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Oswald watches the blood swirl down the drain with the kind of detached disinterest that only comes with years of washing off buckets of carnage and bloodshed in the shower. Very little of it is actually his.
He much prefers baths to showers, if he’s being honest, loves soaking in sweet smelling bubbles and memories of his mother, but there is some merit in getting to wash the day’s aches and pains away under the hot spray. Bathing in the blood of his enemies (and a couple pedestrians) would be too unsanitary, anyway.
Sighing, he runs his fingers through his hair, watching despondently as the bright red turns to pink with the soap suds. Earlier, he had been furious, tense, vengeful. Ready to kill someone without a second thought (which, he realizes, he had). Now he just feels tired.
It has been a very long day.
Sure, it started off like any other. Carrying out all the necessary tasks that came with ruling Gotham’s underworld, blackmailing this person, discreetly disposing of that one, and so forth. A meeting with fellow associates that almost ended in a gun fight but didn’t. All in all, a regular day in the life of Oswald Cobblepot, the Penguin.
And then someone decided to set off a bomb in the middle of the Lounge.
He’d been mingling, greeting his regulars and keeping a mistrustful eye on the newbies, the picture of a smooth, charismatic club owner (who occasionally murdered people in his spare time- not that there were many at the Lounge that night who didn’t know this). Things were getting into full swing, the music pumping loudly and the drinks poured freely. All completely and utterly normal.
The bomb went off towards the front, near the stage, far away from where he was standing. One moment it was typical nightlife, the next he was being transported back to ten years ago, watching the bridges blow.
Shielding Ed Nygma from a grenade blast with his own body.
Thankfully, the bomb wasn’t as devastating as many of the ones he’d encountered in his life. It was still bad; those nearest the blast were either killed or seriously injured, and many others suffered broken bones or concussions, but it hadn’t been catastrophic. The Lounge was left almost intact, albeit in need of some serious repairs and redecorating. Oswald himself only got away with some scrapes and a gash on his forehead, from when the blast knocked him into the bar. It could have been so much worse. He’d been through so much worse.
(i’m so sorry it’s the least i could do does it look bad?)
He caught sight of the bomber fleeing backstage, amidst the screaming and the smoke and fire. Picking himself up, he made his way through the chaos and followed the man into an alleyway behind the club.
In what was perhaps a rash move, Oswald hadn’t bothered to ask why the man had gone and bombed his nightclub before stabbing him repeatedly with the knife in his cane.
Oh well. C'est la vie.
The bombing, of course, made the news. Oswald spent the next several hours talking to police (pointedly avoiding Jim Gordon) and reporters (who he also tried to pointedly avoid- no dice), and assessing the damage. The cut on his head hadn’t even needed stitches, and the EMT’s declared that he didn’t have a concussion. No one really wanted to ask where all the blood had come from (head wounds bleed like crazy, right?). Everything was taken care of in that area anyway; he’d hid the body in the back and that was that. Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Cobblepot, and on to the next witness.
Now he’s here, in the rarely occupied Van Dahl mansion (he prefers his rooms above the Lounge, so he can better keep an eye on things, but that obviously isn’t an option), ready to be done with this godforsaken day and collapse into bed. He’s getting too damn old for this.
And he really must be getting old, and complacent, and slow, because suddenly, before he can react, scream, pull out the small knife he keeps in the soap dish, anything, the shower curtain is being yanked open (dear God, he hadn’t even heard the door opening) and he is meeting the frantic eyes of one Edward Nygma.
Holy shit.
“Ed?!” he shrieks, voice high and surprised and a little mortified. Ed is here. Ed is here, in his house, in his bathroom, and holy shit Oswald is stark naked, what-
“What the hell are you doing?!” Oswald quickly tries to cover himself with his hands, slowly going from shocked and confused to angry.
Then he pauses. Just a minute.
Because Ed looks like a mess.
His usually neat hair is a wreck, like he’d run his fingers through it multiple times. His eyes are red rimmed, frantic. He’s not even wearing his normal garishly green suit- his battle armor, for all intents and purposes. Just a wrinkled button down and plain grey pants. This is not the carefully crafted Riddler standing in his bathroom. This is just Ed, looking lost and small on his bath mat. Just Ed.
Ed opens his mouth and shuts it, unsure. He looks like even he doesn’t know why he’s there, afraid and unbalanced. The anger drains out of Oswald in a flash; all he wants to do now is hold him.
(It’s what he’s always wanted to do- the years might have changed them, but Oswald’s love for the man standing before him has always, always stayed the same).
“I… I… I had to see you,” Ed manages to choke out, voice rough and small. “I saw- the Lounge- on the news and I thought-” he cuts off, clenching his eyes shut tight. When he opens them again, they are big and glassy. Nothing could prepare him for what comes next.
“Can… can I- can I join you?”
All the air in his body leaves him in an instant. Ed won’t meet his eyes, staring pointedly at the floor.
“What did you just say?”
Edward exhales shakily. “Can I join you?” He indicates the running water with an awkward half gesture. Oswald has honestly almost forgotten about it. “I won’t try anything, I promise. I just- I need to know you’re okay.”
This is not what they do. Since their release, they’ve been civil, amicable even, on occasion, dropping by for chats or helping each other out with various undertakings. They have established an unspoken set of rules; where to look, where to touch, places to poke at and tease, things to leave unsaid. A carefully crafted dance, they remain in each other’s orbit, but only just. Never colliding. Separate.
Until now.
Oswald’s heart rises in his chest, naively hopeful. It’s what possesses him to slowly nod and shuffle over to give him some space, even as his eyes stray to the poorly concealed knife in the soap dish.
And Ed is slowly, hesitantly unbuttoning his shirt and pulling it off and undoing the button on his pants and oh fuck this was a bad idea. Oswald looks away, fighting the blush rising in his cheeks. The room has somehow gotten hotter, the steam and his utter mortification making him lightheaded.
And then Ed is naked and stepping into the shower, carefully and quietly, and Oswald is really only just understanding the weight of the situation. Edward Nygma is here, naked, in his shower. Edward Nygma is naked in his shower and he is in here with him.
They face each other, silent, for a while. Oswald can feel the weight of a thousand unspoken words pressing down on his shoulders, desperate to break the quiet but worried about what might come out if he does. This is uncharted territory, dangerous water. What is he supposed to do?
Ed makes the decision for him. Slowly, clearly trying not to scare him, he raises his fingers to the gash on Oswald’s head, now covered by a small, neat bandage. He brushes them gently across the wound, a soft caress, eyes stormy and pained.
“Who was it?” he asks, voice barely containing the anger and pain behind the words.
Oswald can’t help but snort, though there’s no humor in it. “No one worth the time and effort it would take to find out. Probably was trying to intimidate me, or something like that. He got what he deserved, anyway. I took care of it.”
Ed breathes in shakily, shutting his eyes. “I didn’t know what to do. When I- when I saw it on the news.” He shivers, despite the heat of the water and steam, and opens his eyes, which have grown wet again. Oswald feels something clench tightly in his chest. “If anything bad were to happen to you, I- I wouldn’t know what I would do.”
It briefly occurs to him, as he struggles to ground himself after Ed’s confession (reels because of what it could mean), that they’ve come a very long way from where they used to be. The Edward from over ten years ago wouldn’t say things like this.
“Me, too,” Oswald says softly, looking away from him. If anything were to happen to Edward Nygma, he thinks, there’d be no coming back from it. He’d burn the whole world down.
“Did you know,” Ed says quietly, “when I was in Arkham, I don’t think one hour passed where I didn’t think of you?” He lets out a little gasp of a laugh, small and sad. “I tried not to, but… every time I closed my eyes... there you were.”
They are standing on the edge of something. Oswald can feel it.
“Ed, maybe this isn’t the best place to be having this conversation-”
“No!” Ed quickly cuts him off, grabs one of his hands and cradles it between both of his own. His eyes are wild and desperate. “Please. I’m afraid… that if I don’t say this now, I might never get to say it again.” He laughs mirthlessly, a sad, watery sound. “It’s stupid.”
“No, Ed, it’s not,” Oswald murmurs, squeezing his hands. “Say what you need to say.”
Edward exhales. His hands shake where they hold Oswald’s. “It was the thought of you… that got me through it. Ten years in an insane asylum, with the endless therapy and medications and screaming in the middle of the night, and all I could think is that if I got back to you… then everything would be alright.”
A tear slips down his cheek and Oswald can’t stop himself from wiping it away with his free hand before the shower can. He has never seen Ed like this before- it rattles him, just a little, to see the usually confident and calculated man so vulnerable.
He’s honored, in a way. To be the only person who gets to see him like this.
“It was like that for me too,” Oswald whispers. “At Blackgate. Everything was that much more bearable when I thought of you and your smile.” He’s softly running his thumb against Ed’s cheek now, catching more tears as they fall. The room is quiet except for the pounding of water against the tile walls and floor.
They are hurtling towards the inevitable, tethered to each other on this unstable plane, faster, faster, faster, until-
“I need to- can I- Can I kiss you?”
Oswald has to strain his ears to hear it. Almost doesn’t believe them when he does. His answer is just as quiet:
“Yes.”
Ed’s trembling hands come up to frame his face. Oswald can’t move, can’t think, can’t breathe, fixed in this one tiny moment of time with the man he loves more than anything else in the world.
The man who might maybe, impossibly, love him back.
Their lips meet, softly, slowly, the two of them coming together like it’s the easiest thing, like they haven’t spent the last ten years as nothing more than acquaintances, the years before that enemies (maybe they’ve been over complicating things all this time). Ed’s mouth is hot and wet and everything Oswald has ever dreamed of. His hands fly up to grasp Ed’s shoulders, clenching tightly to his warm, slick bare skin.
The kiss deepens, grows more heated, desperate, their tongues tangling together, and suddenly Ed’s hands are everywhere. In his hair, on his arms and shoulders, and then they’re on his chest, his stomach, drifting down, down, down and oh God this is really happening he’s not dreaming and-
“W- wait!” Oswald gasps, pulling away. The sight of Edward when he opens his eyes nearly brings him to his knees.
Ed’s lips are kiss swollen and red, his wet hair plastered across his forehead and sticking up in places where Oswald had grasped and pulled it. His chest is heaving up and down, and Oswald knows without even having to look that he’s just as hard as he is.
“I just…” he trails off, trying to put all the stupid feelings rising in his chest into a way that Ed will understand. “If we do this… I can’t go back from it. If we were to be… intimate, and then the next day we went back to the way things used to be…” A lump forms in his throat, tears rising to the corners of his eyes. “I don’t think I’d survive it.”
The look Ed gives him in response is so soft it hurts. Both his hands come up to softly cup his cheeks, thumbing away the few stubborn tears that decide to leak out. “I love you, Oswald. I’m in love with you.” He smiles, soft and sad and oh so beautiful. “I always have been. And I’m sorry that it took so long, and that I hurt you, and I want you to know that I can’t go back either. Not from this. Not if I get to have you.”
And really, what else is Oswald supposed to do? Not kiss him?
The shower spray is starting to grow cold, but Oswald really can’t bring himself to care. All that matters is Ed, and his mouth, and his heartbeat thrumming in his chest, and his hands drifting lower, lower, lower…
Oswald doesn’t stop him this time.
It’s definitely not how he pictured their first time together. He tended to stay away from those kinds of thoughts anyway- it’s not like it could ever happen. And when he did think about it, it was always rough and quick, with one of them probably killing the other when it was all over. He’s never imagined this, the sound of the water drowning out their harsh breathing and gentle moans, their hands bumping together awkwardly before finding the right rhythm. The look on Edward’s face when he comes is like seeing the sunrise for the first time. The look on Edward’s face when Oswald comes is almost as good.
They collapse onto the shower floor when they finish, the now freezing water washing away all signs of their release. Ed wraps his arms around Oswald and tucks his head under his chin, holding him as they breathe together. They stay like that until Oswald’s shivering grows too violent, and then Ed is picking them both off the floor and wrapping him in a fluffy towel with a soft kiss on the top of his head.
“Will you stay?” he asks quietly from his seat on the toilet lid, pulling the towel tighter around himself. He feels fragile, all of a sudden. Vulnerable. Like Ed could just touch him and he’d shatter into a million little pieces. The weight of the whole day presses down on him and he slouches, wrapping his arms around himself. Don’t leave me, don’t hurt me, don’t leave me, please, please, please...
Ed shuts the water off and wraps his own towel around his waist, slips his glasses on from where they were resting on the sink. He kneels in front of Oswald. “Yes. For as long as you’ll have me.” He takes his hands and presses soft kisses into his palms. Oswald wants to live in this moment forever.
“Always,” Oswald whispers. “I love you.”
Ed gives him a small smile and squeezes his hands. “I love you too.”
They leave the bathroom hand in hand. Oswald dresses in his softest pair of pajamas (it has been a very long day), while Ed just stays in his boxers, too tall for anything Oswald could lend him. They kiss languidly on the bed for some time before burrowing under the covers, curled together like question marks.
In the morning, for a heart stopping moment, Oswald will think it was all a dream. That he’d simply imagined the whole thing. But then he’ll see Ed, his face squished into the pillows, soft with sleep, his hair wild and untamed. And he’ll thank God for this moment, for finally letting him have this wonderful, beautiful man, and wake Ed up with laughter and feather light kisses.
And they’ll talk. And they’ll work things out, and they might not always be easy or painless but they’ll work through it.
They’ve got the rest of their lives together to figure everything out.
For now, Oswald curls into Ed, his head resting on his chest, and lets the sound of his heartbeat and gentle humming lull him to sleep.