Chapter 14

The woman in the center of the garden was his Cassandra. He was sure of it. She stood in front of a concrete bench facing a barren tree. Dogwood, he thought. Maybe cherry blossom. Why could he not remember, dammit! He was the one who had donated it, for goodness sake!

He felt his heart swell as he got closer. He was overjoyed. His Cassandra had been returned to him at last!

The plan he had formulated every single torturous day of his existence since she had been gone to relentlessly question her, berate her, fuss over her, fuss at her for loving him, leaving him, not contacting him these past few days, flew out the window.

"Cassandra!" he cried, he was laughing and hurrying as fast as he could go across the wet grass, his specialty made Italian suede shoes sinking into the mud, and he did not give not one good damn about it. His Cassandra was there waiting on him and if he had to reach her muddy or buck naked, he would do it. "Cassandra!" he called again. She turned, but made no move to approach him and he frowned. Why will she not come to me? Even with her cane to guide her?

"Cassandra," he breathed when he got to her, letting go of his umbrella and throwing his arms around her and drawing her to himself. That scent of gardenias that he had gotten accustomed to and was so looking forward to inhaling was no longer on her skin. She resisted and wrestled herself out of his arms.

"Get off me!" He had heard those words before, only they had not been directed at him, and for a brief moment, a flash of anger coursed through his veins, but only for a second and quickly dissipated. "Who are you?" she asked him.

Baffled, Oswald sputtered, he could literally feel the capillaries expanding in his nose and his eyes swelled up with tears. He was almost certain he had misheard her because of the pounding in his ears. He could practically see Gabe's words "told you so" prancing across his brain.

He placed his hands on his chest.

"It's me, Oswald. Your husband." He shook his head, confused. "I—don't you know who I am?"

"I'm sorry. No. I'm not married." Then under her breath: "Who would want to marry me?"

"I would!" Oswald blurted out, stunned. "I did. Your name is Cassandra, and you are my wife. You are Cassandra? Are you not? Your name?" She nodded as he continued. "You . . . you look like my wife. You sound like my wife. You even talk the way she talks. Maybe if we could remove these sunglasses." He gestured towards her face which caused the shadow from his hand to fall across her cheek and she quickly reached up to keep the glasses in place. He wanted to see if her eyes looked the way they had in his haunting—his dream, he quickly corrected himself.

"No!" she said adamantly, taking a small but shaky step backwards.

"I wasn't going to . . ." he sputtered some more, caught in his lie and took a step towards her.

Cassandra shook herself and grinned. "Sorry, didn't mean for that to come out so harshly. I've had these on since as long as I can remember and if I remove them, my ears might fall off." Oswald laughed.

"Well, we must not allow that to happen." He was aching to touch her, to hold on tight and never let go. He had to formulate a plan to take her back with him. It was Cassandra, his beloved, even if she did not know it right now. He had won her before and he would do it again.

She reached for him, touching his chest and Oswald thought his heart might pop out and land in her hand. He wanted to push her sleeve up and inspect her arm. If only he could see her unique scar, he would know for sure it was her. He did know. He did, but the bodies of the clones and the animated dead, some still shambling around and underneath Gotham, tampered with his mind.

Her smile was infectious and he found himself returning it, even if she could not see it. "Did you say your name is Oswald?" she asked him.

"That is correct, miss." He so badly wanted to take her hand in his—to press it further against his chest or squeeze it really hard. But instead he stood perfectly still, afraid to move, lest she sprint away like a deer. A deer with a cane. She opened her mouth to say something else, but in his excitement and nervousness, Oswald continued speaking.

"You've been coming here, to this same spot, for days. Not that I have been spying, I just . . . you are . . . I like penguins. You have been watching the penguins, all the birds." He closed his eyes and shook his head. "Not watching. Listening. Enjoying." He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. He could feel pieces of it standing straight up and was glad she could not see him. Not just because of that, but because of his weight gain too. He continued his ramble. She removed her hand from his chest and he wanted to cry.

"The aviary. It's the place . . . it's . . . you . . . um, I'm sorry. I must apologize for tripping over my words. I am usually quite the eloquent speaker." He paused to gather his composure. "What, if I may ask, is your last name?" He held his breath.

"Of course you may ask, and I may tell you. It's . . ." She stopped talking and frowned. Oswald saw she was truly perplexed. "Um . . . well, this is just silly. We all have last names. I'm sure . . . mine is . . . uh, well, let me sit down and think about this for a moment. How humiliating . . ." Reaching for the concrete bench behind her, she missed and Oswald had to catch her to keep her from falling onto the wet ground. He settled her on the bench.

"I won't let you fall," he whispered. He felt her body jerk and she turned her head in the direction of his voice. He settled himself beside her.

"What did you say?" she asked softly.

"I won't let you fall," he repeated. Cassandra felt something ripple across the surface of her mind. Something familiar that wanted to come up for air. The wetness of his coat lapel as she reached to hang on to it triggered a sense of déjà vu as well. She knew it was a mistake for him to have found her first. All her training, down the drain.

He smelled good. All of a sudden, she wanted to lick him. I'm useless.

"What's your last name?" he asked.

"It's . . ." she laughed, embarrassed. "It appears I don't have one."

"But you do," he said, earnestly. "I can give you one. If you want it." He took both her hands in his. They sat there like that for moment. He knew he was pressing his luck, his plans for playing it cool melting into a huge tub of spluttering idiot. He was coming on too strong, but he could not stop the avalanche. It had already started.

Cassandra did not remove her hands. In fact, she let them relax in his. Oswald felt her muscles go soft, and it only encouraged him. But before he could say anything more, she spoke. "It is only a guess, but . . ." But you seem so familiar, she wanted to say. "Are you Oswald Chesterfield Cobbepot?"

"Yes, that is right." He watched her face, trying to decipher the different thoughts and emotions that played over it, each one a confusion for him—shock, fear, joy, sadness, and something else . . . something he could not place his finger on, although he would be happy to try.

Gabe stood down at the entrance to Arctic World and watched his boss and former boss just sit there, staring at each other—well, he knew Oswald was the only one staring. It would be good to have Cassandra back home. Oswald may actually fully reintegrate himself back into the human race, and he had been more than happy to track down the low-lives who had taken her from her family. Nobody messes with family . . . if you want to keep yours.

She was like a badass, take-no-prisoners Wendy from . . . what was the name of that play? Oh, yeah Peter Pan. He looked around. Nobody ever better find out he liked old-timey musicals. He blamed Gertrud for that. He let out a sad chuckle and glanced back at the couple.

Oswald was stumped for words. He fought to think of something that would convince her that she needed to come home with him. The Court now knew where she was, and he was scared out of his mind that they might come to take her away again, or kill her for spite, or hurt her in any way. He tried not to think of the ways they may have already hurt her. He swallowed hard.

Can she hear my heart beating?

Having Harold around had given him some insight into the world of individuals with lack of hearing, lack of sight, lack of motion, and all the others . . . When one sense was gone or one ability hindered, the others expanded, grew stronger. So maybe the rest of us are disabled too, we just do not realize it.

What was it that he lacked, and what had he gained?

"Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot," Cassandra repeated. She seemed nervous, like him, as if she could not think of anything else to say.

"Yes?" Oswald answered.

"Nothing. I was just saying the name. Trying it out upon my tongue."

Oswald blanched. He was grateful she could not see him turn from shocked paler-than-usual pale to desire-filled crimson. She said his name again. "It's a very regal name," she sighed.

"Th-Thank you. You did have cause to mention that very same compliment to me once before . . ." He stopped when she tilted her head. I wish I could see your eyes, he thought. "In a dream," he whispered. "It was a lovely dream. Of you."

She laughed lightly. "A dream?" she asked, removing her hands. Oswald desperately wanted to recapture them, but refrained. There was a pensive wistfulness in her voice when she spoke again. "Nobody dreams of me."

"I do. All the time. Even when I am awake." She grinned at me again. Oswald sat a little straighter. Maybe I am making headway. He would have spoken again, but she beat him to it.

"You are a bold one, aren't you?"

"Would it be a mark in my favor if I was?" He held his breath as she considered his question and Oswald could practically hear the gears churning within her head.

"Yes," she said, assuredly, after a pause. "Yes. I think it would." Oswald exhaled softly.

"Well, then, my boldness insists that you have dinner with me tonight. At my mansion. My chauffeur can pick you up." As soon as I get one. "I will have the chef prepare something special."

"Mansion. Chauffeur. Chef. What line of work are you in, Mr. Cobblepot?

"I am just a businessman who knows how to invest wisely."

"Stocks?"

"Whatever catches my fancy."

She chuckled. "And apparently I've caught your fancy, then, is that it?" she teased.

He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. "I am the one who has been caught." When she did not respond, he added, "You can bring a bodyguard, of course, if you so desire."

"I don't have one."

"You can borrow one of mine."

This time Cassandra threw back her head and laughed. Oswald smiled at the sound and bit his lower lip as he continued to beam at her.

"And a bodyguard to boot!" she exclaimed as she turned her face towards him. "As well as a refreshing sense of humor. Like iced tea in the summertime."

I am almost at the finish line, he thought. Just a little bit further. His heart was pounding so hard it was making him sick. She gasped when he grabbed one of her hands with both of his and took a knee beside her, his chest pressed up against her shin, his bad leg screaming for him to get up.

"Please say you will come." He gritted his teeth from the sharp pinch in his knee and hip, his whole right side from ankle to lower back feeling like he just had been stung by a jellyfish.

"What's wrong?" Cassandra asked and shifted position so that her whole body faced him. She covered his hands with her other one and Oswald felt her grip tighten. She is concerned about me!

"You have not said yes, yet," he retorted, trying to joke. She tried to pull him up.

"Get up. You sound as if you are in pain." I am in pain, he thought. Though it was not necessarily because of his mangled leg. He refused to budge.

"I am in pain, for your affirmative answer, and I shall not rise. Not until you say yes." Oswald had insisted like this once before when he had proposed marriage to her. She had initially said yes after his awkward attempt at expressing his undying loyalty, but he had wanted to do propose properly—upon one knee—the old-fashioned, romantic way—to deserve that coveted answer. He had been overjoyed when she had repeated her yes, and he wanted to hear her say it again now. "Please say yes."

"Is this how you win your arguments? By sacrificing your comfort and laying a guilt trip upon your opponent?"

He was befuddled. "You are not my opponent," he insisted, barely above a whisper. He rose and sat beside her, stifling a groan, his leg stiff. "I apologize that I made you feel that way. It was not my intent. I just wanted so badly . . ."

"Yes."

Oswald waited a beat before he spoke. "Yes, you want me to finish my thought or yes, you will have dinner with me?"

"Both."

It felt to Oswald as if a weight had just been lifted from his body. A genie had granted his wish! Santa had answered his letter! "I just wanted so badly to spend time with you."

He brought her hands up to his mouth and applied a shadow of a kiss upon her knuckles, his lips barely cascading across her skin. Oswald felt her shiver and slowly he raised his eyes to look at her face, his gaze lingering upon her mouth, which was slightly parted, then wandering from her flushed cheeks to the glasses that hid her eyes.

"Perhaps you should come home with me now." He knew as soon as he had said it, he was an idiot. She jerked her hands away and stood, Oswald scrambling to get to his feet.

"I should have known better," she said. Oswald took note of her down-turned mouth and the tiny frown between her brows that he adored so much. He heard the disappointment in her voice.

"It's not like that!" he cried. "Please! Cassandra!" She turned from him. "Please! I am begging you! I only . . ."

She turned to face him again with a flourish. "You only what? Think I am your wife?" He saw her face change several times as she spoke the words.

"It-it's not safe for you . . ." He was willing to try anything at this point.

"Now you're threatening me?" She advanced on him. He stood his ground. They were nearly nose to nose. He tried to breath lightly so that she may think he was further away, but he was not about to move.

She could feel how close they were—those senses where heightened—and it made her dizzy. Some assassin she was. Here was a man she was supposed to hate, be afraid of, and kill and all she wanted to do was melt against him. Whatever rational fibers she had in her brain stuck out their tongues and mooned her as they slithered away. Although she saw nothing in front of her, she knew in front of her stood everything, and she closed her eyes. It did not help her to think. Stupid intuition.

"No," he whispered.

What? Cassandra thought. No to what?

She stuttered. "I-I forgot . . ."

"No, I am not threatening you," he reminded her. He held up his hands as if to touch her hair or the side of her face, instead balling his hands into sad fists and hanging them down at his sides again. He had no idea that Cassandra had felt his movement and that, for her, it was if the air around her had cried out for him to caress it again.

"At least allow me to drive you home," he said. She could only nod and, relieved, he reached for his umbrella, resisting the powerful urge to reach for her as well. Together they walked to the limo in silence, Oswald gesturing to Gabe to not say anything, all the while trying to figure out how to get her HOME for good.

I mean, what was I thinking? She claims to not know me—of course, she would not come home with me—a strange man. I am so stupid! He looked at the woman walking beside him. There has to be a way. I cannot let her out of my sight. Not even for a minute.

Then he had a thought. He whipped out his phone and sent a text. When he got the response, he felt a little bit guilty and started chewing on his lower lip.

This will work, he reassured himself, nodding absentmindedly. Oswald glanced again at Cassandra as she slid into the backseat, then re-read the text he had just sent before replacing the phone in his breast pocket.

He leaned his head against the back of the seat at an angle so he could stare at Cassandra, all the while calculating what he had just done. It was for her own good.

It was not his proudest moment.