This was supposed to be Myla's last semester of undergrad, but the idea of taking a year off despite being so close to the finish line didn't bother her in the slightest.
Within a few days of suggesting a break from school (to herself), she stopped going to class. The consequences of it were no where near as devastating as teachers had warned, but she supposed that even if they had been, she was too detached from it to care. She still left the house on school nights, spending them going to movies or shopping or just bumming around with Mace. It was nice to regain something of a sense of normalcy, in the face all the fear, sadness, and uncertainty that had consumed her life of late.
If only that feeling would spread to her home life. Ever since Myla quit school, Oswald had become increasingly on-edge: randomly posing very odd, out of place questions, and interrogating her about the slightest unsupervised gaps between time with Mace and time with him. There had been very few instance which had left Oswald so emotionally transparent, and no matter how slick he believed himself to be in this particular instance, Myla could practically taste the insecurity. Something happened. Something she missed – or that he wanted her to miss, anyway.
At first, she was excited to think that maybe her callous indifference was beginning to wear him thin, but on second thought it felt like a bit of a stretch. How would indifference cause a person to leap from mild aggression to borderline paranoid? No, it was something else. Work-related stress, maybe. After considering this, Myla tried not to dwell on why – to do so might crack the steadily growing facade of apathy she had been working so hard to achieve – but was still curious. Enough to be tempted to ask someone about it. Gabe or Mace might supply her with some insight.
Now would be an opportune time to ask. Myla was currently across the room on the computer, looking up various hotspots to visit, and other tourist-y things Mace dictated to her from the bed. Suddenly prompted by the knowledge that neither of them have seen a live theater show, Myla tossed a credit card for Mace to use to buy tickets for the weekend.
"How many?" Mace asked.
"Just two."
Mace added five, just in case. "You know, you should really go with your...guy." She didn't know what exactly to refer Oswald as – it was difficult to tell whether the two had at some point been a part of a real, loving relationship, or if Myla was the most ungrateful sugar baby in existence. Fortunately, Mace had no desire to be so involved, which put a damper of the need to ask about such things.
"I would rather go with you." Myla said simply. "Speaking of Oz, though, has anything been going wrong?"
Maces' eyes flicked up from the screen. "Wrong with what?"
"I don't know...business or whatever." Myla kept her cool, trying to remain nonchalant, which involved her staring off at the wall in hopes that nothing could be told from her expression. Wouldn't want to look like she was pushing too hard about this. "He's just been stressed and weird the last couple weeks."
"Well, as far as I know, everything is great." Business appeared to be running just fine, and Mace hadn't been receiving any orders – from Penguin or Zsasz – that were outside the usual.
"Hm." In accordance with her other talents, Myla supposed that Mace was probably an excellent liar, but accepted the answer all the same. Mace didn't have anything to lose by lying to her, but it wasn't as if Myla had any place to fault her if she was.
"Has he been alright to you, besides all that?" Mace may not have particularly cared about their relationship, but she always found herself pulled by the thought of Myla's allusions toward abuse that time she cried in the car. Plus, when it came to the aspect of her job that involved reporting to Oswald, she found it best to gather everything Myla said. She already knew how jazzed Cobblepot would be to hear that Myla was mildly concerned about his stress level, but it wouldn't hurt to poke around a minute more.
"It's been the same, more or less." Myla said, a little sadly. "He's a little more intense, I guess, but things are okay otherwise."
"And you're sure you don't want to take him to this show?"
"Maybe I will." But probably not. Why would she make such a gesture when she was trying to make Oswald sick of her?
Mace purchased the five tickets anyway and shut the laptop, tossing it onto the bed next to Myla, who was staring down rather intently at her.
"Do you always dye it pink?"
"My hair?" Mace asked. That pop-y shade of her hair had faded out quite a bit, and grown out enough to where anyone could plainly see that her natural color was a light, ashy brown. "Pretty much, yeah. I go platinum from time to time, but it's a lot of work."
"Is pink a favorite color or something?" These were dumb questions, but it was nice to talk about dumb, simple things on occasion.
"Not really...I just like it." Mace shrugged. "At this point, I've had it long enough to where it's kind of my signature."
"So you've built a name on pink hair?"
"Trust me, the right people in Gotham know who I am." Mace – Pink Lady, Pink Lemonaide, Princess Bubblegum.. "I'll be at a Victor level of notoriety in no time."
Myla snorted. "Okay then. Wanna go out for lunch?"
"You know it." Mace picked herself up from the floor. "Meet you by the door?"
"Yep."
As Mace left the room, Myla put her card back in her purse and slid off the bed before heading off to meet Mace.
A door opened, just slightly as she was coming up to it, causing her to pause as she waited for someone to exit the room. She didn't like it when people walked behind her anymore. Not in this house.
A voice called her name from the crack.
It took a second for the voices familiarity to register in her head. "Mr. Nygma?"
"Myla." He called out again, an urgent whisper.
This was a gap in time she didn't really want to potentially explain to Oswald, but...it was only Edward. And whatever he wanted would probably be quick. She walked up to the door, allowing him to open it a bit further before entering the room. He shut it, and they were briefly enveloped in semi-darkness.
Myla reached out to flip the switch, only to have her hand pushed back down to her side.
"Wait." He whispered harshly.
Not a second sooner had the word left his mouth did Maces' quiet footsteps sounded in the hall outside the room.
Her eyes steadily adjusted, just enough to see his outline against the wall, as she waited with him until the footsteps disappeared. Myla panicked a little. She had very limited time now, before Mace would go back upstairs to look for her. After that she would go to Oswald to ask if he had seen her, causing hell for her later.
Edward waited a few moments more before turning the light on himself. His face was difficult for Myla to read, but he appeared to be both nervous and, strangely, somewhat annoyed, as if she was forcing him to be there.
"Something wrong?" She asked, ignoring both the weirdness of the situation and his slight negativity toward her.
Edward shifted awkwardly, taking a few extra moments to collect his thoughts.
"Oswald isn't happy." He said finally.
"Good" was the initial response Myla wanted to give, because she wasn't happy either. Was this supposed to be some friendly advance notice that she was getting dumped? Was Oswald using Edward to dump her? A lame, high school move to be sure, but she wouldn't get too upset over it.
Instead she kept her answer neutral with a simple "Oh."
"Is that it? 'Oh'?"
Myla shrugged. There was really nothing else to say until she knew where this conversation was going.
"Well, allow me to be a bit more clear. I don't like it when my friends are unhappy."
That answer was far from clear. In fact, it managed to be even more vague and unhelpful than his last statement. No one likes when their friend is unhappy, after all.
"Alright...but hey, since we're alone for once, and I know this is a total longshot – did you keep my sweater?"
"Sweater?"
"Yeah. I wore that thing to like every tutoring session we had because you said you loved the color."
"Sweater." He hadn't been actually been talking about the sweater – he had meant her eyes. Even in the semi-darkness of this room her eyes shone out to him. Doll-like, bottle green, with splashes of a deeper, pine color. Flecks of silver. They were the first thing he noticed about her. The only thing, really, at their first meeting.
"Yeah. Dark green, really soft. It was a bit large on me, but that just made it insanely comfortable. I really liked that sweater, and I left in your apartment...the last time."
Edward honestly couldn't remember whether the sweater was in a box, or if it had joined the rest of that delicious cake she had brought him in the garbage, but he definitely couldn't feign ignorance when it came to the night she had left it.
"I parked like three blocks away, just so you know. It was a very cold walk to my car."
"My apologies for that." "And another for making you wait three years for an apology. Plus one more apology, because I don't think I have your sweater."
Bummer. "It was worth a shot."
Edward stood up strait again. "Now, about Oswald -"
"-Yeah, and now it's my turn to say I'm sorry," Myla wasn't really, "because I don't really know what you expect me to do, and, I kind of don't care."
Edward shot her a look. "Myla, please." He scoffed. "Look, whatever goal you're working toward is not working."
"Hm." Wasn't it though? If it wasn't working, why was Oswald's right-hand man confronting her like this? "So, I'm just supposed to wait around for him to get bored of me? That's a terrible suggestion for Plan B."
"I understand you, I do, but...How do I put this delicately." After making a mock of a thinking pose, he snapped his fingers."Right – it well and truly does not matter what you want. Oswald wants you here. That is what matters." Edward's expression had steadily grown darker, his voice stronger – more self-assured – as their conversation progressed. He had also been taking steps toward her, at a pace so slow Myla didn't notice she had been backing away from him; not even as she found herself against the wall.
"I just...I want to leave."
"Myla, you are very pretty, and very weak. And as long as you're pretty and weak, he won't be annoyed into wanting you to leave – I mean really, now – how is your Plan A any better than my suggestion? I will says that you are, at the very least upsetting him with these...transparent efforts of yours." Edward said through clenched teeth. "And you know what happens when he's upset? He comes to me. And I have to sit there, and listen to him whine, and worry, and the way he says your name. I think I hate that most of all"
"I like it better with the 'My' anyway."
"No – you made yourself think you liked it better because it was easier than correcting people." Edward tapped the side of his head. "Steel trap, remember?"
"Okay, so what if Oz says 'My' instead of 'Me' – just tune it out. Why do you even care? You hardly have the right to be jealous or anything."
He ignored her. "I honestly can't believe how hard your making this on yourself." Edward had mistakenly assumed this conversation would be a fairly easy one, especially considering the (mostly) friendly past they shared. People changed, that much was true. Lord knew he had, but Myla...Myla had been a total doll – a cupcake – back when they were first acquainted. Now, she was borderline arrogant. Childish. Infuriating. Maybe Oswald was being a glutton for punishment.
"I don't care." She really needed to leave. Wouldn't he be aware that every second he made her stay increased to odds of another relationship rant from Oswald? "I honestly don't care anymore. It's time for me to go."
The wind was knocked out of her as Myla found herself pinned against the wall, Edward's forearm on her throat. She noticed the shiny glint of metal in his hand. What was that? A scalpel? Not the most threatening weapon, but it would leave her bleeding out on the hardwood all the same, should Edward choose that course of action.
"You should care. You have no idea how much you should care." Edward's voice was remarkably, unnervingly calm. "Starting...well, now, I suppose – I would start doing your very best to make Oswald happy again. Just think of how easy that would be: smiling your smile, and baking your muffins – just like you used to, back when Oswald was content to keep your name out of his mouth." He stood up slightly, making it so Myla had to stand on her tiptoes to avoid choking. "I know you can pretend, at the very least, Myla. That's always been a strong suit of yours now, hasn't it?" Edward taunted. "Act like you accept him, or...die trying."
"Did you really have to make a pun of this?" For fuck's sake, why couldn't Myla have comebacks outside of threatening situations?
"It was a good line, wasn't it?" He pressed his arm just the slightest bit more against her throat, waving the staff of the scalpel between his fingers. "Just say you'll make him happy."
"Say it." He hissed. The scalpel was firmly gripped in his hand now, and Myla could feel the back of the blade scratching lightly against her neck. She thought about kicking him, but worried it either might not work, and whether she would be able to leave the room fast enough if it did. The pressure on her throat was starting to feel unbearable. Myla struggled to stay balanced and saw stars.
"I will." Her voice was faint and hoarse as she reluctantly agreed.
The pressure disappeared and she nearly collapsed on the floor, barely having the time or strength to catch herself between gasping and choking from the sudden influx of air in her lungs. Edward crouched down in front of her, casually observing the way her body suddenly started shaking in that pathetic, jumpy sort of way that happens when someone is fighting not to cry. Myla flinched when he reached out to her to help her up. If that mild bit of violence hadn't felt so blissful, the reaction might have left him feeling ashamed.
"Myla." Edward said her name softly, in the kind of tone one might use to coax a frightened cat out from under the bed. Slowly, after she'd gained her breath and reigned her emotions in, Myla turned up her gaze to his.
"I knew you were still a good girl."