Chapter Text
Late evening found Ed walking his usual path through the park to his home, a secluded trail that wound its way through thick trees. It was dark, and cold. Ed had just turned off the trail to follow his usual shortcut through the woods, when his flashlight fell on something odd. It was March, but the snow was still melting, and it was easy to see what was clearly blood, sprinkled on the slush. Curious, Ed examined the area with his flashlight, and picked out footprints in the mud. One hand on the revolver in his coat pocket, he followed the prints.
As he swept the arc of the flashlight back and forth, he heard rustling, and then a trembling voice called, “Who’s there? Help me!” and then, “Please.”
The voice belonged to a young man with messy dark hair and chalky white skin. He was huddled on the ground, shaking, and appeared to be scraped and bruised. His right ankle was swollen and misshapen. Ed deduced that he was in shock, and decided to take him home.
*****
Oswald woke up feeling groggy and disoriented. He felt sort of like he had a hangover, and he wasn’t sure where he was. He tried to sit up, wincing, and saw that there was an IV in his right arm, attached to a metal stand by the bed. Looking around, Oswald started to panic, because he wasn’t in a hospital. He was in a pretty normal seeming studio apartment, except there were no windows, and there was a strange man sitting on the side of the bed, smiling at him.
“Hello, there!” The stranger said.
Oswald flattened himself against the headboard, nervous, but tried to sound demanding when he asked, “Who are you? What happened?”
“Try to stay calm, Oswald, careless movement will upset your injury.”
But Oswald was panicking, because he was hurt and scared and confused, and this man didn’t look like a doctor. Stupidly, Oswald tugged at the IV line, trying to get it out of his wrist. The stranger batted his hands away easily, saying, “Oh dear, oh dear.”
The stranger produced a small bottle of liquid that he sucked up with a syringe, ignoring Oswald's confused protests and pathetic thrashing. The last thing Oswald remembered was a sharp prick in his neck. When he woke up the second time, Oswald felt calmer, but still sore and confused. There was a bag of clear fluid dripping slowly through the IV attached to his right wrist . His right ankle was wrapped up, and propped on a pillow, and there was a blanket over the rest of him. When he tried to sit up, the stranger from earlier came rushing over, and helped steady Oswald against the headboard, sliding a pillow behind him. The man was smiling widely, with his lips closed, and he had glasses and dark hair. He was skinny, and didn’t really look old enough to be a doctor.
“How are you feeling, Oswald?”
“How do you know my name?” Oswald asked, accusingly.
“Oh, don’t you remember? I found you in the woods with a broken ankle. I’m Ed. Ed Nygma,” Ed patted Oswald’s knee. Oswald tried to shift his leg away, but he was still groggy and it was hard to move around much.
“Are you a doctor?” Oswald was pretty dubious. Ed was wearing a wooly green jumper with a silly tie – he looked like a grade school teacher or something.
“Close! I’m a pathologist. The only patients I see are already dead,” Ed joked. His hand was still on Oswald’s leg, just above his knee.
“Okay,” Oswald said. He was kind of creeped out, but didn’t have the energy to muster any actual outrage. Sulkily, he asked, “Where are my clothes?” He was wearing plaid pajamas that were way too big for him.
“I had to cut open your right trouser leg, but your clothes were in bad shape anyway. Don’t worry, I have plenty of things you can borrow,” Ed said, beaming, and patted Oswald’s leg again.
“Thanks, I guess,” Oswald said, frowning, “but I should really go to the doctor.”
“Of course!” Ed said, chipper as ever, “First thing in the morning. Is there anyone you need to call, to tell them you’re okay?”
Oswald slumped back, his eyelids were really heavy and his ankle was throbbing. Before he could remember that she was gone, he mumbled, “my mother.”
“Alrighty, then,” Ed said, “In the morning.”
Oswald probably should have objected, but he was so tired, and it was so easy to just close his eyes.
*****
Ed was elated. He couldn’t wait to know everything there was to know about Oswald Cobblepot. After getting him home, Ed’s first priority had been to get the IV in, and the ankle set. After that, he addressed the cuts and scrapes, and dressed him all nice and cozy in Ed’s best pajamas. Oswald’s other clothes had to be burned. There was nothing in the pockets but a folding knife and a set of house keys; Ed had locked both items in his safe. After sedating Oswald, Ed double checked all the locks, monitored his patient's breathing and pulse, and eventually settled down on the couch to sleep.
Ed woke up, like he always did, right around 5:45 am. Oswald was still sleeping, but he would wake up anytime. Ed collected himself as he whisked eggs for breakfast – although he was excited to have Oswald here, having a protracted houseguest would be complicated. Beneath the hiss of percolating coffee, Ed heard Oswald stirring, and rushed over. “Hello, sleepyhead!”
Oswald groaned sleepily in response, but Ed would give him a pass because he looked so cute, curled up in Ed’s pajamas. The sleeves fell over Oswald’s hands, and his hair was sticking up in every direction.
“How tall are you?” Ed asked.
Oswald peered up at him, face scrunched up in confusion, “Huh?”
“Oh, never mind, we’ll have time for that later. Breakfast!”
Ed began peeling back Oswald’s blankets, ignoring his squawk of indignation. When he winced, however, Ed slapped his own forehead, and said, “Silly me! You must be in pain. Wait here.”
After he was given 10mg of morphine, Oswald seemed to relax a bit, although he still looked wary. “Can you take this out now?” he asked, about the IV.
After a moment's consideration, Ed decided, “Nope, let’s keep it in for a bit, we can do breakfast in bed.”
Throughout breakfast, Ed could sense Oswald's impatience, since he kept asking when they could leave for the doctor. When Ed asked about his mother, Oswald pinched his lips together, looked away, and said she died. His eyes got watery, but he wouldn’t say anything else. Ed watched Oswald rub at his cheeks with his sleeve, and decided to shelve the issue for now. It was for the best, anyway, that Oswald didn’t have anyone waiting for him to come home.
*****
It became increasingly clear to Oswald that Ed wasn’t going to take him home, or to a doctor. In fact, Ed talked like Oswald was moving in or something. He didn’t seem that scary, just like a dorky weirdo, but a sick feeling crawled down Oswald’s spine during breakfast and wouldn’t go away. Ed wouldn’t let him call anyone, and kept telling him to eat his omelet. Oswald was so frustrated that he scowled and smacked the plate away.
“Take me home, now,” Oswald demanded. He tried to get out of bed, but he got all tangled up in the IV line. Ed watched him flail around with a creepy, flat expression that made Oswald even angrier.
“I’m afraid that’s not going to happen,” Ed said, calmly, pushing up his glasses with a finger.
“Watch me,” Oswald retorted. Giving up the fight with the IV, Oswald just yanked the tube out of wrist, which hurt and bled a lot more than he thought it would. He tried to make a run for it, but his broken ankle hurt so badly that when he tried to stand he collapsed forward on his knees. Oswald realized how helpless he was and the anger bled away into fear. He tried to crawl over to the stairs, but Ed stepped in front of him. Ed crouched down to look at him, frowning, and he looked sinister instead of dorky. Oswald flinched away, and curled up as much as he could with his bad ankle, covering the back of his neck with his hands. He started to cry.
“Please,” Oswald sniffled, staring at Ed’s shiny brown shoes through his tears, “Please, don’t hurt me.”
“I don’t want to hurt you, Oswald, but if you force me to, I will.”
Gulping wetly, Oswald let Ed pull him back over to the bed. He tried to take deep breaths, but his shaky control was shattered when Ed snapped something around his right wrist. Incredulously, Oswald yanked at his wrist. It rattled, but there was no give. Oswald was handcuffed to the bed. He burst in to terrified sobs, alternatively demanding and pleading with Ed to let him go. When his begging dwindled into whimpers and shuddering breaths, Ed rubbed his thumb over Oswald's damp cheek and said, “I’m going to leave these on while I go out. When I come home, I expect you to have better manners.”
Without waiting for a reply, Ed stepped out of Oswald's vision, and vanished up the stairs. Oswald heard footsteps above him, and then a door slammed. He yanked at his wrist until it was scraped raw, yelled and screamed for help until his voice was hoarse but nothing happened, and nobody came. Oswald was trapped.