A/N: This story was written for the Free For All Fic For All-or FFAFFA for short-over on the Ask the Squishykins tumblr, wherein Twinings and I offer ourselves up to fill as many fic prompts as humanly possible with stories ranging in length from 100 to 16,000 words. The current round runs until May 1st, 2014, so if you'd like a fic written to your custom specifications, please don't hesitate to drop by and ask for it! :)

Prompt: Riddler/Penguin, rain, angst; Riddler & Penguin, conflicted friendship; Riddler & Penguin rebuilding their friendship post-Tony Daniel.

Notes: This is so much less angsty and slashy than I wanted. I'm sorry! I have failed you, prompters!

Gotham City did miserable, rainy nights like no other place could. Even the heaviest rain in Metropolis was a cheerful, sunshiney shower, and the only rain that ever hit Gateway City always ended in happy little rainbows streaking all across the sky, but even a light drizzle in Gotham turned the place into something out of a Bronte novel—gray and depressing. A thunderstorm in Gotham was a terrifying thing to behold; even the perpetual crime spree that was the bread and butter of the city's underbelly took the night off when lightning flashed across the sky and the rain came down in buckets. Even the Iceberg closed early because it wasn't profitable enough to bother staying open past ten, much to Oswald Cobblepot's consternation.

He didn't mind having a night off from the glad-handing and political maneuvering that came with being the owner of the premier criminal nightspot in Gotham—far from it—but he hated being at the mercy of Mother Nature's whims almost as much as he hated losing business. Oswald squeezed a measure of honey into an Irish coffee glass and tried not to think about how much money the rain was costing him. Sure, he didn't have to pay his staff tonight, and that would offset the loss a little, but that was a pittance in comparison to what he was accustomed to raking in on Friday nights.

He all but flung a shot and a half of brandy into the cup and squeezed a quarter of a lemon over it until the fruit was bled dry. The remainder was tossed over his shoulder. He didn't even care if it hit the trash, he was in such a foul mood. Why couldn't it rain on Wednesdays? Nobody came into the bar on Wednesdays. Well, nobody but the alcoholics who deluded themselves into believing they were social drinkers.

From the Iceberg's kitchen, he heard the whistle of the tea kettle he'd put on to boil. He wiped his hands of lemon juice and went to retrieve it, unaware of the annoyed waughs that escaped his lips. Oswald scooped some of the finest loose leaf tea he could find into a small metal tea infuser, tossed it in a cup and slowly poured the boiling water over it.

That was when he heard it: a soggy thump against the door that led to the alley and a pathetic sound like the mewling of a cat. It startled him so that his hand jerked and he splashed scalding water on himself. He swore under his breath and put the kettle down, glaring at the door. After running a towel under some cool water and putting it on the burn, he waddled over and threw the door open, ready to kick the offending feline halfway to the harbor.

There was no cat to be found on the back alley steps. Instead, the Riddler sat there, hatless, beaten, bruised, soaked to the bone and looking like a drowned rat—emphasis on rat. Oswald almost kicked him anyway.

"Don't look so smug," Edward said, looking up at him and shoving the hair that was plastered to his forehead out of his face.

"I'll look any way I like, traitor. Waugh."

"I resent that."

"Oh? Coincidentally, I resent being betrayed by a flimflam."

"I hardly think now is the appropriate time for name calling." Edward glowered at nothing in particular. "I'm a much better target when I'm dry."

Oswald stepped aside and gestured grandly. "Certainly, oh chill and wily snake. I welcome you to my bosom with open arms. Shall I get something sharp for you so you can stab me in the back once more? Or would you like to select your own stabbing implement? The Iceberg kitchen is fully stocked with a wide array of knives to choose from."

The Riddler dripped past. "I'd settle for a hot cup of coffee."

Oswald went out into the lounge, then came back, the Irish coffee glass in hand. He poured the tea he'd left to steep into the brandy and handed what was supposed to be his own hot toddy to his unwelcome guest.

Edward looked at it and gave it a suspicious sniff. "Poisoned?"

"One can only hope." Oswald folded his arms across his chest. He watched Edward take a tentative sip, then down the rest in a series of loud, greedy gulps. He didn't say thank you, just put the cup aside. "I suppose next you'll want dry clothes and a place to sleep."

The look Edward gave him was apologetic. "You always did know how to treat a friend in need."

"Friend? A friend, you say? Since when were we ever friends?"

"Since…right now?"

Oswald's eyes narrowed and his lips pursed. Edward sheepish face looked immensely punchable. It would have given him a great deal of pleasure to bestow on him a second black eye to match the one he already had. Against those base impulses, he pointed in the direction of the lounge. "You can sleep in a booth. Dry your clothes in one of the ovens if you must, but don't burn down my club."

Edward grinned, triumphant and headed for the door. "I owe you."

"You certainly do," Oswald grumbled after him, "And don't you forget it."