Just a quick housekeeping note, this story begins well after series two, once both the Penguin is an established figure in the Gotham underworld, the Riddler is slowly emerging into that world and before Batman has donned the cowl. I wrote this before I watched the finale of season two and I have no clue where this would come within the actual canonical timeline of the show.
Because of that I did debate putting this in the actual 'Batman' comic universe. However, this relationship and these specific interpretations of these characters are unique to the show Gotham, so I've kept it within this fandom. As a result, it has a certain AU quality about it but I'm afraid the mysterious 'future' setting will have to do.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy...
~ I am an ancient invention, both large and small ~
~ I'm all over the world, don't you recall ~
~I give you the power to see through walls ~
What am I?
Oswald can't quite remember when it started. When the scales tipped from something unusual and alarming to a tolerable, normal part of his routine. Absurd, but accepted.
It began at some point after his stay at Arkham, after the first true meeting between the Penguin and the man who now goes by the name 'the Riddler'. Oswald Cobblepot was finally, finally established in his position as King of Gotham, at long last commanding an empire: he'd settled into his father's lavish Manor House and was bequeathed with power so infinite it was stifling.
It began with an umbrella.
One of his bodyguards said he'd found it lying on the doorstep, no note or threat attached yet couldn't find anything wrong or dangerous with it. The Penguin, wary yet intrigued decided to take a look. It was jet black, sturdy and, to Oswald's complete surprise, the perfect height for him. Measurements exact so it stood precisely at his waist, ideal to facilitate his limp. The handle rested in his palm a comforting weight, like it had been there for years.
Of course, he had the thing professionally examined (you could never be too careful). There was nothing insidious about it yet it was not quite 'ordinary'. If a specific groove on the handle was pressed for more than five seconds the sharpened point of the umbrella would start to rotate at an incredibly fast rate. Effectively, it became a rather nasty portable hydraulic drill.
Its potential as a weapon was devastating.
Oswald had tested it out on the specialist who discovered its particular little quirk and yes, it worked beautifully. You really never could be too careful and he didn't want news of the Penguin's new toy spread about Gotham's underbelly just yet. No, half the fun would be the shock of his adversaries at such an unorthodox weapon. A final belated discovery was that the material didn't stain. Handy.
Oswald had gone to sleep with a smirk on his lips and a hum of excitement in his skin: there was a new mystery to solve. It would seem the Penguin had a benefactor.
Another two arrivals came in quick succession of the first, both left on the Penguin's doorstop. Umbrella cufflinks and a black pocket watch with the initials 'OC' traced tastefully in gold on the back. No note, no trace to their sender and no explanation.
"Perhaps they're gifts sir," came the gruff voice of his second-in-command. Oswald had huffed out a breath and waddled away yet the word stuck in his mind.
'Gifts'. Well, if that was what they were all three gifts left Oswald with a strange aftertaste of confusion, bemusement and an itching curiosity. In the following two months of apparent radio silence after the third gift's arrival not once did it occur to him they were the components of a riddle.
It wasn't until the fourth that Oswald understood.
The fourth came with a note.
On a crisp, frost-ridden morning Oswald found on his doorstep a blank sealed envelope. All assumed it was just more business correspondence so, when the crinkled pages it contained spilled out across the Penguin's desk Oswald felt his blood run cold.
Sheet music. Handwritten. Ink stained.
My Mother Looks Over Me.
And between the pages, the Penguin's old business card. Black and sleek with a bright, bold scrawl across it in the most offensive shade of luminescent green. On one side an obese, indolent question mark. On the other:
For the memories
x
Oswald's hands shook in fury and rage and the strangest humiliation because of course it had been Edward Nygma. How could it have been anyone else? It was so obvious it was worrying he hadn't realised - after all, this old friend was one of the few people alive who had seen Oswald at his absolute lowest and he'd just sent him a painful reminder of that fact, delivered straight to his doorstep. The Riddler, the man whom Oswald was partly responsible for making.
The bastard hadn't even revealed his identity in a riddle. Oswald didn't know if that should be taken as an insult or a compliment and, more importantly, he couldn't be sure whether this was a declaration of war or a proposition of...what? An alliance? A continuation to a friendship which felt like a lifetime ago? A game to fill a dull moment? He truly had no idea.
Oswald was half-tempted to burn the umbrella out of spite.
But once the initial fury had subsided his eyes were drawn, against his will, to the tiny 'x'. The kiss was presumptuous, full of cheek and Oswald could practically see the man's wink as he read it. The back of his neck burned.
Memories; the wallpaper of his mind slowly peeled back to reveal festering emotions long undisturbed beneath.
Strange how a single letter, a paper kiss could bring back a torrent of feelings left unaddressed, unacknowledged. Oswald pressed his lips into a firm line and carefully folded the music sheets, placing them in the bottom drawer.
The card he tucked, after a moments hesitation, into his left jacket pocket.
The next day another parcel arrived. Inside lay a handkerchief, Oswald's exact favourite shade of purple, an olive branch (honestly Ed, where do you find an olive branch in Gotham) and another of his old club's cards, this time singularly decorated with just a question mark. Oswald knew what it was - an invitation.
The green ink was still wet. It stained his thumb when he traced the question mark.
Believe me when I tell you that this path you're on leads to nothing but destruction and pain.
That evening in the Iceburg Lounge the Penguin arrived wearing Ed's plum purple handkerchief in his jacket pocket. Five people complimented him on it. Ed didn't come.
After that, the gifts became far more frequent, and far more varied. Oswald found Ed's choices in present, the sheer contrast from clear calculation to apparent randomness, quite confusing.
Some were sentimental: a pair of Ed's glasses, one of his strange little lab beakers which had served as mugs in his old apartment, a jar of spicy mustard. Whenever Oswald received that strand of gift it became harder to ignore the warmth which pooled in his stomach, the way his heart beat achingly in his chest. Yearning for something which had happened long ago and was trapped behind the unyielding bars of time.
Some were...strange. For example, Oswald found himself the owner of a growing collection of chess pieces made of jade and obsidian. One morning he found a children's book entitled "101 Things To Know About The Antarctic's Feathered Friend" on his veranda table - Oswald was slightly alarmed that his initial reaction to it leaned closer to bemusement than genuine offence.
Then some were downright bizarre. Ed sent him a monocle one month, a plump little top hat another and even a long, pinched cigarette case (it was far too reminiscent of Cruella DeVille for Oswald's liking). For days Oswald tried hopelessly to figure out some sort of riddle or test behind them but finally came to the conclusion; Ed must simply find the image of Oswald wearing them incredibly amusing. No more than the idea of Ed in spandex. If he ever could find the Riddler's current address that would definitely be the first thing he'd send.
Still, Oswald found it in himself to forgive the man because, while some were baffling, some were breathtaking.
Oswald would never forget hearing reports that the million dollar, world famous emerald ring, having been recently housed in a private collection in Gotham, had been stolen. It was said that the jewel, colloquially known as the Beauties' Lament, had passed through the Four Beauties - historically the four most beautiful women in China. They had brought Kings to their knees and countries to their worship yet in the end, lost everything. Their brilliance had burned too bright, it would seem. Suspects for the robbery were yet to be identified however the Riddler had claimed responsibility, his hallmark emblazoned on the casing like a goodbye kiss.
That night Oswald had found it on his pillow. A huge emerald, so stunning it seemed to absorb the light around it as if it were jealous of attention being lavished on anything other than itself. It was beautiful.
Oswald had promptly poured himself a glass of sherry. Then another. And another.
The drinks hadn't helped the sudden, overwhelming dryness in his mouth but they had given him something to blame when he reached for the ring and almost dropped it because his hands were shaking.
It only occurred to him the next morning that Ed had somehow got into his bedroom.
Really, it was a security breach. If gangly, awkward Edward Nygma had managed to sneak into his private rooms then surely anyone with half a mind to could. An immediate security reassessment should have been ordered instantly, guards doubled, equipment reinstated.
It wasn't.
No matter the gift, no matter its significance Oswald kept them all locked away. He even installed a special safe for it, placed right behind his favourite painting above the fireplace. He told himself it was because his office needed more storage space to hide important documents, it just so happened that his desk drawer was becoming too full of Ed's assortment at the time it was installed. Of course that was the reason.
Oswald was so very careful, meticulous in the way only he could to ensure no one ever discovered the stash or could ever connect him in any way to the Riddler. After all, Oswald was running a mob- no, the mob. He had to make and preserve vital alliances with powerful men and women from every area of Gotham life. If anything, even the seemingly smallest toe was stepped out of line Oswald could lose his whole backing in a single phone call.
The Riddler was a fringe player, slowly gaining confidence and influence yet he conducted his 'special interest' projects outside the institutions of Gotham's criminal underworld. The Penguin did not have that luxury. Any perceived link or, heaven forbid, friendship with Edward Nygma could prove disastrous if it became public knowledge. It was not a chance he was willing to take.
For some men love is a source of strength but for you and I it will always be our most crippling weakness.
The irony that Ed had been the one to teach him that lesson was not lost on him. To care was an invitation for exploitation, an act of self-immolation and one that Oswald was not interested in pursuing. Yet every gift sent him just one step closer to that precipice and part of him didn't want to care.
If Oswald was honest, it had started to scare him a little.
Not Ed's intentions. No, the man had a soaring intelligence, an ego to rival Jim Gordon's and the dangerous belief he was always the smartest man in the room. But he was still Ed. The same earnest, eager eyes which had from a distance both adored Oswald and devoured. He knew Ed wanted...more. Whether that was his mind, his life or just him, Oswald had no clue. But he understood Ed and one should never be scared of what one understands.
No, what frightened Oswald was himself. The way he unthinkingly accepted gift after gift. The way he was putting his life's work and achievements on the line for a game with a man who had an unhealthy obsession with riddles. The way his heart stuttered whenever he looked in the direction of the safe, the unbearable heat which stopped him breathing whenever he imagined Ed in his room, with him, alone.
He was on the cusp of falling. And penguins cannot fly.
Oswald could pinpoint the exact moment he was pushed too far.
One night the Penguin went to sleep, thoughts for the first time in days blissfully free of Edward Nygma and his mind games, and woke to find a single rose on his bedside table. Jet black, putrid petals protruded from a twisted, thorny stem - unnaturally, obscenely green. It smelled of Ed's aftershave.
The thing was ugly and loud and presumptuous and it made Oswald want to scream because it promised things it could not keep. And it meant Ed had been in his room. Again. While he'd been sleeping.
He inhaled a shaky breath, just to prove to himself that he still could.
The air had tasted of Ed.
Oswald didn't know why he did it at night. No one in the house would have cared what the Penguin did with his evenings but he desperately needed the privacy, the pretense he could be free from prying eyes for this. Walking out, breath turning to vapour with each exhale in the crisp winter air, his stomach had churned with something gnawing and ashamed. Each jolted step felt like a betrayal.
He'd buried the green monstrosity under a mound of earth and leaves. He'd hoped the act would prove cathartic in some way, that it would switch off whatever insane part of his mind was allowing this ridiculous farce to continue.
It didn't.
The worst thing was, as a parting gift, it pricked his finger. The black and green rose was laid to rest sprinkled with bright red. Oswald resented that most of all - it was exactly what Ed would have wanted.
After the rose the gifts became less and less frequent, like Ed had suddenly lost momentum. Or lost interest. Oswald had to remind himself far too often that that had been the aim, that he was supposed to feel grateful, relieved. Regret had no place in it. Nor did guilt. He would distract himself from such obstinate emotions by puzzling over how Ed had found out about the rose. Oswald had no doubt Ed knew - the timing had been too specific. He just had no idea how to find out how, bar asking the man himself and that was hardly about to happen.
Oswald was always so blind when it came to his weaknesses.
He remembered the first time he'd found one of Riddler's informers in his ranks. Even years on the memory stung. Mr Cassidy was a scrawny little thing; he'd been bullied by the other men and just happened to be harbouring quite the grudge against Oswald Cobblepot. Physically unassuming, overlooked and intelligent.
It was so obviously Ed it hurt.
Their mutual friend had been passing the Penguin's secrets to the Riddler for three months and been damn clever about hiding it. After all, Oswald knew all too well how easy it was to escape suspicion when everyone underestimated you. He would have been impressed if he hadn't been so bloody terrified that he'd fallen for it, every insipid gift poisoning his mind against the reality that Edward Nygma was first and foremost the Riddler: the very dangerous, very real threat. Their time together had given the man a dangerous look inside the Penguin's head and that was deadly.
"Shall we see if green blood runs in those veins of yours, Mr Cassidy?
Oswald hadn't enjoyed killing him at all. It was public and brutal and messy and every scream the Penguin wrought turned to a laugh in his ears, every tear shed flashed just like Ed's eyes had so long ago. When his blood spattered Oswald's skin (and would you look at that, just as red as any other traitor) it burned like acid. The Penguin's men had watched, jeering, hooting with vindictive pleasure. Oswald had just felt tired.
He'd used the umbrella.
The gifts stopped after that, unsurprisingly. Life returned to normal. Except it didn't.
Oswald longed for the old rage, the fire which usually burned him from the inside out and drove him to take another painful step after painful step, but instead there was only a strange, impersonal hollowness. Drinking didn't help. Killing didn't either. In fact, it felt far too akin to the emptiness he had experienced after his mother's passing.
"Stop this now Oswald. Don't you dare give the Riddler the same status as your mother. She was a saint, your whole world - Edward Nygma is nothing. Mind games and empty riddles and nothing." Each night the words turned to ash in his mouth and he would choke on them.
Every now and then he would dream Ed was in his room. Sometimes he would just be a presence, a shadow hovering in the murky blackness that seethed like it was alive, watching him. Sometimes he felt the phantom touches of hands running through his hair, the gentlest kind of annihilation. Sometimes he felt those same hands around his throat.
He stepped up security around the premises, employed ten more guards. People whispered the Penguin was getting paranoid again. The dreams didn't stop.
It was 13 months since the first gift when Ed went to Arkham. Jim Gordon's bleak face had announced it on the news that morning. Latest stint gone wrong; too cocky, not quite quick enough, not enough back-up.
Edward Nygma was in Arkham Asylum. Again.
This time Penguin had screamed, had raged, had thrown everything breakable he could reach at the television set because no, Edward Nygma was not allowed to be there, not allowed to be captured, not allowed to go where Oswald couldn't follow. He would be hurt, insides wringed out and played with for someone's amusement, twisted and contorted and changed just as Oswald had and that was unacceptable, unthinkable. Before, he hadn't known, hadn't been nearly in the right mind to think or feel but this time...The fierce protectiveness swamped Oswald in its intensity. He didn't care, didn't give a damn because Ed-
Oswald couldn't lose him. Even after everything, the informant, the distance, the pain there was something in that man, some life and energy that Oswald couldn't do without. Realisation hit him like a bullet through his skull.
All of those gifts - the ring, the rose, the umbrella - hell, even before this strange dance started, back at the beginning of it all. 'This is Mr Leonard'. The first thing Ed had ever done for Oswald was give him a gift, to please him, to try and resurrect him when he didn't want to be saved. Although Nygma and manipulation went hand in hand and always would do, that had never been his true purpose.
No, the gifts...were gifts.
Genuine gifts which Oswald was entirely sure Ed had spent hours planning, stealing, risking capture for. Every single one had meaning, had something about them which Ed's fascinating mind had deemed worthy of sending to his idol and friend. They were gifts to please, gifts to thank, gifts to give because of course that's what you did when you-
Oswald gasped in a breath, the world gone silent and cold.
No. Don't complicate things. Truth was simple and straightforward and nothing could be more complicated than that word.
All that mattered was that right then, at that moment, Edward Nygma needed Oswald Cobblepot.
And, it would seem, Oswald needed Ed.
It was that simple.
Before his first day in the asylum had come to a close Ed received his first gift from the Penguin: a small, black card kept in pristine condition from 13 months earlier. It was decorated in a beautiful green cursive which scrawled out 'for the memories', a delicate kiss and a question mark which asked what could never be put into words.
It only took a week for Ed to escape.
?
"Ed?"
"Hmm?"
"I have a question."
The two are entwined, lying in the Penguin's four poster bed, neither quite sure where one starts and the other ends. Firelight bathes Ed's skin in the most delicious gold - not quite as fetching as green but still, it would do. They have both waited far too long for this.
Ed raises an eyebrow, one corner of his mouth slowly crawling upwards.
"Is it a riddle?"
Oswald snorts, unable to resist rolling his eyes.
"I'm not even going to deign that with an answer Ed. No, I was wondering during your recent impression of Father Christmas...how did you manage to get into my bedroom?"
Ed looks incredibly cat-like in that moment, firelight glinting off pupils which are large and blown, grin particularly Cheshire.
"But that would ruin the mystery."
Oswald huffs, annoyance trickling through the haze of contentment. "Ed, this is serious… No, don't smirk, this is a security matter, I need to know-"
The bubble of frustration is burst the moment Ed's lips meet his. The kiss is gentle, teasing and holds none of their earlier intensity yet Oswald still feels himself weaken. Kissing Ed is simultaneously the most exhilarating, gratifying thing he's ever done, and also the most devastating.
Ed draws back and sighs, exaggerated and half-mocking and Oswald is struck with how much he has changed. Becoming the Riddler has given the man a flair for theatrics which before, although present, were far more subdued. Now, he seems invigorated by a newfound confidence; arrogance brimming over in every smug line of his face.
Oswald smiles. He could get used to this.
Ed's finger is lazy as it draws a question mark on Oswald's chest.
"Why, Mr Penguin, you never locked the window."
~ A window ~
This was the first full Nygmobblepot fic I wrote - I think I just needed to give them a happy ending since I'm doubtful the show can ever let these boys be truly 'happy'. This fic is just the beginning of a longer string of stories based around some of Ed's favourite riddles. They are not written as connected but please feel free to read them as a continuous collection of their thoughts and actions undocumented by the show. Rather ironically I have started with the ending, which is, of course, the proper place start in a place like Gotham.
As I said, this was the first fic I did so my apologies if their voices are not quite 'there' yet. I've written a good deal more (which, yes, will be flooding the internet in due course) so hopefully that will improve in time.
Thank you so much for reading and if you enjoyed it do drop a comment! Would love to hear from you, as well as perhaps any suggestions for riddles in the future...
~Secret Agent Codename Bob