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It’s not like it was the first time.
Or any of the times after that, really. The first couple of times, Edward had commanded Arkham Asylum with confidence and swagger, effortlessly able to read people, and therefore control them.
This time isn’t like that.
He takes off his suit and folds each piece meticulously, not lingering over the loss of such lovingly made clothing, with its rich and beautiful fabrics. He doesn’t get upset about being forced to abandon his style, like he had done all the previous times. He doesn’t spare a thought for the umbrella patterns on the lining, definitely doesn’t see it as losing the last piece of Oswald that he had.
He changes into the scratchy, ill-fitting jumpsuit perfunctorily, doesn’t look at himself in the mirror as he follows the guard to his new cell. It’s not one he’s been in before, and he sighs in relief—the last thing he needs is associations with his old life. He walks a few steps into the cell and turns around to find the guard staring at him, looking somewhat dumbfounded.
“What, no riddles, Mister Riddler?”
Usually he goes out of his way to drive everyone crazy with his riddles, especially the staff. Usually, he never shuts up. He liked how angry and frustrated they got when they couldn’t think of the answer. Validation that he is the smartest man in the asylum is not the most flattering, but he would always take what he could get in such a mundane, miserable place.
Edward says nothing for a few moments, simply stands there, his arms hanging limply at his sides. The guard almost looks concerned, narrowing his eyes as if to fathom Edward’s game. For that must be what this is, surely. It’s what he’s known for.
“No. No riddles.” His voice is croaky from only using it when he has to.
The guard frowns, but ultimately decides not to antagonise him. Edward wonders what he sees that makes him not want to mock him. He’s usually one of their prime targets.
“Lights out in forty minutes,” is all he says, before heading down the block, his keys jangling. Jeers from the other inmates follow him as he goes.
Edward stands there a while longer, simply staring ahead, unseeing. Eventually he turns back to the cell, and looks listlessly over the walls. On the left wall, above the bed, there are lots of carvings. One, in the top corner says ‘hahaha!’ No prizes for who inscribed that one. There’s probably a matching one in every single cell of the asylum.
There are many names he doesn’t recognise, and some he does. It’s mostly unimaginative ‘Al was here’ type comments. If Edward had the will power to care, he’d roll his eyes. He has spent quite a lot of his life unimpressed by the lack of ingenuity of others.
But then he sees it. About kneeling height from the bed, is an umbrella, with an ‘O’ and a ‘C’ either side of the handle.
For a moment he just stands there paralysed by the mark of his beloved. This may not have ever been his cell, but it was once Oswald’s.
He wants to run over to the bars and rattle them as he screams and begs them to put him somewhere—anywhere—else, but he can’t move.
When the pain hits, it’s devastating. It’s like the wind has been knocked out of him, so agonising is the memory of Oswald’s love. Everything he’s been resolutely trying not to think about floods his mind: Oswald’s knowing smiles, his full-bodied laughter, his gentle touches. His intelligence, his wicked sense of humour, his ruthless cunning. The way he always wrapped his arms around Edward when they slept, how whenever he came anywhere near consciousness he would pull Edward closer, searching for his hand to hold, if he’d lost it. The ache in his heart at that last thought is especially sharp, and he momentarily stops breathing.
He belatedly realises his cheeks are wet, and that the tears have been flowing without his being aware of it. Edward finds himself climbing onto the bed and kneeling as Oswald would have, so he is level with his engraving. There can only be a few minutes now until lights out, and he reaches out a shaky hand so he can trace a finger over the jagged lines. A sob escapes him, unbidden, making him use his other hand to cover his mouth. He continues to sob as he follows the lines of the umbrella.
There’s a familiar loud echoing clicking sound then, as the lights go out, leaving him kneeling there in the darkness. The shouting and screaming of the inmates gradually dies down, and eventually all Edward can hear is his own sobbing and troubled breathing. He leans forward and presses his forehead against the cold damp wall, his hand over Oswald’s signature as if he could hold it.
He stays there for a long time, trying to figure out how to live through the pain.
How to exist without Oswald.
His ex-husband.
*
Edward expects that, not having the energy to assert his dominance of the Arkham hierarchy, he will be subject to endless harassment and bullying. It isn’t as though he would mind too much—at least it would be a distraction.
So he is surprised when everyone avoids him, mostly trying not to even look at him. Edward idly entertains himself by wondering if he has already died in his cell and become a ghost, visible to only a few. He certainly feels like a ghost, drifting aimlessly through each day, time only marked by crosses on a calendar.
It’s a few days later when it begins. It’s lunchtime and Edward is staring blankly at the disgusting mush they call food at Arkham, when something suddenly appears on the bench opposite him.
He looks up to see Oswald sitting opposite him, and he startles so hard he almost falls off the back of his bench.
Oswald leans his head on a hand on the table nonchalantly and says, “I have to say, I thought you’d be happier to see me.”
Edward wrenches his eyes from Oswald and forces himself to look back at the food. “You’re not here.”
“Ten points for Ravenclaw!” Oswald claps, enjoying this far too much. “You know, all of this is completely unnecessary. Of all the masochists we know, and let’s face it, we know a lot, you are undoubtedly the biggest one.”
Edward hasn’t hallucinated Oswald since before they got together, when he thought he’d killed him. He has been hallucinating a lot since they separated, but it had previously taken on the form of Edward himself, spurring him on as he robbed bank after bank.
“Why are you doing this to yourself, Ed?” He sounds earnest, and it’s a very odd tone on one of his hallucinations. It makes him more believable as Oswald, rather than himself. Given how well he knows Oswald, it only makes sense that he could create a convincing hallucination of him.
Arkham is going to be fun.
“You had everything you could possibly want, everything you never thought you’d get to have. And it still wasn’t enough. When is it ever going to be enough for you, Ed?”
He doesn’t need to be told what a huge mistake he made, when he left Oswald. It haunts him every day. So many times he had almost gone back to him, if only to be near him again. He can’t bear for them to be apart.
But then he remembers that it was Oswald who told him to go, and that he has to stay away for that reason, if nothing else.
They’re divorced now. Nothing binds them together anymore.
*
The lawyer mediated divorce meeting doesn’t last long. They have no shared assets, no joint bank accounts, nothing official with both their names on it, other than their marriage certificate. It is so that nothing can be traced back to them. They essentially only need this meeting because they can’t manage to talk to each other alone. It’s too hard.
Oswald is wearing a suit Edward has never seen before, and the entire thing is black. Even his trademark black and white brogues are absent. The complete lack of colour makes the wisps of silver in his hair all the more prevalent, his age more pronounced. There is no purple anywhere. His gloves, his tie, everything—black. As if he is in mourning.
Edward’s own suit is such a dark shade of green it’s almost black. He hasn’t worn it for quite some time, because it simply isn’t vibrant enough to suit his usual tastes. He has finally found a use for it, though he wishes he hadn’t.
They stare at each other across the large glass table, nodding occasionally when consulted by their lawyers. But for the entire meeting, they don’t take their eyes off each other. They haven’t seen each other in weeks; the longest they’ve gone without seeing each other since the last time Edward was in Arkham, four years ago. It’s impossible to look anywhere else.
“Well gentlemen, I believe that’s everything. All that remains is for Mr. Nygma to sign the papers.”
Oswald’s lawyer slides the sheaf of papers across to Edward’s, who redirects it to him. He finally rips his gaze from Oswald, so he can look over the divorce papers. It’s open on the signature page. Oswald has already signed it, and there’s a blank line underneath, waiting for Edward. His lawyer places a fountain pen in Edward’s gloved hand. He lifts it above the line, poised to sign, but his hand starts to shake.
He intends to bring the pen down on the paper straight away and get it done, he really does. But as he stares down at Oswald’s elegant signature, the letters begin to blur. Edward can sense the other three men staring at him and he frowns and tries to concentrate, but his breaths are coming quicker and there’s very little he can do to stave off the coming breakdown. He can feel the sweat beading on his forehead and temples.
“Leave us,” Oswald says from across the table.
Edward’s lawyer gently puts his hand on his arm, a silent question of whether he wants him to go. Edward flinches at the touch and gives him a tiny nod.
As soon as they’re gone, Oswald limps around the table to him. He stands behind Edward and wraps his arms around him, leaning his chin on the top of Edward’s head. Edward wraps a hand around Oswald’s forearm, as his soon-to-be ex-husband plants a lingering kiss in Edward’s hair. His breathing slowly levels out; Oswald’s touch has always been a calming thing for him. How odd it should still be so in this situation, that Oswald is lending him his strength for such a purpose. Edward leans his head back against Oswald’s chest, breathing him in as Oswald gently combs his fingers through Edward’s hair. His heart aches and his eyes sting with the rightness of being with Oswald like this again.
They have spent so many years supporting each other, effortlessly being what the other needs, slowly building something that nothing and no one else could ever hope to replicate. Edward thinks of coming home (Oswald’s home, never their home, his mind helpfully interjects) to Oswald after his plans had gone awry, and how he always knew just what to do or say to give Edward the strength to go out and try again. He let Oswald see all his worst doubts and fears, even found the courage to tell Oswald about his father three years ago. Oswald knows everything, and had never thought any less of him for it. It was freeing in a way he hadn’t anticipated, and he knows he will never tell anyone else the root of the nightmares that still sometimes haunt him. He had allowed Oswald to see the real Edward Nygma, but he didn’t feel weaker for it, the way he’d always thought he would. Oswald had empowered him. Even now, he has set aside his own feelings, to see to Edward’s comfort. Love is about sacrifice.
He closes his eyes, and pretends they’re in Oswald’s apartment at the Iceberg, soothing each other with loving touches. Edward wants to go back to Oswald’s bedroom, crawl into his bed, have Oswald wrap his arms around him and never leave. He doesn’t want this moment to end.
When Oswald draws away, Edward hears himself make a small noise of objection. He opens his eyes to see Oswald taking the seat next to him, dragging it as close as possible. He holds Edward’s hand on his knee, and looks him in the eye.
“You have made me very happy,” he says, voice almost a whisper. “Thank you.”
Oswald seems to be waiting for a response, but Edward hasn’t got anything left to give. He does the only thing he feels he can do in this situation; he slips the hand not holding the pen around Oswald’s neck, and pulls him in for a kiss.
For a moment the world restores itself and everything is set to rights. The softness of Oswald’s lips, the smell of his cologne, the little needy sounds he makes: this is home. This is the happiness Oswald was talking about. There’s nothing wrong with them, they are perfect together. As their kiss turns into something more fervent and desperate, Edward tastes Oswald’s tears—and suddenly he’s angry. Why couldn’t Oswald at least try to live openly with him? Edward had been conforming to Oswald’s secrecy rule for years, and all the while Oswald knew he wasn’t entirely happy. And he wasn’t willing to make even the smallest concession, it was Oswald’s way, or divorce. He is the one throwing everything away. He is the one so ready to just give up. Why couldn’t he have fought for Edward? Why?
Edward shoves Oswald away from him and turns to the papers, uncapping the pen.
“Edward—no—not like this—”
He hastily scrawls ‘E. Nygma’ before throwing the pen away and standing up, the chair screeching across the hard floor.
“This is a divorce Oswald, how did you think it was going to go?” He’s shouting, but he doesn’t care. There’s no reason to care anymore. He has signed the papers.
Clearly hearing the commotion, their lawyers step back into the room, looking concerned. But Edward’s fury knows no bounds. He has lost everything.
He pulls his gun from the back of his belt and shoots both of them. Oswald flinches in his seat at the sudden gunshots. Their bodies crumple in a bloody pile on the floor; wreckage of a love that leaves a lot of death and destruction in its wake.
Oswald stands up and approaches Edward, utterly unafraid. “I love you, Ed.” He lifts his hands to Edward’s face. “I don’t want us to say goodbye like this.”
“Well it looks like neither of us gets what they want,” Edward retorts, stepping backwards away from Oswald, tucking the gun back into his belt. “I told you once I would do anything for you. And I did—I sacrificed my own desires for the sake of us for years. And now you’ve asked me for this divorce, and I have given it to you. Congratulations. I hope that will help you to sleep at night, safe in the knowledge that we’re both going to spend the rest of our lives lonely and unhappy, because nothing will ever compare to us.”
Oswald is openly sobbing now, and Edward’s head is throbbing with the effort of not doing the same. He hates that he has upset Oswald like this, and that just makes him angrier. It’s an unending cycle of rage, self-loathing and heartbreak.
“Please, Ed…” He whispers, as he reaches out for Edward once again. “I can’t bear it.”
Regardless of his efforts, Edward’s eyes fill up with tears. Seeing Oswald so broken is too much. It’s instinctual for him, always has been, to make sure Oswald is all right, and he wants nothing more than to hold him until they’re both whole again. For a few moments, chest heaving, he watches Oswald struggle for breath, and Edward very nearly caves and goes over to him. Every fibre in his being is screaming at him to set fire to the papers and wrap Oswald in his arms. He even sways forward, until he masters control of himself, recalling Oswald’s words on the day that Edward had first brought up divorce. You need to leave, Ed. Otherwise we’ll just get stuck in this loop. I won’t change my mind.
He picks up the divorce papers, and presses them against Oswald’s chest, letting go when Oswald’s own hand comes to rest over them. Oswald’s bright watery eyes look up at Edward imploringly.
“It’s too late, Oswald.” He steps back towards the door. “It’s too late.” And then he navigates around the bodies and the pooling blood and leaves.
That was the last time he saw Oswald.
*
By the time Edward looks up from his reverie, the hallucination is gone, probably having decided he has suffered enough for the time being.
He looks down at his tray of food, and pushes it away with distaste. If he had been thinking about forcing something down before, he definitely can’t manage it now.
He thinks of Oswald left standing there alone in that office, holding the papers in his hand and sobbing. He hates himself for leaving him like that.
It’s just one of many things Edward loathes himself for, tortures himself over.
Edward has gone over again and again everything that happened between them in the last few years, when things started to get difficult. He has wondered if he could have done anything differently that wouldn’t have resulted in them ending up in that office. But he thinks that even if he had tried a different path, it still would have led to the same place. When it comes down to it, the problem was that they simply had different priorities.
It doesn’t matter how well he manages to logicize everything that happened, it doesn’t stop it from hurting. Even now, almost a year on from that day in the office, the pain is still as fresh. Edward would argue that it has even gotten worse, because he misses Oswald so much. He can hardly think about anything other than the aching longing in his heart, how badly he wants to go home to Oswald. He wonders if Oswald would welcome him now.
*
Edward hasn’t eaten in days. His stomach is completely hollow, though it has moved past being painfully so. He doesn’t have the energy to do anything other than get his meals when he has to, or to sit there despondently in the courtyard or his cell.
He has given up.
It's not like they’re going to force him to eat. It’s Gotham City, and Arkham is always oversubscribed, always keen to free up space. No one is going to report his condition to anyone outside this place. Even when he finally dies, they won’t inform Oswald. He is not the official next of kin anymore, not that anyone would bother to dig deep enough to find the documents that link Edward to Oswald.
He is completely alone.
It’s the end of the first week, and he is laying on his bed one afternoon, in and out of consciousness due to his weakened state. He is thinking about Martin and the ring, and the request he had made of him. He is certain that he would have conveyed the ring safely back to Oswald, given his own connection to the Penguin. Edward has wondered how their reunion might have gone; if Oswald would recognise Martin now. It had taken Edward a while to see the boy he once took for ice cream—the boy who, in another life, might have been his son.
Edward was impressed by the man Martin has become. He had wanted to say so, during their attorney-client meetings. But it wasn’t his place to act as the proud father; it never was.
It was simpler to let Martin think Edward didn’t remember him.
Edward hopes Oswald sees the gesture for what it is, rather than Edward returning the ring to him, along with his love. What Edward had wanted Oswald to know was that he never took the ring off, even after the divorce—it was always under his glove. He wanted Oswald to know how highly he valued it, their marriage, and how it was and still is the most important thing that ever happened to him.
*
“So theoretically speaking, you would become Edward Cobblepot?”
“Yes, I think it sounds rather distinguished, especially when you say it,” Edward responds, wrapping his naked form around Oswald and planting kisses at the base of his throat.
“You are trying to distract me,” Oswald observes, unable to keep the breathlessness out of his voice.
“Not at all,” Edward rumbles, moving his assault closer to Oswald’s ear, one of his weaknesses. Edward presses against Oswald's thigh and groans.
“We had sex—” Oswald glances at the clock, “—thirty minutes ago, and already you’re up for round two? You, my darling, are insatiable.”
Edward laughs breathily against Oswald’s neck. “I applaud your choice of words.” He can practically hear Oswald rolling his eyes.
Edward very much enjoys Oswald like this, knowing he’s as aroused as he is, yet continually surprised and shocked at how much their bodies clamour for each other. It’s even better when he knows Oswald is trying to say something; a conflict takes place within him, whether to pursue his topic or give himself over to the pleasure. Thus far Edward has proven too great a temptation. It’s a game Edward always enjoys winning.
“Ed,” Oswald starts, breaking off to gasp when Edward bites at his earlobe. “We’ve been doing this for two years now—” Oswald is still trying to talk it seems. Impressive. Edward decides to play the idiot just a little while longer.
“And what is ‘this’?” Edward asks directly in Oswald’s ear, gratified when he shivers in response.
Even after all this time, Oswald still has trouble with the more crass words in the English language. Despite the many ways they’ve had sex and the many related acts they have tried, Oswald’s cheeks turn pink as he struggles to describe how they spend a significant amount of their time together. He finally shakes his head as though he is being ridiculous and blurts out, “fucking.”
Edward is so momentarily shocked he laughs into Oswald’s neck. Oswald chuckles along with him, and Edward searches for a hand to hold, feeling a sudden wave of affection for the man beside him.
“I love you, Ed. You know that, don’t you?”
Edward stops his teasing and looks at Oswald. Edward knows what he wants to say, what he is trying to say. He’s known for a while, seen the jewellery brochures sticking out, badly hidden under the piles of papers on his desk.
He can also see the fear in his eyes—the thing that’s kept him from asking for so long. Edward has been waiting for him to gather the courage, but it is evident that Oswald’s fear of rejection is so great that he may never ask. He will just drop wrecking ball sized hints instead with questions about whose surname Edward would prefer, given the choice. Oswald is many things, but subtle is not one of them.
Now that Edward thinks about it, it does seem a little odd that Oswald would choose to ask in such an informal situation, without any pomp or circumstance. It is most out of character. But then he considers all the fine dinners Oswald has arranged for them in the past few weeks, and Edward realises with a jolt that he didn’t want to do it like this. He had tried to do it traditionally, and fear had gotten the better of him every single time. Edward had thought he was being clever, noticing little things like the brochures and the seemingly nonchalant questions, but he hadn’t seen the big things that were right under his nose. Oswald isn’t only thinking about it; he has been actively trying to propose to him. These are not only simply little hints to get Edward thinking about marriage—Oswald has been struggling to ask him for weeks.
“Ed, I—” He breaks off again, and it tears something inside Edward to see Oswald like this; so desperate to ask, yet so horribly afraid. Now that Edward fully understands, he can’t let this go on any longer.
“Yes, Oswald. The answer is yes. I will marry you.” He tumbles over his words in his rush to get them out and eradicate Oswald’s fears.
Oswald’s eyes go very wide, his mouth falling open as he analyses Edward for any sign of a joke or prank.
“You will?” he asks, pitch unusually high.
“Do you doubt my feelings for you, Oswald?” Edward leans over so his face is hovering just above Oswald’s own.
Oswald thinks for a moment, clearly wanting to answer as truthfully as possible. “No,” he says finally, sounding completely sure of himself. Edward is relieved to hear it.
“I’m just—” Oswald starts, before swallowing and starting again. “I’m not sure if marriage is something you even want and...and I’m terrified of losing you again.”
Edward has never seen Oswald this vulnerable before, and he knows what he does next is extremely important. He selects his words very carefully.
“I do have a propensity to learn everything the hard way.” Edward says, finding it difficult to meet Oswald’s eyes. He always finds it a challenge to admit his own faults.
Oswald, to his credit, does not snort or make a sarcastic comment. The situation is too delicate for that.
“But I’ve learned that I can’t live without you, and so I am never going to leave your side again.”
Edward can tell from Oswald’s answering smile that what he has said is enough. Edward leans down to cover Oswald’s lips with his own, and it’s a passionate kind of kiss that affirms his promise. Oswald moves his fingers reverently over Edward’s cheek, finally at ease. The smile fades as he looks into Edward's eyes with a serious intent, whispering, “and I am never going to let you go.”
*
“A little melodramatic, don’t you think?” Oswald asks from his position, perched on the edge of Edward’s rickety bed. “Starving yourself to death?”
Edward doesn’t respond, simply continues to stare at the mouldy ceiling, while the faucet in the corner continues its incessant drip, drip, drip.
“You think I won’t find out, but I will,” the hallucination goes on. “There aren’t many things that can destroy my determination to survive, but your death... How would I go on, Eddie? Knowing you had wasted away in here and I hadn’t done anything to prevent it.”
Edward wishes he would stop. He doesn't have the energy to withstand this kind of torture anymore.
“It might not kill me right away, but the guilt would eat away at me, spreading like a disease... Until I could no longer bear it, and I would take the gun from my desk drawer and...”
“Stop,” Edward rasps. The visual of Oswald distraught enough to lift a gun to his own head too painful to imagine.
Would Edward’s death really be something Oswald couldn’t come back from? He somehow managed to move forward after the deaths of two beloved parents, and even his own seeming death—but does Oswald love Edward so much that losing him would be the one thing to make him finally give up?
“No one knows about us,” Oswald says, inching closer, expression sympathetic yet honest. Well, as honest as a projection of his psyche masquerading as his ex-lover can be. “Who will save me from myself and give me a reason to go on, when all I can think about is you?”
Edward is more selfish than he would have people believe, but he had never wanted anything for Oswald other than a long and fulfilling life, at least after they finally got together.
He doesn’t want the end of his life to be the end of Oswald’s.
“If you die in here, there will be no one to watch over me. No one else cares as you do. I’ll be completely alone.”
Edward finally looks at the hallucination. The first mistake in this whole charade. Oswald doesn’t need anyone to protect him. He is not a feeble bird, he is a king. Oswald can exist without him, at least knowing he’s alive. Edward isn’t so sure about after he is dead. He would live, probably, but he wouldn’t be living.
It’s that uncertainty that pulls him back from the edge. Filled with purpose, and feeling more lucid than he has in days, he blinks and slowly sits up. It makes him feel dizzy, and he doesn’t open his eyes again until the nauseating feeling fades. When he hesitantly blinks them open again, the hallucination is gone.
*
He starts eating again. Gradually, and in small amounts, slowly building his strength back up to the best standard it can be in Arkham. Now that he has decided to live for Oswald, he needs to think of a way to occupy his time until he gets out—twenty years was his sentence—does he really want to rot away in here for the duration? He hadn’t thought much beyond not caring what happened to him anymore; now that he has to survive, does he really want to become an old man in Arkham Asylum?
“Let’s not be too hasty,” Oswald says, appearing beside him on the bench in the cafeteria. “These things require planning and you, my dear, are certainly not up to snuff at the present moment.”
“So what exactly am I supposed to do?” Edward asks as discreetly as he can, fingers threading through his messy hair. Though in here, having only one invisible companion makes him look relatively sane.
“Survive,” Oswald says, folding his arms. “Think about what a huge mistake you’ve made.” Malice enters into his expression, and suddenly, everything becomes clear.
“You played me,” Edward says, not bothering to be discreet anymore. “You just wanted me to get better so you could torture me.”
“You’re no good to me dead, darling,” Oswald smiles, and Edward's blood boils. Everything is making sense now, and he looks around furiously at all the other inmates who are still studiously avoiding eye contact with him.
“You did this,” Edward grits out, shaking with rage.
Oswald smiles and shrugs. “Guilty.”
The gesture is so Oswald that the pain and anger swirl up inside him like a tornado. There’s fear there too, that his other self had managed to fully take over, and somehow managed to terrify the whole of the asylum into submission.
And he can’t remember it.
What if he does it again? What if he already has? What if he starts to lose entire hours, days? This hasn’t happened to him in years. Edward needs to be in control; can’t fathom how badly he has split at the seams again, or how he might sew himself back together. It took so much work to bind himself into one set identity, and much of that was possible only because of Oswald’s unwavering support. He can’t do it here, on his own, in an environment such as this.
“You’re safe, for now. The most important thing to me will always be your safety.” He grins, and it’s horrifying to see his wide smile on Oswald’s face. Particularly as he quotes the real Oswald, one of the things he’s said that haunts him the most.
“If you must insist on torturing me, do you have to look like that?”
“Like what?” Oswald asks, standing up and stepping backwards. He then changes his entire appearance to look exactly as Oswald had looked when Edward had shot him at the docks.
“Like this?” He does a little twirl on his good leg. “Or this?” The outfit changes once again to the one worn during his singing hallucination, complete with top hat and white gloves. “But perhaps you might prefer this?” Edward’s heart thumps painfully as the suit Oswald had been wearing the night they first kissed and drunkenly fell into bed together appears, in painstaking detail. Edward remembers this one well, with its purple so deep it’s almost blue, the vibrant rose patterns of the waistcoat. Even the subtle makeup he had applied around his eyes is there; and to see one of Edward’s favourite looks recreated like this momentarily takes his breath away, makes him forget the reason he is even seeing it. He remembers vividly how intoxicated he had felt, both literally and figuratively at the time, when he found out that Oswald still had feelings for him, even after everything. How after that, every moment was something to be cherished. They had nearly lost each other on several occasions, and they had vowed to never take anything for granted ever again.
Edward forces himself to look away.
There is only one more suit he remembers more vividly, and he knows it will be the next one he sees. The other him is in his head after all.
He gives in to the temptation to look up and sees the suit Oswald had worn on their wedding day. They had gotten married at a little remote semi-derelict church outside the city on a rare sunny afternoon, arriving separately as per tradition. Edward had gotten there first and waited on the steps for Oswald. He had expected that he would go all out, really emphasise his signature colour in a spectacular fashion, as is Oswald’s usual style.
What he had actually done was all the more stunning for how different it was. Oswald had opted for a simple light grey and white suit, minimal makeup and swept back hair. Something about it made him appear stripped down, devoid of all the power, wealth and darkness that usually surrounds him. Here was just the man, Oswald Cobblepot, and Edward supposes that might have been the idea. Their marriage wasn’t about Penguin and the Riddler or Oswald’s empire or Edward’s puzzles; it’s just about them: Oswald and Edward.
Edward’s own suit was entirely white, and not for any deeper motive than wanting something to be traditional. They joked that it made Edward the bride, but he was okay with that, joke or no joke. Later that evening, Oswald even managed a bridal carry over the threshold of his bedroom. Just about. They’d laughed a lot that night.
“This seems to be making you unhappy,” Oswald says in a terrible approximation of disappointment. “Perhaps you’ll like this better.”
The final suit, for that’s what it is, the last thing he saw Oswald wearing, is the one he wore to their mediated divorce meeting. Looking at it makes Edward feel as though an icy hand has reached in through his chest and gripped his heart. Thinking about anything related to Oswald causes him pain, but the last time they were together is among the events that hurt the most, namely for how he left Oswald, standing over two dead bodies, sobbing as Edward made him take the divorce papers. It had been merciless. Callous. Cold. Arguably the worst thing he had done to Oswald since shooting him. Oswald had wanted to end on a more amiable note, but at that time Edward was so caught up in rage, resentment and heartbreak that the only thing that would lessen it at all was making sure Oswald felt as bad as he did.
He knows now, how childish that was. Oswald had tried to comfort him, even at the end of their relationship, and Edward hadn’t even thought about what that might have cost Oswald. Once Edward had accused Oswald of being selfish and incapable of love, but at the end, Edward was the one behaving like a selfish child. Oswald had told Edward he’d made him happy, even though it clearly pained him to have to let him go in the first place, and was probably only just barely holding himself together... And what had Edward done? Thrown a tantrum and left Oswald to pick up the pieces.
Oswald limps over to him, and bends down so his face is inches from Edward’s.
“In all honesty, he’s probably better off without you,” Oswald tilts his head and pouts his lips. “He might even find someone else.”
The rage flashes like lightning through his system, and he’s off the bench and throwing his meagre tray of food at the hallucination and screaming things even he doesn’t understand, before he can think about what he is doing.
Oswald stands there as guards come over to restrain Edward, utterly unaffected by the bits of food around him, yet making a show of dusting off his suit anyway.
“Leave me alone!” Edward screams at him, as the guards begin to drag him back to his cell. Oswald starts to laugh maliciously, and the sound echoes loudly in Edward’s head.
Edward is thrown into his cell, mercifully alone, and he lies there on the floor waiting for his heartbeat to slow down and the blood to stop rushing in his ears.
Edward had forgotten what it was like not to be in control, to live every moment in fear, knowing that time didn’t always belong to him. What if his other self took over, and never left? He wouldn’t even know; he has lost entire pockets of time before. What if the next time he awoke from possession, he was an old man? What if Oswald was already long gone, and they couldn’t make amends?
He drags himself over to the side of his bed, leaning against it as he trembles. He puts his arms around himself, in an automatic defensive position, drawing his legs closer to his chest. As he sniffs, his breath swirls around his face in the ice cold cell. The faucet’s unending, echoing drips mark the slow passing of seconds in this place.
He knows then that he does want to make amends. He and Oswald need to reopen discussion of the topic that had driven them apart. Somehow, they have to find a resolution that doesn’t involve them suffering like this. They have to be together.
Edward knows, deep down, that Oswald will be suffering as much as he is. Twelve years he was with Oswald, too long to think that he will simply be able to move past this and get on with his life. He knows Oswald too well to think that he will just be sitting idly, wallowing self indulgently in his heartbreak. He will be keeping himself busy, following his routines with military precision.
During the time it took for their divorce to be finalised, Edward twice gave into the temptation to go and see Oswald. Obviously, he couldn’t simply walk in the door anymore, that would have been too painful for both of them. But he had just wanted to know if the other man was okay.
He’d climbed up to the top of the building directly opposite the Iceberg Lounge and watched Oswald’s bedroom window. When they were together, part of his routine would be to have a cigarette before bed, and of course Edward made him lean out of the window while he reclined in their bed and waited for him.
Oswald had kept to that routine, despite Edward not being there to tell him not to smoke inside anymore.
In the early hours, after the Lounge had closed for the night, the dim light of the lamp beside the bed was switched on, and the window pane pushed up. Moments later, Oswald had leant out of it, his elbows on the window sill, long cigarette holder held elegantly between two fingers. Even from the distance, Edward can tell his collar is open and his tie hanging loosely around his neck. He’d always liked the way Oswald looked in the wind down after a club night, the picture of old fashioned elegance as he looked towards the stars and exhaled into the night. He’d turn to see Edward watching him and smile, and Edward loved those little relaxed moments between them, the serenity that existed only when they were alone together.
As Edward had watched him, he’d wondered if Oswald was thinking of those nights too. How painful must it be to carry on as normal, to look at that bed and see no one there waiting for him.
Edward hadn’t stayed after Oswald had shut the window.
It’s getting too cold to sit on the floor and so Edward climbs into bed, for once falling asleep almost immediately.
*
Every time Oswald appears after that, it’s always in the morbid divorce suit. It always reminds him of the end, of how he destroyed Oswald and then simply left. Edward supposes that is the point.
He constantly tortures Edward with his worst fears, following him around the asylum like a shadow. “Your father wouldn't be surprised you know,” he’d say. “Choosing to live your life like that, it was always going to end badly.”
Edward can’t even cry anymore. He can’t scream. He will just sit or lay there, taking whatever the hallucination says, feeling completely numb, as he relives the memories of his father, lash after lash, whimper after whimper. Edward would always be punished more if he shouted or screamed. Silence has always been safer.
“How he would laugh if he could see you now,” Oswald says now, tone smug, from his place leaning against the opposite wall of his cell. “A self-destructive one way ticket to Arkham. Zero sense of self preservation and a death wish he would almost be proud of. How many times over the years have you just wished you could disappear? This is exactly what he wanted. You all alone, with not a single person to care about you. Not even Oswald cares about you after what you did. You’re worthless, Ed. An inconvenience. Insignificant. Useless.”
Edward pulls his knees to his chest and leans his head against the wall. Edward is completely worn down, after seemingly endless days of the same stories on repeat. He doesn’t have the energy to defend himself; he feels like a rope on its last thread, any minimal amount of weight and it will snap. “Please stop. Please, just stop. I’ll do whatever you want, just please be quiet.”
“You certainly will,” he says, smirking slightly as Edward peers tiredly across the cell. “You will belong to me again, and don’t think I won't come to collect. Enjoy your last days of you, before all the fun begins. We do always have so much more fun when we’re me.”
Edward shivers at hearing his own words come out of Oswald's mouth.
“Goodnight, Eddie.”
Mercifully, he disappears after that.
Only a few days to contemplate how he got to this place again, with his other self ready to take over and erase him forever.
There’s no stopping it now. He won't be the man Oswald fell in love with any more, but at least he won't have to live with the pain of the divorce any longer. Perhaps this is a blessing.
But he finds he wants to hold onto his love for Oswald. He doesn't want to let it go. Falling in love with him was such a defining moment in his life, one that changed everything for the better. At long last he had found a home where he was welcomed, wanted even, by another.
He so badly wants to go home.
Edward is unsure how long he sits there, curled in on himself, utterly silent, scared to disturb his demons. He imagines Oswald, the real Oswald, crawling onto the bed and pulling Edward into his arms. Carding his fingers through Edwards hair, protecting him, shielding him from the horrors of this place. From the horrors of his own mind.
He closes his eyes and lets his imagination offer the only comfort there is to be had in this living nightmare. Oswald had always enjoyed taking care of him, and Edward had loved being looked after. His father would have said it was emasculating and disgraceful, the way their dynamic worked. Edward had spent a long time being ashamed of his desires in the early stages of their relationship. Oswald had bought him things, and Edward had felt embarrassed about the fact he enjoyed being showered with gifts. From Oswald taking his coat when he arrived to gently washing him when they were in the tub together; he loved all of it. And the more Oswald did for him, the worse the shame would burn after.
Oswald of course had sensed his discomfort, and had told him that if it was all too much, he could dial it back a little, but confessed how much he enjoyed giving Edward everything he was able to. Edward hadn’t been ready to talk about his father at that time, but he had explained what he felt after Oswald did things for him, as terrifying as it was to risk having Oswald think of him as less of a man. Oswald had been surprised to learn the real reason behind his discomfort, but had immediately pulled him close and told him that if what they had made Edward happy, then they would keep doing it until all those painful emotions went away.
Not too long after that, they had faded. But their loving relationship had remained, and it often took Edward’s breath away to see just how far Oswald was willing to go to make him happy. Oswald never cared about convention or norms, only about what Edward wanted. The following years were the happiest of his life; he felt loved, treasured, cared for and safe, and for the first time, there were no automatic feelings of shame or fear. Those are the memories Edward never wants to let go.
“Ed?” It’s Oswald’s voice again. Edward closes his eyes as his body seems to ache with exhaustion simply in response to the hallucination’s voice.
“Ed, it’s me.”
Edward tightens his grip on his knees defensively. “Please no more. No more today.”
“Ed, it really is me. I’ve come to get you out.” His voice is gentle, and not one he has used on Edward so far. It’s probably just a new manipulation, an insurance policy, to balance Edward upon a knife edge, to make it easy for the other him to take control.
There’s a shuffling then, and a hand touches his shoulder. Edward jumps in shock, and finally looks at Oswald. He isn’t wearing the divorce suit. He’s wearing a coat that is rather too large, over the top of one his more typical pinstripe suits. He looks up at his face and sees Oswald eyeing him imploringly. His breaths stutter as he crawls to the edge of the bed. Is he real? Can he even tell the difference any more?
“Oswald?”
Oswald’s hand comes to rest on Edward’s cheek, stroking it reverently. Edward’s heart aches as he lifts his own hand to cover it. It seems he is really here—but even if he's not, and this is all an illusion, he is going to surrender himself to it. Edward doesn’t want to live in what has become his reality anymore. A part of him hopes that this is what death is like.
Even though the illusion had been good, it hadn’t been this good. There’s a quality to the real Oswald, which can simply never be replicated.
The real Oswald.
His eyes seem to be filling with tears as he looks down at Edward, who can’t believe he’s here.
And he has come to save him.
He realises then, that this whole time, he has been waiting for Oswald.
There are tears slipping down his own cheeks, and there’s no point hiding emotions from Oswald anymore. They can’t live without each other, and that’s just fact.
Take me home, Edward wants to say. Please, just take me home.
And eventually, Oswald does.
*
It’s a somber affair when they finally go back to the Iceberg Lounge. They’re both battered and bruised, and it’s slow going up the stairs to Oswald’s apartment, holding on to one another for support.
Oswald wordlessly goes into the bathroom and starts the water running, pouring in plenty of Edward’s favourite bubble bath. Of course he would still buy it, even after all this time. Edward pads into the bathroom slowly, and they undress each other carefully so as not to aggravate one another’s wounds.
Oswald slips into the water first, as per their old routine, leaning his head back against the top of the tub and spreading his arms and legs to make room for Edward to lay against him.
The moment Oswald’s arms enclose around him, it’s like the dam breaks. Now that they’re in a completely private setting, he can’t hold it back any longer. The shock of it all seems to finally be hitting him—everything they’ve been through since he left Oswald, everything he has been through in Arkham—it all comes pouring out. It has been the worst year imaginable; so profoundly awful he never though he would find his way back into Oswald’s arms again.
Oswald doesn’t shush him, or tell him everything will be all right. He simply tells Edward he loves him and fills his ears with his favourite endearments: my darling, my dearest, my Edward. He places tiny kisses under his ear and on the nape of his neck between endearments, and slowly but surely, Edward comes back to himself.
Oswald was always the stronger one out of the two of them. He could carry Edward’s pain as well as his own. Edward doesn’t know how he doesn’t get crushed under the weight of it all.
Once Edward’s breathing has calmed down, Oswald begins to wash him. He pulls the sponge slowly and soothingly over his torso with a gentle attentiveness that has him twisting his head for a kiss. Oswald leans down, running the back of his index finger tenderly along Edward’s jaw.
Edward notices the faucet dripping steadily then, and uses his big toe to turn it off properly. He hates that sound. He closes his eyes in the resulting silence, and they simply lay there together, breathing steadily.
After a while, Edward takes the sponge, and the water sloshes around them as he turns onto his front, moving the sponge just as reverently over Oswald’s pale skin. Every caress says I love you. I never want to be apart from you again. I’m sorry. Forgive me. These moments between them are warm and healing, but there’s a bittersweet feeling which borders on being too much, too painful.
When Edward lets the sponge go in the water, he completes his attentions by leaning down for another kiss. In doing so, he can’t help but look at the glass in Oswald’s eye, framed by purple bruising. He is reminded of the lengths the man would go to—has gone to—for him. Edward knows he would do it again without question.
It hurts, knowing he is the reason for that disfigurement. Edward wishes it had been him instead. Oswald certainly wasn’t in need of another physical ailment. What does Edward have to show for his love?
“Whatever it is you’re thinking, stop.” Oswald says gently, when Edward pulls back from his distracted kiss.
It’s almost unbearable, the kindness Oswald treats him with, the care and understanding he shows when it comes to Edward. He doesn't deserve it, and he has never been worthy of Oswald’s love.
“Everything—” his voice comes out hoarse, so he clears his throat and tries again, “everything I’ve done has been selfish. I acted as I pleased and I hurt you. I broke my promise to you.”
Oswald will know the promise he means. On their wedding day, they had agreed to prepare their own vows. Edward had struggled greatly with it, knowing he was supposed to talk about the things closest to his heart, one of the things he’d always found the most difficult to do. In the end he had just decided to speak whatever he felt in the moment.
Oswald had gone first, his words heartfelt and true, his eloquence truly remarkable and enviable. He promised to ensure Edward’s safety always, and that he would do everything in his power to make him happy. Edward had been blown away by Oswald’s dedication to him, how he had lain his soul bare to the man who had hurt him more than any other, who would go on to hurt him impossibly more.
For a long moment, entirely overwhelmed by Oswald’s entrusting everything to him, he had just stood there, internally fumbling for something of equal magnitude to say.
Instead of being worried by Edward’s prolonged silence, Oswald had taken hold of both his hands and held them to reassure him. Calmed as always by Oswald’s touch, the words had started to come to him.
“As you know, I’m not as adept at talking about feelings as you are. I have gone through a large part of my life not knowing them at all—not knowing myself. But you—you give me the courage to be who I am, with none of the shame or disgust I held such feelings in for so long. When I was growing up, I was taught that I didn’t deserve love, that I was a burden, and that no one would ever love me. And so I always sought people’s love, but no one fully returned it, until you. I never believed I was worthy of it, and I still don’t. But I want to be—I want to be someone that deserves you. I promise that as your husband, I will always stay by your side, and endeavour to give you the same feelings of peace and joy that you give to me.”
Oswald’s tears had been in full flow by the time he had finished.
“We deserve each other, Ed.” Oswald had murmured as he kissed Edward’s hands. They’d been pronounced husbands then, and their first kiss as married men had echoed Oswald’s words. Every time Oswald kissed him thereafter whispered you are worthy, Ed. You deserve the world. And sometimes when he forgot, whenever he got lost in self-doubt, Oswald would remind him out loud too.
“We both did,” Oswald says now. “I said I would always keep you safe, and I left you in there.”
“It was my own fault. I deserved to go back there.” He can’t bring himself to say the name of the place.
“No, Ed, you never deserve to suffer. I should have intervened quicker.”
“I needed that time to realise how much I need you,” Edward says honestly. “I hate that we lost all that time, but I think we both needed to realise some important things—things we were blind to when we were together.”
Oswald nods thoughtfully. “I wish it hadn’t taken a year and a divorce to figure out such simple things.”
Oswald looks so genuinely regretful, mournful even, of all the time they could have spent together, that Edward leans down for a kiss. It’s a little less sad than their previous kisses, this one more languid and reassuring.
“But when have we ever done anything the easy way?” Edward manages a small smile, and is rewarded with one in return. Oswald’s smile turns mischievous as he scoops up some bubbles in his hand and dabs it on Edward’s nose.
Edward raises his eyebrows and leans in quickly for another kiss, successfully leaving some bubbles on Oswald’s face too.
“Careful,” Oswald cautions, though his tone isn’t serious. “Can you imagine how irritating it would be if I got bubbles stuck behind this glass?”
The absurdity of the notion, combined with the image of Oswald wrinkling his nose and going cross-eyed to try and see the bubbles, makes Edward burst out laughing—even though he knows he shouldn’t be laughing at the injury. But Oswald laughs right along with him, and just for a moment, the weight of everything lessens a little. It feels so good to laugh again. Oswald runs his fingers through Edward’s hair after their laughter dies away, simply watching him fondly.
After a while, Oswald says, “are you hungry?”
“Not really,” Edward says. “Can we just go to bed?”
“All right,” Oswald responds grudgingly. “But tomorrow we’re going to start fattening you up.”
Edward smirks, rolls his eyes and stands up, stepping out of the tub. He’ll protest, but of course he loves having Oswald fuss over him. And Oswald knows it well.
They towel dry each other before slipping into robes and heading into Oswald’s bedroom. Oswald shuts and locks the door and they both brush their teeth before taking off the robes. There’s no mention of pyjamas; the unspoken thought between them being that they want to be as close as they possibly can to each other. Edward slips under the covers first and sighs at the exquisite comfort of Oswald’s bed. He smiles tiredly up at Oswald, who looks a little confused.
“Should I—?” He asks, gesturing to the other side of the bed.
It clicks then—he always used to get in first and face away from him so Oswald could wrap his arms around him. It’s difficult for him to articulate why he doesn’t want to sleep like that right now, even though he knows Oswald will understand. He pulls the covers back and pats the bed beside him. Oswald climbs in without question, shuffling as close to Edward as he can and pulling the covers up to their shoulders.
“I need to see you,” Edward says eventually.
Oswald smiles understandingly, touching Edward’s cheek soothingly.
It’s more difficult to hold each other like this, and they move around a bit before they settle, Oswald on his back and Edward against his side, head on his chest.
They’re silent for a while, and though he thinks Oswald might be asleep, he says, “do you think you can ever forgive me?”
He can tell from the hitch in Oswald’s breath then, that he is still awake.
“Yes. I already have.” Oswald says, kissing Edward’s forehead. Edward closes his eyes and heaves a sigh of relief.
“Will you ever forgive me?” Oswald asks, very quietly.
“Yes, I forgive you Oswald.”
Edward knew the answer before Oswald even asked, but it had taken him some time to find his way past the hate and resentment, and reach a place where he could truly forgive Oswald for his insistence on secrecy, arranging the divorce, and all the pain that followed. But the truth is, though they have significantly hurt each other, Edward and Oswald know that they are the only two who can begin to put each other back together again. They need each other.
Oswald begins to shake a little, and Edward can tell that he is crying. He tightens his grip on him, and Oswald holds him more tightly too. In the safety of Oswald’s arms, Edward listens to his heartbeat as it eventually evens out.
They finally sleep.