a beat as he realizes he has used that very same loofa just two nights ago. He can only hope that Oswald isn’t too territorial over his bathroom accessories.
Once dry, Ed quickly dresses in his casual pajama-like attire, his mind racing with thoughts of Oswald’s reaction to finding out he has used the loofa. But before he can worry too much about it, Oswald’s moans echo from the shower, and Ed’s face turns bright red. He hightails it out of the bathroom, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping on Oswald’s private moment. Ed reenters the kitchen, trying to act casual as he approaches Jim, who is stirring the dinner with a wooden spoon.
“W-what are you doing?” Ed asks, his voice coming out in a squeak.
Jim gives him a knowing look, but doesn’t remark on Ed’s obvious embarrassment. Instead, he smiles and says, “Guess you met Oz, huh?”
Ed’s face burns even brighter as he nods, trying to play it cool. “Y-yeah. He’s… quite the character.”
Jim laughs fondly at Ed’s assessment of Oswald, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I wouldn’t dare change a thing about him,” he says, his voice filled with affection.
Ed hums, his curiosity getting the better of him. “How long have you known Oswald?” he asks, his eyes wide with interest.
Jim’s smile falters for a moment, and he looks away, his gaze drifting into the past. “Almost twenty years,” he says, his voice low and introspective.
Ed’s eyes widen in surprise. “Twenty years? That’s a long time.”
Jim nods, his eyes refocusing on Ed. “Oz’s mom was like the neighborhood mom,” he explains. “My dad was rarely around, so I spent a lot of time at Oswald’s house. She’d feed me, give me a place to sleep… she was like a second mom to me.”
Ed’s curiosity gets the better of him, and he asks, “Wasn’t that crowded?” before he can stop himself.
Jim laughs, a warm, rich sound. “Not when it was just the two of us,” he says, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “We’d share everything. But Oz’s mom is a collector. Collector of knickknacks and recipes and kids.”
Ed’s eyes widen in surprise. “Kids?”
Jim nods, his expression serious. “Yeah. I wasn’t the only kid in the neighborhood with a bad homelife. She’d take us in, give us a good meal and a night’s rest. She didn’t have a lot of money, but she’s always had a big heart. She helps when she can.”
Ed’s eyes soften, his gaze drifting to the kitchen, where Oswald is still showering. He can’t help but feel a pang of admiration for Oswald’s mom, and a newfound understanding of the complex web of relationships that binds Oswald and Jim together.
The shower shuts off, and Oswald walks into the room shortly after, a towel wrapped around his waist.
“You guys better not be talking shit about me,” he grouses jokingly, his eyes scanning the room.
Jim holds up his hands in mock defense. “Only the worst things, Oz.”
But Ed, oblivious to the tension, chimes in, “We were talking about your mom.”
Oswald’s expression changes in an instant, his eyes narrowing and his jaw clenched. He reaches for his umbrella, which is leaning against the wall, his hand closing around the handle with a hidden dagger inside. Jim’s eyes widen in alarm, and he takes a step forward, his hands outstretched.
“Oz, wait, it’s not what you think,” Jim says, his voice calm and soothing. “Ed just asked how long we’ve known each other, that’s all.”
Oswald’s gaze flicks to Ed, and then back to Jim, his expression softening slightly. He seems to relax, his grip on the umbrella handle easing.
Jim takes a deep breath and continues, “We were just talking about how your mom was like a second mom to me, and how she helped out a lot of kids in the neighborhood.”
Oswald’s eyes drop, and he looks away, his expression a mix of emotions. He walks over to Jim, his towel-clad body moving with a quiet intensity. He holds out his hands, his eyes locked on Jim’s.
“Smell,” he says, his voice low and rough. “Do I smell like dead people now? Like death and decay?”
Jim’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he leans in to take a big whiff of Oswald’s scent. He grins, his eyes sparkling with amusement.
“Nope,” he says, his voice filled with laughter. “Now you smell like a penguin in a thunderstorm.”
Oswald laughs lightly, taking over the stirring of the paprikás csirke. “Hey, Jim, can you grab my favorite purple pajamas from your closet? I think I left them here last time I crashed over.”
Jim nods, his eyes still sparkling with amusement. He kisses Oswald’s forehead in apology for worrying him, and Oswald pats his hand in response. Ed, who’s been watching the exchange with confusion and discomfort, looks like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Oswald, noticing his awkwardness, shoos him away with a wave of his hand.
“Go sit on the couch like a good little boy, and drink your Yoo-Hoo,” Oswald says, his voice teasing.
Ed looks mortified, but he does as requested, his face burning with embarrassment. “I-I can’t wait to try dinner,” he stammers, his eyes fixed on the floor.
Oswald smiles a little more naturally, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’ll bring it out soon,” he says, his voice warm.
As Ed retreats to the couch, Oswald finishes up the paprikás csirke, his movements efficient and practiced. Jim returns with Oswald’s pajamas and watches him, a small smile on his face, and Oswald can feel his eyes on him. When the dish is finally done, Oswald turns off the stove and lets out a satisfied sigh.
“Dinner’s ready,” he announces, his voice carrying into the living room.
Ed’s eyes light up, and he sets his Yoo-Hoo aside, his face eager. Oswald smiles, feeling a sense of normalcy wash over him, a small, fragile moment of peace in the chaotic, dangerous world of Gotham.