Disclaimer: Gotham is copyright its respective copyright holders. This is a fanfiction written for non-commercial and self-educative purposes.
Dwelling
by Margaret Smoke
Oswald realizes he's not living at home.
This is his father's house. Oswald is happy to live with his ghost, knowing that every surface, every texture, had been admired or touched or smelled by a parent so loving. He doesn't care that they once lived here too, that they once tried to commit the bumps of the walls to memory, that they knew of that slight depression in the floor by the fireplace, that they heard the third stair creak every time they went upstairs. His father had heard that too. So had his sweet, innocent mother.
Oswald stares in the bathroom mirror, frozen in his morning routine. The Mayor cannot be late, but the Mayor is having trouble styling his short black hair because he cannot fathom performing a morning routine alone any longer. His pale peach complexion burns pink and he grips the edge of the sink, white-knuckled and furious at his loneliness. This is not his house. This is a fantasy he has taken over, but he has nothing to build here, and anyway, no one to build anything with.
A bathroom so large and elegant has space for many things. Another set of towels, green, perhaps, a gilded E.N. embroidered on a corner, but the towel is ruffled a little from prior use. Oswald's pomade sits atop a corner shelf, a thing stranded alone in a desert of wood. It could have companions, another vessel of pomade, or a skinny bottle of lens cleaner.
Oswald's bedroom feels just as empty and vast. He tires of keeping multiple pillows and imprinting only one. A pair of perfect glasses could rest on the nightstand every night. Oswald's suits could have taller, leaner companions standing beside them.
Music could play here more often.
Oswald pauses at the dining room on his way out. It's still swathed in delicious scents, but it's the toasted, yeasty bread that turns his stomach. Breaking bread, that's what you did with people you loved and cared for. Each plate with two slices of toast. Two eggs. Two slices of bacon. It was the nice breakfasts that were shared. Oswald should be eating cereal every morning, for that seemed like a proper breakfast for one.
Although tableware sets always came in multiples of two.
The world, it seems, was built with two in mind.
He shakes his head at the dining room and moves on. He passes the parlor. He knows what should be there. He knows what it's for. It's not for enjoying alone.
He shrugs on his lonely coat and grabs for his cane. His men open the door for him and he leaves the house that is not his home. He thinks he'll stay at the office late tonight. After all, becoming mayor hadn't been a sole endeavor. It may be the one thing he built with another person. City Hall could be the one beacon that would bring Edward home.
End