Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to Gotham, to DC comics, or anything I didn't come up with myself (clearly). No money is being made off this little ficlet, and no copyright infringement is intended.

A/N: I love this show to bloody shreds - the good, the bad, and the outrageously silly (I'm looking sternly at you, Frankenstein Island. WTF?). I'm a sucker for creepily cute psychos such as this show's Oswald and Batman v Superman's Lex Luthor - really, I am. Love that kind of character. I have so much fun watching them be insane and adorkable. They are awesome. That does not mean I condone the Draco in Leather Pants shenanigans these guys are so often subjected to in fanfic. Take Oswald, for example. He's a sadistic, homicidal, unrepentant psychopath who flies off the handle at the slightest provocation, feels visible (and uncomfortable to watch) glee at inflicting painful and bloody deaths on people, and who kills for the lulz. He's an amazing character who is brilliantly played, and I like me some crazy-ass villains with a god-complex. But the guy is not a misunderstood woobie, despite the cute, dorky purple prose he spouts and his obvious hunger for affection. He is a creepy, creepy man who is arrogant and self-centred and who takes great pleasure in making people who've slighted (or just inconvenienced) him bleed. That's what inspired me to pen this little character piece about a single defining incident for him. It was written on Halloween, so expect weirdness. Of course I strive to keep the tone of the show and the spirit of the character, meaning I didn't make him do anything he hasn't canonically done. That means: no violence porn, so don't worry. This is just a pretty introspective character piece. The title is from a line that he says as he's murdering someone on-screen.

Love Conquers All

Gotham wasn't a nice place. Nobody expected it to be, especially not anyone who'd grown up there. The city had a horrendously bad reputation everywhere else. Its inhabitants, however, were prone to developing a feeling of stubborn pride where their home was concerned – for good reason. Whatever else may be said about the place, it did make whoever survived it stronger.

Strength, as Oswald knew, came in many flavours. He himself had always been small and slender, even delicate. No matter how much he ate, he never managed to put on any weight. He got sick a lot, too, to his own unending vexation and his mother's great concern. It was another excuse for some of his classmates to mock him, and they mocked him incessantly. This wasn't a subject he really enjoyed thinking about (especially the nickname that terrible hurtful mean stupid inaccurate nickname), but he'd come to the conclusion that it was worth thinking about. Being in pain of whatever kind was to be avoided, surely, but the fact of the matter was that if one wished to avoid pain, one needed to understand the root of the problem. Only complete idiots kept fighting symptoms without trying to eliminate the cause, and if there was one thing Oswald prided himself on, it was not being an idiot.

As a smaller child, he'd wasted a good many hours wondering what exactly was wrong with him, why he had so much trouble connecting with other people in general, his peers in particular. Was it his pasty complexion? His frail built? The way he dressed? Was it the things he said, the fact that he'd always had trouble keeping his mouth shut? Something else? Those ruminations had always been just as painful as the attacks and rejections themselves, to the point where he had to force himself to think about all of it and not just wilfully ignore what was happening. That never solved any problems at all. At some point, though, he came to an unescapable conclusion:

There was nothing wrong with him. There was, however, something wrong with everyone else. That was the only explanation that made any sense to him.

From his interaction with his peers, he knew that he was not only more literate than them, he was also plain smarter. That, also, was an unescapable conclusion. Why should he feel bad about himself when there was nothing wrong with him? It wasn't his fault that everyone else was a blithering idiot. The moment he realised this, he promised himself one thing: one day, he'd be someone, and not only that: he'd be the biggest name in the city. In a place like Gotham, that meant more than anywhere else. When that day came, no-one would ever disrespect him again. That was a promise he made to himself, and he intended to keep it, as trite and clichéd as that might sound.

Not everyone was horrid, though, not even at school. Oswald had spent sixteen years unable to find common ground with anyone except for his mother – sixteen years. Didn't seem like much in the grand scheme of things, but it was his whole life. Now, though, finally, he'd learned that he was not destined to be alone forever. No, it certainly looked like he had finally found a kindred spirit.

That kindred spirit was the boy.

The boy was relatively new to the city, actually hailing from across-the-bay Metropolis. Usually, any kid from that shiny little boy-scout town would get eaten alive in a Gotham public high school, but not the boy. He had a way about him, a sunny disposition that just made everybody like him from the get-go. He looked the part, too: tall, toned, blond, athletic, with an eye for the fashionable and a first name to match. None of this mattered to Oswald, though. No, he didn't care about something as trivial and shallow as mere looks. It would be rather hypocritical if he did, and that was another thing he strove fervently to avoid.

The captivating thing about the boy was that he was a good person. As far as Oswald knew, he'd never hurt anybody. He never made lewd comments to or about the girls at school. He wasn't vulgar. He never said hurtful things to anyone. Even though he had all the opportunity to be a bully, he wasn't. On the contrary: he was nice to everybody – polite, kind. Kindness was a rare quality indeed, a quality that was not often rewarded in their day and age. It was to be admired.

Only last week, he'd done something he needn't have done: he'd stood up for Oswald when two of the more unpleasant ruffians had taken it on themselves to torment him. The whole sorry affair had taken place in the school's hallway, as such wanton acts of disrespect often did. The boy happened on it by chance and had promptly intervened. He hadn't waited to see how it all might turn out. He hadn't hesitated. He'd just put a stop to it. That had been nice – unexpected. Oswald had, ever since, wondered how he could thank the boy for being friendly to him – for being his friend. How was he supposed to react to such a show of kindness, when this had been the first time something like this had ever happened to him? Well, he'd thanked the boy, of course, as was appropriate, but that didn't seem like enough.

After all, the boy had proven himself a friend to Oswald, and if there was one thing Oswald believed in, it was paying people back whatever he owed them, be it friendship or revenge.

Getting to the boy was a bit of problem, though. He was popular, always surrounded by people, never alone. Never alone. There was no approaching him like that. Oswald was self-aware enough to understand that such a foolish attempt would end in disaster. No, no, no. The important thing was to be smart about it, to be clever. What 'it' meant, precisely, he didn't know – yet. What he did know was that he really wanted to talk to the boy one on one, really wanted to just…just…oh, how to put it into words?

Perhaps he just wanted to be seen.

What a strange notion – true, nonetheless. He could see it so clearly, now, no pun intended. The boy had done him a favour, such a favour, by at least glimpsing who Oswald really was. How could Oswald not pay him back? After all, that was what friends did. Friends did each other favours.

The first thing he did was find out where the boy lived, which wasn't so hard. All that was needed was a small distraction followed by a quick foray into the office where the student files were kept, and he had all he needed. For a day or two, he toyed with the idea of just walking up to the boy's door and ringing the doorbell, but couldn't get himself to do it. What if the boy didn't answer the door? What if his friends were there? No, that would probably turn into a truly humiliating experience, which he liked to avoid if necessary – like the plague, actually, if he were to be perfectly candid with himself.

What to do? What to do? This was a minor predicament, to be sure. Oswald did pride himself on being rather eloquent, but that wasn't worth much if he wasn't given the chance to express himself properly. For that, he needed to be able to concentrate, and that was rather difficult in a group – especially if the majority of the members of that group nurtured inexplicable, yet undeniable hostile intentions toward him.

That was when he decided to find out more about the boy, about his routine, about where he went and what he did when he wasn't surrounded by those ghastly, horrid little toads that vied for his attention all the wretched time. That wasn't so hard, either. For all the instances people told Oswald that he looked and acted weird, he was surprisingly skilled at staying unseen whenever he set his mind to it. Just by being observant and diligent, he found out that the boy liked to go on marathon-long runs every other day, along the river. That was a hobby that took dedication. Oswald knew all about dedication.

So, all he needed to do was get himself in position on the right evening, at the right time, and wait. Luckily, it was pretty warm, even for July. The downside was that so close to the water, the air smelled terrible – like dead fish and decay. Mosquitos left him pretty much alone, but he could hear them buzzing close by. That was always unpleasant. He'd never been much of an outdoors person. The boy was, though, so Oswald just had to bite the bullet. Well, it wasn't as if he weren't an expert in that, too, out of necessity.

Finally, finally, after standing for half an eternity on the crumbling, only partially built promenade, all tensed-up and with his hands stuffed firmly in his jacket pockets, he saw the boy jogging toward him. The boy was focussed on his task, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt and earphones. Ah, yes, he owned a Walkman. Well, of course he did. It fit the profile.

Somehow, Oswald just couldn't picture himself with a Walkman.

Now that the moment of truth had come, he wasn't sure he could do this. Seriously, what was he even thinking? This was…he had no idea what it even was. Was it a good idea, a bad one, a brave one, a stupid one? Good Lord. His stomach cramped his heart thundered sweat on his forehead his hands so stupid he turned around and started marching away seriously what had he been thinking again all this work for nothing he-

"Cobblepot? Is that you?"

Oswald stopped short, closed his eyes for a couple second, took a deep breath, and collected himself. Screwing a smile he hoped didn't look panicked onto his face, he spun around to look at the red-faced, panting, sweat-drenched boy. "Hey…fancy meeting you here, and what a meeting of chance this is!" He chuckled, but felt like slapping himself or jumping into the river, alternatively. What was with his tendency to ramble when a plan fell apart? Wow. How very ridiculous.

"Yeah," the boy said, pulled the headphones down, and wiped one hand across his forehead. His fair hair was plastered to his head, and his chest rose and fell with his quick breaths. People always subscribed to the misconception that sweat smelled bad, but that wasn't precisely accurate. It only started smelling nasty once it started to dry. Fresh sweat was actually quite pleasant. "What're you doing out here? Got lost?"

"Lost?" Oswald both frowned and smiled a little. "No. I grew up here. This city's my home. I don't get lost."

"Okay." The boy cleared his throat, put his hands to his lean waist, and pressed his lips together for a moment. "Okay. I, uh…see you at school." He clearly meant to start running again.

This was it. The time had come for an act of courage and not of cravenness. The world was full enough of cowards as it was. "Wait. Please." Oswald crossed his arms, looked down at his shoes (and by God, his toes were positively blistering after the long walk here), chewed on the inside of his lower lip, and then made himself face the boy – the boy, who had eyes of almost the same blue-green as Oswald himself. Interesting, wasn't it? "I, uh…well, I don't want to take up too much of your time, seeing as you clearly have a very busy schedule, but I feel obliged to steal just an instant, because I honestly believe that-"

"Whoa, dude. Calm down, breathe, and get to the point. I'm starting to get cold, here."

"Of course, of course. I should've realised. I won't inconvenience you for long." Oswald pressed the knuckles of his right hand to his lips, cleared his throat, and made himself not cross his arms after that again. A breeze had started to pick up. It was getting cooler, wasn't it? "After what you did for me last week, I felt that a simple thank you simply wasn't enough to convey my gratitude, not to mention my enthrallment at finally encountering a kindred spirit. I-"

"Oh, that. Yeah, uh…you're welcome. Yeah. Sure thing. Anytime." After an uneasy little silence, he added, "Can I go, now?" It was the boy's turns to cross his arms. The skin on his arms erupted into gooseflesh.

Oswald scratched the bridge of his nose and snickered awkwardly. He couldn't help himself. His innards were in knots. "Wait. Just a moment, please – that's all I ask of you. I swear that it's not my intend to bore you, or to cause you any discomfort, but it's so rare, in this world, to find a truly friendly-"

"Oh, boy." He blew out a heavy breath and raised his hands in a defensive manner. "Dude, stop tripping all over yourself. It's okay. It wasn't a big deal, all right? Just let me make one think clear: I helped you because I don't approve of bullying, and you're just" – He made a pained face and shrugged – "you're just so pathetic."

That was like a bucketful of ice-water over the head. Oswald dropped his hands to his sides and stared right back at the boy, his face expressionless. "I'm not pathetic."

The boy rubbed at his eyes and shook his head. "Sorry, that came out wrong. What I meant is that you're…you're so helpless." He waited for an answer that didn't come. "Look, I'm sure you're a good person and all. You're smart, obviously – a lot. You're totally harmless, too. You're just a little strange, but that's no reason to be an asshole to you. Those guys being jerks to you was just mean. They shouldn't pick on anyone, but even less on a little boy that weighs fifty pounds soaking wet and is incapable of defending himself."

All the muscles in Oswald's neck, shoulders, and back tensed up. His jaw clenched, and he balled his hands into fists. "Harmless? With all due respect, I seriously do not believe that you are sufficiently acquainted with my person to make such a condescending-"

"I don't…" He trailed off, took another deep breath, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, Penguin, man, it's okay. Just…do your thing, but if I were you, I'd tone it down a bit. There's a reason why those dudes pick on you. It's seriously not cool, but…well, you don't need to actually go out of your way to be weird, all right? Friendly advice." He slapped his hand to Oswald's upper arm once, turned around, and started walking. "I should do some stretching before I go on. Stood around too long."

"Of course," Oswald replied serenely, politely watching him. His heart had calmed down, and his stomach was no longer upset. Even though his face was still hot and his hands cold, he didn't feel unwell at all. A small, but genuine smile curved up the corners of his mouth. Slowly, carefully, he hunkered down, picked up a broken piece of concrete, and got to his feet again. It felt good in his hand: sharp-edged, heavy, rough, and very real. He was even inclined to make a silly, self-indulgent little pun in his head: it felt concrete. Ha, ha. "Good advice for a thoroughly harmless, yet tragically odd individual. I understand. I understand completely."

"Good." The boy, with his back to Oswald, went down on one knee to tie his shoelaces. "Good on you, man. Don't let 'em get you down. Don't give 'em the satisfaction. Just do your thing. Being weird is not a crime."

"No, it's not." Carefully, he crossed the distance between them. "'Weird' is, after all, only a predicate applied by those too ignorant to comprehend true intelligence to those who outshine them in that department."

"Sure. Whatever. I-"

Oswald gnashed his teeth together and hit the concrete against the side of the boy's head as hard as he could. There was a crunching sound. The boy's skin split blood splattered he uttered this strangely hilarious strangled gurgle went down on the broken-up promenade just lay there twitching. Quickly, Oswald glanced about; there was no-one there but the two of them and the setting sun. It did invoke a certain feeling of intimacy, this scenario, didn't it? A savage kick to the boy's side flipped him on his back. His face was bloody; more blood was pouring on the filthy ground. It was darker than Oswald had imagined, and it smelled of salt and iron and life. The boy's eyes had rolled back into their sockets. He twitched, gasped for breath.

Well, that was too bad, wasn't it? Too bad, so sad.

After heaving a sigh and shaking his head, Oswald dropped to his knees, straddled the boy, grabbed a fistful of his hair, leaned in, and whispered, "Who's pathetic and helpless now? Hm? Is it the weird skinny kid? No? Well, it's a question of purely academic interest at this point, as you'll certainly agree." He straightened up and grinned broadly. "At least I'm not the one with a caved-in skull." He brought the makeshift weapon down on the boy's head again – once, twice, three times. Bones crunched blood splattered chunks of scalp and blond hair brain matter leaked the boy breathed his last twitched his last lay still.

He lay still.

For a few seconds, Oswald just blinked down at him in confusion. What had just happened? This was…oh, oh, this was…there were no words for how glorious this felt – no words. He was warm all over, his heart beat steadily, and he felt strong, powerful, connected with the entire world and so, so alive. Unable to help himself, he started laughing; it just erupted out of him without his doing, because he was so full of energy, so electrically charged, so filled with fire, surely it would rip his body apart consume him erase him if he didn't let it out, didn't let it flow.

He had no idea how much time went by. Finally, his breathing calmed down. He snickered, wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. Was he crying? He was crying! Incredible. His face must be a sticky, grimy mess. His mother would have an aneurysm, were she to see him in such a state! No matter. He'd think of something; he always did. Briefly setting the piece of gore-splattered and broken concrete down, he placed both his blood-stained hands on the sides of the boy's soft face, leaned down, and placed a lingering kiss on his still sweaty, still warm forehead. He pressed his right hand against the boy's chest. There was nothing where only a moment ago, there'd been a steady, vigorous, lively, strong, virile heartbeat.

"Thank you," he said softly, smiling, his eyes brimming with tears. "Thank you, my friend. I see it now."

Sniffing, he shook his head, sucked in a sharp breath, and picked up the murder weapon. There was still no-one around. For a good long while, he just walked back the way he'd came, mindful of potential passers-by that never showed up. At some point, he found an appropriate-seeming spot. Gingerly, he stepped up to the rusty railing, tossed the piece of concrete into the choppy and filthy waters, pulled the hood of his jacket over his head, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and began the long walk back into downtown. Not even his blistered toes could upset him now. This hadn't been quite the turnout that he'd expected, but it had been…well, something. Something else. Something other, to be sure.

Unable to keep himself from smiling serenely, Oswald went home.