After that, Oswald does not think about kissing Edward Nygma for a very long time. He wraps his heart in barbed wire and bullet shells and memories like daggers, until he finally freezes it entirely.
Ice, illuminated by stage lights and paraded in public. That is where his heart resides for all of Gotham to see. A frozen mockery of what once beat and breathed and bled.
It's the least I could do.
Everything is fine. Cold and numb and fine. He can rule, hold court and enforce the Pax Penguina as he should have done long ago without distractions.
So what if he talks to the ice every now and then, just to bemoan the lack of intelligence in the criminal underworld these days? And what does it matter if he brushes his fingers against the ice before he leaves the Lounge, like some strange good luck charm? Ed is frozen and Oswald is safe. It doesn't mean anything.
It doesn't.
But then the ice shatters and Oswald doesn't recognise the man who emerges. There is none of that dazzling brilliance left beneath this stranger's dull, doe-like eyes. The razor sharp intelligence which once mesmerised him has vanished like mist on Gotham pier and all he is left with is stupid riddles, a cheap suit and a man brandishing a gun like a children's toy.
You're just Ed Nygma. Not even Ed Nygma.
Before, it had hurt to look at Ed. Pressed against the bars of an oversized birdcage or staring defiantly up as a gun had traced the point of his chin, each breath had pressed too close to his ribcage, hissing against a muscle inflamed by pain and rage and heartbreak.
You're here because, what? I didn't love you back?
But now… Oswald just feels hollow. A sad, humourless pity is the only remnant of what had once burned him from the inside out. His lack of feeling seems almost a disappointment after the visceral terror of the fear toxin.
Oh, the sweet irony that both of them should be doomed to live as empty shells of what they once were, what they could have been.
Goodbye, Ed.
Oswald spends months drowning his memories in alcohol, ignoring each report of Ed's blatant, infantile taunts, telling himself that this revenge is better, that even warm and walking, the faded ghost of a man masquerading as 'the Riddler' is no threat to him.
Edward has lost his mind, just like Oswald has lost his heart. Poetry, really.
Of course the bloody boy just has to get involved. It is inconceivable that what begins to thaw the ice in Oswald's chest is a child, a scruffy orphan who cannot even speak, and yet, Gotham has always had a twisted sense of humour. The city gives him the son he can never have, just as it once offered him the lover who would never want him. One more bullet, one more reminder of his utter deficiency in every area that matters.
He tells the boy - shun friendship. It is an indulge that will only be exploited. Do not be fooled.
However, despite his best efforts, the child keeps coming back and each nervous smile or murderous doodle goes straight to Oswald's sentimentality. Before he knows it, he has committed cannibalism just to save an orphan's life. Not once does he regret it.
The boy himself is no threat, but the woman who introduced them certainly is.
Sofia Falcone is a viper, much more so than Barbara or Tabitha have ever been. The Sirens never pretend to be anything other than their vicious selves, but Miss Falcone… She is kind and gentle and brings him dinner and massages his crippled knee and it's the first time in over a year that anyone has touched him like that, the first time since-
Oswald is so tired of being alone.
One evening, Sofia sings to him. That night, he dreams of a different voice, a shadowy apartment, a gentle melody whispered through moonlight. My Mother looks over me…
It terrifies him, how close he comes to cutting himself open on such a precarious knife edge. He doesn't think his heart is strong enough to bleed out for a second time. Thankfully, Martin reveals Sofia's deception before he is lost completely.
I don't want to leave you.
Saying goodbye to Martin is not the worst pain Oswald has ever felt in his life. No, he has experienced too much of grief's ineffable depth and darkness to mistake this for the true agony of death and separation.
Yet, it is a loss which cuts deeper than he'd anticipated. Another scar on his chequered heart, another weight to struggle under. Still, he continues on, because there is no other choice.
Arkham, at least, provides ample distraction from it all.
Oswald had by no means been a perfect Mayor. While the going had been good his approval ratings had soared and, for a city like Gotham, a popular and somewhat effective leader was damn near miraculous. Still, of every administrative failure he regrets from his time in office, there is one which he holds supreme:
Not fixing Arkham Asylum's bloody heating.
Every day Oswald wakes up freezing, fingers numb: the pitiful excuse for an overall he wears might as well be made from string and paper for all the insulation it provides. As his leg seizes more with each passing day, he comforts himself with the knowledge that this is nothing compared to Hugo Strange's torture. His body may suffer but his mind at least remains his own.
Then he meets Jerome.
Make me laugh.
Sleeping becomes a near impossible luxury, now he knows Jerome has such free access to the whole asylum. The approval of madmen which Oswald has won at the expense of his pride could vanish at any moment and he would be left utterly defenceless.
Paranoia curls its claws into Oswald's shoulder, and he is left desperate, terrified. The jeers of Jerome and his merry crew follow him, waking or sleeping. Even the walls seem to vibrate with howling. As the screams of Captain Barnes and the babbling nonsense of the Mad Hatter needle into his skin, itching away inside his veins, Oswald wonders whether he might actually lose his grip on sanity for real.
Please, I can't do this alone, just, please, someone- help me.
For once, Gotham hears him.
I am held captive all day, my brilliance locked away. This prison must be broken, the key - my name which must be spoken.
Oswald had almost forgotten what joy feels like. He remembers now.
It is cold, as he limps down the corridor, the fresh cut on his cheek stinging with each step. The right half of his body aches, leg dragging heavily against the tiled floor. He struggles to breathe past the anxiety and convulsing hope in his gut.
He knows this is his only chance.
The moment he sees that flash of green down the hall, shimmering like the mirage of a half-dead man, his heart trips in his chest.
He's here.
"I knew you'd come." Oswald couldn't have kept the exuberance out of his voice if he'd tried. For the first time in so long his lips are pulled back in a genuine smile. "I knew you'd understand my letter."
His gaze sweeps over Ed's shocked expression, marvelling at how different he looks to that day on the docks. His hair is ruffled, loose strands hanging limp over his forehead and Oswald's fingers itch to brush them aside.
What a pair they make. Still, even like this, it is so good to see him.
"How did you know I'd be here?" Ed sounds so lost, eyes wide like they had been at the pier when Oswald pulled bullet shells from his suit pocket. The look doesn't suit him. "What are you talking about?"
"Oh, I'm not talking to you, Ed. I'm talking to him." Oswald laughs, the sound shrill even to his ears, and half of him wonders if this is a habit he has picked up from Jerome. Regardless, he can't help it, not when his plan has worked so beautifully, not when Ed is here, so close. "He read my letter."
"No." Ed stands abruptly, alarm clear in every jagged line of his body. "I came here to save Lee."
Oswald can't stop laughing, a record stuttering on repeat. He read my letter. He saw. He came back to me. He needs me too.
"You're wrong." The fire is back in Ed's voice, strong and determined and useless and Oswald can't stop laughing. "I am Ed. Edward Nygma, that is it. Lee believes in me, she sees me for who I am."
No no no Edward, we've been here before. I'm the only one who sees you, for all that you are and all you can be. Don't you remember? I did try to tell you once, just before you murdered me. It seems you need reminding.
"But I see him, Ed." Oswald cannot help it but raise his voice, something in the words grating like a string not properly tuned.
"No…"
Finally, Ed gets it. The fear in his eyes sends the most delicious thrill through Oswald's skin.
I know you better than you know yourself.
Ed reaches out blindly, hands shaking as he scrambles for the pen to sign away everything and immediately anger flares through Oswald's veins. Don't you dare. He launches himself forward, hands grasping desperately at the crumpled lapels of Ed's suit.
The sudden heat as they enter each other's space is almost unbearable.
"Lee Thompkins may have made Ed strong-" His hands flutter with adrenaline and his voice croons out, whisper thin. "But I see the other you. The one whose name I wouldn't speak."
Oswald hisses out a breath. When was the last time he was this close to Ed? So painfully close, skin on fire, as if he is standing next to the sun. It must have been months…
"But because he's earned it, and because I need him, I'm saying it now."
"No, please." Ed begins to struggle, the desperation in the words no match for the abject terror in his eyes. "Please, no-"
"I need you-"
Ed's heart beats frantically between them, bruises blooming underneath each other's fingers and Oswald feels no remorse, no pity, just this breath-taking, exhilarating freedom-
"Riddler."
The word rings out, the toll of a death sentence and Oswald, awed, watches the final moments of the most beautiful murder he's ever performed.
Like a poison setting in, Ed begins to convulse, shakes wracking his body as if a physical transformation is taking place, tearing through his bones, ripping open his organs.
A curled fist clenches Oswald's collar, tight enough he struggles to breathe. And then that hand is on his face, skin on skin. Ed's fingers burn against his flesh like brands.
Tectonic plates shift beneath their shaking limbs and Oswald is suddenly back in that dockside warehouse, bound against a rusting car bonnet with acid hanging overhead, Ed choking him with fury in his irises.
But now, those eyes aren't furious.
They are full of something else entirely. A dark shadow passes over those twin points, as if something behind them has just been eclipsed.
I see you, Ed. Finally. I see you.
They are both gasping, chests heaving as if they have been struggling for hours and not mere moments. Ed's beautiful eyes take in Oswald slowly, delicious and dripping and, with Ed's thumb still pressed against his cheekbone, every tremor feels like a caress.
And oh- there is the heat, that fire sinking low in his gut once again, that ravenous hunger which Oswald has forcefully repressed for the last year.
You need me, Edward Nygma. Just as I need you.
Oswald cannot help himself. In this stretching, stolen moment, he imagines what it would be like to give in to that magnetic force, to close the infinitesimal space between them and force their lips together. What would the Riddler do? Would this force of nature before him send him grovelling to the floor in disgust? Would he pull back with cruel laughter? Or, even worse, would he kiss him back, bury bruises into Oswald's skin, slam him against the desk and take what he wants.
Oswald allows himself to live in that delusion for the space of a broken breath, to be swept back months and just pretend...
And then he slices himself free, crushes and compresses and suffocates that thought until he can pretend it never existed. These are luxuries the Penguin can no longer afford. Not when it is Ed.
Not anymore.
Oswald steps away shakily, smoothing the ruffles of his uniform where Ed's fingers had tugged and twisted barely seconds ago. The cold is there to meet him, numbing shackles which wrap around him. Frozen, once again.
"Shall we get to work?" The man before him smiles back, lips split too wide, jaw half unhinged as he laughs.
Oswald swallows, lightheaded, and distantly wonders if he is crying.
Don't you get tired of making the same mistake over and over?
Oswald watches Ed's dark eyes practically glitter as he scans the room, gleeful, as if seeing it for the first time.
"How do you feel?" Oswald tries to ignore how watery his voice sounds and instead focuses on staying standing as tremors lance up his leg.
"Magnificent," Ed breathes, delighted eyes flicking back to Oswald. "I can't thank you enough."
Oswald swallows against the shiver those words provoke. "Well, it's always a pleasure to help a friend."
Ed flashes that razor smile at him once more, white teeth against red lips and Oswald feels something in his chest seize. So close… And then, Ed is moving, rummaging through the desk to pull out papers, fingers deftly sorting through floor plans of the Asylum.
"You know you can always count on me, Oswald."
Ed- no, the Riddler does not spare him so much as a glance as he says those words but even so, Oswald has to look away.
I hope you know, Oswald, that I would do anything for you.
On second thoughts, Oswald is glad it is so cold in Arkham. It makes it easier to remember that there are frozen tiles beneath his feet and not a warm fireplace crackling a few metres away, the scent of honey in the air…