[Sweetbread: noun. The thymus gland, or pancreas, of an animal. Used as food.]

Within the kitchen of Van Dahl manor, Oswald Cobblepot was hard at work, and had been since the break of dawn, waking up to a chorus of songbirds chirruping away outside, gently singing a cheerful tune to accompany the brutal, remorseless smothering of his step-siblings in their sleep. Their sweet notes even carried through the house as he dragged the limp forms of his tormentors downstairs and hacked them up with a handsaw from the garden shed so that he could use them to craft his magnum opus; retribution for the death of his father in a manner that not even he had dared to attempt before. It took a certain mind to feed a mother their own children as punishment, and he was in the right state for it, like a switch had been flicked in his brain ever since he'd found the bottle of poisoned sherry tucked away in its drawer, unfettered and truly free of anything to hold his darkest thoughts back. Sauteéing and roasting and boiling all manner of things with a dark over-excitedness surging through his core and a slightly weathered white apron tied around his waist, it wasn't the first time he'd made one of his family's recipes, usually passed down through word of mouth and committed to memory, but it was the first time he'd adapted one to such a unique ingredient as this. He felt truly fortunate that his mother had taught him everything he needed to know about putting together a homemade meal, his childhood days spent helping her in the kitchen where he had learned to measure with feeling and not just numbers, and this was no different, as he truly put his heart into it. And, perhaps, a little bit of someone else's.

Regarding the grand centrepieces of the evening themselves, Oswald, after much deliberation on the matter, had only used the cuts that he deemed to be suitable because his darling stepmother deserved the best for her last meal, and because it would have been far too difficult to shove their whole bodies in the oven at a time. He'd carved up and tied their flayed torsos with strings of twine, pulling the knots tight with a gritting of his teeth until the fibres cut into them. It had been the only bit of both of them that had enough meat on it to be worth anything, and even then it nagged at him that there may not have been enough on their bones to look the part, but after tidying them up he found that there was more than enough for what he had planned as he put both trays into the oven, along with a sprinkling of extra herbs and quartered red onion. The unneeded parts of the siblings' bodies had been sawed off into pieces, arms and legs divided into smaller chunks that he tossed into the kitchen's fireplace to dispose of them and mere minutes later, the aroma of their slowly cooking remains had begun to fill the room, more pleasant to his senses than he liked to admit.

'Oswald? Oswald!' An all-too familiar tapping of high heels echoed down the corridor as Grace's shrill voice called for him, poking her head into the kitchen with a disdainful look on her face like she was disgusted to even be in his presence. Usually she would send one of the siblings to talk down to him, but they were preoccupied elsewhere and even he could see that she was frustrated at their absence, 'Have you seen the children? I can't find them anywhere.'

'No, I haven't seen them all day, ma'am.' He replied in his nice, pleasant, servile voice that he had developed while under the conditioning and torture-disguised-as-therapy forced upon him at Arkham, trying not to lapse into his regular way of speaking too early, 'Have you checked their rooms?' He helpfully suggested with a passing smile which was met with a disproportionately dismissive scowl. She didn't like his attitude.

'Yes! Of course I have! And they aren't there.' She berated him, 'When you have a minute, go and look for them, will you? I don't want them to be late for dinner like last time.'

'Perhaps they simply went out? I'm certain they'll be back in time. I hope so, I'm working very hard on…it.' Grace walked away while he was speaking, and as soon as her back was turned, Oswald's aim-to-please smile of subservience dropped, wrinkles of stress furrowing and the shadows under his eyes deepening.

'Bitch.' He snarled under his breath once she was out of earshot, focus shifting to two objects that he had settled on the worktop, conveniently blocked from Grace by the door. Staring straight at him were the ghastly pale, glassy-eyed severed heads of Charles and Sasha, which he kept on a pair of cake stands so that he could shoot them glares of animosity every once in a while, and so he could poke their eyes out if he became frustrated, preferably with a rusted spoon if he got his hands on one.

'She should have listened to you when you had your doubts, a pity she didn't. You might still be alive.' He hissed at them and spun around to attend to the rest of his kitchen, thoroughly in his element while he crossed the room to check the numerous, simmering pots, trying their contents to see if they tasted right, adding pinches of salt and dashes of seasoning as he went until it was as he desired. After several hours and a sink full of empty pans and half of the house's silverware, Oswald lifted the steam-bellowing, delectable joints of human flesh out of the oven, the skin crisped and golden, sprinkled with fresh green garden herbs and surrounded by caramelised vegetables. With an aroma like that, it was difficult to believe that only hours ago they were living people. Although, as far as he was concerned, Charles and Sasha were hardly fit to be called people.

'I wonder…' Oswald spoke, grabbing one of the clean carving knives from its block and taking a thin slice from the side of both joints, their golden skin crackling under the pressure of his blade. The first sibling, Charles, had turned out a bit tougher than he expected. The meat was still perfectly edible but on the chewier side, taking him longer than expected to work his way through the sample. Even so, it had turned out better than he imagined it would, the herbs did an incredible job of masking the sheer blandness of his otherwise ordinary flavour and texture. Sasha, on the other hand, had come out spectacularly, rich and ever so soft, the meat almost melting in his mouth. A flash of shock spread across his face which quickly turned to the realisation that he wanted more, his hand lowering the knife so that it rested atop the crisp skin and layer of fat that it covered, juices spilling from the succulent flesh as he pressed down for another cut. But his grip hesitated, his hand stayed where it was before he pulled the knife back and placed it onto the tray. It would have to wait, there would be nothing left for Grace otherwise.

He slipped out of the kitchen, not that there was anyone around to notice, and returned to the tiny, inadequate bedroom of the servants quarters to change into the dark tartan tailcoat and trousers that Elijah had made for him. While he straightened out his suit, Oswald swore he could see his late father in the mirror with him, the ghost tightening his own tie like he was getting ready with him and giving his son a nod of approval, proudly standing over the shorter man's shoulder as if they were having their portrait painted. It brought a tear to the corner of his eye that had been fighting against the joyous mania of his one-track-minded plan since he began.

'I promise you, I'll make things right. I won't let her get away with this.' Oswald spoke to the image of his father, shot through with recovering sorrow that had never left him despite the drastic shift in his demeanour, shaking his head to clear it away. He slicked up his hair to its normal style, raven hairs not a fraction out of place, and with a new determination, took the plates to the table where Grace awaited him.

Within the open plan dining room, his stepmother had placed herself at the head of the table, the fireplace flaring to life as Oswald, putting on an act of being his conditioned self once more, stoked the hearth with an iron poker. How easily it would have been to stab her through the heart with it and be done with her, the wound would have even cauterised itself. Simple, easy. But it wouldn't be as satisfying as this.

'How is it? Not too gamey, I hope?' He asked, pretending like still required her approval. From the expression on her face, she wasn't enjoying it as much as he hoped.

'Overcooked.' Grace stated to him plainly.

'Ah.' Oswald voiced, jumping at the first chance to switch the plates over, 'Perhaps you should try the other joint? It's much more tender.' He quickly sliced off a piece for her and put it on her plate, which she, with the same unimpressed air to her actions.

'They're the same.' She told him, even after all of his effort to make it nice for her. His feigned puppy-dog eyes faltered for a moment. How dare she—

'Still, beats my slut mother's goulash, no?' He joked with a spiteful undertone, echoing her words from the previous day. It hurt him to say, but he felt it was necessary to lull her into a false sense of security, although she didn't need it after living under the same roof as him for several days now. He politely smiled afterwards. Grace just looked him up and down, unamused and with a hint of confusion. Obviously, Oswald thought, she hadn't realised anything was amiss. To her, he was still their doormat of an errand boy who lived at her mercy, desperate to cling on to the remaining memories and connections of his family.

'Where are the children? Ring the bell again.' She instructed.

'Hm. I doubt they'll hear it.' His mouth scrunched into an awkward line, not entirely dishonest. He didn't even make an effort to summon them while she apprehensively ate more of her allegedly overcooked dinner, his shadow looming over her like a vulture.

'You look different.' Grace changed the subject, still with an unmistakable air of disinterest, like she was only mentioning it out of courtesy.

'You noticed!' He showed off the suit with a flourish, smiling appreciatively with a glimmer in his eye, pleased that she picked up on it, 'Yes, I'm doing my hair a different way, so...'

Grace mumbled something that Oswald couldn't make out, before turning to the doorway, exasperated.

'Charles! Sasha!' She called for them with the annoyance of a mother who was sick of dealing with her misbehaving children and received silence in return, 'Where are they?' She snapped at Oswald, who couldn't help but notice that she looked a bit more nervous than she did a few seconds ago. His smile flashed with wickedness, fang-like teeth bared.

She was remembering what they said to her.

'I found the sherry decanter, Grace. The one with poison in it that you used to kill my father.' His voice turned to ice, but his wide-eyed smile stayed as he dug his claws into the opportunity to make her suffer twofold all the grief that she had forced him through.

'What on earth are you talking about?' Grace put down her cutlery, the metal clattering on the table while she avoided eye contact with him. Feigning innocence. She wasn't very good at lying, it turned out, when her target wasn't a gullible mess. She could deny it all she liked, Oswald knew the truth, and it boiled his blood like the sun was in his veins. With a sudden motion, he grabbed a glass bottle from under the table and slammed its crystal-cut body down in front of her, the contents rocking like a raging sea in a thunderstorm, much like the one that had begun to tear open the sky outside, casting his face into a frightful double-tone of light.

'You should have thrown it away!' Oswald raised his voice and watched Grace flinch, still a wild smile spread across his face as he leant uncomfortably close to her, making her shrink away as much as she possibly could in her seat, 'Guess you're a little too mean to waste good poison, huh?' Lifting the bottle up, he mockingly pondered its purpose after the murder of his father. There was enough for two or three more glasses left in it, 'Who were you saving it for? Another husband, perhaps? Once you'd gotten everything in my father's will, of course. What a little black widow you are!' While he twisted the bottle cradled in his hands, she scrambled up from her chair and instinctively, faster than she could react to it, Oswald put the decanter down, pulled the knife from the joint he had been cutting, and held its sharpened edge to her throat.

'Don't go!' He grinned even wider than before, fiery malice in his eyes. Grace slowly sat back down, her eyes trained on the shining blade that he kept to hand, 'How about one last drink, hm?' Oswald snatched her glass from the place setting, tossed its contents into the blazing fireplace behind him, and poured the tainted alcohol into it, placing it down right in front of her with his fingertips. She refused to touch it.

'Why are you so scared, Grace? Oh! Did you—' He scoffed with disbelief, taunting her, 'Did you think that the children would rescue you from the monster you welcomed into your home? Is that it? They won't come!' He shouted at her, eyes wild and wide, high on adrenaline like he could feel her fear in the air

'Where are they?' Her voice faded to a panicked whisper as she repeated her words, dread setting in, breathing faster.

'You thought they tasted the same! But Sasha—' He jabbed his finger in the juices surrounding the meat and stuck it into his mouth, savouring its flavour more than he should have, 'Mm. Definitely more tender, in my opinion!' He commented, before striking out at her. Grace screamed, a sound like ambrosia to his ears while he stabbed her throat over and over again, letting out a horrible, shrieking cry of volatile anguish.

x-x-x

A respectful silence fell over Van Dahl manor, beams and floorboards creaking as if the building itself was mourning the loss of its inhabitants, rain repetitiously pattering on its windows. Under the soft glow of the fireplace and candlelight, Oswald, who mere minutes ago had been screaming in anger, had shifted several of the untouched dishes of the evening's dinner to his end of the table and was calmly eating away at what he had set before Grace as her final meal as if her still-warm body wasn't slumped in the chair across the table from him with its head tilted to one side, a deep gash across her slender, jewelry-adorned neck. He toasted to her death with a glass of aged red wine that had been gathering dust in the cellar before he dug it out earlier in the day, downing its contents in one breath before his mouth flickered into a smile, tongue grimly licking his lips clean. Patting the corners with a folded white-and-gold napkin, it began to blossom with flowers of blood that had dripped from the side of his cheek after it had splattered across his face during his repeated plunging of the carving knife into Grace's neck in a display of uninhibited, vengeful rage. In his numerous, angled reflections from the silver platters around him, it mimicked the patch of freckles that spread across the bridge of his nose back when he was young and finding his place in the ever-shifting ecosystem of Gotham's underworld. To anyone but himself, he looked thoroughly monstrous: ragged, tired, covered in blood that would take an age to get out of his tailored suit with the remnants of manic energy still glinting in his eyes, still wanting to toy with his prey even after her death.

'You know, Grace, this has been such a wonderful evening! I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I have.' Oswald spoke in conversation, as his knife and fork tapped and scraped on his plate with a discordant scratching of metal on porcelain, his teeth chewing on the meat on one side of his mouth. His mother had instilled in him the belief that no good food should be wasted from a young age, she would be disappointed if he left it all for the flies and rats. So, contently, he sliced another thoroughly cooked piece of one of his step-siblings, Sasha, if the softness was any indication, into a more manageable size, pushing the bite-sized piece of meat onto his fork along with a small floret of fresh broccoli and a dash of salted butter as if it was an ordinary meal. While nothing could ever come close to the perfection of his mother's cooking, this was damn near close.

'Perhaps I should see what you taste like next, huh?' Oswald posed to her in a similarly sarcastic tone to when he suggested that she was simply too horrible of a person to dispose of the rest of the "good" poison — and it was good poison, almost like acid — pointing the prongs of the fork at her with a flourish in his wrist to entertain nobody but himself, 'But I fear that you might be too bitter.' He chuckled, staring down her corpse as it slumped further in its seat, burgundy liquid oozing from its wound like a thickened slurry of wine was pouring freely from her neck. The sight didn't phase him one bit, he had experienced far worse than that in his career. He had caused far worse.

While he continued to eat and drink, and sit with his thoughts, part of him was wondering how Edward was getting on with his new hobby of killing people after being very excited about telling Oswald all about the three murders he'd committed. Still an amateur, but he had spirit. Too much spirit, Oswald thought at times while lodging with him. Curiously, after the events of Edward taking him in from the woods and deciding to nurse him back to health with several needles-worth of sedatives, and the incident involving Oswald holding a switchblade to him as a threat, they had gotten on quite well. Enough to consider each other friends — sharing a few meals together and even sitting around the piano and singing songs for a while. No doubt if he was here, Oswald would be hearing facts and complementary riddles about the human body. Edward probably knew plenty of unsavoury details, it was his job to know after all, being part of the forensics team down at the GCPD which Oswald was more aware of than he should have been allowed, what with those days stuck in a bed having to listen to him ramble on about his work. Although he did enjoy the anecdote that Edward had recalled one day about stuffing an obscene amount of body parts into a locker just to spite the resident Medical Examiner. The man had a twisted sense of humour, he gave him that. About now, Oswald would most likely be hearing, he thought, something obscure such as Edward naming all of the bones in the human body in alphabetical order just to prove that he could, or something fun like telling Oswald the litany of illnesses and diseases he was at risk of catching from his current eating arrangement. He didn't care, it was delicious, and he had been struck with an insatiable hunger.

Neglecting to keep track of time with only the dripping of candle wax to tell him that a significant amount had passed since the bloody evening had begun, the grounds outside were now bathed in a hazy darkness. Once tall pillars of purest white were now melting into pools on the polished table among silvered trays, mingling with wayward splashes of crimson while their flames burned out as he finally finished his meal for the evening. Oswald leant back in his chair, comfortably full, satisfied in both mind and body. His father's death had been suitably avenged, and he could get used to nourishing himself with the flesh of those that spurned and opposed him if it was as tantalising as this. Although, while he could have rather an appetite if the mood took him — especially after he had used all of his energy yelling at his underlings for messing up simple orders time and time again — not even he could finish all that was laid out in one sitting. And he mused to himself that he really should get some sleep. It had been a long day. He got up from his seat, stretching and yawning with the back of his hand against his mouth, ready to retire to the master bedroom which he was delighted to reclaim from Grace. Speaking of her, her body appeared to agree with his judgement, face down on the table like she had fallen asleep on a pillow of her own congealing blood. Oswald walked over and peeled the side of her face up from the pool of burgundy, strands of it sticking fast to her cheek as he held her jaw within his hand.

'I hope you don't mind if I excuse myself from the table, stepmother, it's getting rather late. Don't worry, I'll be back in the morning. Hopefully the rot settles in before I have to see your face again.' He said to her, letting her head fall back down with enough force to hear her cheekbone crack as it slammed against the polished oak. With the same elegance that his father carried with him, Oswald took his leave, walking over the threshold to pull closed the doors joining the dining room to the rest of the house. And with one final glance back, he smiled at her.

'Goodnight, Grace.'