Oswald wondered how many knew at this point. Ivy obviously, but he suspected Victor knew, too. Something in the alpha's eyes when he looked at him. On any other man, it would have been pity. But Oswald felt reasonably sure Victor was incapable of that particular emotion. It required the ability to empathise with others, and that wasn't something the assassin bothered with. And he wasn't to anymore, either. He'd been able to feel compassion once, but now all he felt was emptiness. Emptiness, and sorrow. He didn't even feel rage, even though he probably should. Maybe he would in time, when he wasn't so numb. When he stopped wanting to bawl whenever he saw anything even remotely connected to the idea that there were little people in the world. People like Claudia.
Except, no thinking about her was almost impossible. He wondered about the shape of her nose, her voice, her laugh. What would have been her favorite colour, her favourite book? Would she have been a good, sweet baby or keep him up all night just because she could? Would she have had his eyes? Or would he have seen Ed every time she looked at him?
Pointless, really. And stupid, because there was no reason to wonder. But he still did. He imagined he could see her play in Ivy's greenhouse, driving the alpha crazy but being too adorable to scold. He could see her in dirty trousers with mud in her hair, laughing. Face covered in icing and cream as she dug into her first birthday cake. He saw her everywhere, and she was nowhere. And it was Ed's fault. Oswald really wished he could be angry with him. It would have made things a whole lot easier.
He wanted to cry, but no tears came. Mother had always told him that a good cry helped with everything; just cry it out, and you'd feel better. But no matter how he tried, he couldn't cry.
He was too numb.
