Work Text:
Standing next to Oswald, Edward's fingers played along the edges of his resignation letter. He was in the process of listing the achievements of the day, providing updates for each of their ongoing projects. His heart rate began to climb; the speech was prepared, each word chosen with exacting precision—and yet, he still feared Oswald's reaction.
What would happen if Oswald truly did love him?
The question itself was ridiculous—but Barbara's visit still played at the back of his mind every time he looked at the man. How could he possibly be the one who killed Isabella, when he comforted Ed in his grief? He, of all people, knew how painful it was to lose someone you loved.
It was contradictory to believe that Oswald loved him in the first place. It just didn't make sense. The puzzle pieces didn't fit. As the minutes passed, and he ran out of updates to provide, the moment of truth crept closer and closer. At the end of the final report, he paused for far too long, the paper beginning to bend in his grip.
"What's wrong?" Oswald asked, after too much time had passed without a word.
He said it so kindly, so softly, with such gentleness that Edward's head was sent spinning. No one was ever that kind to him. Could it be that Barbara truly had told the truth? Did Oswald love him?
But then the loop continued—because if Oswald loved him, then he wouldn't have killed Isabella. That wasn't something someone did to someone they loved; but why else would he be looking at Edward so tenderly? Why would he be looking at him like that, with his expression slowly falling into something like concern, and his hand reaching out to touch Edward’s arm?
At the contact, Ed recoiled with a flinch. Dread descended. He was beginning to believe it—that Oswald loved him—but he didn't. He couldn't, because it wasn't possible—and if Oswald thought he loved him, and Barbara was right, then Oswald was wrong, because that’s not what love meant. And—
Edward's fingernails dug into the skin of his palm, and then the back of his neck as he struggled not to cling too hard to his own flesh. The unmoored drift of his mind required some pain or purchase to ground him back in reality. The letter of resignation slipped from his fingers. Visibly curious, Oswald bent to pick it up. His eyes skimmed it before he gasped, looking up with wide eyes.
"You're resigning."
Edward nodded, then shook his head. Oswald stood, reaching for him again, and Edward stumbled backwards a few steps. Oswald's face filled with hurt.
“P-Perhaps it was too much to ask, for you to return to work so soon,” Oswald stammered, trying to recoup. His hands were still hovering in the space between them. “I thought it would help, to keep busy—I was wrong. I see that now. But—I need you, Ed.”
Edward’s fingers skittered along the back of his head.
“Why not rest, take some time off?” Oswald asked, beseeching. “Not—nothing permanent! A few days, maybe a week—I’ll handle the whole thing. What do you say?”
Edward nodded, still wordless, and turned, dropping his hand and trying to keep an even pace as he hurried down the hall to his room. When he reached the door, he accidentally slammed it with too much force, wincing at the overwhelming noise. Dim, waning light streamed in from the window. He stumbled across the room to shut the curtains, his clumsy hands struggling with the thick fabric. The simple task exhausted him, and he slid to the ground, his legs too weak to keep him upright.
The curtains were mostly closed, though there was still an open gap at the centre, allowing a thin line of light to trace across Edward’s room—across the floor, up onto his bed, then the door, then the wall, then the ceiling. He traced it with his eyes, up, then down, wishing he’d had the thought to lock the door behind him. It seemed so far from him now, and that desperation he’d felt standing before Oswald was building anew.
The blunt terror barely dispersed as his head thudded against the wall behind him, just once, at first—enough to provide some momentary clarity. He didn’t want to fall into old habits, but his head met with the wall again, and again, the steady impact forcing his mind clear for a moment at a time.
None of this was part of the plan. The words of his speech hung, rehearsed and unspoken, as he sat on the floor, knees climbing to reach his shuddering chest. It all made terrible sense. Why else would Oswald free him from Arkham and risk his mayoral reputation? Why else would he visit him, bring him gifts, give him clothes, a purpose, a home? Why else would he kill Isabella?
A shapeless noise tore from his throat. Oswald loved him, or he thought he did—and Isabella loved him, or almost did—and now he was alone, and nothing made sense, his mind rended into a useless jumble. Confused rage rose in him, and he clawed at his neck with his fingernails. The burn was undeniably preferable to the uncertain wander of his thoughts.
How could he? How could he?
His grip tightened. Little strands of hair twisted out from his scalp. He shut his eyes closed, the fading light setting his vision into a blaze, the noise of his breaths deafening. His palms dug into his eye-sockets, pressing until he saw only reddish-dark shadows. His spine dug into the wall. The collar of his left shoe dug into his ankle. The fabric of his shirt dragged a searing path against the back of his arms.
The unsolvable puzzle broke apart and slotted back together without solution. He broke it again, repositioned the pieces, scattered them, gathered them, changed the angle, the perspective, repeated moments and words and decisions Oswald had made, and wondered how much had he misinterpreted, how foolish and ridiculous he'd seemed, trusting that someone like Oswald would ever make an exception for him.