Kiss

by Secret Agent Codename Bob

In other words, the five times Oswald wanted to kiss Ed, and the one time he did. Finally.

8. Umbrella

"With reunification underway and the bridges being rebuilt, it is my honour to bestow upon Captain James Gordon the title of commissioner."

The Town Hall is filled with light as Jim Gordon stands before the applause and flashing cameras, managing to look only mildly uncomfortable in the fact of such unadulterated praise. Oswald claps politely, a rueful smile playing upon his lips. Jim meets his gaze for a second, seemingly accidentally and Oswald winks with his one good eye.

Jim doesn't look at him again for the entire ceremony.

During his time as Mayor, Oswald had positively loathed the inevitable conclusion of every state ceremony - mingling. Today is no different, although the attendance of little, mewling Barbara Lee does give the affair a little levity. The wonderful brat had started screaming halfway through Jim's acceptance speech and, as Barbara refused to take her out, the niceties were blissfully cut short.

The kid is definitely growing on him.

However, for all the unusual features of this ceremony, there is still something distinctly off. Oswald watches from the corner of the room, blinkered vision flicking over the crowd of expensive suits and dresses as something like bile rises in his throat.

Nearly all of these people had escaped Gotham that fateful night the bridges blew. They'd flown off in private jets or dozed in chauffeured cars, escorted to their beach house or Metropolis apartment, wringing their hands over how Gotham's predicament might affect their shares and annual sales.

And yet, here they are, drinking champagne in a room that has been frantically scrubbed for blood and bullets for the last forty-eight hours. Their polished shoes squeak against tiles where barely weeks ago men had died screaming.

Sycophants.

Standing alone, Oswald feels strangely grubby in comparison with them. Dirty. As if this last year has stained him on some molecular level and, if he were to brush up against one of these city officials or CEOs, his fingertips would leave behind a smear of ash. It is a distinctly uncomfortable feeling.

However, as the afternoon draws on, something even worse makes itself known.

Oswald is used to feeling the oddity, has grown practically bored of the lingering glances people in any room eventually give his limp. However, his ruined eye seems to draw an entirely different type of attention.

Everyone in this damn room, each of these disgusting businessmen and city officials look at his eye not with curiosity or fear, but pity.

Each furtive glance turns his stomach and Oswald vows that these half-blacked out glasses will go at the first opportunity. After five years spent perfecting his image, one stupid injury will not ruin it.

With every passing second, Oswald's thoughts only grow fouler, his muscles seizing as he leans against the wall, huddled like an outsider when a few years ago he had owned this town, a few weeks ago he had ruled from this very building and he can't stand it, can't bear this cheap sympathy that chafes against him with every breath-

Oswald's spiralling thoughts lurch to a stop as a figure emerges from the crowd, a shock of green in a sea of monochrome. Relief sweeps through him.

Right on time, my old friend.

Edward Nygma spares him no long, lingering looks of piecemeal pity. Instead, he greets him with a perfunctory nod, offering a champagne flute in a gloved hand and, honestly, Oswald could kiss him-

Ah. Well, good to know things are getting back to normal at least.

"They trawled the bottom of the river, trying to salvage what's left of the submarine. Of course, the treasure inside."

"Good." Oswald cannot help but smile as he limps forward, desperate to get out that damned corner. "We'll need that money if we're going to buy up judges, councilmen, city officials. With Gordon as commissioner we can't be too careful."

The champagne is bright on his tongue, an echo of a past life, and he feels some of the tension bleed out of his shoulders. Don't dwell on the past. The future is yours for the taking. Life begins anew.

"Typical. Jimbo isn't even mingling at his own party."

Oswald follows Ed's scathing gaze up to the balcony where Gordon and Bullock are perched, overlooking the room.

"To be honest, it's a minor miracle he's still here." Oswald turns back to look at Ed, lips curling and chest light. "I'll admit, it's a little gratifying to see him so uncomfortable about the whole ceremony. Especially as we aren't getting any praise for saving the city."

Ed's eyes are bright and vicious. "Once we recover the submarine, we'll make sure to keep the new commissioner busy."

Bitter to the end. How very appropriate.

"I look forward to it. And, as much as it is an annoyance, I am glad Nyssa al Ghul suffered a fitting demise." Oswald feels a pang of grief shoot through him. "Especially for what she did to Edward."

He thinks he catches Ed rolling his eyes at that, but he decides to let it go. Another swig of the champagne brings even more release when-

That couldn't be right...

"Oswald? What's wrong?"

He shakes his head, frown settling on his forehead. "Nothing, Ed. It's… no, just a foolish thought."

He feels a hand on the crook of his elbow and glances up to see Ed's concerned face, eyes dark. "Oswald, I trust your instincts. Tell me what's wrong."

Oswald blinks, a little startled by Ed's sudden shift.

"It's nothing, just- you said that it took more than one person to pilot the submarine, didn't you?"

Ed's face goes strangely blank, blinking twice in quick succession. The hand at his elbow falls away. "Yes, I did say that."

Oswald purses his lips. "Well, in that case, she must have had an accomplice. It's just odd that they only found her body-"

"Obliterated by the explosion, no doubt." Ed takes a sharp gulp of champagne, finishing it in one. "I don't know about you, Oswald, but I think I've had enough of celebrating Gordon's achievements for one day."

Oswald casts a mildly suspicious look over Ed's carefully neutral expression, the whiplash of the exchange jarring in him…

He sighs. The pain medication dosage is still high enough that fatigue sets in after only a few hours of activity and already he can feel the creeping ache beginning in his knee. Perhaps retiring for the day isn't such a bad idea, Ed's sudden mood swing aside.

"No rest for the wicked, I suppose."

Something in Ed's physicality seems to relax, uncoil, and that Cheshire grin stretches once again. "My sentiments exactly. About time we went home."

Ed passes their glasses to a waiter and turns to leave, purposefully striding into the crowd. Oswald watches him for a second, chest suddenly heavy with an emotion he can name all too well.

Don't hope for a second that he came back for you.

Oswald exhales slowly and limps forward.

The next six months feel so expansive and endless after the hellish pace of No Man's Land, the air lighter and breathable once again. Oswald struggles to trust it. He is constantly tense, muscles coiled, waiting for things to blow up again, literally or figuratively, for another disaster to hit, for Ed to go back on their agreement and leave him, again.

Muscle memory sets in and he braces for the impact of hitting water so cold it may as well be concrete, but-

But nothing. To Oswald's immense surprise, Gotham heals, rebuilds, restores.

Most incredible of all, Ed stays.

Ed stays and Oswald allows himself to feel hopeful for the first time in years.

They cobble together their forces, painstakingly plan their strategy, work with the GCPD when it suits them and, slowly, the pieces begin to fall into place. Oswald reclaims the Van Dahl mansion and sets plans in motion for a new club. Ed is just as busy, establishing hidden boltholes across the city, ready for the Riddler's grand encore.

They work and sweat and, inch by inch, Gotham emerges from the rubble, brilliantly, victoriously alive.

Every now and then, in quiet, snatched moments, he catches Ed staring at his eye, the ruined skin slowly starting to heal. Ed stares but he never says anything, never speaks about that final day, of the pier, the grenade, the bladed embrace, their promise.

Life begins anew.

Ed doesn't say anything, so neither does Oswald. He tells himself that, perhaps, it is better to leave the past behind them. Move forward, focus on the work.

In hindsight, Oswald should have expected something to go wrong.

It would seem that their utter two-faced bitch of a commissioner had merely been biding his time for the past six months, just waiting for an opportunity to unleash his dogs and spit in the face of the last five years.

Despite their history, despite everything, Jim Gordon has no qualms about arresting them, dredging up ancient charges spun by the newly appointed DA, Harvey Dent, and Oswald is furious, absolutely enraged because it isn't fair.

Why does Jim get ten years with his wife, his daughter, with the city he loves while Oswald gets iron bars, a cold cell and intermittent letters from a man imprisoned in an insane asylum?

Ten years. A decade lost. So much wasted, empty time, a period that lasts longer than Oswald spent establishing (and re-establishing, many times over) his rule in Gotham. Eventually, after months of blistering fury, the rage recedes to a simmer and bitterness begins to burrow deep, cursing Jim for cheating him of so much.

The letters from Ed, however scattered the man's thoughts may be, are the only thing that keeps him sane. The irony is not lost on him.

Yet, Oswald knows that he has survived far worse than time. There is still work to be done and a promise to fulfil.

Make this city yours or burn it to the ground.

Finally, finally Oswald Cobblepot re-enters Gotham, a free man. However, he doesn't feel truly free until he stands on the pier, this pier that has spelled death for him so many times, gun in hand and Jim Gordon before him in the dark.

We both know that this has been a long time coming. Our story is over, old friend.

The fact that Jim Gordon escapes his immediate revenge is… unfortunate, but, no matter. Oswald rages and swears and curses before he comes back to himself, cool night air a balm to his inflamed skin.

Jim had been right. Bringing him back to the pier had been sentimental at best, compulsive at worst. Like a shock of cold water, he remembers how he had once criticised Ed for exactly the same error, breath turning to vapour in the rain.

Oswald exhales, heavily. He can allow himself a single misstep after ten years in Blackgate. And Jim had at least given him some rather delicious information.

Perhaps, there are things more precious than revenge.

Collected by a driver, Oswald watches the dark city streets from the car window. Gotham has not changed, nor have the rules of the game. If nothing else, this past decade has taught Oswald patience. His lips curl into a smile.

Everything comes to him who waits.

The car rolls to a stop and the door opens. All thoughts of Jim evaporate, mist on the sea at dawn as the moment that has kept him fighting for the last ten years at long last arrives.

"Edward Nygma. It is very good to see you."

Ed looks incredible. There are the creases of crow's feet at his eyes and the lines on his face pull tighter than the face in his memory, yet Oswald feels his heart stutter at the sight of him.

"Oswald."

He is all dazzling green, eyes shining beneath his new tinted spectacles, question marks littering every inch of his body. He looks beautiful. So, utterly beautiful Oswald has to blink away stars.

"I thought you weren't behind this."

Ed's voice is gruff, lower than he'd expected, no doubt from years of lack of use. It sends a line of heat down Oswald's spine, nonetheless.

"I'm not, but I thought you might need some help - and what else are friends for?"

Ed laughs and just like that, the last ten years were worth it.

Damn, it is good to see him.

Then, of course, the Batman happens.

Being interrupted in an emotional moment by Gotham's resident rodent vigilante becomes a surprisingly regular occurrence in this new life. Similarly, being trussed up in embarrassing scenarios only to be found by Fox, Gordon or Pennyworth also becomes frustratingly commonplace.

I did not spend ten years in Blackgate to give my city to a man dressed like a bat.

They escape, of course. Re-group (not retreat, regroup) to a safe-house and quickly set their minds to the task of reclaiming their city. They spend hours pouring over new city maps, adjusting to the way Gotham's streets have shifted since they last walked them, marking out new territory, scratching out lists of contacts and cash.

After the flurry of strategizing, Oswald finally makes use of the fully stocked kitchen and prepares a meal that he supposes counts as breakfast, dawn light peeking through the windows.

Their fingers brush as he passes Ed a glass of orange juice.

"Here, drink. I assume Arkham's culinary quality hasn't improved much in the last decade."

Ed looks up at him, hair a mess, glasses askew and Oswald almost smiles as he feels that old, deep ache, chest constricting and contracting in its long-remembered routine.

After so long it is almost a relief to know he still loves as desperately as he ever did.

"Thank you, Oswald, for all of this," Ed says, hesitant and half-bashful, "for everything."

Oswald shrugs, heart suddenly fluttering. "Not at all. After all, it wouldn't feel like Gotham if I didn't have to save you from one madman or another."

For a moment he wonders if the flippancy of that comment was a step too far but, to his immense delight, Ed just throws back his head and laughs, the sound almost guttural.

"Oh, Oswald," Ed says, smile too wide, flashing too many teeth, "I have missed you."

Ed's eyes glint with something feral and Oswald has a snatched second to feel panic, before he is being wrenched forward into a bone-crushing hug. It has been so long, so many years of biting violence or the empty, cold weight of his cell, his body almost goes into shock at the sudden, overwhelming embrace.

For a few, frantic heartbeats, Oswald can only stand there, rigged and terrified. And then, just as he feels Ed about to pull away, something fierce and vicious, almost animalistic kicks in, his touch-starved skin screams for more, more, more and he clutches Ed back, claws his nails into those shoulder blades, buries his head into Ed's neck and breathes.

The scent of Ed is like a shot of adrenaline, straight to his nervous system and all at once the man's heat overwhelms him, slices through his veins to every last inch of him until Oswald's head swims with it.

"I missed you too," he whispers against Ed's skin, watery and overwhelmed and home.

Ed somehow clutches him closer and, for the first time in a decade, Oswald feels like he can breathe.

Life begins anew. Properly, this time.

A new era begins. This time, Oswald is determined that the Penguin's ascension to King of Gotham will not be one so easily usurped.

For all those fruitless years in Blackgate, Oswald never truly lost his grip on the gangs of Gotham. He has informants and safe houses across the city, weapons and money stashed, ready and waiting.

Within the space of a merciless two months, Oswald eliminates any other significant opposition to his rule, and, on the legal side of things, can finally re-open the Iceberg Lounge in a bigger, even better located building than before. He feels practically giddy at the idea of it.

"That name? Still?"

Oswald glances up from the kitchen to find Ed examining the club's design documents on the coffee table. Ah. Of course. Oswald meets his questioning gaze with an apologetic grimace.

"My apologies, Ed, I know the Iceberg Lounge has some...distasteful memories attached. However, I've been told that people today expect 'brand consistency' and the papers have already latched onto the name."

Ed casts a suspicious glance over the files. "And the centrepiece attraction...?"

Oswald sighs, collecting the two glasses of merlot and moves to join Ed on the sofa. He should have expected a little resistance on this, he supposes. Sometimes, he forgets how fresh decade old wounds can be.

"Here, look." Oswald deposits the wine glasses on the table and begins thumbing through the blueprints, finally landing on the large spread of the main bar area. "The architect has designed an elevated ice-sculpture garden as the centre-piece attraction. And… here, see, the preliminary artwork looks rather lovely."

Ed's eyes and fingers flash across the blueprints, seemingly trying to tease out any secrets, parse any concealed mystery. After a long few moments, Oswald presses a gentle hand to his shoulder, drawing Ed's gaze up to meet his own.

"The only thing extraordinary about these sculptures will be their impeccable craftsmanship. I promise you."

There is a moment of tension, Ed's dark eyes burrowing into his for an impossibly long beat… and then he grins, muscle beneath Oswald's palm going lax.

"An ice sculpture garden… It looks good, Oswald. Although, I have heard your previous instalment was rather attractive."

Oswald breathes a quick, intense sigh of relief as the momentary crisis seems to have been averted.

"I couldn't possibly comment," he murmurs, watching as Ed returns his sharp gaze to the blueprints.

"It's certainly a bigger venue this time around, I can see why you opted for a garden rather than a single piece." Ed's eyes dart up to his, suddenly glittering. "Perhaps one day, you could make space for a penguin enclosure. You know, for 'brand consistently'."

Oswald hums thoughtfully, reaching for his neglected merlot. It sounds ridiculous, and yet…

"Oh, Oswald, don't tell me you're actually considering it."

He chuckles and stretches out a little on the sofa, rolling his neck side to side as he works out a cramp. "If the city can accept a man dressed like a bat, I think the bourgeoisie can get over a penguin filled nightclub."

A smile quirks at Ed's lips as he takes the second wine glass, moving to match Oswald's more relaxed posture. "As long as you don't name any of them after me."

Oswald laughs, marvelling again at how easily the sound is pulled from him, after all those years of seething silence.

"No promises."

Ed suppresses a smirk as he opens another folder, this time interior design. Every movement dripping with ease and confidence, he pulls out prints, colour wheels, fabric swatches, cycling through sea green to ice blue to deep mauve.

"I was thinking navy blue for club's main colour," Oswald offers, sipping his drink, "you know, tie into the whole 'sea', 'ice' theming."

Ed doesn't respond. Instead, his fingers hover, considering before he finally selects - deep violet, amethyst, indigo.

"Purple suits you best." Ed smooths the fabric out, long fingers tracing the pattern before placing it in Oswald's hands. "The colour scheme should match the proprietor. Purple brings out your eyes."

"Of- of course." Oswald swallows, stomach suddenly swooping with the momentary closeness, the awful intimacy that almost pulls him forward…

Ed smiles, eyes dark and he chinks his glass against Oswald's.

"Just as long as it's not green, you have my blessing."

Oswald wrenches himself back with a laugh that feels too high, too breathy.

"Of course not." He exhales through his nose and watches Ed take a long, slow drink of wine, lips stained red. "As ever, I would be lost without you."

Please don't leave me again.

Oswald had known since the first night of his release that living together could only ever be a temporary arrangement. Still, when Ed gathers enough resources and personnel to establish his own power base, his absence still hurts like a blade in his gut.

He awakes to an empty apartment and tries not to feel like a complete fool.

Ed isn't yours, you stupid, sentimental man. He has never been yours so you cannot grieve him.

Oswald pulls himself together and gets on with planning the Iceberg Lounge's grand opening.

So what if Ed doesn't come? The man is an escaped Arkham inmate – the opening of Gotham's newest nightclub would be far too public an occasion. In all honestly, he's probably doing Oswald a favour by staying away, keeping the Penguin's reputation as clean as possible.

Still, Oswald watches for that flash of green all night.

This is Vicki Vale, reporting for the Gotham Gazette. Police have confirmed reports that the newly opened Martha Wayne Opera House has been locked down as a hostage situation is in progress...

Exactly one week after the Iceberg Lounge opens, the Riddler makes his grand re-entrance onto the Gotham stage. The evening is planned to perfection and Ed's showman smile burns across every frontpage, headline and newsreel.

Even Oswald has to concede - the Riddler is utterly awe-inspiring.

"My first riddle, to you Gotham." A dramatic flair, hand curled above his head, elated grin brighter than the sun. "The poor have me, the rich need me and if you eat me, you'll die. So, tell me - what am I?"

Exactly forty minutes after the GCPD storms the opera house, concluding affairs at a thirteen strong body count, Oswald's phone goes off.

"Did you see?"

Ed sounds breathless and wild and jubilant and instantly, something knotted in Oswald's stomach unwinds for the first time since he switched on the news to see Ed's face emblazoned on every channel.

"Of course I did, Ed. You were all over the news."

"And?" His voice is pitched low, hungry, practically raw with energy. "What did you think?"

Oswald swallows and searches blindly for the right words. "You were...magnificent. Just magnificent - everything I ever thought you could be."

There is a beat of silence and Oswald has a second to feel nervous, desperately hoping he hasn't just overstepped.

"Use my name."

Oswald's stomach swoops, a flare of warmth prickling up the back of his neck, hot and uncomfortable. Not this again.

"Ed-"

"Use my name, Oswald. Please."

Oswald licks his lips, heart kicking against his ribcage.

"You were utterly magnificent," he breathes, "Riddler."

There is a noise, staticy and short in Oswald's ear, almost like a sharp inhalation of breath.

"Thank you."

The line clicks dead and Oswald places his phone down slowly, heart still beating too fast. Slowly, he gets up and pours himself a drink, pausing to look out of the mansion's window at the spring forest.

Finally, the tension releases and he huffs out a bemused breath.

It would seem he'd been a tad premature, thinking that Ed leaving had been the end. Oh no.

This was only the beginning.

Contact between the two of them does not peter out, as Oswald had feared it would. Texting becomes the most convenient form of communication between the two, but they do occasionally call, keeping each other up to date on their progress, warning each other of prospective turn coats and tip offs. Hell, sometimes for old time's sake, they send each other coded letters like they had in prison. Oswald knows it will make Ed smile and Ed knows it will cause Oswald unending frustration until he solves it.

Somehow, it works.

Eight months into this new Gotham and Oswald thinks he has remembered how to live without Ed beside him. Life has reached a new normal and, while he has long since given up on 'moving on' from Ed, he is at least free of that old oppressive longing. It is...surprisingly okay.

Then he hears Edward is in custody.

After a whirl of panic, adrenaline and a viciously quick deployment of his best enforces, Oswald is once more in the GCPD, smile wide and breezy as he meets Commissioner Gordon's eyes.

"Jim, my old friend. So good to see you."

The GPCD is full of new recruits who don't remember the days before the bridges blew. All they know of the Penguin is his eccentric fashion taste and whispered stories of potential connections to the mob. He gets a few stares and smothered giggles but for the most part his arrival is unremarkable.

Perfect.

"Penguin." The years have not been kind to Jim Gordon. The lines around his eyes are deep-set and the fact that he has hit the crisis point of his life is boldly advertised by his constantly fluctuating belief that he can pull off a moustache. "You're here for him, I assume?"

Jim inclines his head towards the holding cell where, yes, Ed stands in a worryingly muted green suit, hair hanging down limply, not quite covering a bruise on his left cheek.

His eyes are electric as they meet Oswald's.

"You read my mind, Jim," Oswald says brightly. His skin feels hot from where Ed's gaze rests, like the dot of a sniper rifle, unmoving.

Jim sighs and the weight of a decade sags across his shoulders. "He's an escaped criminal from Arkham. Not even you could get him out of this one."

Oswald steps forward, sliding into Jim's space like a knife through flesh and he bares his teeth. "Watch me."

It takes approximately one hour of bartering, threatening and coaxing, but Oswald makes good on his promise as, finally, Jim relents. It is the most savagely alive Oswald has felt in months.

"You're absolutely sure about Sionis?"

Oswald gulps down the Captain's cheap whiskey from the office supplies, lounging back in an old, rickety chair that really needs replacing. From behind the office desk, Jim looks like he is developing a stress headache.

"Absolutely positive. Let Ed go and I'll give you the address. Just think, you'll clear out Black Mask's weapon cache and prevent a gang war, all in one day."

Jim massages his temples and Oswald takes a moment to watch him carefully. They have both changed so much since their first meeting, yet while Oswald wears his scars on the outside, Jim's are viciously internal.

James Gordon is no longer that green, idealistic boy that refused to shoot him under Falcone's orders. Gotham's commissioner has learned to weigh the odds, to sacrifice a pawn for the sake of the queen, to work with a vigilante that undermines the law and everything he maintains he believes in.

See what Gotham has made of both us, old friend.

"Hundreds will die if you don't stop this, Jim." Oswald leans forward in his chair, voice coaxing. "Of that I am deadly certain."

"That may be true, Oswald, but I can't just let the Riddler waltz out of the GCPD." Jim's eyes flick up to his, flickering with that old righteous indignation. "Any faith the people have in us will be gone-"

"Jim, you're being out-classed by a man dressed as a bat." Oswald brings down the glass with a satisfying thunk. "Public confidence in cops can't get much lower right now."

Jim runs a weary hand across his face, gaze slinking to the des. "I still can't let him walk out."

Oswald barely resists rolling his eyes. "Obviously. Let him escape instead. Don't worry, I'll make sure it looks convincing."

Jim reaches for his own glass of whiskey and slugs it back, muttering under his breath.

"Do we have a deal, Jim?" Oswald asks, standing as impatience begins to eat away at him.

There is a beat of silence, Jim's jaw tight before he folds.

"Fine, fine."

Oswald smiles capriciously. "Knew I could count on your pragmatism to win out, old friend."

Even as the words leave his lips he feels something sour. This from a man that has no friends…

Oswald leans forward, hands resting on the table and savagely enjoys the way Jim's whole body goes tense, hand going still, as if ready to reach for his gun at the slightest provocation.

"Just remember, Jim, I swear on my mother's grave - force my hand, betray my again and I will sic every last lawyer in the city on this precinct, personally ensuring that every criminal brought in by the Bat is legally untouchable."

Jim watches him, eyes dark and jaw set. "Received and understood, Penguin."

Revenge in increments is always so much sweeter.

Oswald smiles, lips thin. "Wonderful. The address of Sionis' warehouse will be posted here after I know that Ed is safe."

He turns to leave, smugness settling in-

"Why?"

He stops short at the door, skin suddenly cold.

"Why go to all this trouble? For him?" Jim looks at him, lines at his forehead deep and creased. "What does he have on you? What do you owe him?"

Oswald cannot stop the laughter that curls out of him, the sound too grating and bitter in the small room.

"You really don't understand friendship, do you, Jim?" He casts a sharp look at the commissioner, chest suddenly tight. "Or maybe, you never understood me."

He leaves, leg aching and some nasty, ancient emotion coiled tight in his stomach. He doesn't look at Ed as he leaves.

Following your heart has never worked out for you.

Four hours later, Oswald is comfortably seated in his beautiful club, sipping on his third glass for the afternoon when the doors open. He takes the deepest breath he has all day.

"You didn't need to step in, Oswald."

Ed is storming closer, consonants clipped and sighs. Typical.

"Please, Ed, you're making me blush, no need to be so grateful."

Ed stops a few feet from him, eyes burning. "I mean it, Oswald. I had a plan-"

"No, you didn't," Oswald says, rising to meet Ed straight on, "you were turned in by that awful 'henchwoman' you've been running around with, Query or whatever her name was. Your detention was most certainly not a planned move. If it had, you would have at least dressed for the occasion."

Ed's jaw works, hands clenching at his side. Oswald finds his gaze drawn to the bruise on Ed's cheek, hurriedly shaking off the urge to trace it with his thumb.

"Query was admittedly a mistake-"

"You don't say." Always the women.

"But I would have escaped."

Oswald raises an exasperated eyebrow. "Maybe eventually, after another ten years in Arkham. But I was hardly about to take that risk."

Ed fumbles readjusting his glasses, hands half shaking and Oswald blinks, reassessing. He'd been mistaken before. The fire in Ed's eyes isn't outright fury, it is something else, something-

"You didn't need to be kind, Oswald."

Something in Ed's voice, his expression – he seems less angry and more embarrassed, almost plaintive, desperate. It reminds Oswald of something, some conversation had years ago, buried beneath the fodder of empty years, just on the tip of his tongue…

"Why are you always so kind-"

"Ed, enough." Gently, Oswald reaches out to place a hand on Ed's arm, feeling a sharp jolt that goes through the man as he does. "I was hardly going to let you go back to Arkham when you'd only just escaped. And I wasn't being kind, I was being a frie-"

His words and thoughts are smothered as Ed suddenly yanks him forward, off centre, careening into his chest as those long arms snap up to encircle him, holding him so tight it is almost painful. Oswald blinks, exhaling in surprise as he realises - Ed is hugging him.

"You shouldn't have had to do anything, Oswald. It was my mistake."

Oswald swallows, slowly reaching around to return the embrace as best he can. Warmth floods him utterly and completely and he has to remind himself to breathe.

"It was nothing, Ed, really."

The arms around him somehow crush him even closer and Oswald inhales sharply, eyes fluttering closed.

"I'll make it up to you. I promise," Ed murmurs, low and breathy and so close. Those lips graze his hairline and Oswald has to fight off a painful curl of hot, desperate wantin his gut.

"Just- just don't get ratted out by another of your girlfriends and we'll call it even."

Abruptly, Ed pulls away, that strange, shivering look in his eyes replaced by something far darker, brimming with possibilities. Oswald's stomach lurches.

"We both know I can do better than that," Ed murmurs, gaze flicking across Oswald's face as if searching for something. "And besides, she wasn't my girlfriend."

With that, Ed draws back, and, in a whirl of tailcoats, he turns to leave, walking determinedly out of the Lounge without a second look. Oswald watches him, skin prickling with a sudden chill.

What the hell does that mean?

The weeks go by in complete silence and Oswald concludes that Ed's interpretation of 'make it up to you' will only result in a ridiculously oversized diamond left on his desk in the near-to-distant future. Not that he'd complain, of course. He didn't rescue Ed with any ulterior motive, it's just-

Edward Nygma is incredibly practiced at giving him hope when there is none.

However, one month later, Ed comes good on his promise.

It is five in the afternoon. The unusually clear autumn sky allows the rare glimpse of a beautiful sunset and Gotham is set alight with gold. A knock at his office door is all the warning Oswald gets.

"Come in."

The door opens to reveal Ed, leaning against the doorframe, head ducked beneath a glittering bowler hat. He is adorned in a new, forest-green suit that ripples in the stray beams of light, sporting a grin as electric as the newly furnished Wayne Tower.

Dark eyes flash up at him beneath thick lashes.

"What bird is always with you for dinner?"

Oswald just gapes, incapable of doing anything but floundering. The sight of Ed looking so good is still occasionally enough to short-circuit his brain. "Uh, I don't-"

"A swallow," Ed answers, words dripping with luxurious confidence as he examines his gloved fingers, "although for once, the riddle wasn't really the point. Obviously the right answer in this situation should be a penguin-"

"Ed," Oswald cuts him off a tad sharply, still reeling from his sudden appearance looking like this, "what on earth are you talking about?"

"Right." Ed blinks up at him and straightens, grin once more wide and brilliant. "We have a dinner reservation at Paccini's for two in… just under thirty minutes. So, we should probably head out now to avoid traffic."

Oswald feels as if he has just plummeted off a thirty-story building, stomach swooping up to meet his suddenly frantic heart.

"Paccini's? But- but they have a six-month waiting list."

Ed's eyes glint darkly and Oswald feels himself flush hot down his neck. "You're not the only one with favours in the city, Oswald."

His mouth flaps, open and closed, uselessly. "You- you did that for me? For dinner?"

"Anything for an old friend." Ed has the audacity to wink and Oswald genuinely wonders if Ed is trying to kill him.

This is too dangerous, too close to something Oswald has not dared to dream about in well over a decade. He should say no, come up with an excuse, anything, rearrange for a future date- damn it, not date, not that like that- prepare himself for whatever the hell this is-

Following your heart has never worked out for you.

"Of course, Ed. Just- uh, just let me get my umbrella."

The meal is delicious, shared in a hidden booth which affords as much privacy as one could wish. Their conversation is, as ever, a much needed breath of fresh air. They stay firmly in the realm of good-natured quips - joking about Selina Kyle's latest heist, giggling over the recent cock-up Jim Gordon and Harvey Bullock have been caught up in, discussing Oswald's plans to draw up a new drinks' menu. Not once do they dare to reminisce or venture into emotional territory.

Still, it is… nice.

Ever the pragmatist, Oswald half-expects the meal to be some sort of trap, some ruse for one of the Riddler's elaborate schemes. However, for once, it appears his fears were ill-founded.

Before he knows it, they are standing outside the restaurant's side entrance, waiting for Oswald's private limousine to arrive, breath turning to mist in the cold air. Caught in the streetlight, Ed's eyelashes flutter, casting long shadows over his cheeks, ethereal.

"We should do this again."

Blood warmed by the wine, the words spill from Oswald's lips all too eagerly. Ed looks over to him, a flicker of surprise on his face and instantly, Oswald regrets saying anything.

"Only if- if you wanted to, of course," Oswald hastens to add, a squirm of embarrassment sending warm prickling along his neck.

Ed watches him for a few suspended seconds, eyes assessing. And then, he smiles.

"I would love to."

That night, Oswald dreams of honey and fire-light for the first time in years.

I hope you know, Oswald, I would do anything for you. You can always count on me.

That should have been warning enough, but Oswald still lets himself get caught in a fluster of half-hearted hope.

Yet, as he should have expected, the weeks tick by and Ed doesn't text, doesn't call, doesn't emerge in a dazzling shower of glitter and gunpowder, ready to whisk Oswald away to another Michelin star restaurant.

There is just silence. Again.

The disappointment stings, but Oswald doesn't get caught up on it. Ed is notoriously fickle and his attention wanders from project to project with startling speed. It's why the Bat has such difficulty predicting his next move, one of many reasons the GCPD has no chance of catching him.

Still, Oswald muses, this is hardly the first time Ed has missed a dinner appointment. At least this one had far less riding on it.

We really have been through all of this before.

Exactly one month to the day of that night at Paccini's, Oswald finds himself sitting at the Lounge's bar on one of the club's quieter nights, sipping away on his cocktail, mind blissfully free of Edward Nygma when he feels a figure slide easily onto the stool next to him.

"I hope you're hungry."

Oswald forces himself not to start, not to jump, not to move an inch, as if suddenly in the presence of a wild animal that could tear him open with one swipe of its claws. Damn this man.

"We have a reservation?" Oswald asks as nonchalantly as he is able, sipping his drink.

"10 o'clock, Sashimi, Diamond District. Just opened."

The stool squeaks as Ed's leg presses against Oswald's, knee to thigh in a long, unbroken line.

Oswald traces the curve of the glass with his forefinger, deliberately not meeting those dark, dangerous eyes. "What if I'm not free?"

"Of course you are, Oswald." He feels a hand on his shoulder and breath against his ear, so close. "I checked your schedule"

And then he is gone. Oswald waits for a minute, fights to control his breathing, slow his old, erratic heart. Eventually, he allows his lips to curl upwards.

Dinner becomes a thing.

It becomes their thing.

As Oswald is the one with the fixed schedule and place of residence, it is almost always Ed who approaches him, a different restaurant planned for each flip of the calendar.

On one occasion, he enters his office to find Ed lounging in his chair, examining the chess board he keeps for show, half a game already played. On the desk is a reservation card for Chez Vous.

The next month, Oswald feels a hand on his arm at a charity function and turns to meet the laughing eyes of the Riddler, disguised in a hideous wig and make-up, finger flashing with the fruits of his latest heist. They retreat, giggling like children and make their way to the closest steakhouse.

On one memorable occasion, Ed goes as far as to get into Oswald's limousine at a red light. Thankfully, there is no repeat of this particular instigation, as Oswald throws a fit to rival the days of his youth and nearly stabs the driver.

Still, only two hours later they are gloriously wine-drunk and cannot stop laughing about it.

No matter where Ed finds him, Oswald cannot stop the treacherous thump of his heart, cannot avert the way his whole gravity seems to shift, pulling him ever towards this man like a meteor on a collision course. Oswald is not embarrassed to admit that these dinners are almost always the highlight of each month, even if his heart still finds energy to bleed after all these years.

Before he knows it, almost three years have passed since they both found their freedom. Near thirteen since reunification. It feels like a lifetime.

Still yet to have their monthly meal together, Oswald secretly hopes they will get to celebrate the anniversary together.

Don't you get tired of making the same mistake over and over?

It is late evening and the Iceberg Lounge is in full swing. He is in a particularly good mood – a gang dispute has just ended favourably, and he is still smiling from the furious text Ed had sent after seeing Jervis out in a bowler cap rather than the Mad Hatter's traditional top hat.

Threatening to sue another rogue over a wardrobe violation is so Ed it hurts.

So, when none other than Barbara Kean and Lee Thompkins approach his perch at the bar, Oswald finds it in him to indulge the two in a little small talk.

"Hey, Ozzie."

Both women look objectively stunning, as if the last decade had never passed. Barbara shines in a sequined black pantsuit, offsetting the red in her hair beautifully. In turn, Lee wears a graceful, ankle length dress of gold, a plunging neckline adorned with a glittering necklace. Each of them looks fiercely alive, vital and breath-taking.

Oswald is always appreciative of a carefully crafted outfit and, he has to hand it to them, Barbara and Lee certainly outstrip any other patrons.

"Good evening, Miss Kean, Mrs Gordon."

"It's still Thompkins, as you well know by now, Mr Cobblepot," Lee corrects, smile light and teasing.

"Of course." Oswald winks at her. "How is family life treating you both? I assume this is a, uh, 'girls night out'."

Barbara and Lee look at each other, for a brief second caught in a stray light and Oswald marvels at the genuine affection between them. He will never quite understand how their odd threesome works, but he knows both he and the city are infinitely grateful that it does.

"We've been meaning to have a night just the two of us for months, haven't we, Lee?"

Lee smiles as Barbara slings an arm around her shoulder. "It's been a while since we've had a bit of space."

Oswald puts a hand to his chest, eyes widening in faux sincerity. "Well, I am honoured that you chose my meagre establishment to enjoy your night off."

"Oh, stop it, Ozzie, you know as well as we do that the Iceberg Lounge is the best night out in Gotham."

"Not to mention the safest," Lee murmurs, as she collects a cocktail and a hefty glass of white wine from the bar.

"At the Lounge, we pride ourselves on our near non-existence accident rate. I suppose, as we're all old friends," Oswald gives the barman a quick look, "drinks are on the house for the rest of the night for these lovely ladies."

Barbara grins something feral as Lee raises a perfectly arched eyebrow, surprise parting her lips. "Thank you, Mr Cobblepot. That's very- very generous."

Oswald shoos away any gratitude with a wave of his hand. "Think nothing of it. You two deserve a good time for putting up with- well, you know who."

Barbara sniggers. "I'll drink to that."

With a clink of their glasses, both women take a substantial swig of their chosen drinks and Oswald barely holds back a chuckle. Tut tut, Jim. Been ignoring the wonderful women in your life? Shame on you.

"How's the little Gordon doing?" Oswald asks, leaning a little more heavily against the bar as his right knee twinges.

"She's well, thank you," Lee replies, voice immediately softer, "just discovered a passion for computer science which has her tinkering with odd bits and pieces from who knows where. Her room is a mess."

"Ah, let's not forget her gymnastics," Barbara tsks, "little Barbara Lee won her school tournament two weeks ago. Best under fourteens, floor and vault."

"Well, she certainly doesn't get her talent from her father's side." Oswald grins conspiratorially, raising his glass in a mock-toast.

Lee almost laughs. "I couldn't possibly comment."

"Speaking of our fearless commissioner, Jim's been kept rather busy with some gang activity on the waterfront." Barbara sips on her cocktail, eyes glittering. "Wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you, Ozzie?

Oswald's lips stretch into a slow, easy smile. "It's the first I'm hearing of it. Sounds like a nasty business..."

Barbara rolls her eyes, propped herself up on the bar with one elbow. "Come on, Ozzie, for old time's sake. Promise I won't snitch."

Oswald raises an amused eyebrow, lips quirking up. "Dear me, Miss Kean, what would a nightclub owner possibly know about gang business?"

Barbara pulls back, sulky pout firmly in place. "Spoilsport."

He grins, enjoying a slow slip from his drink. "My dear Barbara, may I remind you that you aren't the only one of us old rogues to go straight."

As he speaks, both Lee and Barbara's eyes flicker behind him, expressions shifting ever so slightly. Barbara let's out a quiet snort.

"Some of us less straight than others," she mutters into her drink.

Oswald frowns, turning to see who-

"Oswald."

Of course. Who else would it be?

Ed stands barely a few feet from them, dressed in his full Riddler regalia. The glasses and cane are missing but the latest ostentatious coat is firmly in place, sequins dazzling in the undulating club lights.

"Ed!" Oswald tries not to cringe at how earnest he sounds, how genuine his smile has suddenly become. "What an unexpected surprise."

Ed's eyes flit away from Oswald to meet the women behind him. "Barbara." An infinitesimal pause. "Lee."

Immediately, Oswald feels any good mood he'd been in sour. Of course.

"Ed," Lee says, voice unaffected, if a smidge cooler, "it's good to see you."

"I'm liking the new outfit, Eddie." Barbara's eyes lick up and down Ed and, for a moment, Oswald feels the most ridiculous urge to stand in front of him, blocking Ed from her needling gaze. "I'm glad you kept the shoes - they really bring the outfit together."

"You look lovely, as well, Barbara" Ed answers, tone slightly sharp.

Barbara grins, teeth very white. "I'm aware."

Ed's cordial smile slips a little. "I'm sorry to interrupt you all, but I was hoping to speak with our host for a moment-"

"Actually, as you're here, do you mind if I have a word, Ed?" All three of them turn to Lee, equally startled by her request. She shows no sign of buckling under the weight of three pairs of inquisitive eyes. "Alone?"

Ed's expression wavers with surprise before he smooths it over, nodding. "If you'd like..."

Oswald watches with sinking dread as the two of them sashay through the crowd towards the booths at the back, an area designed to give privacy otherwise impossible in the Lounge. He shivers as the ghost of something long dead caresses the back of his neck.

We have been through thick and thin, and I hold no grudge on you. But you come against Lee and you come against me.

Oswald looks back to see that Barbara has finished her drink and is ordering another. With a sigh he slides himself onto a bar stool next to her.

"He come around here often?"

Oswald blinks, looking down at his nearly empty glass. "Occasionally. Just to check in."

Barbara hums as she takes her new drink, fiddling with the umbrella.

Oswald finds he cannot help his eyes being drawn back to the booths, desperately trying to catch their outlines, green and gold, leaning close together, necessary to hear each other over the music. Anxiety buzzes beneath his skin, stupidly, pointlessly annoyed by this turn of events-

"Oh Ozzie." Oswald whips his head to his left to find Barbara looking at him, eyes wide. "Still? After all this time?"

A terror he has not felt in years slices through him and he feels more exposed than he has for over a decade.

"Don't say things like that," he hisses venomously, anxiously checking that they aren't being listened in on as paranoia grips him, "not ever, not here."

Barbara scoffs. "Please. All the old players already know - stop spluttering, of course they know - but they also know better than to exploit it as a weakness. And as for the new kids, well, you've both sold your indifferent-rival act rather well. You're safe."

"That still doesn't give you the right," Oswald bites out, terrified and seething at the weakness of it, the obviousness of it, heart bloody and bruised for all the world to see.

You know what a man loves and you know what can kill him.

An uncomfortable silence blankets them as they sit, side by side, music echoing to match the sudden frantic pounding of his heart. The moments trudge by and his humiliation only sinks deeper, festering like an untreated wound.

"I didn't believe it was real, you know." Barbara's voice is quiet, yet it still sounds too loud, too sudden. "Back when we had you at the Sirens, I didn't think you really meant it."

"Barbara-"

"I was so convinced he was right, that you would rat him out, just as soon as he'd betrayed you," Barbara barrels on, utterly oblivious to Oswald's half-warning, half-pleading, "but you didn't."

So you'd rather die than give up the man who tried to kill you?

Oswald drops his head, pinches his shut against the memories of that awful night. "Please, Barbara-"

"I would've killed for someone to love me like that."

He blinks open his eyes to find Barbara watching him, expression full of something visceral that could never masquerade as pity.

Oswald swallows, throat burning. "I- I know it's crazy, I know I should be able to let go but-" He breaks off, hands clenching on the counter-top, chest full of poison and bitterness and grief, so much grief- "I can't. I know, it's stupid and it's almost killed me, and I should be able to- but I can't, I just can't-"

Shame floods him as he feels decades of unshed tears beginning to prick against his eyelids, hot and mortifying.

For some men, love is a source of strength. But for you and I, love will always be our most crippling weakness.

"Ozzie, listen to me," Barbara says insistently, leaning forward as an elegant hand comes to grip his, "it's taken me a long time to realise this, but love is not a weakness."

Oswald scoffs but Barbara is determined, only gripping his hand tighter. "No, I mean it. I am happy with my life on the straight and narrow but if anyone threatened my daughter again, don't think for a second that I wouldn't destroy them."

He blinks open watery eyes to find Barbara looking fiercer than he has ever seen her.

"Edward Nygma is the world's biggest idiot if he can't see this, can't see you after all these years, but even if he never does, don't ever entertain the thought that this has weakened you." Barbara's eyes narrow, steel flashing beneath blue. "I don't pity you, Oswald. I always thought you were strong - I didn't realise how strong until now."

Oswald blinks in shock, the words settling into the black space in his chest, swallowing down shaky breaths.

"I- I honestly don't know what to say to that."

Barbara smiles, red lipstick like blood against her white teeth. "Just being honest, Ozzie. Now, as drinks are on the house, I think it's about time you got a refill."

The quiet lulls between them, sounds of the club, laughter and music, gratefully filling the space as they just sit. Two giants of Gotham, content to share a drink together in silence.

You know, they say you can judge a man by his friends.

As the distress and vulnerability fades, Oswald feels a small smile pull at his lips.

Looks like I have more friends than you thought, Jim.

A cough from behind them prompts each to turn around, a little startled. There stand Lee Thompkins and Edward Nygma, both looking strangely reserved.

"Now that's done… Shall we dance, Barbara?" Lee deposits her empty drink and holds out of a hand.

Barbara quirks an eyebrow. "About time. Thanks for the drinks, Ozzie."

Oswald smiles as Barbara takes Lee's offered hand, already feeling that old sense of control slip back into place. "Thank you for the conversation, Barbara. This new life… it suits you."

Barbara grins and presses a quick kiss to Lee's cheek, one arm snaking around her waist. "Couldn't agree more."

The two women disappear into the crowd and Oswald takes a fortifying breath. He turns, eyes catching on Ed watching the two of them vanish, a strange, distant look on his face. Two guesses as to which one has his attention.

"Good chat?" Oswald asks as casually as he can, distantly hoping that his eye make-up isn't smudged.

Ed just hums, gaze still fixed far away. Oswald lets out a quiet sigh and reaches for his glass.

"So, what did you want to talk about?"

Ed frowns at him and Oswald feels a little like screaming. "When you arrived, you wanted to discuss something…"

"Oh, right," Ed blinks, pushing his glasses up his nose, "it- it can wait till another time."

Oswald tries not to visibly crumple. "Oh, okay."

Ed shakes his head, as if attempting to dislodge a bothersome fly, and meets Oswald's eyes, expression apologetic. "I'm afraid I need to run. Something rather pressing has come up."

"Of course." Somehow, Oswald manages to pull together a smile as he claps him on the shoulder. "Well, you know where I am if you need me."

For a brief moment, Ed's face softens, and he looks younger somehow, gentler. "Always. I'll see you soon, Oswald."

He doesn't see or hear from Ed for another three months.

Oswald wonders if he has done something wrong, said something he shouldn't have, crossed an unforeseen line, failed one of the Riddler's infamous, deadly tests-

Cycles of emotion churn through him each day: frustration at being ignored, fury that all it took for him to cut ties was one brief chat with Lee, worry that Ed is in trouble and can't get word out for help, bitterness that Ed is not in danger and has just abandoned him, despair that it was always going to end this way, exhaustion at another of the Riddler's broken promises-

I'll see you soon, Oswald.

Three years and three months since he was given his so-called freedom.

Sometimes, Oswald thinks he is just as chained as he ever was.

Perhaps, Edward, we really are meant for each other.

It is winter and the day is long far dead. The anniversary of his mother's death has just passed.

For once, Gotham seems still, trapped in a tense quiet as storm clouds gather on the horizon.

It has been a particularly trying evening at the Lounge, courtesy of the latest millionaire brat, Tommy Elliot. Oswald's knee aches, even with the cane, the skin around his eye feels too tight and he wants nothing more than to lock himself in his office and lose himself to a chardonnay and cigar.

However, tonight is just one of those nights, because just as he is about to withdraw, he spots Ivy sitting at the bar and, before he can understand why, finds himself walking towards her. Your penchant for self-destruction is particularly strong tonight, isn't it, Oswald.

"Good evening, Miss Pepper."

A flicker of green eyes beneath scarlet locks.

"Hi, Pengy."

These days, Ivy Pepper is so different to the young woman she'd once known, the little girl playing dress up with pearls and poison. This Poison Ivy has all of the venom and nothing of the naivety. And yet, despite their disagreements and staggeringly different methods and goals, the two of them still find the time every now and then to exchange a few words.

"I don't suppose you'd care for some company?"

A pause.

"If you like."

Permission granted, Oswald carefully slides onto the stool next to her. Casting a quick glance across Ivy, he notes the lines searing a scowl into her expression, perfect posture hunched ever so slightly.

"She went back to him. Again."

Ah. Oswald sips his drink, conclusion confirmed. Ivy only usually shows up at the Lounge after Harley relapses - he silently prays that she isn't in a bar-fight mood.

"You should have seen the number he pulled on her this time," Ivy spits. Her nails dig grooves into the bar surface and Oswald draws back just a little, self-preservation kicking in, while also running numbers on the cost of a tabletop renovation.

"And all because she 'ruined the punchline', whatever the hell that means."

Oswald well remembers the reports of the latest battle between the Clown Prince of Crime and Gotham's Dark Knight, barely a few weeks ago. While their usual spats are bad enough, this most recent lover's quarrel had left half a street in flames and two dozen people in the morgue, faces forever twisted in a grotesque rigor mortis of laughter.

Senseless chaos and destruction, so much blood spilled and all to make him notice.

Oswald tells himself he doesn't understand the Joker's urge to paint his devotion in scarlet across the city. Irrefutable. Undeniable.

However, sometimes, on nights like tonight, he thinks he understands all too well.

"He only ever has eyes for the Bat. It's so obvious but she keeps going back like some sort of kicked puppy." Ivy's face contorts all at once, beautiful features curling into a picture of fury and disgust. "Sometimes I can barely stop myself from killing him. One cut and that'd be it. No more Mr J."

"Don't." Oswald swallows back the sudden bile, gut seizing as he can almost feel the flare of an ancient wound in his abdomen. "Just don't. Harley- yes, I completely agree, she should leave him, but she has to make that decision on her own. Hurt him, kill him and she'll never forgive you."

Ivy's eyes are on him in an instant, as sharp and piercing as her nails as they rake across him. Something shifts, suspicion morphing into something altogether softer.

"Pengy-"

He stands abruptly, discomfort squirming beneath his skin under Ivy's gaze. Is he really that obvious?

He can't do this again, not after Barbara, not after the debilitating silence of the last three months. "Do let me know if there's any way I can help, Miss Pepper."

"Thank you, Oswald, it means a lot." There is the hint of a smile on her lips, gratitude seemingly genuine. There is a moment of hesitation and Oswald almost manages to make his escape when-

"You do know… he forgave you a long time ago."

Oswald looks away sharply, jaw tight.

I loved her, Oswald. And you killed her…

"I wouldn't be so sure."

He limps away, desperate to snatch a moment of peace to himself. He pauses for a moment on the Lounge's balcony, looking down at his empire; the shimmering lights glitter against the ice and sequins and the room sparkles, as if filled with diamonds. Hidden in the centre of the crowd, he thinks he spots Bruce Wayne and Selina Kyle dancing together.

Would you be proud of me, Mother?

In a surge of melancholy he can never quite escape from this time of year, Oswald feels his lips pull into a small, bittersweet smile.

I know you would be proud. You always were.

He exhales slowly, as if he could somehow physically expel the decade old grief from his body. Yet another wound that will never fully heal, another scar he must limp ever onwards with. Oswald sighs and heads towards his private elevator.

The only thing I lack is someone to share it with.

Of course, because fate truly has it out for him tonight, Oswald takes three steps into his office when the shadows shift.

"Penguin."

Due to previous dinner invitation, finding Ed in his office is no longer enough to send Oswald into cardiac arrest. However, Oswald feels his heart jolt, almost painfully so, as if it has just been reminded of its reason for beating.

"Riddler." Oswald sighs inwardly. All the anger and frustration of the last few months have drained him, leaving only a weariness deep in his bones, he is so tired. "It's been a while."

"Apologies. I was out of town on a little business."

Oswald finally turns, blinking as he peers into the shadows. Something in his chest curls tight, constricting, clawing around his lungs.

"But you're back now?"

Ed's eyes glitter in the dark. "For good."

That coiled something in Oswald's chest unwinds, a three-month-old tension easing away, and he can breathe again.

"Good."

I would be lost without you.

"I do hope I'm not intruding," Ed says with the self-satisfied lilt of someone who is well aware he will never be intruding as long as he lives.

Oswald has a quip ready, lips beginning to form consonants- but then Ed steps into the light and any words die on his lips.

The Riddler is not wearing one of his objectively garish question mark ridden outfits he is so fond of. No, instead his clothing is uncharacteristically subdued. His suit is something much more evocative of the old days, still green but more muted and, thank the heavens, a single block colour.

The flamboyance Oswald has come to expect (and, in secret, admire) is still there in subtle touches - the question mark tiepin, the green emerald cufflinks, the purple leather gloves. Still, for Edward, it seems remarkably tame. Even his hair is gelled back, neat, tidy.

Oswald swallows. Three months silence and a wardrobe change? This can't end well.

"Not at all, old friend." Feeling another wave of fatigue rush over him, Oswald hobbles towards his desk and props his umbrella against the drawers, still within reaching distance (it is never wise to be entirely unarmed when alone with the Riddler). "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Well, I had a gap in the diary and felt a craving for Chinese."

"First gap in three months?" The words come out a little sharper than intended and Ed's eyebrows shoot up.

"I told you, I was busy."

Oswald knows tiredness and petulance go hand in hand for him, but he couldn't stop the pointed, bitter words if he tried. "And, what, now you're not?"

Ed looks at him like he's just suggested that two and two actually make five.

"Obviously."

Oh, screw this. Oswald sighs, the weight of years pulling him down into his chair a little too heavily as all desire to engage in an argument abruptly leaves him.

I do own a phone, Ed. One of these days you'll learn to call.

"Your presence, Edward, is always a lovely surprise but I'm afraid it's been a rather long day. I was planning to eat in tonight."

The tiniest frown forms on Ed's forehead, the same line which Oswald has long since identified as the 'this isn't going to plan' frown. However, he quickly recovers, enigmatic smile firmly reinstated like it was never gone. Unflappable bastard.

"That actually aligns with my designs perfectly."

Ed crosses the room with a few strides (those legs are positively sinful) and leans against the desk, all long lines and sharp angles. It's odd, Oswald thinks, seeing him without a cane or hat in so long. It is… surprisingly intimate.

"And what exactly are your 'designs' this time?" Oswald leans back and barely catches a yawn.

A beat of silence is all it takes for Ed's greedy eyes to scrutinise every inch of him and Oswald cannot help but feel like one of Ed's old specimens, as if the man is seeing every weakness and frailty he tries so hard to mask.

"That Tommy brat giving you grief again?"

Oswald quirks an eyebrow, lips pursed. And how would you know that, Edward?

Ed just shrugs his shoulders, mouth quirked upwards in amusement. "I've heard whispers of a few of the boy's recent run ins with the law. Nothing more than drink driving or, ah, indecent exposure."

"Brat is a very kind word for Thomas Elliot." Oswald does not have to reach far to pour himself the long-awaited glass of whiskey which has kept him going throughout the evening. "He is everything that's wrong with Gotham's elite. This new generation of socialites have all the money but none of the class this city used to have."

"Just look at Bruce Wayne." Ed helps himself to his own glass without asking and downs it in time with Oswald, their movements synchronizing perfectly. "He showed so much potential during the blockades but the only thing his prolonged gap year seems to have taught him is how to hold his vodka."

Oswald snorts. So much for high society. "I may just ban Elliot. To hell with lost revenue, it'll be worth it not to have to clean vomit off the ice sculptures again."

"I can always target him for my next project if you like," Ed offers through a grin that's more teeth than smile, leaning forward over the desk, "I hear the Elliot's have some gorgeous art pieces."

Oswald blinks up at Ed who now looms above him, almost blocking out the light overhead. Now, that is unexpected.

"I appreciate the offer, Edward but… I'd rather not provoke Elliot's wrath just yet. There's something beneath his juvenile attitude I can't quite put my finger on. I don't like it at all."

Ed shrugs and leans back, taking another gulp of whiskey. Oswald feels himself relax minutely, realising that he'd tensed as Ed had moved forwards. "It's on the table if you change your mind."

What are you playing at tonight? Oswald narrows his eyes and takes in Edward again, more carefully. This time he notes the oh so barely there foundation which covers dark bags under his eyes. Interesting. Late nights are always the sign of a particular passion project, either one which is in the works or one which has just reached completion.

Frowning slightly, Oswald tries to remember if there have been any recent reported high-end thefts in Gotham he might have overlooked and comes up blank. Alright, enough with the games.

"Ed."

"Hmm?"

"Why are you here?"

Something in Ed's eyes darkens, fingers twitching slightly on the desk.

"I already told you. Dinner." Oswald huffs but Ed cuts him off before he can speak. "Yes, I heard you - long day, you're tired, eating in, that's fine. I'll just pick us up a takeaway. Make it easy for you."

Immediately, alarm bells start going off in Oswald's head.

Dining out has always been the routine; yes, they were discreet locations which wouldn't immediately alert the cops or, hell, Batman, but they have always eaten in the vicinity of others. Yet, what Ed is suggesting tonight…. Both of them out of their formal guises, together, alone.

Oswald is instantly suspicious. Ed is quite clearly up to something and for his own safety, his own sanity, he should say no, rearrange for another date somewhere public and comfortable and safe, but Ed-

Ed looks at him and every complaint dies in Oswald's throat. There is a vague nervousness about the man, obvious in the flicker of his eyes and the twitching of his fingers, as if he is trying to resist pushing his glasses back up his nose or wringing his hands. It softens something usually harsh and brittle, makes him look younger somehow.

Ed looks nervous but also...hopeful.

"Fine, Ed. Just," Oswald huffs out a breath, steeling himself against the fatigue, "next time, call me. Or leave a note, or just- something. I can't always drop everything because it's convenient for you."

Ed frowns and, to Oswald's utter surprise, pouts for a second before he turns and hops off the desk.

"I know, I know." Ed looks back at him, pout gone like it was never there and replaced with the familiar showman smile. "The Penguin is a 'very busy man' with plenty of twenty-something millionaires to intimidate."

"Well, for that comment, Riddler, you can foot the bill."

Ed's smile curls upwards and the angle it reaches is sharp enough to cut glass. Oswald tries not to stare.

"Just make sure you've got a nice bottle of wine waiting." Ed turns and begins to make his way toward the door. "So, midnight, your place?"

Oswald's heartbeat is suddenly very loud in his ears, like rushing waves. "My- my place?"

Ed pauses, fingers hovering above the handle as he glances quizzically back at Oswald. "Your apartment downtown… I'd assumed that would be an easier and safer place to eat than my current residence."

Oswald cannot help it; blood floods his cheeks as a blush spreads out in patches across his face and neck, a long lost conversation flitting through his mind.

There is something I would like to discuss in a more private setting. Shall we say dinner, eight o'clock?

"Of course. Sorry, it's just-" We've never done this, not in decades, there's no script to follow, I don't know what words might spill out instead- "It took me by surprise. Midnight is perfect."

The lines on Ed's forehead smooth and he gives a brief, biting smile. "Catch you later."

Ed vanishes and, after a breath, Oswald reaches for another drink. His fingers are shaking.

Ever your greatest weakness.

After making sure the club won't combust without his oversight, Oswald calls a driver and travels to his apartment. He still vastly prefers staying in the Van Dahl estate, yet unfortunately the odd hours he keeps, running a nightclub, often require him to sleep somewhere more conveniently located.

The apartment is, of course, pristine having been cleaned earlier that day. Still, Oswald finds himself plumping the cushions and anxiously checking the old grandfather clock as the minutes tick ominously closer to midnight.

Ed arrives just as it starts to rain outside.

"You must break me before you use me. What am I?"

Ed's voice is full of static as it bristles through the intercom, yet Oswald almost chokes all the same, words sputtering like a faulty engine. "What-"

"An egg." Ed's grin is vicious as he looks up at the CCTV camera. "They didn't have jasmine scented rice, so I had to settle for egg-fried. Hope you don't mind."

Oswald jabs the 'open' button on his security layout with a bit more force than necessary. Damn riddles.

He breathes through his nose slowly, in a desperate attempt to squash his nerves. Tonight is not the night to hear hidden flirtation when there is none.

With a ding the elevator opens directly onto the penthouse and reveals Ed in his earlier, more subdued outfit, clutching two plastic bags.

"Good evening, Oswald."

Oswald finds himself smiling, despite his tiredness. "Ed."

Ed's eyes are alight as he takes in the open plan floor of the main room, all sleek edges and modern fittings. Muted lights and a very convincing fake fireplace are the only light source in the room, a deliberate choice which draws one's eyes to the main feature…

"Oh, Oswald," Ed breathes.

Oswald walks in step with Ed across the room, stopping in front of the large floor to ceiling windows which display a view which is second to none.

Gotham's lights are bright beneath them, smeared like watercolours in the downpour, ever-blinking beacons in the darkness. All of the city's ugliness and beauty blurs from up here, the light and the dark embrace like lovers and Gotham shines.

"I looked at five penthouses before I found this one. I put down the deposit two minutes after walking through the door."

"It's stunning."

Oswald sneaks a glance to his right and watches the shadowed profile of Ed's face look out in awestruck delight. The urge to take his hand is almost irresistible.

"At least the Bat is busy tonight." Oswald nods in the direction of the Bat-signal, burning white against the dark clouds curling overhead. "Saves us any unpleasant surprises."

"I hope he slips off a roof." Oswald stifles a laugh as Ed's lips curl in mirth.

"Agreed."

They stand there for a few moments, side by side, looking down upon the city that birthed them. The near constant noise and bustle of Gotham is distant from this height, drained away. A distant chopper rattles faint on the horizon, rain a soothing patter on the roof. For once, Gotham seems at peace.

"If I'd known you were hiding this, I would have visited a long time ago."

Oswald shrugs, suddenly self-conscious. "Well, you never asked."

Ed's eyes are finally drawn away from the skyline and he meets Oswald's gaze in the dark. "My mistake entirely," he murmurs.

Oswald gets caught in those dangerous depths until his stomach finally reminds him why Ed is actually here. Ed smirks at the loud gurgle. "Hungry?"

"This better be damn good rice."

They sit at opposite ends of his dining table, parallel to the windows as they unbox and break open chopsticks. Eating a Chinese take-away from the Penguin's best china seems obscene in some unspeakable way and Oswald relishes it.

The take-out is surprisingly decent, and all thoughts quickly dissolve as his focus narrows solely to eating. Distantly, Oswald makes a note to ask Ed for the name of business.

Conversation flows easily enough until Ed finally gets around to his noodles and becomes quickly enraptured by the task of picking through his onions. Oswald finds himself pausing for a moment, chopsticks poised just above his own plate as a sudden shock of nostalgia rushes over him.

Do you believe in fate?

"Oswald?"

He blinks back to himself to find Ed looking at him curiously, eyes darting between his face and frozen fingers. What is wrong with you tonight?

"My apologies," Oswald murmurs, hoping his smile holds, "I just remembered something."

Ed's entire body stills, stiffens. "Sorry, is there something-"

"No," Oswald says immediately, the word tripping out far too quickly, "uh, no, nothing more important than dinner. It was nothing."

Ed exhales slowly and begins picking at his food once more.

"Good. Now, tell me, how is Martin? Still putting his fellow students to shame I hope?"

"He's well, thank you," Oswald says around the napkin, dabbing at some stray sauce. He almost misses the quick downward slither of Ed's eyes, lingering perhaps a moment too long on his lips. Oswald tries not to swallow. Now is not the time for mind games.

"He's just received his offer for his Masters at Oxford and a fully funded scholarship. He won't even need me to pay for his accommodation."

Ed nods his head, as if he'd expected nothing less. "He has your ambition and adaptability. He'll be brilliant."

"Like father, like son." Oswald cannot hide the pride in his voice, the smug smile he feels playing on his lips. Gotham has taken much from him, but it was merciful enough to allow him a son. He will always be deeply grateful for that.

"My sentiments exactly." Ed meets his gaze, a small, quiet smile on his face as well. "If he needs any assistance on his thesis, I'm more than happy to assist."

"He'll be touched to hear your offer," Oswald says through a chuckle, remembering the old science tutoring sessions Ed had once given Martin, years ago now. Goodness, he is getting old.

"Now, please, enough about me. Tell me about your latest scheme, Riddler. I know you're dying to."

Oswald watches Ed with keen interest. Whenever he asks about Ed's latest pet project there are two directions the conversation can take. The first reaction, and the one which Oswald hopes he will prompt tonight, is that Ed's eyes will light up, tongue almost tumbling ahead of his mind to explain the brilliance of his recent plot.

Tonight, Ed's eyebrow quirks up and he chews slowly on a dumpling.

Shit. Alright, so mysterious and enigmatic Edward it is.

"Oh, come on, Ed. If it's been three months in the making it must be something special."

Ed smirks. "In that case, where would be the fun in telling you everything right now?"

Oswald barely resists rolling his eyes, a habit he's been trying to get out of lately. Instead he settles for a short, sharp sigh. "Not even giving me a puzzle to let me work it out?"

Ed's eyes light up and Oswald tries not to grin triumphantly. Ha, got you. I know you too well.

Ed muses for a few moments before closing his eyes. "I have no beginning and no end. Precious when kept, priceless when given. What am I?"

Oswald frowns, jaw working. He gives it ten seconds before he accepts defeat.

"You don't often stump me, Riddler," Oswald says, leaning back as he takes a long drink of his wine, a little disheartened.

Ed's eyes are dark when he meets them again.

"I thought I'd lost that ability years ago," Ed says slowly, voice suddenly low and rough, like sandpaper.

Oswald's tongue turns to lead, feeling as if he has just missed something rather important. "It would seem not."

The rest of dinner is blissfully uneventful, wine smoothing over the harsher edges of conversation as Oswald allows himself to relax, permitting the anxiety and anger of the last three months ebb away in the easy company of his best friend. Still, he cannot quite shake the sense of anticipation.

Bellies full and glasses empty, they eventually relocate to the sofa, the electric fireplace casting a gentle, glowing light over them.

"No further forward on that riddle?"

Ed watches Oswald with a pleased, smug glee on his face, body stretched out in long lines against the leather. Honestly, sometimes Oswald could smack him.

"No, Ed, you know perfectly well I'm not."

Ed's teeth are very white in the golden light. "It's about my latest 'scheme', as you put it. Would you like to see?"

Ah, finally.

"The only thefts in the last few months have been the work of Miss Kyle, as far as I recall..." Oswald begins cautiously, veins already beginning to spark with adrenaline.

"Ah, but there's your first error." Ed's eyes sparkle in the lowlight. "I wasn't in this country."

Oswald blinks in surprise, the revelation smarting just a little. "You should have told me-"

"And ruin the surprise? Unacceptable."

He watches as, ever so slowly, Ed reaches into his inner jacket pocket and pulls out a small box, small enough to be… no, surely not-

"A ring," Oswald breathes, stomach swooping. "Your riddle. No beginning, no end - you meant a ring."

Ed's eyes are full of something that Oswald cannot for the life of him name, an emotion deep and shadowed and almost on the tip of his tongue, but then Ed opens the box and Oswald's thoughts screech to a halt.

There between them sits the most gorgeous amethyst ring, gilded in gold and set in black. Oswald's fingers itch as a cold dread settles in his stomach.

"This ring was passed down for centuries through one family. But, about sixty years ago, it was lost in a gamble gone wrong." Ed looks down at the ring, almost reverently, voice hushed. "It travelled to Russia where it has sat in an oligarch's mansion for decades... Until now."

So that's where Ed had gone... "Well, its owner was foolish to have squandered such a jewel."

Ed chuckles lightly. "Oswald, the man who lost this ring was Obadiah Van Dahl. Your grandfather."

Oswald's ears wash with white noise, heart suddenly in his throat.

"My- my grandfather?" Oswald blinks rapidly, mind reeling from this information. "How- why would you…"

"It's why I went to Russia. I wanted to reclaim it, reinstate it to its rightful owner." Ed moves closer, and Oswald finds himself frozen, ears thudding with his now pounding heartbeat. "It's yours, Oswald. Here, let me-"

And before he can think to resist, Ed is gripping his hand, his left hand and is sliding the ring onto his index finger. Oswald swallows, finding himself deeply regretting not wearing gloves.

"See? Perfect fit."

No beginning and no end. Precious when kept, priceless when given. What am I?

Oswald looks up and Ed is right there, fingers burning against his flesh like ice, eyes darker than he has ever seen them. Dread thickens to terror.

"Oswald, can I ask you something?" Ed murmurs and he is so close that Oswald can feel each soft exhale against his mouth.

"It's a question I've wanted to ask for a very long time…"

Heat and warmth and fire in his glasses and lips so near and a ring on his finger and a murmured question, so close, so near, so close-

"No." Oswald launches himself away, up from the sofa, staggering a few steps back as he gulps in shallow, futile breaths.

"You didn't even hear the question." Ed is frowning, head cocked to the side, seemingly utterly unaware of what this whole situation feels like, how can he not know-

"Ed, you-" Oswald desperately struggles to breathe through the sudden fear, heart hammering painfully against his ribcage as decade old, dead memories flicker in the shadows. "Please tell me you know what this looks like."

Ed looks down at that ring box in his hand and, painstakingly slowly, his lips curl in a sly grin. "I suppose I could have got down on one knee."

Oswald pinches his eyes closed, hands shaking, despair crushing over him like a physical weight.

So, this was deliberate. Ed had known exactly what he was doing, had known that this was a mockery of one of the most intimate exchanges two people could ever share, had decided abandoning him for months was not enough, the only thing that would satisfy him was his utter humiliation-

"Get out."

Oswald opens his eyes and finally, finally sees Ed's expression turning to panic. All the cool confidence has melted and he is left exposed, standing abruptly. "Wait, Oswald. I'm sorry. I didn't-"

Ed steps closer and Oswald instinctively retreats, legs hitting the back of a vanity table. "I mean it, Ed. Leave. Now."

Ed jerks to a stop halfway, jaw working. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have… In hindsight, that might have been in bad taste."

"This whole evening has been in bad taste," Oswald hisses. Despair swims thick in his stomach and every word is like ash in his mouth.

Ed blinks, righting his glasses with a nervous movement. "But I thought- tonight was going well."

"Ed, tonight has been a farce." Oswald feels his face contort, that age-old outrage the only thing keeping him from collapsing under the immensity of his mortification. "What the hell were you thinking? Disappear for months to Russia or wherever the hell you've been, show up with no warning, order Chinese and then offer me a ring like you're about to… You know you can't just do this, that I can't-"

Fuck, this is too close, too close to scratching against everything they haven't talked about in over a decade, the ghost of something so horrific and awful always hovering in the corner of every conversation, lurking, waiting to destroy everything all over again-

Sometimes, if you're not very careful, friendship can blind you to what is staring you straight in the face.

"I didn't think-"

"No, you clearly didn't think," Oswald spits, panic and horror thrumming through his thoughts, control of the situation spiralling faster and faster away, "even for you, Ed, this is cruel."

He barely catches the sound of Ed's broken inhale, but the echo of it sends knives through his abdomen.

"I'm sorry Oswald, please, I just- there was something..." Ed swallows, the movement seemingly painful. "I wanted to tell you something tonight and I thought this was the best way."

The support structure he has spent the last decade and a half constructing, the defences he has desperately cobbled together are grumbling around him, Ed's words as destructive as a grenade. I can't do this again, not again, please.

"What you could possibly want to tell me like this?"

Ed inhales deeply, eyes closed. One. Two. Three.

"I lied."

Oswald blinks, a streak of confusion cutting through the tangled mess of fear and fury.

"What?"

Ed's face is abnormally pale. "Nyssa al Ghul, the woman that stole the submarine and your dog- Edward."

The memory alone sends a sharp bite of anger through him. "What about her?"

"She escaped with the submarine." Ed swallows, blinking too quickly. "Oswald, she didn't have anyone with her. She piloted through the minefield on her own."

It takes a few moments for the thought to rattle through his mind, old assumptions shifting as he follows the implications to their inevitable end- Oh.

It takes two men to pilot that submarine, Oswald.

Something seems to shake itself loose in Oswald's chest, each breath ragged and harsh against his lungs.

"So, when you said you came back because you had no choice..."

Ed lets out a short, almost hysterical hiss of laughter. "Of course I had a choice. I could have left whenever I wanted."

Oswald licks his lips, heart still crashing against his ribcage.

"Alright, fine. Reveal all, Riddler." Oswald squares his shoulders for the answer which already feels like a betrayal. "Why did you come back to Gotham?"

Ed looks at him, jaw slack, eyes dark and raw in the shadows.

"I-"

Silence settles over them, charged and crackling, the rain rustling overhead.

"What, Ed?" he asks againn, voice strained, desperate.

A breath. And another. And then-

"I can fill a room or just one heart. Others can have me, but I can't be shared. What am I?"

The words come out in a garble and it takes Oswald a moment before he realises Ed has asked him a riddle, a bloody riddle, right now, and he wants to scream, wants to stab something, wants to sob.

But then the words register and sink and he cannot stop his sharp intake of breath. The answer, it couldn't, it can't be-

"It's loneliness."

Oswald feels like he's been punched. His chest aches, almost feeling bruised and he forces his eyes shut. Of course not. Never what you dream of. Never what you want.

"So, you're telling me, the great secret you wanted to share tonight, was that you came back to Gotham because you didn't want to be lonely?" Oswald cannot keep the sneer out of his tone, teeth clenched. "Sorry, would the dog not have kept you company?"

Ed runs a hand down his face, eyes pinched close. "I'm doing this all wrong."

"You don't say," Oswald bites out.

It takes a moment for Ed to recover himself, standing tall again as he straightens his jacket.

"Oswald Cobblepot," he begins, voice already stronger and Oswald feels his heart begin to tremble again. "I haven't been entirely honest with you for a long time. I'm struggling to change that now but- I'm trying."

Dread seeps, dark and heavy in Oswald's veins as he experiences an uncanny déjà vu.

"I meant what I said after the barricades. I felt nothing for those people, for this city - I didn't then, and I certainly don't now. But I didn't come back because I had no other choice." Ed takes a steadying breath and those dark eyes lock with his, electricity thrumming in the space between. "I came back for you, Oswald."

A beat passes. Then another. Oswald can barely breathe, barely stand.

"What do you mean?"

"You- you told me. On the pier. To listen to this-" A hand taps out a trembling rhythm against his green lapel and Oswald has to clutch the vanity behind him to keep himself upright. "And I've tried, I've been trying-"

"Just spit it out, Ed."

Ed's teeth clack together, the sound painful in the strained hush of the room. He swallows, worries at his lower lip and speaks with the gentleness of a judge passing sentence.

"I have everything I could ever want. I'm the Riddler, infamous, my name terrifies all who hear it. I should be happy but I'm not and it's taken me so long to figure it out. But I know now. I know what I'm missing." Ed looks down nervously at his hands, wets his lips. "Someone to share it with."

Please don't, please, don't do this, please not this, please…

"I-" Ed's eyes find his in the dark, shining with something like wonder. "I love you, Oswald."

Everything goes still. His ears fill with the sound of rushing waves as the earth moves beneath his feet. The ground beneath him feels unstable, as if at any moment he could topple backwards into the freezing depths, grasping once more for something he will never be allowed to touch, falling, always falling.

I love you.

Oswald doesn't hear it. He can't have. Those words could never come out of Edward Nygma's mouth, not like this, not to him. Oswald's hands shake against the table as he tries to keep breathing.

"And I'm not saying this to try and get you to say it back," Ed continues with a huff of bitter laughter, seemingly oblivious to what destruction he has just wrecked, "I know I may well have- missed my chance, or ruined it with this disastrous evening. But you deserve to know."

Something old and aching in Oswald stirs at those words, life and warmth and hope starting to whisper into the numb muscle of his heart and he- he cannot bear it.

You want to know why I could never love someone like you, Oswald? Because you are a spoiled child who throws a tantrum anytime he doesn't get what he wants. Especially when what he wants doesn't want him back.

I don't love you.

"No." Something in him shutters, cold, final. Dead. "You're lying."

The sight of Edward Nygma shocked is a look which Oswald would savour under any other circumstance. Right now, it just makes him feel sick. "Oswald, I'm not-"

"Oh, please." Oswald can feel the bitterness which has festered in him for over a decade beginning to loosen, bubble, boil, poison spilling from his lips. "The only reason you would ever say those words is if you wanted to manipulate me. Use me."

Ed's mouth hangs open, jaw a swinging gallows. "But it's true."

Oswald laughs, the noise cold and harsh in the room which but a few minutes ago had been full of light.

"Don't insult me, Edward. Did you really think I wouldn't notice?" All of the fear in him has frozen and he is ice, cold, immovable. "Everything about tonight from the suit to the Chinese to the bloody ring - it's been a ploy, another of the Riddler's famous death traps. How stupid do you think I am?"

Ed's jaw drops, releasing a bewildered breath. "I planned this night to try and be romantic, Oswald, not for some elaborate scheme-"

"Romantic?" Oswald cannot quite keep the hysteria from his voice, desperately trying to clamp down on the torrent of hurt spewing out of him like acid. "You expect me to believe you were trying to- to woo me?"

It is difficult to see in the shadowed apartment, but Oswald could swear Ed's cheeks darken slightly. "Clearly I wasn't doing it very well."

For a moment, Oswald's self-righteous anger falters.

Ed never looks like this. Abashed, hell, embarrassed. Oswald feels like he's about to be sick.

Is it true? Could it be true?

"Well, why now?" Oswald licks his lips, certainty solidifying in his veins like iron. "Why, after three years of freedom, would you choose tonight to make such a- a grand gesture?"

Ed averts his gaze as he rubs the back of his neck and, yes, Oswald is sure, that is red darkening his usually pale skin. "It's-" Ed hisses out an anxious breath. "It's our anniversary."

"I'm sorry?" Oswald asks, utterly dumb struck.

"It's eighteen years. Since I saved you in the forest. I thought- I thought it would be meaningful. Almost…" He grimaces. "Like a riddle."

Silence threatens to drown him. His leg trembles as the ground beneath him feels ready to give way at any moment, mouth suddenly unbearably dry.

"You know I don't like riddles."

Ed's eyes flash in the dark, the embarrassment hardening to something stronger, an emotion burnished like steel.

"I know. So, it's time I stopped speaking in them."

Ed takes a step forward, expression suddenly determined and Oswald's stomach plummets.

"My whole life I've always been the smartest person in the room. Then I met you. And, let me tell you," Ed lets out a weak chuckle, "that discovery was one of the most terrifying, exhilarating moments of my life, Oswald. That you could match me. That you could know me."

Another step closer and Oswald has to squash the thrashing in his stomach, screaming at him to run.

"The biggest mistake I've ever made was thinking I didn't need you. But you were right. There cannot be one without the other."

Oswald breathes in raggedly, a sudden burst of pain blooming, low in his gut. His vision swirls with mist and rainwater as those words echo again and again in the dark.

"I have seen you be so incredibly selfish, Oswald." Those eyes are so wide and raw as he draws ever nearer. "Your opportunism and ambition hurt me so deeply, and I'd told myself you couldn't love, that you were so self-consumed you couldn't sacrifice anything but-"

Ed breaks off, blinking in wonderment. "All you've done is sacrifice for me. Your money, your revenge - hell, Oswald, your eye. I've been so stupid. It took me so long just to realise that you'd saved Lee when you didn't need to."

Oswald's mouth is so full of seawater he cannot speak. His heart beats out a frantic rhythm against his ribcage and the world is narrowing, tunnelling to those dark eyes which seem to grow closer with each second-

"Oswald." Ed's voice is so low, half-whisper, half-growl and Oswald can feel the warmth of a phantom breath on his lips. "You made me. You trust me. You're my best friend and I-"

Seaweed pulls against his limbs as Oswald breathes in salt and blood and Ed's long fingers are reaching up and resting against his jaw and he feels so cold-

"You've no idea how much I want you."

Oswald doesn't hesitate. He shoves Ed as hard as he can before he can get any closer because - fuck, Ed had been about to kiss him.

Fuelled by the instinctual need to protect himself and a rush of abject horror, he blindly grasps behind him for the first thing he can find, brandishing a kitchen knife at this awful man before him.

"Don't you dare touch me."

Ed's hands are up, expression caught between mortification and despair. "Oswald, I'm sorry, I shouldn't-"

"Shut up," Oswald hisses, "just shut up, shut up."

A few tense moments beat out before them, both breathing heavily. The blade in Oswald's hand is dull and small but it trembles between them all the same.

"Loving you killed me, Ed. It destroyed me."

Ed flinches a little and Oswald tries his hardest not to throw up.

"In fairness, you did warn me." Oswald swallows thickly, trying to twist his words with humour but all that comes out is venom. "'For men like you and I, love will always be our most crippling weakness.' The first thing you ever taught me."

Ed's eyes are wide, a vein beating out against his neck in panic. "No, I didn't-"

"For once in your life, Ed, can you just shut your mouth and listen." Oswald takes a slow, steadying breath as the rage and despair threatens to overwhelm him. "Love for men like us is deadly, you've taught me that over and over again. I thought you would stop, but you never do, you keep hurting me and I can't keep doing this- "

To his shame he has to blink away tears, arm dropping limply to his side. The aching pain in his chest is so intense, so unbearable, he can barely look at this man.

"Tonight was a mistake…" Ed says slowly, soothingly, as if Oswald is a wild animal, ready to pounce and claw and tear at any moment. "I should have considered our history a little more carefully-"

"You don't say."

Ed squeezes his eyes closed for a moment as he releases a breath. "Even so, this isn't a trick or some grand plan, Oswald. I've nothing to gain from this and everything to lose. It's just the truth."

The silence sounds like the moment before a gunshot.

"I love you, Oswald."

No. You don't, Ed. You don't.

"I want you to leave." Oswald sniffs, drawing himself up to his full height. "Whatever you are planning, keep me out of it."

Ed stands rigid, every line of his body tight, as if he is about to fight this – and then he crumples.

"If... that's what you want." Ed rubs a hand over his face, expression inexplicably drained. "I'm sorry, Oswald, for what it's worth. I'm sorry."

He can't bring himself to watch Ed leave. Instead he turns to the window, eyes unseeing as he stares into the dark. He refuses to let Ed see him cry again.

The elevator pings, doors slide open, then shut.

And Oswald is alone. Like always.

Gotham has only ever taught me how to lose.

Oswald collapses onto the sofa, exhaustion flooding him like a tidal wave. Distantly, the grandfather clock chimes - one o'clock. Outside, the rain sounds louder now. Hissing out a slow breath between his teeth, he reaches for the wine bottle.

He drinks, as if he could wash out the bile in his throat, desperate for relief of any kind from this pain-

You have no idea how much I want you.

Oswald lets out a low sob, the noise torn out of him, deep in his gut.

"Damn it, Ed," he whispers, eyes screwed shut against the memory of Ed so close, so beautiful, saying the words he has always wanted to hear-

I planned this night to try and be romantic, Oswald, not for some elaborate scheme-

Another swig of the bottle and Oswald roughly wipes the back of his hand against his mouth.

A trick, all those words whispered with poison, everything a fake imitation, a fireplace flickering with false electric life, nothing but a poor mockery of what had once burned him from the inside out, how could he, how dare he-

This isn't a trick or some grand plan, Oswald. I've nothing to gain from this and everything to lose. It's just the truth.

In one brutal movement, the bottle goes flying, hits the wall and shatters, glass stained scarlet scattering across the floor, carpet soaking with red. Finally, some destruction to match the agony in his chest.

It is as if he has been shot again, blood oozing from his side like it will never stop, icy waters unable to numb the pain of it.

I love you, Oswald.

The skin around his monocle stings with salt and Oswald blinks his eyes open, reaching up to rub away the tears when he spots it-

A small, utterly inconspicuous box, left on the coffee table, still presumptuously open, as if asking a question that could never be put into words. Oswald inhales, a shock of heat running through him as he looks down and realises-

The ring. He's still wearing it.

Squinting, Oswald raises his trembling hand. In the firelight, the beautiful amethyst jewel glints at him, his own reflection caught in violet. Through all the rage and despair, he hadn't thought to take it off, hadn't even realised he was still wearing it.

Oswald grimaces. He should throw it away, melt it, cast it into Gotham River, just- get it out of his sight, the awful thing probably wasn't even his grandfather's, another fake, what's one more lie to the Riddler-

It's our anniversary. It's eighteen years. Since I saved you in the forest.

Oswald pauses, fingers hovering, hovering so close over it… But something instinctual, seated deep within him protests, screams that he deserves to keep it, that this ring is his right.

Slowly, that old threadbare rage of cloying years begins to fade and, rising in its place, a cold, sharp clarity. Feeling suddenly, intensely present in his own body, Oswald thinks.

Lightning quick, he runs over Ed's words from the evening, assessing them without the immediate whiplash fury, evaluates, pulls apart, truly listens for the first time.

I thought- I thought it would be meaningful. Almost…

"Like a riddle."

Oswald exhales sharply, a lance of adrenaline shooting through him.

Just suppose that Edward Nygma, the Riddler, was trying to confess his love to someone. How would he do it? Oswald feels himself go cold as the answer comes to him, blindingly obvious.

I know you, Ed. I may be driven by my emotions, but you are driven by something much more predictable. A desperate, compulsive need to complete what you've started in exacting fashion.

The dinner tonight, just like their first shared meal, eighteen years to the day Ed had found him in that forest. A gift given in firelight, precious not for its monetary worth but the display of loyalty that it represented. All wrapped neatly in a riddle, a full circle, perfectly crafted in every detail.

I have no beginning and no end. Precious when kept, priceless when given.

"Worthless to one but priceless to two…"

Realisation strikes like lightning - the love of his life had just told Oswald he loves him, the only way he knows how.

And Oswald had kicked him out.

"Shit, shit, shit-"

Scrambling, Oswald runs for the elevator as fast as he is able, thoughtlessly grabbing an umbrella as the doors slide open.

He prays on his sainted mother's grave that he isn't too late, not again, not this time, please.

"Ed!"

Oswald frantically stumbles down the street, umbrella up, braced against the frenzied downpour. "Ed, wait-"

The street is empty but for a lone figure in green, barely forty paces away. Oswald laughs out a breathless whoop of joy - he can't have left straight away, he must have hovered just outside, waiting, hoping-

"Edward Nygma!"

Finally, the figure startles, turns. Oswald limps faster, his Mother's voice a gentle croon in his ear.

Life gives you one love, Oswald. When you find it, run.

"Ed," he gasps out, breathless as the burst of adrenaline begins to falter, "you didn't leave."

Ed looks at him, barely a metre or two away, body rigid. "No, not- not immediately."

Oswald cannot stop a shaky smile as he struggles to control his breathing. His eyes flash up and he realises-

"You're soaking."

Oswald blinks, lungs aching with the strain of the sprint. Ed really is soaking; his previously styled hair hangs down in limp strands, deep green suit turned almost black on the shoulders from the rain.

Ed's jaw clenches, expression utterly guarded. "Not all of us carry umbrellas everywhere with us."

Well, it's your lucky day.

Without thinking, Oswald steps forward, lifting the umbrella so this unbearably tall man can fit underneath. Immediately, Ed recoils at the sudden invasion of his space, moving as if to step back-

"No, wait, wait," Oswald pleads, hand shooting out to wrap around Ed's arm, fixing him in place, "just- just let me speak."

Ed's spectacles are slightly misted up and speckled by droplets of rain, but even so, Oswald can still read the burning emotions hidden behind them. The fear, the panic, and that scrupulous, mysterious emotion from earlier that Oswald can now, finally identify as the faintest glimmer of hope.

"What is it?" Ed asks, voice hoarse.

Ed's tongue darts out to lick his lips and Oswald's gaze is pulled by the movement, unbidden. Suddenly, he feels that burst of confidence wither as his own mouth goes dry and dusty. Years are stripped away, and he is a stuttering youth once more, throat choked with nerves, heart quivering like the rustle of strings.

"I- I..."

"Oswald," Ed says, tone almost pleading, desperate, "if you've come to humiliate me even further, please, just-"

"I'm not here to humiliate you." Oswald slowly releases his vice-like grip on Ed's forearm, smoothing down the crumpled fabric with shaking fingers. He forces himself to breathe. "I was a little… in haste, earlier. I said some very vicious things and I couldn't let you go without making that right."

Ed's eyes flicker over him, muscle still coiled beneath Oswald's hand, as if ready to run at any moment.

"So, you're here to… apologise?"

Oh, I forgot how hard this was.

"No- Well, yes, I am, but-" Oswald huffs out a breath of frustration, begins again. "Not just apologise. What I said before, that loving-"

"Loving me destroyed you." Ed looks at a point somewhere just over Oswald's shoulder, jaw tight. "Yes, I remember that part very well."

A single drop of rain runs down Ed's nose and Oswald blinks, dazed at the realization of how tantalising close they are. Concentrate, Oswald. This is the final crossroads you will ever reach with this man – make it count.

"It's true, it did destroy me. But, Ed," Oswald swallows, "it didn't ruin me."

Ed's eyes flash to his and then down, gaze finally resting on the ring, shining in the streetlight. Immediately, Ed's cold hands reach up to cradle his, thumb tracing the jewel.

"You're still wearing it."

Ed looks up at Oswald, awe a deep, raw thing on his face. Oswald takes a breath, summons all the courage he has ever had in his life and plunges.

"Edward Nygma, I have loved you for almost two decades and it hasn't killed me, not really. In fact, I am stronger than ever for loving you."

If they weren't so close, Oswald would have missed the tiniest gasp Ed makes at his words, the way his pupils dilate oh so slightly. The fingers around his tremble, tighten.

"You're saying... that you love me? Still?"

Oswald cannot stop the smile, even as that old ache pulls at his chest. "I never stopped."

A tiny frown creases Ed's forehead. "Even-"

"Even then. Always." A few breaths escape in a chuckle as he looks up at Ed's awestruck expression. "My Mother once told me - life only gives you one, true love. I know it's not the case for everyone and it sounds illogical but-"

"Love is anything but logical, Oswald," Ed whispers, lips parted.

Oswald blinks, chest fluttering with anxiety and nerves and warmth, this beautiful, hopeful, longing warmth.

"My Mother's words have rung true for me," Oswald breathes. "It's only ever been you, Ed."

"Oh, Oswald," Ed exhales, eyes shining with wonder. Somehow, they have edged even closer.

"And you- you meant what you said?" Oswald licks his lips, that old paranoia creeping up his spine. "That you-"

"Love you?" Ed's eyes close for a moment, quickly inhaling before they open again. "Yes. Almost for just as long, if I had realised it."

For the first time since he produced the ring box, Ed smiles, the sight utterly dazzling.

"Yes, Oswald," he murmurs, "I love you."

Oswald looks up at him for a stolen moment, chest full of something, so huge and warm and overwhelming he feels ready to cry with the sheer immensity of it. That old, ancient tug pulls at him once again, his old centre of gravity kicking in, utterly immutable, irresistible…

Fortune favours the bold.

Oswald leans up, almost on tiptoe, and meets Edward Nygma's lips with his own, eyes fluttering shut as the world finally stills.

For eighteen years of waiting, the moment is incredibly brief. Oswald pulls back in an anxious breath, stomach positively writhing with nerves as he blinks stars out of his eyes. Ed is unmoving before him, eyes dark, practically frozen and Oswald suddenly fears there has been some sort of disastrous misunderstanding, that Ed really had tricked him all along, terror floods in as he is about to draw back when-

Ed surges forward, one hand grasping the back of Oswald's neck, the other fisting around his waist as he pulls him closer and Oswald is so startled, he drops the umbrella, a shocked mmph escaping into Ed's mouth as the freezing rain hits him-

And he couldn't care less because Edward Nygma is kissing him.

Immediately, Oswald kisses back, utterly inexperienced and fumbling hands reaching up to frame Ed's face, relishing the foreign feel of another person's lips on his, of Ed's lips against his, smooth, insistent, adoring.

Once again, the plates of the world shift beneath his feet, realigning as a warmth floods him, soothing the scars and softening that old aching devotion until all that he knows, thinks, feels, is this undeniable love.

The kiss is slightly awkward, clumsy as they clutch at each other, desperate, disbelieving, both utterly drenched as the rain soaks them within seconds.

Oswald barely notices.

Eventually, they pull back, both gasping as thunder rumbles overhead. Their shared breaths turn to mist between them and Oswald cannot stop smiling. In the rain, he cannot be sure if either of them is crying. Perhaps that is a mercy.

"Oswald," Ed breathes, voice coloured with laughter and delight, thumb rubbing circles against his hipbone, "is there any chance we could move this back to your apartment? It's a little wet out here."

Oswald finds himself laughing, the sound lighter than it has been in years. Joy kindles in his chest and he cannot stop himself from pressing one more, lingering kiss to Ed's lips, overjoyed to find his smile is shared.

He pulls back and is delighted to find that Ed seems instinctually to try and chase him, pulled by that same magnetic force he had always assumed unique to him.

"Edward Nygma," he says, smile sharpening, "I thought you'd never ask."

They hurry back to the apartment building, arm in arm, clinging to the other just a little too tightly, lightning crashing overhead. Oswald barely set foot inside the elevator before he finds himself being pressed against the wall, a very insistent Ed swooping down to meet him, mouth and fingers insistent.

The umbrella clatters to the floor for the second time.

"I'm so sorry I made you wait," Ed mumbles, lips ducking to Oswald's neck as he presses the words into his skin, "all this time wasted, so, so stupid, so sorry-"

Oswald gasps, head hitting the wall with a thunk, eyes fluttering closed. Heat he has never known pools in his stomach, liquid lava turning his limbs to water and he can barely breathe.

"Worth it, Ed, all worth it-"

"Always you," Ed hisses, fingers fisting and curling in Oswald's hair, tongue and teeth sucking just under his jaw, "no one else, not really, you, Oswald, just you, anything for you, anything-"

With a vicious yank, Oswald pulls Ed back up by the hair and slams their mouths together, eyes stinging with unshed tears as he kisses him with everything he has.

Finally, finally, you're here, you love me too, you love me, you're here, finally-

Both of them startle as a noise sings loudly overhead, light shifting. Oswald blinks back to himself and realises-

"We're here."

Over Ed's shoulder, the open doors reveal his apartment, dark for the lights of Gotham glittering in the distance. Oswald huffs out a breathless chuckle, slowly smoothing his hands down the lapels of Ed's drenched jacket.

"I see," he manages through the pounding heartbeat in his ears, licking his lips as his stomach flutters, "I suppose that we'll need to talk about to handle this, you know, publicly."

Ed looks back at him, a bemused smile on his face.

"You are ridiculous sometimes, Oswald."

Slowly, Ed traces his thumb across Oswald's cheek, the movement so startling gentle it almost feels more intimate than kissing. "Half of Gotham already thinks we're together. The other half will probably throw us a party."

Oswald puffs out an annoyed breath, cheeks growing warm.

"So I've heard. Still, it's probably something we should discuss." A thought occurs and his smile turns wicked. "Although, I don't know about you, but…"

Oswald uses his perfectly placed palms to shove Ed backwards through the open doors, relishing the sharp surprise that flashes across the other's face.

"I think it can wait until tomorrow."

Ed catches himself and looks up at Oswald, breathless, eyes alight. He grins and pulls Oswald through the open doors, finally home.

"Tomorrow."