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“She said she wanted a roast,” Oswald says conversationally, with a casual sip of his wine.
Ed smirks at him from across the table. “She certainly ate her words.”
“Oh, Ed,” Oswald says, amused and dismayed in equal parts. “Ed, that was terrible.”
Ed’s smirk widens, and he takes a sip of his sparkling cider. His eyes are dark in the low lighting, dark and mysterious, and Oswald finds his lips curled into an open-mouthed grin. “Ed, dearest,” Oswald says, tone lilting with his inebriation. “I have told you that story before, haven’t I?”
“Yes,” Ed says crisply. “But this time it was much more evocative. Excellent word choice.”
“Thank you,” Oswald says. He sobers a little, glancing down at his cleared plate. “I try to remember what brought me joy during that time. I would be lying if I said the memories didn’t hurt. I do miss my father, despite not having known him for very long.”
Ed brings his hand to rest atop Oswald’s, on the surface of the dining table. His hand is soft, and warm, and Oswald heaves a little fond sigh as he twists his hand to grasp Edward’s. “Darling?” he asks after a moment, and Edward blinks before turning those dark, curious eyes on his face. “Why don’t you… why don’t you talk about your parents?” Oswald asks finally.
He has his guesses, of course; he’s seen the marks on Ed’s back, but he’s never quite managed the courage to question him. Edward is strangely distant at times, and strangely secretive at others; Oswald has generally erred on the side of caution.
Ed shakes his head. “I - my parents weren’t like yours, Oswald. I don’t have any… good stories.”
Oswald tightens his grip on Ed’s hand. “You can still… share that, if you want. You don’t need to, to entertain me. You can just tell me if you’d -- if you’d like to talk about it,” Oswald finishes, a little self-consciously.
Ed shakes his head again, nervously. “No, I -- I really don’t want to.”
“Okay,” Oswald says, bringing his other hand over to pat Edward’s hand, gently. “You don’t have to, Ed. Only if you want to.”
Edward smiles at him, a little brittlely, and Oswald curses himself for disrupting the easy mood of the evening. Ed looks tense, now, even scared, and it seems like the calm of the night has irrevocably been shattered.
~
Oswald puts the question out of his mind; Ed’s back is marred and he occasionally seems to become so distant as to be unaware of the world around him. Oswald accepts these as “Edward Nygma”; it doesn’t change the way he feels about him. It does trouble him that Ed doesn’t feel comfortable sharing these with him, but he knows there’s nothing he can do to force his hand. He can only be ready to hear when -- if -- Ed decides to share.
And when Ed awakens Oswald late one night with an uncontrolled scream, grasping at Oswald’s shoulders, Oswald figures that time may have arrived.
Ed clings to Oswald and Oswald clings back, his arms wrapped around Ed’s quivering torso. Ed’s face is tucked into the crook of Oswald’s shoulder, his panting breaths brushing Oswald’s bare neck and shoulder, making the hairs stand on end.
“You’re all right, you’re all right,” Oswald shushes, stroking his hand over Ed’s bare back. “You’re here with me, you’re safe.”
“Oswald,” Ed gasps fervently, digging his fingers into Oswald’s sides. “Make him stop.”
“Who?” Oswald asks without thinking, and Ed’s arms tighten around him, trembling with full-body spasms. “Never mind,” Oswald says hastily. “Never mind, darling.”
It takes long minutes for Ed’s breathing to slow, for his chest to stop shuddering. Oswald doesn’t loosen his grip, holding Ed flush against him, feeling the cooling sweat on his skin. The blankets are twisted around them, tangled and kicked halfway off of Ed entirely -- he was probably tossing and turning for some time before Oswald woke up. Oswald sighs gently, sadly, and leans his head down to rest atop Ed’s.
Finally, Ed takes a long, slow breath and stills. Oswald strokes his hand over Ed’s back.
“Sorry,” Ed mutters, voice scratchy.
“Don’t be,” Oswald murmurs. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Ed stirs in his arms, then shifts his weight and raises himself onto his elbows so he’s hovering above Oswald, their legs still intertwined. Ed peers down at Oswald, his eyes still glassy from his tears.
“I don’t…” Ed says, tilting his head to the side to break their gaze. “I don’t want to… trouble you.”
Oswald stares at Ed for a moment, then lifts his hand to Ed’s, resting beside him on the mattress. “My love,” he begins, heart aching, as Ed looks up at him reluctantly, “It hurts me to see you in so much pain and be unable to help.”
Ed’s lashes flicker, and he directs his gaze downward. Oswald twists his lip, feeling that familiar frustration at his inability to reach Ed correctly. He sighs a little, brushing his fingers over Ed’s knuckles on his captured hand. “Ed,” he says, and pauses. Ed has always been there for him in his distress. He only wants to do the same.
“Ed,” he begins again, “you have always been my rock. Let me be yours.”
And with that Ed looks back up, eyes shadowed and mysterious in the dark of their bedroom. Oswald sees a glint of white light reflecting off of Ed’s eyes -- the full moon outside. Ed lets out a long, slow breath, almost a whine.
“Ask me,” Ed says finally, and he drops himself onto Oswald’s chest, knocking Oswald against the mattress.
Oswald suppresses his yelp and brings his hand up to tangle in Ed’s hair, where his face is resting on Oswald’s chest just below his chin. He cards his hand through the strands, softly, and says: “Do you want to start anywhere in particular?”
Ed shakes his head awkwardly against Oswald. “No,” he says, voice muffled. “Just ask me. If I don’t want to I won’t answer.”
“Okay,” Oswald says. He directs his gaze up to the shadowed ceiling and inhales, feeling Ed’s head rise and fall with his breath. “What was your birth name?”
Ed slides his arm across Oswald’s waist, clinging to him. “Nashton. How did you know?”
Oswald smiles up at the ceiling. “I know you, Ed. E. Nygma? Enigma?”
“I wanted people to notice,” Ed says, a little petulant, a little mulish. Oswald recognizes his frustrated voice; the one he gets when people don’t pay him enough attention or credit.
“Did you have any siblings?” Oswald asks.
“No,” Ed says. “I don’t think they even wanted me.”
Oswald strokes his hand over Ed’s forehead, pushing the curling hair back and away from his face. “I am so sorry, darling,” Oswald says softly. “I, for one, am very grateful you are here.”
“I love you,” Ed says quietly.
“I love you, too,” Oswald says immediately.
Ed shifts against him. “My father hated me. Us. My mother and me,” Ed says rapidly. “He hit us.”
Oswald swallows. It’s nothing he didn’t expect, but to hear it confirmed… there’s a bubble of rage in his chest, but he locks it fiercely away lest he upset Ed. Oswald drops his hand to Ed’s shoulder, stroking him. “You didn’t deserve that, darling. I’m so sorry that happened to you.”
He feels Ed’s fingers dig into his side where he’s still clinging to Oswald. “You don’t know that,” he mutters mutinously.
“What?” Oswald asks, lifting his head off the pillow to try to catch Ed’s eye.
Ed stays silent, head angled away from Oswald’s gaze.
“Are you saying you did deserve it?” Oswald asks, a little dumbfounded. “Ed, darling, you were a child.”
Ed stays stubbornly silent for a long few moments, his body preternaturally still against Oswald’s. Oswald waits anxiously, his heart caught in his throat. Finally, Ed responds. “You don’t know,” Ed repeats, voice barely audible. “I should have… I should have…”
Oswald can feel his heart breaking. “Angel,” Oswald says. He needs Ed to be closer, suddenly, and wraps both his arms around Ed, rolling him to the side and sliding down the bed until their faces are level, only centimeters apart. “Ed,” Oswald says, and Ed blinks his tear-filled eyes rapidly before finally meeting Oswald’s gaze. Oswald swallows. “There is a sacred contract between parent and child. Your father broke that contract. Not you.”
“I tried to make him stop,” Ed says desperately. “I wasn’t strong enough.”
Oswald lifts his hand to Ed’s cheek. “You are not weak,” he says fiercely. “What you went through, no one should have to go through. And you survived, Ed. Ed, you are brilliant and you are so, so incredible.”
Ed’s shoulders shake, and he brings a hand up to cover his face.
“Ed,” Oswald says again, but Ed only shakes his head and lets out a tremulous sigh before pulling his hand away.
“I… thank you,” Ed says. “Oswald. But I can’t.”
“Okay,” Oswald says softly. “Okay, darling.”
Ed nods, faintly. His hand twitches restlessly against Oswald’s waist. The room is beginning to brighten, faintly; dawn is appearing on the horizon outside. Ed must be so tired.
“Do you mind… do you mind if I look into your past? Ed?” Oswald asks.
“How so?” Ed asks roughly.
“Since I have your name. Your old records. I don’t want to… upset you by dragging you through all these memories, but I want to know more. How I can help.”
Ed’s lip twitches. He tightens his grip around Oswald’s waist. “Fine. But…”
“Yes?”
Ed looks at Oswald, eyes traveling over his face. He leans in suddenly, pressing his lips to Oswald’s in a sweet, chaste kiss. He pulls away before Oswald has a chance to reciprocate, staring deeply into Oswald’s eyes.
“Destroy anything you find,” Ed says finally, voice dark and eerily calm. “Edward Nashton is dead. If you find anything, get rid of it afterward.”
“If you wish,” Oswald says, stroking his hand over Ed’s cheek. “Very well, darling. Anything I find, I’ll destroy.”
Ed closes his eyes. “Thank you.”
“Try to sleep, darling,” Oswald murmurs. “If you want to take the morning off, that’s fine.”
“No,” Ed mutters. He shifts closer to Oswald until his chin is resting atop Oswald’s head, Oswald’s face pressed into his shoulder. “You have a brunch meeting today with one of the justices and I have all the case notes memorized.”
“One botched meeting isn’t the end of the world. We could reschedule.”
Ed sighs gustily. “I’d prefer to stay busy, Oswald. But thank you.”
“Okay,” Oswald agrees. “Goodnight, then.”
“Good morning,” Ed corrects in a murmur, then half a moment later Oswald feels him go slack with sleep. Oswald smiles a little sadly and strokes his hand over Ed’s back, relishing the feel of his thrumming heartbeat.
~
Gabe bustles into his study with a comically dwarfed shoebox under his arm. He shifts uneasily on his feet as Oswald turns toward him, eyes first narrowed, and then wide with anticipation. He waves Gabe over, hastily, and Gabe lumbers toward him to hand over the box.
“You didn’t look inside, did you?” Oswald says sharply. The shoebox is clutched in his hands, lid still secured by tape yellow with age, but he needs to be sure.
“No, boss,” says Gabe. “Brought it straight here.”
“Good,” Oswald says. His fingers tighten on the box. “That’s all.”
Gabe nods before leaving. Finally, with trembling hands, Oswald peels the edge of the tape and plucks the lid off of the shoebox, suspense curling in his gut.
There’s hardly anything inside. A few dollar coins, a nicely smooth river stone, a patch sewn in the shape of a heart, and --
A photograph, face down on the bottom of the box.
Oswald slips his fingernail beneath the photo and flips it, holding it in careful, delicate hands. He brings it up to his face, the room’s yellow light ill-suited to his examination. He narrows his eyes.
It’s grainy, sepia-toned and ill-kept, but Oswald’s heart is in his throat as he views the captured moment in time.
It’s Christmas -- there’s the edge of a tree in the corner of the frame. Crouched in the center is a young boy, limbs too-long, oversized glasses slipping down the slope of his nose. He’s in pajamas, and Oswald swallows uneasily at the sight of the shirt slipping off his narrow shoulders -- the joint is too bony for comfort.
There’s a man in the background. He’s on the couch, slumped over as if with exhaustion. Oswald recognizes the label of the bottle of brandy clutched in his hand -- it’s a cheap brand, the kind he’d drunk when working for Fish. The man is wearing glasses, too; his features are similar to Ed’s, but his face and build is more broad.
No doubt his mother was behind the camera. Oswald drags his finger along the side of the photograph, feeling the sharp edge of the paper dig into his finger.
As far as he can tell, there’s nothing under the tree; there’s an opened box in front of the boy, and clutched in his skinny fingers is a Rubik’s cube. The grin on his face easily outlines his delight -- but even that looks harried, somehow; apprehensive. Oswald feels a deep, penetrating sorrow in his heart.
Though he had spent many a night awake, agonizing hunger clawing at his stomach, or waiting, fearfully, for his mother to come home safe, or hoping for a friend to spring fully-formed from the mire of his life -- Oswald has always known he was loved. He has always had his mother’s care close to his heart.
Perhaps Ed’s mother, Oswald thinks, flicking his thumb over the edge of the photograph. Perhaps?
~
“What’s that?”
Oswald suppresses a smile, turning the item over in his hand idly. “A Rubik’s cube.” He’s seated on the loveseat in the sitting room, a blanket draped over his legs. On the table next to him rests a cup of tea, steam idly rising from the mug and dissipating into the air.
He hears Ed’s soft tread on the wood flooring as he approaches. “Why do you have it?”
“I saw it today while out,” Oswald says, turning one of the lines of squares to a new position, “I never had one, growing up.” He glances up; Ed is stood less than a foot away, staring down at him with luminous eyes behind his glasses lenses.
Ed takes another half step closer. His calf brushes against Oswald’s knee, his eyes curious. “I don’t know that that’s the kind of puzzle you’d enjoy,” he tells Oswald. “It’s mostly math.”
“Well no wonder I couldn’t figure it out myself,” Oswald says. He holds the Rubik’s cube up to Ed. “I think I’ve just made it worse.”
Ed quirks a smile at him, plucking the puzzle out of his hands carefully. “That’s the point. You make it worse, as muddled as you can, and then you fix it.” Oswald watches as Ed’s hands move quickly, flicking the lines of cubes in a few rapid moves at a time.
“You’re doing a pattern,” Oswald says, gesturing at his deft hands. “You’re repeating.”
“It’s called an algorithm,” Ed says. “It’s calculus. There are guides online, if you’re interested.”
“Or…” Oswald pats the loveseat beside him. “You could tell me how you solved it. I’m sure you didn’t look up the solution?”
“No, I solved it on my own,” Ed says, and then his fingers still. He looks up at Oswald, curiously. “Do you really want to know? You don’t… like puzzles.”
Oswald smiles. “I like you, though.”
Ed smiles, a little shyly; he still seems surprised by praise or compliments, no matter how often Oswald gives them. That’s fine by Oswald; he loves seeing the look of elation dawn over Ed’s face, the sudden affection and warmth.
“Okay,” Ed says softly, sinking down onto the loveseat beside Oswald. He holds the cube out for Oswald to take, who does so with gentle hands. “You’re right, it is a pattern…”
~
The coroner’s report is short, uninteresting. Cause of death: blunt trauma to head. Death by misadventure. The body was found at the bottom of the stairs. No other details from the scene.
Oswald scowls.
Patricia Nashton was murdered.
He shuts the file with an aggravated sigh. So much for that. Although the framework the incident provides is enough for him to piece together a few more details.
And he has to take in a slow, shuddering breath, suppressing the instinctive rage burning in his gut. Drunk, abusive father; his mother murdered by him when Ed was still under eight years old. What must that have done to him..? Oswald had only known his father for a few scant weeks, and his death by Oswald’s stepmother had been devastating.
“Oh, Ed…” Oswald murmurs. He drags his metal trash bin out from under his desk, dropping the file inside in its entirety. He pulls open his top drawer and digs out a match, lighting it and dropping it into the bin with the file.
He watches the file catch fire, noxious smoke rising from the bin, paper edges curling up and in. As he watches the file turn black and begin to crumble, he realizes his heart is thundering in his chest, filled with sudden longing. He rises to his feet abruptly, grabbing his cane from where it leans against his desk.
He finds Ed almost instantly. He is sitting at the dining room table, a few boxes resting on the surface nearby him, a map strewn across the table before him, and a pen clutched absentmindedly in his grip. As Oswald watches him from the doorway, he marks a determined circle on the map before leaning back again, contemplatively.
“Ed,” Oswald says then, and Ed looks up at him jerkily, as if startled.
“Oswald!” he says. He blinks. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes,” Oswald says, and he finds himself smiling, his heart aching in his chest. “I just wanted to come see you.”
Ed’s face breaks into a smile. “Ah.” He holds out his arms, the pen resting nonchalantly between his fingers. “Here I am.”
“Yes,” Oswald says, smile taking over his face. “Here you are.”
Ed allows his arms to fall back down to his sides. “Is there anything you needed?”
Oswald takes a step forward. “Can I join you?”
“Of course!” Ed says. He rises to his feet quickly and pulls out the chair beside his. “Sit!”
“Thank you,” Oswald says, sinking into the seat. “Now what were you up to?”
Ed grins at him and indicates the boxes. “Someone needs a message sent.”
“Ah,” Oswald says. “And what are our options?”
“Let me show you.”
~
The fire is crackling in the hearth and the room is filled with a sleepy kind of contentment. Oswald’s head is resting on Ed’s shoulder as he leans into his side. His legs are stretched out along the rest of the loveseat, resting his bad leg. Ed’s arm is wrapped around Oswald’s torso and holds him there, close.
“Have you found anything?” he asks suddenly, quietly, and Oswald knows instantly what he’s referring to.
“Some,” Oswald says. “I… learned what happened to your mother.”
“Did you destroy the file?” Ed asks softly, and Oswald nods.
“I did,” Oswald says. “The original.”
“Good,” Ed says.
“Was there ever an investigation?” Oswald asks, but he already knows the answer.
“No. My father had friends on the police force,” Ed says flatly. “There was no real possibility they would have investigated him.”
“And yet you went into police work,” Oswald says. He bites his lip. “I didn’t mean that accusatorily. I just want to understand.”
Ed inhales deeply, and Oswald rises and falls a little with his breath. “I knew what had happened,” Ed says. “I knew what he did.”
“You wanted to prevent that from happening to anyone else?” Oswald guesses.
Ed shrugs, and when he speaks his voice is nonchalant. “Some, I suppose. But it was never really about that. It was… it was about the knowing.”
Oswald tilts his head up, straining to glimpse Ed’s expression.
“I knew, but I knew I couldn’t tell anyone, because no one would believe me. I knew. I could see it all how it happened, in my mind’s eye. Even if she fell, she couldn’t have hit her head at that angle. But no one would believe me.” Ed’s voice is getting darker and his gaze is growing colder. Oswald reaches down and strokes a hand over Ed’s forearm to settle him, and Ed looks down at him, his expression clearing somewhat. “So I wanted to find the answers. To know them.”
Oswald nods. “So you studied the clues. You learned to read a crime scene.”
“Yes,” Ed says crisply. “So I could know.”
“I hope that brought you some…” Oswald says hesitantly, “--some certainty.”
Ed sighs, harshly. “I suppose. But it -- I couldn’t fix the past. I can’t. I -- I sometimes dream --” He closes his eyes, and a muscle jumps in his cheek. “In reality, I was at school when it happened. But sometimes I dream that I was there, that I saw it all unfold in slow motion. And I’m forced to watch knowing that it -- that it was my fault,” he finishes darkly.
Oswald stares up at Ed, dumbfounded. “Why wou-- no, Ed, it wasn’t your fault, you were a child--”
“She told me,” Ed says, voice almost angry, gravelly and dark. “She told me what it was like before me. It’s because of me.”
“No--!” Oswald’s heart is in his throat and he feels bewildered, horrified. “What do you mean, she told you?”
Ed shakes his head fiercely. “He was nice before they had me. He didn’t hit anyone. It was only after they had me.”
“That--”
“If they’d never had me, she would still be alive.”
“Ed!” Oswald exclaims. He turns in Ed’s arms and props himself up against the back of the loveseat, ignoring the deep-set pain in his leg. “I -- no!” he says, utterly astonished. “That is not your burden to bear!”
Ed stares at him with luminous eyes. “But it’s the truth.” His voice sounds detached, as if he can’t quite understand why Oswald is so upset. Oswald feels his lips curling up in reactive anger, but forces his expression neutral lest Ed think it’s directed at him.
“Even,” Oswald bites out, “if it was the truth -- which I doubt -- that is not on you. That is on your father, for being a cruel man, and your mother never should have blamed that on you. That was not your fault, Ed, dearest, you have to believe me.”
Ed is watching him intently, curiously, but it doesn’t seem like the words are penetrating. He lifts his hand up to Oswald’s cheek and cups his face, as if assuring himself he’s real.
Oswald takes a deep breath and regroups, trying to think of a logical tack. “Ed,” he says after a moment, “I have killed many people in my time. But do you know which murder I don't blame myself for?”
Ed watches him silently, eyes roving over his face.
“My father's,” Oswald finished, voice gravelly. “Did I ever tell you why she killed him?”
Ed shakes his head.
“He was going to include me in his will. She would have lost most of his fortune to me. So she killed him before he could do that. But that wasn't my fault,” Oswald says. “That was her decision. It wasn't my doing.”
Ed nods slowly, expression distant and thoughtful. Oswald hopes he’s taking the analogy to heart. Ed strokes his fingers across Oswald’s cheekbone, and Oswald’s eyes flutter shut briefly at the touch.
“You finished it,” Ed says finally. “You had your ending.”
Oswald eyes him carefully. Ed looks almost irritated, brows furrowed and lips downturned. “Are you saying you wish you had the same?”
“I want it. It’s not-- not fair,” Ed says, and then looks down guiltily. “I don’t begrudge you, Oswald, I --”
“I know,” Oswald shushes him. “I understand.”
Ed’s hand slips around to the back of Oswald’s scalp and pulls his face closer, until he can press a warm kiss to Oswald’s lips. “I suppose I want closure,” Ed says softly. “I want to be able to look back and say for certain that I’ve evolved.”
“Hmm,” Oswald hums, bringing his hand to Ed’s cheek. Ed stares into his eyes from inches away, warm and reassuring contact. “If it helps, you’ve grown exponentially in just the time I’ve known you,” Oswald says softly. “You’re more at ease with yourself, more aware of your own brilliance.”
Ed blinks rapidly, lashes fluttering. “Oswald,” he says softly, “will you make love to me?”
“Yes, angel,” Oswald says, and he shifts his weight to rise from the loveseat.
Ed’s arm locks around him, halting his movement. He blinks at Ed, confused. “Ed?”
“No,” Ed says, “here.”
Oswald stares, looking over Ed’s face, the familiar love and devotion shining through his entreating expression. “Yes,” Oswald says, and Ed draws him closer until their lips meet in a haze of lust and affection, blood pulsing and hearts thrumming. Ed shifts under his hands, clinging to Oswald with an earnestness that makes Oswald feel like his heart is singing.
~
Oswald stands waiting at the warehouse entrance, heart pounding in his chest. Impatiently, he checks his mobile for the time once again, when he’s interrupted by the sound of tires on asphalt.
When it turns into the alleyway he sees it’s the limo; as it halts before him, the back door opens and Ed steps out, looking impatient and concerned. “Oswald?” he asks. “I left as soon as I saw your note. Is everything all right?”
“Yes,” Oswald says. “Everything is going very well, actually.”
Ed tilts his head to the side, smiling faintly. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” Oswald says again. He’s nearly giddy with anticipation. “Follow me.”
Oswald leads Ed into the warehouse, past the stacks of wooden crates and discarded machinery, back into the dark corner of the towering room, where a single occupied chair sits, spotlit by the high windows along the far wall.
“Ta dah!” Oswald announces, with perhaps too much levity, as he gestures toward the chair.
When he turns back to face Ed, the taller man’s face is a picture of astonishment, his hand resting on his chest, eyes fixed on the slumped-over figure. “Where -- where did you --”
“He was still living at your old address,” Oswald informs him. “Once I turned my attention toward it, it wasn’t difficult to track him down.”
Ed blinks astonished eyes, turning slowly to face Oswald. “Why?”
Oswald’s expression drops a little into a frown, uncertainty niggling at him. “Well, you said you envied me my closure. I thought you’d--”
“I--” Ed says uncertainly, but they’re both interrupted by a scratchy voice.
“What the-?”
Ed stiffens abruptly, pupils shrinking down to pinpricks, his eyes focused on Oswald. “Was he drugged?” he asks quietly, urgently, and Oswald shakes his head.
“Knocked out,” Oswald says. “Only drugs in his system are, by educated guess, alcohol and nicotine.”
Ed blinks at Oswald a few times rapidly. “Tools? Disposal?”
“There’s a table--” Oswald indicates to their left. “Disposal is taken care of.”
“Right,” Ed says faintly, head bobbing up and down like a cuckoo bird. “Right.”
“Ed?” Oswald asks. “I apologize -- I feel I should have warned you.”
“Eddie?” the gruff voice interrupts, and Ed’s lip curls back from his teeth.
Ed turns his head toward the man, slowly, inexorably. He takes a few dreamlike steps toward the chair, and Oswald follows carefully, angling his cane to make the clacks against the cement less obtrusive. As Ed enters into the halo of the light the man’s head bobs up, his bleary eyes tracking over Ed’s face.
“You look like her,” the man says. Oswald can’t read the emotion in his voice - regret, curiosity, hatred? “You look just like her.”
Ed stares down at him, expression somewhat detached and curious, like he’s observing an animal at the zoo. “Does he have a job? Anyone to miss him?”
“Currently on unemployment. No nosy neighbors,” Oswald supplies.
“Y-- what do you mean by that?” he slurs. Without projecting the movement, without his expression flickering, Ed raises a hand and slaps him across the face.
The man coughs and his breath stutters. “What-?” he demands, and Ed hits him again, a short, sharp movement. “Stop--”
“Are you going to tell me to stop!” Ed snarls. His eyes are wide, pupils tiny, hands outstretched and tensed into claws. “Are you!”
“Wha--” The man’s expression is transforming, his confusion upon waking beginning to dissipate. As Oswald watches, the realization of his circumstances - the dark, empty warehouse, the two men before him, the fact that he’s tied to a chair - dawns over his face in rapid succession, as he finally realizes what is about to happen.
“No -- you --” he says, his eyes widening and his mouth dropping open. “You can’t -- Eddie, I’m your old man--”
Ed grabs his collar, cutting off his speech abruptly, and leans in, teeth bared. “I can’t what?”
“Y-y--” he stutters, and Ed releases his collar, taking a few steps away from him and back toward Oswald. He’s not meeting Oswald’s eyes, focused instead somewhere around his collarbone.
“Oswald,” Ed says, and Oswald closes the distance between them rapidly, bringing his free hand up to Ed’s cheek. He tilts Ed’s face, just slightly, and Ed finally meets his eyes once again. “He’s pathetic,” Ed says, his eyes vague.
Oswald watches him closely, almost nervously. Perhaps he hadn’t taken enough care -- perhaps this will do more to harm Ed than to help him --
“Hitting people who couldn’t hit back,” Ed continues. “Never spared a thought that one day they would.”
“I did the best I could by you,” the man says from behind Ed, voice rough. “After your mother died, I did the damn best I could.”
Ed bares his teeth, eyes widening in fury. He shakes under Oswald’s hand, rage coursing through him with such force it seems to leave him breathless. He forces his eyes shut as he breathes, and Oswald strokes his fingers over Ed’s cheekbone soothingly.
Ed opens his eyes and meets Oswald’s gaze with renewed determination. He leans in and presses a gentle, chaste kiss to Oswald’s lips, just briefly, before pulling away and whirling on his heel to face the man once again.
“Let's play a game,” Ed says, voice nasally and false. He sounds bright, cheerful, but there’s a sharp edge to his voice that belies his facade. “I'll ask you three questions. If you answer one -- just one --” he repeats, leaning in close to the man, “correctly, I’ll let you go, completely unharmed.”
“Eddie, look,” the man says.
“Ah-ah!” Ed exclaims. “I don’t want to hear any more out of you unless it’s an answer.”
“N-no, listen--”
Ed lunges forward, grasping the man by the neck and leaning in, tilting the chair back until the two front legs come off the floor. The man kicks his feet as best he can, but he’s still secured tightly enough that all he can do is flail.
“This can be easy,” Ed says. “Or, I can pick up a scalpel from that table over there, and it can be difficult.”
“Ed--”
“Shut your mouth!” Ed drops him and the chair rocks forward, jerking the man’s head forward sharply. Ed hits him across the face again.
The man is finally quiet, staring at Ed with his mouth gaping open, a split in his lip beginning to bleed. Ed breathes in deeply, his shoulders rising and falling. “That’s better.”
Ed pats the man’s shoulder, almost considerately. “First question. Logic puzzle. Let’s see how well you do.
“A murderer is condemned to death. He has to choose between three rooms: one full of raging flames, one full of assassins with loaded guns, and one full of lions that haven’t eaten in three years. Which room is the safest for him?”
“I-” the man says. “What are you-?”
“They’re going to have a theme,” Ed says sharply. “Let’s see if you can follow along. Which role do you play in this little scenario? Go on, tell me. Who are you?”
“The murderer?” he asks, voice shaking and bewildered.
Ed leans in close, but his face is angled away from Oswald, and whatever he says is too quiet for him to hear. Oswald takes a few steps closer, as quietly as he can manage, until he’s only a few feet behind the two. He can see the man’s expression much more clearly now: the bone-deep fear and confusion.
“So which room do you choose?” Ed asks, voice soft and impatient. “Which room do you take your chances in?”
“The--the room with the assassins?” the man says.
Oswald suppresses a smirk; even he knows that one’s wrong.
“Why?” Ed pursues, his eyes fixed on the older man. “Why that one?”
“They - they can be reasoned with,” the man says, tone pleading, and Oswald shuts his eyes in exasperation.
He hears a shift of fabric and then Ed’s tense, whispered voice: “Wrong. The room with the lions. Lions that haven’t eaten in three years are dead.”
“Fuck,” the man mutters. Oswald opens his eyes just as the man seems to notice his closeness, and watches with impassivity as he says: “Look, will you help - I don’t know wh--”
Ed hits him again, sharply. He half-turns back to Oswald, a strange grin etched onto his face. “He just doesn’t learn, does he?” he asks Oswald.
“No, darling,” Oswald says. “Do you think he recognizes me?”
“Unlikely,” Ed says. “He never watched the news much.” His eyes trace Oswald’s form. “You don’t have to stay back,” he says. He holds out his arm and Oswald takes the few necessary steps until he can grasp Ed’s hand in his.
“Doing well?” Oswald adds, quieter, his eyes on Ed’s. Ed’s expression sobers for a moment, the grin losing some of its potency.
“Yes. If I--” Ed swallows. “If I start to lose focus, just take me outside for a little. As long as we play the game, I’ll be okay.”
“Okay,” Oswald says, squeezing his hand reassuringly. Ed smiles, a little more honestly.
Ed turns back to the man. “Next question. This might be a little tougher for you, but I thought you might find the scenario interesting.”
He squeezes Oswald’s hand tightly as he continues, voice rough: “A man shot his wife, soaked her in acid, and then ten minutes later, he took her out to dinner. How did he do it?”
The man’s eyes are wide and astonished and Ed’s grin is more of a grimace. “Of course I knew you killed her. I wasn’t fooled for a moment.” He leans in closer, voice barely more than a hoarse breath: “And I was smart enough to not say anything, lest you kill me too.”
“She was the one who wanted to get rid of you!” the man spits. “She was going to have an abortion, you know that? I’m the reason you’re alive! I don’t know why the hell you-”
Ed wraps his free hand around the man’s neck and squeezes until his knuckles go bone white. His teeth are bared, his bright white teeth, and he looks the utter picture of vengeance. Oswald brings Ed’s hand to his chest, pressing it to the fabric of his suit, hoping Ed can feel the beat of Oswald’s heart and take comfort in it.
“What. Is. The answer,” Ed hisses, voice choked with rage and throat working. “Do you have the answer? That’s the only thing I want to hear out of that mouth.”
“Ungrateful brat-” the man chokes out against Ed’s grip. “You wonder why I couldn’t stand you--”
“Ah-ah!” Ed shouts. “Nope! Wrong-o! The correct answer is: The man shot a picture of his wife and then developed it. Innocuous, after all!”
Ed releases his neck and he spits out a curse. Ed spins on his heels to look at Oswald, as if checking he’s still there, as if Oswald might have disappeared over the last few minutes.
“Do you love me?” Ed asks him, voice sounding almost curious. An outside party might think it was the first time Ed had asked; but Oswald sees the need for security burning in his eyes, and he pulls Ed’s hand up to his lips.
“Yes, my angel,” Oswald says, pressing a kiss to the palm of Ed’s hand. “I adore you.”
“Oswald,” Ed says insistently. “Come here.”
Oswald steps forward, closing the distance between them, until their chests are only inches apart. “Yes?”
“Tell--” Ed swallows, looking down at Oswald. “Tell him you love me.”
Oswald looks up into Ed’s eyes, his worried, vulnerable eyes. To hear so consistently that he was unwanted, and from such a young age... Ed has divulged to Oswald that he loves those moments Oswald defends him against those who insult him, despite the fact that Ed can take care of himself. Oswald supposes this is the ultimate chance to spit in the face of his father. To show that despite what they’d done to him, he grew up to be cherished, to be loved…
Squeezing Ed’s hand in his, Oswald leans around his lover’s frame to meet the eyes of his father, the cruel man who had given him his scars, his insecurities. Before he can speak, Oswald has to suppress the rage threatening to boil over in his bloodstream.
“Ed,” Oswald begins, “is the most wonderfully brilliant, talented, and kind man I have ever had the honor of meeting. He has been, at times, a powerful ally, an intuitive subordinate, and a caring friend. And most importantly of all, I love him. I am in love with him. He is the most important person in my life, and if you were too stupid to realize how incredible he is, that is your loss.”
The man stares at him. There’s a mark on his throat where Ed was gripping him, and as Oswald watches, he struggles to speak, letting out little more than a croak.
Ed leans in until his lips are next to Oswald’s ear. “Thank you,” he murmurs.
Oswald tilts his head so he can meet Ed’s eye. “Anytime, my love.”
Ed inhales deeply, the breath rustling by Oswald’s ear, before he straightens and turns back toward the man in the chair. “One last question,” he says. “If you answer correctly, you still get to live.”
The man swallows visibly, throat working against the reddening band around his neck.
“I have no wings but I fly; I have no teeth but I bite. What am I?”
The warehouse seems to ring in the silence that follows. Ed seems content to wait, and the man’s protests have been worn down to a dull and desperate fear.
“Well?” Ed asks finally. “Going to try?”
“I…” the man says. “I did… my best.” His eyes are pleading as he stares up at Ed, tears seeming to glisten in their depths.
Ed’s hand tightens on Oswald’s. “Oswald…”
“You didn’t do your best,” Oswald spits. “You failed utterly. No parent should ever take out their frustrations on their child. And to beg for his forgiveness now! You--” he breaks off as Ed wraps his arms around him, tucking his face into the crook of Oswald’s neck.
“Thank you, Oswald,” Ed says. “I can do it now.”
“Okay,” Oswald says, trying to force himself to calm. “Okay.”
He feels a shift of fabric by his side as Ed pulls away, and he looks down as Ed releases his hand. Clutched in Ed’s grip is Oswald’s pistol, plucked from his pocket during their embrace.
Ed turns back to face the man who raised him, pistol held aloft in his grip. The man’s eyes widen and he struggles in the ropes that bind him, spitting out a protest. Ed lifts the gun up to his forehead, hand steady and eyes focused.
“The answer is: a bullet,” Ed says, and he pulls the trigger.
The sharp retort of the gun echoes around the warehouse, and the man jerks and then slumps over, anticlimactically.
Ed drops the gun uncaringly, and it clatters against the cement floor.
“It’s done,” he says softly. “I did it.”
“You did,” Oswald says. “I’m so proud of you, darling.”
Ed leans over until he crashes against Oswald, practically knocking him over with the impact. “Let’s go home,” Ed says. “Take me home, Oswald.”
“Yes,” Oswald says.
“Oswald,” Ed says suddenly, gripping Oswald before he can turn to leave. He leans in and presses his lips to Oswald’s, warm and lingering. “Thank you.”
~
That night, Oswald sits on the edge of the bed in his pajamas as Ed changes. Oswald looks over at him, eyes solemn and his protective nature worrying at him.
“I don’t know that I should have sprung that on you, Ed,” Oswald tells him finally. Ed turns in the dark of their room as he shrugs on his flannel pajama top.
“I’m fine,” Ed says. He smiles thoughtfully. “I feel … good.”
“I’m glad. But… you were upset, initially.”
“Not upset, per se,” Ed corrects, striding over to Oswald. “Startled, certainly. I don’t know if I would have preferred being warned. That isn’t a situation you can necessarily prepare for.”
Oswald looks up at Ed as he steps between Oswald’s legs to bring them closer together. Oswald rests his hand on Ed’s waist automatically, his body radiating heat as usual, warming Oswald’s palms. “Tell me honestly. Is that what you wanted?”
Ed blinks. “I think so,” he says. “Rationally speaking.”
Oswald slips his hand beneath Ed’s pajama top to stroke his side. “Irrationally speaking..?”
“There’s some things I’ll never be able to have,” Ed tells him, voice hushed and gravelly. “Things I can’t make on my own. I -- I tried to do that, to -- to make a family.” Oswald’s brow furrows, confused.
Ed gives an aggrieved sigh, lifting his hand to his forehead. “I am grateful for Kristen’s sacrifice, Oswald. Her death made me realize that I was destined to be a killer, that I was a villain at heart.” Oswald’s brows draw together; he has no idea what Ed is talking about at this point. Ed waves his hand as if to dispel the train of thought. “I believed we could be happy together, that I could be part of -- of a family. I realized how mistaken I was when I killed her.”
Oswald frowns, hurt burrowing its way into his chest. “Ed. Aren’t we..?”
Ed looks down at him, expression curious.
Oswald swallows against the sudden lump in his throat. “Aren’t we a family?” he forces out finally.
Ed blinks rapidly, expression shifting to dumbfounded astonishment. Oswald feels sick to his stomach and draws his hand away from Ed’s side reflexively.
Before he can retreat, Ed snatches his hand out of the air, clinging to him with unexpected strength. “Are we?” he asks Oswald, voice husky.
“You’re the one saying we’re not,” Oswald snaps, defensive, upset, and Ed pulls Oswald’s hand to his chest.
“How... how?” Ed asks him. It looks like the moon is shining in his eyes; he’s staring at Oswald as if Oswald holds all the secrets of the universe, but Oswald is still staving off the heartbreaking sting of Ed’s casual dismissal.
“Forget it, Ed.”
“No, Oswald -- how?” Ed says insistently. “How do we do it?”
“What do you mean, Ed?” Oswald snaps. “You don’t ‘do’ it. There’s nothing to ‘do’. What matters is what’s in your heart.”
“But don’t we… need something else?” Ed says uncertainly.
“My mother and I were a family,” Oswald says sharply. “There was just the two of us, and that was all; but don’t tell me that wasn’t a family, Edward Nygma, or so help me--”
“No, I -- I didn’t mean that.”
“Good,” Oswald says. His heart is racing in his chest and he feels almost dizzy with adrenaline. “Let’s just -- let’s just go to bed.”
“Oswald, I--” Ed breaks off, looking down at his chest where he’s holding Oswald’s hand captive. “I want to. Be a family. Please.”
Ed’s eyes are wide, almost desperate, and his expression edges over into guilt. And it all comes rushing back to Oswald in a flood -- Ed’s cruel father, his withholding mother, his bereaved childhood -- and the wave of guilt almost knocks him prone. How could he expect Ed to know? How could Ed have possibly ever learned?
“Yes, I --” There’s still a lump in his throat, and he’s close to tears; but the reason has changed. “Of course we are. We are, Ed. We-- we love each other, we support each other -- we are family, Ed, darling.”
“Okay,” Ed says, looking down at him. “Then I --” he tilts his head to the side, just slightly. “I have a family?” he asks, voice uncertain.
“If you’ll have me,” Oswald says, and when he blinks a stubborn tear spills from his eye.
Ed leans down, ponderously, his eyes focused unerringly on Oswald’s. “I love you, Oswald,” he says slowly, as if reciting something. “And you love me.”
“I do, Ed,” Oswald says immediately.
“Say it,” Ed orders. “Say I’m…”
“You’re my family, Ed, angel,” Oswald tells him. “You mean more to me than anything.”
Ed lets out a relieved sigh, his eyes falling shut. “Oswald,” he breathes, as if in prayer.
Oswald twists his hand in Ed’s grip to hold him as well. “Darling.”
Slowly, Ed sinks to his knees between Oswald’s thighs, squeezing Oswald’s hand in his before releasing him finally. Oswald blinks as Ed rests his hands on Oswald’s thighs, a little familiar thrill shooting through his spine.
“Let me love you,” Ed says, sliding his hands slowly up Oswald’s thighs.
“Always,” Oswald says, as Ed presses his lips against his growing erection. “Always, Ed,” he repeats, collapsing back against the mattress and giving in to the temptation of Ed's enticing mouth.
FIN