Chapter Text
Today has been, for the most part, a rather dull return to Gotham for Oswald.
Plucking a feather from the hem of his jacket, he allows a shaky breath to crawl groggily from the depths of his oesophagus. It is due to rain - he can sense it now. The air has a humid taste to it and the sky above is beginning to shift grey with the surrounding fog.
"Mother," Croaks the Penguin with his head craned towards the ground. There is a sadness in his eyes that you never would have noticed before his time in Arkham. His vulnerable state makes it even harder to hide.
He steadies. His hair looks like it hasn’t been washed in days. It drapes purposely over his eyes like curtains, masking his underlying expression.
The grave in front of him is unchanged since his last visit. Aside from the wilted flowers on the ledge, it appears disregarded.
While Oswald requested that his good friend, Edward, visit every now and again, before he was transferred to Arkham, he can understand that it’s a lot of trouble to go through for a woman you had never even met.
"I’m so happy to see you," Oswald manages, bringing his sleeve up to his tear ducts. "I was released from Arkham asylum. They’ve cured me, i’m sane." His tone is bright and hopeful, but still jittery with grief.
"I have a certificate, too." He reaches into one pocket and pulls out a crumpled sheet of card. It flaps in the light breeze but stills as he holds both sides.
His smile falters. A droplet of moisture lands on the tip of his nose, and then begins to cascade across the marbled surface of the gravestone.
Oswald considers throwing on his jacket, but then he is reminded of the state it is in. Ruined, due to Butch and Tabitha’s welcome-home prank. Although they were only kidding, it still upset him. He’d likely have to throw it out.
The air is cold and biting. A breeze claws its way against his porcelain skin, raising goose pimples. "I’m sorry, Mother."
Says Oswald, his voice beginning to crack. Its pitch is higher than before. He sniffs.
"I’d stay longer, but i need to find some place to sleep for the night." His smile is insincere, but who is he faking it for?
The pelting rain harshens, causing him to wince with every droplet. He wishes he had kept his umbrella for times like this.
The rain feels targeted. Sudden jolts of contact. It reminds him of the asylum. Examinations including physical shock therapy. It often hurt. Left bruises across his body. They remain there, now. The water seems to be directing each pellet at his hypersensitive points.
Oswald can’t help but panic. Perhaps it is some sort of trauma response?
His vision blurs and his heart aches in his chest. It’s almost like his skin is starting to burn, reflecting the injuries he had sustained while he was imprisoned. The gravestone is now dampened. He turns away and stumbles towards the path, limping as usual.
"Mr. Penguin."
The voice is familiar - homely, even. Oswald cranes his neck, squinting against the weather. A slim, smartly-dressed gentlemen is observing from 4 or 5 feet away. An object is clasped in his right hand. The Penguin refuses to turn around fully.
He winces, "Edward?"
"Whose grave is this?" Queries the gangly man behind him. He wears a pair of leather gloves.
"My mother’s. I thought it necessary to visit on the day of my release."
Guilt crawls up Nygma’s spine. He hovers quietly, observing.
"I’ll house you for the night, Oswald."
"Are you sure? I’ll have no trouble finding a place to stay. There are several hostels in Gotham."
Inhaling, Edward composes himself, "Just come with me."
There is no movement from either of the men for a moment. Oswald is hesitant, as if he’s being tricked into something.
Edward’s patience is growing thin.
"Hurry up, before I change my mind."
You’re crazy, Edward. If you take that little freak in now, you’ll never be able to get rid of him!
"Shut up.."
Puzzled, Oswald blinks. Who was Ed speaking to? "I didn’t say anything—" He mutters.
"I know. Not you. It’s nothing."
Nothing? Puh-lease!
It grows severely more awkward. Oswald attempts a smile, still not exactly trusting Edward. It had been a long time since they’d last met.
"Oswald." Demands the brunette. He extends one arm, hand outreaching.
What a moron. Don’t come crying to me when this bites you in the ass.
Remember this, Edward. You’re not taking in the Penguin this time. But a pathetic, twisted version. It’s your funeral.
He ignores the voice in his head and grabs Oswald by the wrist, pulling him forward. They were now facing each other. His hold was unwavering, as subconscious as that little action was.
Oswald flinches at the touch, expecting an attack. He is surprised to remain uninjured, but thankful for it. "Thank you, Ed. It means a lot."
Nygma shivers, not pleased with this new identity, but he’d have to cope. Just until tomorrow morning. They were still friends after all, even if the Penguin could no longer mentor him.
"What are friends for?" He grits, releasing Oswald’s arm.
With clearer vision than before, Oswald now allows his eyes to settle on the object in Edward’s other hand. A crowbar. A decently old one, at that. His eyes widen and he takes a step back, fear pulsating through his veins.
Why would Ed bring a crowbar? Was this a trap? Jesus, anything could happen now. He’d let his guard down and now he was at risk of being brutalised with a blunt instrument.
Confused and bewildered, Edward looks over his shoulder, presuming that the source of terror was creeping up behind him. But nothing was there. Aside from a lone, elderly man walking in the distance, of course.
"What is it?" He demands, growing nervous now, too. The uncertainty was disturbing him.
"Penguin." He goes on, stepping closer.
"Oswald!"
Edward halts, noticing that Oswald is in fact shaking. Not off of the cold. No, this was different. Terror.
Tearfully, he pleads, "I’m sorry, Ed! I don’t know what i did wrong, but I’m so sorry!"
He can hardly breathe. Hitched and panicked, his chest is rising and falling unevenly. He’s choking on his own air.
Incapable of understanding, Nygma closes in further, going to grab Oswald’s shoulder, whose reactions are quick. He raises his hands in defence, blocking his head from any potential blows.
"I’m not going to hit you, Oswald." Edward’s tone is curious. He can’t help but wonder what they did in Arkham to dig up and encourage so much buried fear. His hand is still mid-air, a few inches away from Oswald. His movement slows.
He’s not a people person during casual conversations, never mind during such a highly emotion one. He’s never dealt with something like this, and so, he goes to cross the boundaries once more.
The bottom of Edward’s palm reaches to touch Oswald’s shoulder, and then travels down to his collar bone. He holds him in position, denying any chance to run.
"You can trust me. I won’t hurt you."
Just kill him, already. Swing the crowbar at his skull and kill him!
"I promise."
You’re so sentimental. Disgusting.
"Let’s go back to my apartment."
Oswald is staring, and his pupils are dilated. Glossy. "What’s the crow bar for?"
"Just some forensic work. Still at the GCPD and everything." Edward smiles, emptily. He’s lying.
Just tell him. You’re friends, aren’t you? He should know. He’ll praise you. He’ll be proud of the man he’s moulded you into.
"Oh, right. Yes. Let’s go, then." Oswald sniffles again, pulling himself from Edward’s grasp. He is avoiding the other man’s gaze, fidgeting with the cuffs of his sleeves.
Edward nods, scanning the damp, quivering condition that the Penguin is in. He almost feels sorry for him. But not as far as to comfort him further. He’ll be dry soon enough.