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Returning early from the mess at the warehouse, Oswald paused as he heard a loud crack emanate from the lounge down the hallway. Turning on his heel, he picked up pace and hurried into the room just in time to see a strange woman holding a blazing blowtorch. The light from the blowtorch illuminated her protective welding mask a vivid reddish-gold.
Upon his arrival, she squeaked, clicking the blowtorch off and stumbling down from the platform she was standing on. She dropped the tool and ran full speed in the opposite direction. Oswald gained on her, yelling for security, but his leg twinged and by the time he reached the platform she was gone.
“Who the—how dare she! I want whoever that is dead! Security—where the Hell is security?”
His chest squeezed. He looked to the left to see Ed’s limp body laying at eye-level on the podium. He was a crumpled mess. The lenses of his glasses were speckled with thick clusters of droplets. His hat had fallen off, revealing soaking wet, stringy hair that fell directly into his still-open eyes. His gaze was half-lidded and unfocused, fixed on some unseen point on the ceiling. His legs were partially bent in a half-hearted fetal position. His face had slackened enough to slip from his frozen mid-yell mask and into something far emptier.
Pure fury built up in Oswald's throat. He screamed first at Ed’s body and then in the direction that the woman had disappeared. His mediocre security guards noisily entered the room and Oswald gestured frantically in the direction the woman went. As they ran after her, Oswald seethed, trying to string together the words he needed to adequately threaten their lives for their incompetence.
Collapsing against the side of the platform, Oswald reached out without thinking towards Ed. He hissed sharply as his hand brushed Edward’s. Oswald's skin burned immediately at the point of contact and he tugged his hand back to his side.
He needed to refreeze Edward in the same pose. How could he explain such an obvious change, especially into this prone position? It wouldn’t do to have such a pathetic display functioning as the centrepiece of his lounge; it would feel less like a trophy and more like an albatross around his neck.
A quick-minded staff member had flagged down Victor Fries, who was now shambling in through the doorway.
"Victor, good." Oswald turned. "Is there any way I can get him back in position before he wakes up?"
Fries' icy eyes fell on the podium.
"Freezing him again in this state would kill him. He’d need to be far more stable before another drastic temperature change."
Of course. Just his luck.
Oswald had Ed put up in a bed in one of the rooms above the lounge, surrounded by large heat lamps angled towards his body. He'd been towelled and dried and changed into fresh, loose clothes. Once his men were finished, he grunted at them to leave from his chair. He had positioned it on the far side of the room, facing the bed—he wasn't letting Edward out of his sight. Not until he had him back on the podium again.
Edward's unnerving open-eyed expression loosened as the thawing process progressed. His eyelids eventually drooped until they closed into a sleep-like position. He hadn't begun to shiver yet; his body was pale, cold, and still as a corpse, gradually coming back to life. Between his hair and his complexion, he almost looked like he'd been drowned.
Glancing up at the sight of movement, Oswald tutted; a stray bit of water was dripping down onto Edward's temple. Apparently the men hadn't been nearly thorough enough in towelling him dry. His hair was still damp, wet enough to drip down onto his face. Oswald stood laboriously and took up a fresh towel, limping across the room and gruffly ruffling Ed's hair dry at arm's length. Annoyed at the angle, he took a small step forward. If he wanted this done well, he'd have to do it himself, apparently.
By the time he was finished, Edward's hair was starting to curl at the ends. Oswald's chest was warm, but his hands were wet and cold, and he threw the towel down onto the floor as he turned his back to return to the seat on the far side of the room. He folded his arms and tried not to look at the slowly pinkening tone of Ed's cheeks and the familiar sight of gently curling hair.
He was just keeping an eye on him—that was all. He would not forget his promise to himself.
Love would never weaken him again.
When Ed woke up, the first thing he did was gasp and beg.
“Wha—where…”
Edward cracked his eyes open.
"Oswald?" He breathed hard, like it was painful. "Untie me—please!"
"What?"
"I'm all tied up, it hurts!"
Oswald had readied himself for an explosion, not… this. Edward's eyes were unfocused and hazy, drifting around Oswald's head. Oswald grimaced.
"Calm down. You can't move because your body is still recovering," Oswald explained with an unfriendly smile. Ed should have figured that out already. "Enjoy it while it lasts."
"I don't understand," Edward murmured, gazing down at his unrestrained arms.
His muscles shuddered like they were trying to shiver, but otherwise, he didn’t move.
"I'm burning," he said, seeming to notice the heat lamps for the first time. "Oswald, please turn them off. It hurts."
"They're just warming you up," Oswald replied. "They can't hurt you."
Something was wrong. Edward already knew this; he understood the human body better than anyone. He should know extreme cold could feel like burning, and he should know why the heat lamps would be there—but looking into his face, he just saw wide, dazed brown eyes, filled with confusion.
Oswald's stomach twisted.
"Fine, I'll make a deal with you. The heat lamps stay on, but I'll get you some blankets. Maybe they'll make the transition between temperatures a bit more gradual."
Edward looked up at him, uncomprehending. Oswald simplified.
"It'll hurt less."
"Oh."
Oswald sent for the blankets. When they arrived, he didn’t trust anyone but himself to throw them over Ed. When the first blanket overshot the runway and landed on Ed’s chin, he bustled forward and tucked it down into a more comfortable position. Ed watched his every move with a fascinated confusion, as though everything was new to him. Surely, his memory was intact—he knew who Oswald was, at the very least. He seemed to understand their relationship well enough, but it was as though he couldn’t anticipate anything until it had already happened.
Once the first batch of blankets were in place, Oswald noted that none of the thickest ones had been selected. He groaned. Once again, he had to do everything himself.
“I’ll be back,” he said. It wasn’t as much of a threat as he wished it was.
He shut the door behind him and saw Victor Fries standing at the end of the hallway, head tilted.
“He should be ready by now,” Victor said.
Oswald paused.
“Not quite yet," he said. "Just a little while longer.”