Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Oswald wakes up gradually, alarm-less, and with a smile on his face. He’s in luxurious, clean sheets, with a perfect sliver of sunlight bleeding through the curtains of the master bedroom in his family’s mansion. He has his cushy job as mayor (comparative to hotly contested crime boss, though he held onto that title as well). 

And the cherry on top? The hit he’d put out on Isabella two days ago had gone off without a hitch. He’s been living in an Isabella-less world for the past two days. 

The birds are even singing a little louder, Oswald thinks. He smiles wider as he finally pushes himself up and out of bed. Mark his words, today will be a good day. 

If he was keeping up with his plans timeline (that he was admittedly playing fast and loose with), Isabella would have been in a fatal “accident” as early as two nights ago. Or whenever she left for her silly little librarian’s conference. What did they even need a conference for, by the way? The thought annoys him enough that he reflexively rolls his eyes in the mirror while he’s spiking up his hair. 

That’s all behind him now, anyway. No more of her hanging around haunting his mansion, taking up all of Ed’s time and attention and plus-one invitations to every single event. No more of her obnoxious third-wheeling. 

(Never mind that he’d very much been the third wheel).

His smile falters at himself in the mirror. 

Well, he’s not anymore, at least. 

Oswald is doing Ed a favor, really. Wasn’t he the one who originally sold him on the whole “love is a weakness idea in the first place? Isabella is—was a liability, first and foremost. With how much time she’d been spending around Ed—and by extension Oswald, his mayoral duties, and his more “off the record” duties—it was only a matter of time before she saw or heard something she shouldn’t have. And what happens when she’s used as leverage or taken as a hostage by any one of the more unsavory characters in this city? There’s a lunatic running around calling himself the “Mad Hatter” this month, for God’s sake. She’d get caught in the crossfire sooner or later; given how intent she was on staying in Ed’s life even after truly blatant threats on her life. In Oswald’s mind he was simply preemptively solving a future problem. He does love being one step ahead. 

And, as an added bonus, he’d get another chance to (if he didn’t chicken out again) tell Ed how he really feels and hopefully grow their relationship from there. Ed will be unencumbered by his fling with the librarian and ripe for the taking. He’s choosing not to see the hypocrisy in both of those objectives. 

Fastening the last button on his shirt, he begins making his way down to the kitchen with more spring in his step than usual. Maybe more than is usually physically possible with his leg; the power of mindset, he supposes, even though he knows that kind of thinking is bullshit. 

The doorbell rings out as he’s passing the foyer. 8:14 AM, his watch reads. It’s a little early for visitors, but what the hell, he’s in a just-say-yes mood this morning. Oswald turns on a heel to head for the door. He doesn’t think twice about answering it, doesn’t even think to leave it to someone else even though he has people for that now. Not just the average goon either. City employees, even. No, instead he waltzes right over to the door and swings it open on instinct, a pleasant greeting dying in his throat, and his good mood comes to a screeching halt. 

“Hello,” Isabella says, polite smile on her face, holding a handbag with a small suitcase beside her. Oswald does his best to quickly collect his jaw off the floor. 

It’s a scene from his worst nightmare. Isabella is standing in front of him, hair swooped up into a ponytail and freshly dyed red. She’s sporting new glasses frames, too. The spitting image of Kristen, he notices absently (though he’d never actually met her and is relying solely on Ed’s frequent and descriptive ramblings on the subject). He morbidly wonders who’s idea the wardrobe change was. 

She idly rubs at a bruise on her wrist, still smiling  at him. Bruises, he corrects, seeing the ugly purple blooms running down her pale forearms. She has a thin cut on her forehead as well. Almost looks like she’s been in some kind of accident, though it surely couldn’t be the accident that he’d paid very good money to make fatal. 

“Is Ed in?” She asks finally, and Oswald realizes he’s been staring at her wordlessly for who knows how long, almost certainly looking as though he’s seen a ghost.

“My, your arms!” He exclaims instead of answering her question, gesturing to the bruises. “Are you badly injured? Did you have some kind of—“

“Accident?” She finishes, tilting her head at his question almost imperceptibly. Or maybe he’s seeing things, he’s been known to be manically paranoid on a good day. Oswald masks the panic slowly but surely building up in the pit of his stomach with what he hopes looks like sincere concern (and innocence). 

“I didn’t mean to assume—“

“No, it’s fine. I was just a bit clumsy on my trip and, um, tripped over some stairs,” she answers simply, smiling sheepishly at him. Oswald would find the mental image of her face planting in the middle of a hotel convention center quite hilarious if he wasn’t already sold on the mental image of her careening off a bridge in a runaway vehicle. Speaking of—

He makes a show of looking behind her for something. “Did you walk here? I just don’t see any car…” Oswald muses, fishing for information. She lets out a polite laugh and a noncommittal “right” while shifting her weight between her feet and trying to see around where he stood in the doorway. 

“Yeah, um, is Ed around? Because I wanted to—“

On cue, Ed emerges from behind him, gently pushing him to the side as his eyes land on Isabella. He must have heard her voice from down the hallway. 

“Isabella, I’m so glad you’re—“ the sentence drops off as Ed finally notices the injuries, and in an instant he’s by her side (and Oswald is finally shoved fully out of the way). “Oh my goodness, what happened to you? Are you okay?”

Ed’s flurry of fretting questions are all easily batted away with bashful, conciliatory smiles and three to four different variations of “I’m fine, really”’s. Oswald stands dumbly in the doorway, absently digging his nails into the wood of the doorframe he’s leaning on while his eyes resentfully follow Ed’s fingertips running up and down Isabella’s arms looking for any missed scrape or scratch. She places a placating hand on his chest. Oswald bites the inside of his cheek and finally tears his gaze away to an empty point in middle distance. Blegh. Great. Now the panic of a botched hit is warring with petty, juvenile jealousy. Thankfully, his body’s instinctual response to the unholy mix of emotions is to simply freeze in place. 

He needs to think. 

There are two possibilities: Either she is the luckiest woman in Gotham and got every green light, or someone fucked up an incredibly simple hit. Honestly, it can’t be that hard to find the brake line in these new cars. Someone will be joining Isabella on her final ride, it seems. 

After Ed’s concerns are finally eased (and Oswald clears his throat twice to remind them he’s still there) he invites Isabella inside to join them for breakfast, which she accepts with a blinding smile. Oswald is nice—he graciously insists it’s no trouble when it really is, and he even surpasses an eyeball when they finally have their reunion kiss. 

Ed leads them to the kitchen table, Isabella on his arm and Oswald awkwardly in tow, except instead of a third wheel he feels more like a bad swimmer being dragged in by the two romantic leads in a romcom about lifeguards. He asks Olga to prepare another plate that Isabella refuses, claiming not to be that hungry, and Ed eagerly offers to share from his. Laying on the gentleman act a little thick there, he thinks. 

Though, it probably isn’t much of an act at all for Ed, he corrects reluctantly. He’d shown that same dedication for Oswald, too, once upon a time. Memories of spotlights and gunfire and being shoved out of harm’s way come to mind, which he half-heartedly pushes away as soon as they arrive. He made a point of not daydreaming about that evening before at least 7PM, or around three drinks in, whichever came first. 

He abruptly surfaces from his thoughts at a particularly loud and unnecessary scrape of a fork across a plate and looks toward the sound on instinct. Now, Oswald’s once beautiful good mood has finally hit rock bottom as he’s forced to witness the sickeningly sweet and quite frankly annoying scene before him. 

Of course Ed and Isabella sharing a plate would end this way; taking turns cutely feeding each other tiny morsels of breakfast food while Oswald tries to pretend he hasn’t completely lost his appetite. They’re talking about nothing, laughing about nothing, and smiling while they do. It seems nothing else is quite as interesting to them right now as figuring out the exact line between acceptable and weird couple baby-talk and absolutely catapulting over it. 

“Oop—!” Ed says when Isabella misses his mouth (again) and she moves in to lick it off (gross). Then the giggling starts, like there’s something so funny about eating blueberries or making a mess or being in love— 

Oswald takes a breath. 

It’s almost like watching a movie. He is acutely and viciously aware that they’re now in their own little world with Oswald awkwardly orbiting around it as an outsider, a voyeur watching bitterly though the glass. He’s sure he hasn’t hidden his disgust at their gratuitous display of affection very well (or at all), but guesses they wouldn’t notice either way. He makes himself busy with pushing around the food on his plate to sell his “everything is fine” facade. 

Another blueberry. Another giggle. Another glass roughly set down on the table that narrowly avoided being shattered in Oswald’s bare hands. Ten full minutes of this excruciating display has been more than enough for him, thank you.

“You’ll excuse me,” Oswald says to practically no one as he abruptly stands from the table, his movement punctuated by a cacophony of dishes and silverware knocking together at the sudden lurch. “I have some pressing matters to attend to and I’m sure you two would like,” deep breath, “some privacy to catch up.” He nobly tries not to bite out the false pleasantry. Ed spares him a parting glance and what sounds like “alright!” through the napkin Isabella is wiping over his mouth. She only looks up at him with that awful, knowing, pitying, smile as she turns her attention back to Ed and their games and their laughter and—

Oswald is barely able to contain his outburst until after he all but slams the study door shut, screaming into a throw pillow as he does on the rare occasions he knows he can’t get away with a more audible reaction. When this predictably does little to alleviate the restlessness he’s accumulated over what couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes, he launches the pillow across the room. It jostles a standing lamp but otherwise falls to the floor harmlessly. At the very least, the sight of just how inconsequential and childish the way he’s acting does help in extinguishing the rage from his body like a suffocated flame.  

If Ed and Isabella were annoying to Oswald before, they are absolutely unbearable now that he’s tried and failed multiple times to break them apart. Honestly, he probably hit his “watching Ed head-over-heels in love with someone that is not him” tolerance limit about three schemes ago—any more and he might actually break out in hives. Plus, with the way their relationship is consistently defying his meddling (and how she’s suddenly started defying death) it’s starting to look a little too much like something inevitable. 

Like fate.

Oswald was usually fond of the idea that certain things were just meant to be—back when it seemed like what was meant to be just so happened to align with what he wanted, anyway. He doesn’t think he can stomach a sudden twist in fate like this; actually, scratch that, he knows he can’t. 

So he’ll just have to try again. Oswald is nothing if not persistent. 

Sitting down at his desk to give his leg a break, he picks up his phone and dials Gabe first. While it’s ringing, he resolves to be rational and collected when he speaks to him. No one knows what went wrong just yet. 

“Boss?” Gabe answers suspiciously—or at least dismissively, or maybe just how he’s answered phone calls all the time, but that’s all the provocation he needs to launch into a frenzied tirade accusing him of everything from wanting his empire to introducing Ed to Isabella himself. He’s not too sure where that last part came from, but it felt right to say at the time.

Once he’s able to get a word in, Gabe informs him calmly that nothing went wrong as far as his part was concerned since he was able to cut the brakes relatively easily and quickly without being seen. Oswald tells him he doesn’t see how that’s possibly considering there is so much evidence to the contrary sitting in his own kitchen, and tells him to at least look out for anyone who knew about the hit that might have sabotaged it. He hangs up, that road’s a dead end. 

He calls Zsasz next, not because he thinks he’ll have any pertinent information, but because his loneliness (and this exacerbating situation) usually gets the better of him and he knows Zsasz won’t flinch at another personal anecdote with homicidal themes. He answers on the second ring, the sound of an explosion blasting through the speaker greeting him before Zsasz offers a nonchalant “hey, boss”. 

“Zsasz,” Oswald greets, listening to the shouting and what sounds like crushing metal coming through the phone. “…Am I interrupting something?”

Gunfire and more shouting. “Nah, I can talk. What’s up?”

In terms of “people around Oswald who know way more than they need to”, Zsasz is pretty high up on the list. He comes in second between Olga (first, his unofficial confidant with a convenient language barrier that prevented secret-spilling) and the woman, Margaret, he spoke to at the Mayoral Dinner Party Mishap (third, not really his intention but he’d had one too many drinks that night and she was a very good listener). 

Ed now, he supposes, is on the list as well. Ever since Isabella had entered his life, Oswald had instinctively begun to hold him at arms length to preemptively mitigate any issues her being there would cause. Or Ed has less and less time for him and that rationalization at least lets him feel some sense of control. Though it’s probably the first one. 

“So what happened to the car?” Zsasz asks, interrupting Oswald’s lament of the horrifically cute breakfast he just endured. The question is punctuated by a gunshot crackling over the phone. He winces; Oswald isn’t particularly inclined to ask what exactly he’s doing at the moment, but it sounds like a liability. 

“It’s—I actually… don’t know.” It’s less that he didn’t consider the question and more that you can’t just ask someone “hey, how did you escape my death trap?” without letting them know you had designed them a death trap. “I mean, it couldn’t have gotten far, right? All things considered.” Zsasz hums through the receiver. 

“Can’t really move forward ‘till you know what happened,” Zsasz says, and Oswald begrudgingly has to admit he’s right. A loud bang followed by what might be the sound of an avalanche of coins. It’s coming through pretty clearly actually, he really hopes he’s not on speaker right now. 

“I gotta go now, there are way more people here than we expected.” More shouting. If it were anyone else he’d be worried by now. “But hey, keep me updated on the boy problems,” Zsasz says before hanging up the phone. Oswald bristles at the term, but frustratingly can’t think of another phrase that describes it more succinctly than “boy problems”. 

He sighs and heaves himself up from his chair. He better get back to breakfast—he’s been gone a while and any other respectable house guest would have noticed his absence by now. Though, considering the state he left those two love birds in, he isn’t too worried. 

Fluffing his hair and putting on his best unbothered smile, he calmly walks back out to the dining room where his worst fears are confirmed: they still haven’t run out of blueberries. 

Oswald takes his seat again, noting with bitterness his food is untouched and already cold. Ed has apparently taken over the single shared fork and has four different blueberries speared on each of the prongs to dangle above Isabella’s mouth. Okay, that’s enough of that. 

“So, Isabella,” Oswald starts as if they had all been in conversation, “how was the drive over from… the conference?” Oswald gracefully smooths over the fact that he has no idea where she’d actually been. “I noticed it was a little rainy this weekend. It wasn’t too bad, was it?” He smiles on instinct, expertly trained in the graceful art of small talk with people you want dead after so many years of doing this exact same song and dance with every superior he’s ever had. 

Not to imply Isabella is a superior to him. Maybe that’s a bad metaphor.

“Oh, right, no, I didn’t drive in. I had a friend drive me,” Isabella says, looking away from both Oswald and Ed’s gaze. 

“Is there something wrong with your car? I can help you take a look at it,” Ed says helpfully.

“No, actually, it’s…” Ed looks on patiently while Oswald barely stifles an irritated sigh. Is she seriously trying to do a dramatic pause right now?

“My car was stolen,” she finally says. “It was gone from my driveway the morning I was meant to leave for the conference. I had a friend who was also going pick me up. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything before—I didn’t want to worry you.” Oswald visibly deflates. Ed’s eyes go wide.

He immediately launches into detective mode, asking a million questions while Oswald slumps back into his chair, the slightest twitch of a smile drawing at the corners of his mouth. The details are all irrelevant, not that either of them know that. That car is as good as gone, wrecked into a brick wall or smashed by a crossing train. The important thing is that Plan B (or C? Whichever one he’s on now) failed and he can move forward with a better plan of action. Maybe poison this time, or perhaps a fall down a well? He thinks he’s seen a couple on the property. 

How incredibly lucky for her, too—an incredibly timed stolen car! She should buy a lottery ticket! What are the odds? Well, he’s sorry to whatever unlucky bastard stole that car. They couldn’t’ve gotten very far. Someone must have found it by now, actually. At least this means his plan didn’t totally blow up in his face. He’ll be free to try again as soon as the opportunity presents itself. 

Though, Oswald’s relief is not enough to stop him from noticing how quickly, instinctively, Ed pulls Isabella closer as he’s trying to comfort her. Staring at her as if she were the only person in the world. His hands run down her shoulders and lock themselves in place on her mid forearms, as if she would fly away if he didn’t hold onto her tight enough. 

“Right, Oswald?” Ed’s voice snaps him back to reality. He and Isabella are staring at him expectantly, Ed with hope and Isabella with concern. 

“I—“ Oswald starts.

“We’ll help her find her car,” Ed repeats, sensing he hadn’t heard him the first time. 

That sounds like a complete waste of time, given the car was at best sitting blocks away stripped of it’s parts after the thief realized the brakes were shot and at worst obliterated beyond recognition. But Ed is smiling at him, unsure but real and genuine, and in a moment of weakness he finds himself answering with a far too chipper “absolutely!”

“Oh, that’s really not necessary—“ Isabella begins.

“It’s no problem,” Ed reassures her (even though it is). “Oswald is the mayor, after all.” Ed beams at him, but he doesn’t take his hands from where they’re still holding onto Isabella’s arms. Real and genuine. Oswald’s expression twitches microscopically, and he falters for the briefest, briefest, moment in his plan to get rid of her. Some ridiculous notion of not getting in the way of love flickers through his mind, and he blinks a few times to dispel it. 

“Um—“ Isabella interjects, bashful smile on her face. “I’m grateful, really, but you don’t have to—“

“Isabella,” Oswald cuts her off, folding his hands together on the table. “It’s no problem. I’m the mayor, after all,” his eyes flick to Ed when he mentions his own title and he smiles back. “I’m sure I could pull some strings. Get the GCPD searching for it overtime.” He winks at her, regretting it instantly but following through. Her expression doesn’t change. That plain, pleasant smile must be etched into her face. 

Ed nods in agreement. “It’s the least we could do,” he says, and Oswald almost laughs at that because the least he could do for her is nothing at all, obviously, but he’s polite and says nothing. He makes his way back to his room to get fully dressed before heading out for the day, meal forgotten. He had other plans that morning, but now he would be heading out to the GCPD first thing. Although they were almost always useless, he needs someone to search for Isabella’s “missing” car, and the GCPD needs someone to approve a budget increase for the next fiscal year. He wonders absently if Jim has heard of any car accidents recently.

——————————-

The GCPD precinct Jim is stationed at is just as grimy and disorganized as he remembers from the last time he was there. Probably really recently, actually. Oswald walks through the door and makes his way inside with moderate fanfare, being the mayor and all. It doesn’t last long, though—looks like the precinct is trying to go for the record of greatest fire code violation in Gotham this morning. 

The din and chaos always somewhat present in the building was already enough to give him a headache, but today it feels about ten times worse. Lots of pushing and shoving, the holding cells are practically full already, and he sees a couple of uniformed officers bringing in new drunk and disorderly perps by the entrance. 

Oswald checks his watch. 9:43 AM. Must have been some kind of holiday yesterday. He thinks he recognizes a few of the perps as his employees too, so great, that’s another thing he’ll have to deal with later. 

Right now, he walks up to where he remembers Jim’s station being and makes himself at home, feet up on the desk and everything. Oswald didn’t see him or his cautionary tale of a partner anywhere when he walked in. Probably out on a case already—Jim isn’t one to be late to work. He makes himself busy glancing through a newspaper he nabbed on his way through the building while he waits for his favorite only slightly dirty cop to arrive. 

“Penguin?” A woman’s voice asks. Oswald furrows his brow and flips the newspaper down to see Barbara Keen standing in front of him. Her hair is done up with enough volume to nearly double the size of her head and she’s dressed in a long tan coat with a black, feather-y blouse and pant combo underneath. Or maybe it’s an actual jumpsuit, although he thought she was supposed to have been completely sane after getting out of Arkham. “What are you doing here?” She asks, lips twisted in a disingenuous smile. He gives her one of his own.

“Catching up on the news,” he answers, and flips the newspaper back up to block her out of his view. 

A beat. He flips the paper back down again. “What are you doing here?”

Her posture stiffens slightly, and she glances around the room. “I’m bringing Jim information that might help with a case he’s working on,” she says, and Oswald scoffs. 

“Because you’re such a model and upstanding citizen?”

Barbara sneers at him. “I used to be. I could still be, if I wanted to. Can’t say as much about you.” He rolls his eyes. “Speaking of what I want—“she puts a hand on Jim’s desk and leans over him. Some kind of power play, he’s sure, but he isn’t very intimidated by someone who must go through a half a bottle of hairspray a day. Oswald looks up at her, eyebrows raised, and when she still doesn’t speak he huffs and makes a show of folding up the paper to give her his full, undivided attention. 

“Well?”

“I want you to take me seriously,” she says, and Oswald can’t help the laugh that bubbles up at the sheer notion. 

“You want me to take the “sirens” seriously? Gimmicky name aside, I’m pretty sure I told you the last time you asked that I’m still not too fond of your little mother-killing girlfriend. Or her traitorous boyfriend. Hey, where do you fit in that, exactly?”

She scowls. “If not the sirens, then me.” She rights herself back to full height and crosses her arms. “… I haven’t heard from them since the night they ran off,” she says, uncharacteristically withdrawn. “At the very least, I want to know you won’t try to off her as soon as she shows her face in Gotham again. And hey, I’d like to get with the winning team, anyway. I mean, with you being the mayor and kingpin of the underworld now…” she trails off. Oswald won’t lie, her smarmy flattery probably is the best way to get through to him. Though, her being at the precinct and her seemingly off-hand mayor remark lead him to an amusing conclusion. 

“Please tell me you’re not still  going after Jim,” he laughs. “Hate to break it to you, but he hates me just as much with this title as he did when I was a crime lord. Or even a faceless criminal. You’re not scoring any points with him by cozying up to me.” He smiles with faux pity. “You do realize he’s at least two girlfriends removed from you by now, right?”

Barbara’s eyes widen. “How do you already know about Vale?”

“I hear about everything,” Oswald says. Really, he was taking a shot in the dark with that one, but he’s glad something stuck. 

“Impressive.” A mirthless smile. “You should run a gossip column.” Her expression hardens. “It’s not about that. I want to be a main player, with real power.” He snickers at her. She ignores him. “I could be a real asset for you, you know. I could also be a real threat.” 

Geez, where has he heard that a million times before? Probably every underling who’s challenged him in the past couple of years. Head of organized crime isn’t exactly a title that you hold uncontested. May as well be background noise, at this point. It’s painfully obvious how new she is at this. 

“I’ll think about it,” he says, having made up his mind to sideline her even more than she and her ‘sirens’ already were. Barbara seems to pick up on it, because she just glares at him before turning to walk away. 

“What, you’re not gonna stick around to try and get your man back?” He calls after her, always a fan of adding insult to injury. 

“Get who back?” A deeper voice says behind him, and Oswald is slightly embarrassed at how he nearly jumps out of his seat at the sound. 

“Jim!” He exclaims, standing up to greet him maybe a bit too eagerly. “How are you this fine morning?” 

“Busy,” Jim deadpans. “If you didn’t notice, the precinct is overflowing and we hardly have enough officers to handle the normal activity, let alone this.”

Oswald hums. “Someone should really do something about that,” he says, knowing he is the someone that should be doing something. 

Jim doesn’t justify his snide comment with a response. “You’re blocking my desk,” he says brusquely. Sometimes, Oswald thinks Jim must be making his voice deeper around him on purpose to intimidate him, because there’s no way he walks around talking to store clerks and baristas with a growl like that. Well, jokes on him—it’s way less intimidating than it is kind of hot. Oswald wordlessly moves out of the way, hands up placatingly, and Jim brushes past him more roughly than necessary to sit at his desk. “What do you want,” he demands rather than asks. 

“What, I can’t pay my favorite detective a…” the words die in his mouth as Oswald notices Jim’s unamused stare—right, he never was one for small talk. “I need to find a stolen vehicle. It may have been called in already, it happened sometime over the weekend. Friday night, maybe.”

His strange request almost wipes the glare off of Jim’s face. Almost. “File a report with the department, like everyone else,” he says, turning away from him to the files in his hand. Oswald taps an impatient finger on his desk, drawing Jim’s reluctant attention back to him. 

“I’m not everyone else though, am I, Jim?” He smiles, exasperated but knowing better to show it before he gets his request. “I’m the mayor, remember?” As if Jim would would ever forget, though he still doesn’t deign to respond to him. Ugh.

“Can’t you put out an APB? Or something?”

“Not what they’re used for.” God, Jim’s really fighting him this morning.  

“I’ll owe you a fa-vor,” Oswald sing-songs, tapping on the desk to punctuate each word, and this finally changes Jim’s bored glare to a grimace. 

“I don’t need any favors from you,” he snaps, a bit more rudely than Oswald would usually tolerate. Jim is very lucky that Oswald still needs occasional support from the department and still holds some respect for him. And finds him a bit attractive. 

“Not a favor from me, the Penguin, but me, the mayor. The mayor’s office and the GCPD should be working in tandem, after all.” Oswald leans on the desk towards Jim, in a way he belatedly realizes is an eery echo to what Barbara had done to him moments before. “How about an increase in funding? PR photo-ops? That ridiculous charity gala the commissioner keeps hounding me to host? You name it,” Oswald offers, rather generously given the attitude he’s received since he got here. Jim may not want to show it but his expression softens enough for Oswald to tell he’s considering his options. 

“You should be doing those things anyway,” Jim counters. Oswald tilts his head and frowns slightly in condescension. 

“There’s actually a lot more to running a city than trying to save a crooked police department,” Oswald says, patience running thin. Jim huffs a sigh, just about ready to give in. 

“We need more uni’s on the Tetch case, for one thing, which the current overtime policy isn’t helping. The budget we set for next year is hitting snags in city council. And I know you recognize a few criminals on your payroll here, so if you could try not to tear the city apart with your own competing interests, I’d appreciate it,” Jim says in a decidedly unappreciative tone. 

“And?” Oswald prompts.

“And I think I would like to see you host that charity gala.”

Oswald rolls his eyes. “And?”

“And, I’ll get someone looking for your car. But you might as well be looking for a needle in a haystack. This is Gotham, cars are stolen every 30 minutes. It’s probably stripped down to the frame by now.”

Probably! “I realize that,” Oswald snaps. 

“What’s this for, again?”

“Nothing that concerns you,” he says, then, more graciously, “Thank you. I’ll get on your little list of demands soon. Though no promises about that last one,” he winks at Jim who just rolls his eyes and finally turns back to the files on his desk. He doesn’t press again on what it’s for, and Oswald is thankful for it. Either he thinks the request is innocent enough or he’s finally cleared the less he knows, the less he’s involved later down the line. Good for him. 

Oswald walks as briskly as he can out of the precinct and onto the street; the cold smoggy wind he’s hit with feels like a breath of fresh air compared to the congestion in the building. He dials his driver to tell him to bring the car around, and while he’s waiting he treats himself to a few minutes of overthinking. 

Worst case scenario is that Isabella knows the car had been tampered with and is sitting on the information to drop at an opportune time. She’d certainly tell Ed, which he had to assume would turn him against Oswald in an instant. Which would be unfair, he thought, considering the attempt wasn’t even successful—not to mention Ed’s known her for less than a week. He takes a deep breath to avoid going down that rabbit hole again. 

He’s getting ahead of himself, anyways. It will be fine, everything so far has worked out for him in the end. It gets pretty dicey in the middle, sure, but he’s still here, isn’t he? Besides, even if she did suspect foul play, she has no reason to suspect Oswald besides the fact he threatened her personally right before she left on that trip and he has every resource and motivation to do it. 

Okay, fine, it isn’t fine. He just needs to find that damn car already and make sure no one inspects it further than “yep, that sure is Isabella’s car! Too bad its (almost certainly) totaled!” He also needs to avoid tearing his own brain apart in anticipation. 

Where the hell is that driver?

Oswald cycles his attention between impatiently looking up and down the street to checking nonexistent texts on his phone when he spots Barbara again. She’s standing almost at the corner of the building, and he takes his previous disparaging opinion about her hairspray habits back because it’s incredibly windy today and not a hair is out of place. She notices him looking at her, and instead of checking his phone for the fifth time to make sure it’s still Wednesday morning, he walks over to her. 

“Didn’t want to see your ex-fiancé after all?” He asks, because he really can’t help antagonizing.

“Thought better of it,” she says simply, looking out at the traffic on the street instead of at him. A small smile crosses her face. “Seeing you there made me realize I was acting pathetic and annoying. Like you.”

The (admittedly malicious) smile drops off his face. She’s certainly come a long way from the charming, helpless house-girlfriend he met years ago; all sharp edges and hard-to-pin-down motivations behind her quite frankly baffling life choices. At least she’s interesting, he thinks, in her own strange way. In another world, he thinks he might have really liked to get brunch and bottomless mimosas with her. In this one, she’s getting on his last nerve. 

He cuts to the chase. “Do you want a seat at the table or not?” He asks.

“I already said—“

“Do you want it or not?” He repeats.

“Yes,” Barbara huffs, indignant. “Yes, I want it. But what changed? I thought you were brushing me off again.”

How observant of her, he certainly was! Only he’s had time to spiral, and let’s face it, the GCPD is useless on a good day. “I said I would think about it, didn’t I? And I have: if you can prove yourself and get me some information I need, you’ll get what you want.” She narrows her eyes at him.

“Jim wasn’t much help, huh?”

“You know how slow they are at their jobs,” he says with a hand wave. “And I’m on a tighter schedule than he can accommodate.” 

She crosses her arms. “What am I looking for?” She asks, and he repeats the same vague description he gave Jim. As soon as he finishes she lets out a small, humorless laugh.

“Oh, I get it. Send me on an impossible task to get me out of your hair. Dangle the carrot in front of my face to yank it away at the last second. Do you realize how big this city is? You do know that cars are stolen literally every thirty minutes—“

“I realize that!” He snaps, and has the briefest feeling of deja vu. “But it’s a real offer. You find this car for me and your no longer sidelined and relying on Tabitha and Butch. And this goes without saying, but keep them out of it,” he adds. 

Giving the address of Isabella’s apartment felt too risky at the time, but hearing it again from someone else he realizes it would be a truly impossible task to complete without it. He hastily writes down the address of the house a block away from Isabella’s. Can’t give the game away, but close enough that it shouldn’t matter. “Start looking around here.”

Barbara pockets the paper and raises an eyebrow. “Are you gonna tell me why I’m racing against the clock searching for a random car?”

Obviously not. “You’ll get details if you can prove you can handle them. I mean, no offense, but you kind of have a reputation of being a loose canon. And you’re still hanging around that mother killer and the traitor.” He laughs mirthlessly. “You’re honestly lucky I’m giving you anything at all.”

“Fine,” she says, not rising to the bait and stuffing her hands into her coat pockets. “But you better not be wasting my time.”

“That’s up to you,” Oswald says, and she turns to leave. 

He’s not entirely confident in Barbara—both in her ability to actually find anything or to keep Tabitha and Butch out of it—but he’s taken shots in the dark before. Whatever gets him out of this nightmare the fastest; Jim didn’t exactly seem eager to start searching. And if she fails like he thinks she will, he’ll still get to knock her down a peg. 

If nothing else, at least Oswald will get a good gloating session out of this. 

Finally, he spots his car idling on the curb in front of the precinct. It’s probably been there for a while now—how long was he talking to Barbara? He strolls over and gets in the back seat, remembers all of the things he has to do today that got put off by this unexpected errand, and slumps back against the seat in quiet defeat. Turns out, it’s really hard to juggle mayoral duties, organized crime empires, and secret murder plots. Who’d’ve known?

Oswald tells his driver to take him back to the mansion before he starts on anything else so he can get his bearings, even if he’s already hideously late. He needs to rethink and possibly replan this whole Isabella situation before it drives him insane. And, damnit, he never got a chance to eat breakfast this morning. 

Chapter Text

The mansion is blissfully silent when Oswald walks inside. Hopefully his unwelcome guest has finally made her exit. He shrugs off his overcoat to hang by the door and almost has a heart attack when he walks into the living room to see Isabella perched silently on the couch like a statue, already staring at him. 

“Wow! Hi! I… thought you had already left!” He says to her in a false bright-and-pleasant tone, acting like he did not just jump at the sight of her. She smiles in acknowledgement but doesn’t say anything. There’s something off or different about her, but Oswald can’t quite put a finger on it. The silence goes on for a moment longer, so he speaks again, “are you—or, is Ed still—“

“He said he was going to finish something up in his office, then walk me out,” Isabella says. 

Oswald just blinks at her. “The door’s right there,” He juts a thumb behind himself to show just how ridiculous he thinks the idea of ‘walking her out’ is. He lets out a haughty little laugh. “I mean, did you’d get lost?”

Isabella’s brows knit together in concern, but the smile sits still on her face. It reminds him of the look she had given him when he first told her to stay away from Ed. An awful, pitying, smile. “You know, we will have to learn to get along. Eventually.” She folds her hands in her lap; tentative but sure and steadfast, like she’s dealing with a nervous, feral animal. Oswald’s lips press into a thin line, a string being pulled too tight. 

“I don’t know what you mean, I think we’re getting along just fine,” he lies, but the insincere tone he says it with grates on even his own ears, so he might be overdoing it. She looks on with the same expression, tilting her head slightly. Is it just her hair that’s off? No, he’d noticed that already this morning, along with the new glasses. Then what is it?

“Ed just thinks you’re overworked right now, and I didn’t dissuade him from that idea, but I could,” she says. A cute attempt at her first threat towards him. Oswald rolls his eyes. 

“I am overworked. Running Gotham in more ways than one. Your point?”

Isabella turns her smile to her knees, seemingly accepting that he isn’t listening. “God, you’re stubborn,” she says, more to herself. “Well,” she rises from her seat and takes a few steps to stand in front of him, “at the very least—your thinly veiled threats won’t get you very far.” Her serene smile drops to something deadly serious. 

“You know that by now, right?” Her tone of voice changes so severely it’s enough to instantly wipe the patronizing look off of Oswalds face. He stares back in silent shock, struggling to process the complete 180 her personality just made. 

“So we’ll have to learn to get along.”

Before Oswald has a chance to respond, he hears footsteps walking down the hall. 

“Isabella is Os—Oh, you are here,” Ed says brightly, blissfully unaware of the stand-off he just interrupted. Isabella and Oswald share one last look before both turning their attention to Ed as he walks fully into the room. “How was your errand at the GCPD?” He asks.

“Oh, that—it was fine,” he waves his hand in a way he hopes also conveys it was fine and clears his throat. “I had Jim get a couple of officers to start looking for the car right away. It’ll turn up.”

“Great.” Ed smiles at him. “I just need to grab a few things, but once you’re ready, we can head to the car rental agency?” His voice tilts up at the end even though it doesn’t really sound like a question. 

Oswald doesn’t remember volunteering this much of his help with all of this car business. He had hoped his involvement with the whole situation (as far as they knew) would end at him selflessly offering his time and resources to tell someone else to do something about it. He smiles apologetically. 

“I’d love to help you two with that—“ he really wouldn’t, “—but I have a lot to get done today, so…” he shrugs his shoulders and lets the sentence trail off, hoping they take the hint. Oh no, he won’t be able to join the honeymooners on a tedious errand where they’ll be as obnoxious and in love as they were this morning? How will he cope? It’s remarkable how the mere thought of more third-wheeling makes him start to look forward to all the tedious bureaucracy he has to wade through today. 

“I know,” Ed says, “so I took it upon myself to rearrange and delegate—I hope that’s okay. You seemed a bit tense this morning; I thought you could do with a break. Your day is now clear and you aren’t behind a single deadline.” He grins widely and punctuates the last sentence with a playful poke to Oswald’s chest. He’s embarrassed at how even that slight touch is enough to melt his annoyance away to plain fondness and he feels a slight smile tug at the corners of his mouth. Meticulous and thoughtful, as always. Though he’s still not keen on having to third-wheel all day. 

Ed continues, “and Isabella actually has some errands to run this afternoon, so it’ll just be us.” Of course—he’s thought of everything. Whether or not Ed can sense the hostility between Isabella and himself, he doesn’t know (though Oswald likes to think he’s hiding it a great deal better than Isabella would have him believe). Either way, he’s glad he won’t have to pretend to tolerate her all day. 

“Well, since you’ve already planned it all out,” he says nonchalantly, though he doesn’t bother hiding the pleased look on his face. Ed mirrors his expression and it feels almost conspiratorial, closer to the partners-in-crime dynamic he’d so missed ever since Isabella had disrupted it all. The moment goes on for another beat before he hears Isabella rustle her coat, and they both turn to look at her. 

“I believe my cab is outside,” she says, pointedly looking only at Ed. Who’s the third wheel now? Oswald thinks spitefully, even though he knows it’s still very much him.

Isabella, seemingly determined to make that known, walks up to Ed, right in between them, forcing Oswald to take a step back. She raises her hand to the side of Ed’s face to pull him down for a brief, chaste kiss, and he watches Ed lean into her touch and smile against her lips. To his credit, Oswald’s eye only twitches once. They pull apart, still smiling at each other and Ed wraps a protective arm around her waist to lead her to the front door. As soon as they’re out of sight, Oswald lets his face fall into a scowl and makes his way to the kitchen for his long awaited snack. 

And it might be the paranoia talking, but Oswald could swear that he saw her side eye him before that kiss. He is well aware they’re together, okay? That’s just rubbing salt in the wound. She’s turning out to be a real sore winner. Though, the more troubling issue is her strange tone shift earlier. Oswald knows he’s been almost nothing but openly hostile to her, but up until now she’d done nothing at all in retaliation. The only, only change should be the attempt on her life—but she’d have no way of knowing about it if her car was stolen. The only way she could know is if she were dead inside of it. 

Maybe Oswald finally provoked her into fighting back, then. It does make him feel less petty and a bit more vindicated in his attempts to get rid of her, if nothing else. He still can’t shake the feeling that there was something different about her beside the startling personality change. Something he noticed before she ever spoke.

Oswald sits down at the dining room table with a pastry and a napkin, and waits for Ed to return from ‘walking Isabella out’. He considers the napkin for a moment, then pulls out a pen and starts brainstorming plan C’s for getting rid of Isabella. Oswald wouldn’t be where he is today if he gave up after his first (or tenth) plan of action blew up in his face. 

Admittedly, the beginning phases of his planning are a bit crude; all he has so far on his list is:

• car again too obvious
• poison?? 
• threaten family (will have to find family)

when he hears Ed enter through the front door and he scrambles to hide the napkin away.

“Ready to go?”

It’s started to sprinkle by the time they enter the city. Oswald watches the tiny raindrops splatter and run down the window, enjoying the comfortable silence the car ride has settled into. At least, for Oswald its a comfortable silence. Ed is drumming his fingers arrhythmically on his lap, looking out his own window and then forwards towards the driver in a seemingly random cycle, though Oswald feels his eyes land on him periodically. Obviously, there’s something on his mind.

“Something on your mind?” He asks. 

“No. Nope,” Ed pops the ‘P’ in ‘nope’. A beat. “…is there something on your mind?” 

“No,” Oswald says, a bit too defensively. “Why?”

“You just seem… a bit distracted, lately, is all,” Ed says slowly, as if he’s choosing his words carefully.

“It’s nothing,” Oswald says, and Ed seems to take that answer at face value, though the silence that falls over them this time feels decidedly uncomfortable. Great. The last thing he needs is Ed obsessively trying to fill in the blanks on Oswald’s thinly-veiled preoccupied mood, so he adds, “just a little tired. Haven’t been sleeping well lately.” 

“I’ll look into getting a new mattress ordered. Who knows how old the one you have now is,” Ed replies, and Oswald curtly nods. The mattress is fine, but he needs to aim Ed’s laser-focused pragmatism at something that isn’t—

“What did Jim say about Isabella’s car?”

The car. 

“He was as helpful as always,” Oswald answers truthfully, because trying to cash in on his end of mutual favors with Jim has always felt like pulling teeth. It’s really nothing new. When he see’s Ed’s dejected look, he lies and adds, “I’m sure they’ll find it soon.” In an alley, or a ditch, already stripped of anything useful and an absolute dead end for all parties involved. 

Before any other stressful, straightforward questions are asked of Oswald, they finally arrive at the rental agency, and their meandering conversation is mercifully put out of its misery. 

The errand goes off without a hitch. Presumably, at least. Oswald is only half paying attention and lagged a bit getting out of the car, so when he reaches the store counter Ed and the clerk are already engaged in a surprisingly heated discussion on rates and miles and safety ratings. He stands at his side, pretending to follow whatever papers they were now flipping through. Oswald’s not too sure why he was needed for this errand at all, really, but its not like he was going to say no to a rare opportunity to spend time with Ed without that intrusive librarian present. 

He cringes internally at his own admission. Oswald is not enjoying how pathetic the whole situation is making him seem. 

Though, as much of a chore he was expecting the day to be, Oswald finds himself enjoying watching Ed give this middling store manager a run for his money.   The man isn’t used to the methodical, exacting way that Ed is grilling him on each and every detail—he’s spluttering out a lot of “well, I’d have to check”’s. It’s entertaining and endearing, in the way that most everything Ed does seems to be endearing to him now. Embarrassing to admit, maybe, but it does help pass the time listening to a conversation that would otherwise bore him to tears. 

Oswald doesn’t notice the slight smile that had spread across his face until it’s wiped clean off by the sudden, jarring ring of his cellphone. He lets out an audible sigh, which goes graciously ignored by Ed but earns him a side eye from the man behind the counter. Lifting his hand in silent apology, he quickly walks a few steps away before he checks the number and answers. 

“Gabe!” He greets. “How is the… investigation?” Oswald asks delicately, and turns to see the clerk checking something on a clipboard while Ed is oddly honed-in on him. 

“We got the kid that was with us on the hit,” Gabe says. “First time on a job like that, but he keeps saying he doesn’t know anything about a stolen car. Swears it on his life.”

“…Okay? And?”

“Me and the guys, we believe him,” Gabe says. “I don’t know what happened, but I don’t think this kid—“

“I don’t care how much you ‘believe him’,” Oswald practically snarls, ignoring the startled glances of random patrons and rapidly losing awareness of Ed’s eyes on him. “You tell him that unless he confesses or gives up whatever defector he let steal from under him, he’s about to start losing fingers.” The adrenaline is getting to him now. His face scrunches up in frustration and he puts up a finger, even though there’s no way for Gabe to see either of those gestures. “You know what? Lose a couple right off the bat, just for wasting my time,” he orders, and Gabe grunts his acknowledgement before hanging up the line.

Oswald turns back to the counter and flinches only slightly when he finds Ed still watching him. He’d expected him to have lost interest in the call almost immediately—he makes a million like them around Ed all the time after all—but Ed just looks at him expectantly, a slight devilish smile on his face. 

“Just had to… take care of that, real quick,” Oswald says vaguely, glancing around at the customers now pointedly looking away from him. Ed raises his eyebrows, silently prodding for more information, and Oswald hesitantly adds “I thought I might have Gabe help look for your—Isabella’s car.”

Ed grins at his answer. “Thank you Oswald. It’s always amazing to see you at work,” he says simply, admiration plain on his face.

Oswald’s eyes widen a fraction. He’s been so in his head the whole morning that the genuine compliment completely throws a wrench in every paranoid schema his mind had been running off of up until this point. He doesn’t quite know what to say. 

“Oh, well, ha, you know,” he stumbles over that incredibly articulate sentence, turning his smile and fast-encroaching blush down toward the ground. This is stupid, he thinks. 

This is stupid.

How many times has he heard that same praise before? He’s pretty sure he’s heard that exact sentence spoken to him at least twice when he was hiding out in Ed’s apartment, but Oswald didn’t think twice about it then. He actually might have rolled his eyes about it at the time, which makes him cringe in the present. Now, the same words turn him into a stuttering idiot, and he takes an inordinate amount of pride in them (and is almost certainly reading in more affection than is actually there).

Oswald regains his composure quickly—a necessary skill in his line of work though admittedly not often used for things as trivial as this. He looks up to see Ed has evidently satisfied his hundred or so concerns about the rental car and is signing the paperwork presented to him by the newly-tired-looking salesman. 

At least he won’t have to spend the rest of his day in this shabby establishment, but he’s not thrilled his time with Ed away from Isabella is so quickly coming to an end. Although, Oswald did already lay the groundwork for this whole “overworked” charade he backed himself into; maybe Ed could be talked into going out somewhere for lunch. For his mental well-being, shall we say. 

He’s debating what opening sounds more nonchalant versus more likely to succeed (“might as well stop for lunch while we’re in town” or “let’s try that cafe that just opened up”) when his phone rings. Again. Come on, Gabe. It cannot be that hard to intimidate and threaten a confession out of someone. He should know, he’s had confessions intimidated and threatened out of himself plenty of times. 

“What?” He answers, not bothering to hide his irritation. Some of the customers near him unsubtly brace themselves for the call. 

“Well hello to you, too,” Barbara’s voice sounds through the speaker. 

Oswald blinks. Then, in a calmer, more confused tone, “…Did you forget the address already, or something?” He condescends. 

“Funny!” She says, and he can hear her catty smile through the phone. “I think I found your car.” 

“What?” He asks, immediately stepping away to put more distance between himself and Ed. “It’s been an hour, how could you have something already?”

“I just called a couple of junk yards in the area. Third one had a car that fits your description. I figured any and all stolen cars in Gotham end up there eventually.”

Huh. He probably could’ve (and in retrospect should’ve) done it himself, but he didn’t claw his way up to the top of the dog pile just to ‘do things himself’. 

“Well, where is it?” He huffs. 

“Not so fast,” she says, “I believe we have some terms to discuss first.” Oswald rolls his eyes, then when he remembers she can’t see any physical displays of annoyance, heaves a big sigh through the receiver. 

“Fine. Whatever. I’ll meet you there. Be there soon.” Barbara gives the address which he hastily writes down on a scrap paper he snagged from the counter behind him. He hangs up the phone and is startled to turn and see Ed’s attention on him once again.

“Who was that?” Ed asks, innocently enough, though the twitch in his brow and the tension in his shoulders betray slight suspicion or hesitation. 

“No one,” he answers. “Just a small errand I have an underling on,” he lies, easily as breathing air. It shouldn’t surprise him because he’s been lying since he learned how to speak, relies on it really, but he doesn’t usually have to lie to Ed. It puts a cold, gnawing sense of dread in the pit of his stomach; the missing guilt of lying he assumes the average, law-abiding, non-sociopathic person usually has is bubbling up inside of him. 

“You never told me about it.” Ed’s stare bores into him. A beat, then, “I heard a woman’s voice,” Ed says, not confrontationally but matter-of-factly, and damnit if Oswald isn’t kicking himself for not having more female underlings. 

“I…” he starts, then sighs when he realizes he doesn’t really have a clean cut through this, “it was Barbara. She wants to prove herself so I sent her on an errand. It’s really nothing important”, he says coolly, even though he knows he just dropped the equivalent of a nuclear bomb on Ed with that revelation. 

Ed just stares at him, expression expertly blank. “You sent Barbara on an errand?” He asks, then clarifies, “you sent Barbara on an errand and didn’t tell me?” If Oswald wasn’t preoccupied with trying to contain fallout, he would find the way Ed dramatically enunciates the sentence quite endearing. 

“Yes,” he answers plainly. “I think she could make a good asset.” Not a lie, so long as he doesn’t mention the reason he thinks that. 

“You think Jim’s crazy ex-girlfriend will make a good asset,” Ed accuses rather than asks. He isn’t outright questioning his sanity but he’s getting damn near close to it. Oswald fights to keep his face neutral. “You think Tabitha and Butch’s crony is going to make a good asset. She’s already under your authority. What could she possibly have to offer?” 

“She can be useful, sometimes,” Oswald says, because he isn’t sure how else to counter Ed’s admittedly good points. Sure, she’s linked to a few unfortunate characters in the city—namely the woman who murdered his mother and a man who tried to kill his best friend—but she’s currently the only one to hold any information that could move his Isabella plot forward. Therefore, she can’t be all bad. 

Obviously he can’t tell Ed all that. 

“Yeah, about as useful as a hole in the head,” Ed snaps, then almost instantly seems to think better of it. “I’m just trying to understand why you didn’t loop me in on it.”

“There’s a lot to running the city. I guess it just slipped my mind,” he says. When it doesn’t do anything to alleviate the kicked-puppy look on Ed’s face, he adds, “It’s fine, Ed. It’s not like she’ll get any real power.” This is also true—he plans to backstab her as soon as she metaphorically or literally turns her back.

Ed’s face does something strange—his eyebrow twitches and his mouth opens and shuts, apparently reconsidering whatever he was about to say. 

“Okay,” Ed sighs, much less vigor in his voice, and he turns his gaze away from Oswald and out the windows towards the parking lot. It feels like he’s said something wrong, and of course Oswald has said something wrong, but he truly didn’t expect this somber-like reaction from the mere idea of Barbara being in contact with him. It’s worrying, to say the least. Oswald should say something, anything—

“I was thinking,” Ed says before he has the chance to even open his mouth, “we never did have that dinner.”

“Dinner?” Oswald asks. 

“Since I had missed the one we originally planned,” Ed says delicately, “and you never told me… whatever it was that you wanted to discuss?” Oswald blinks.

That hopeless dinner was so far out of his mind he almost doesn’t know what Ed is talking about at first. Then realization seeps in like rainwater in boots and confusion gives way to simmering bitterness and dejection. And surprise, too, that Ed even remembers they were to have dinner on the same evening he supposedly met the “love of his life”. Oswald barely holds back a bark of laughter at the absurdity of the idea. 

“Right. That.” He clears his throat, stalling, then waves his hand like he’s wafting away smoke. “Don’t worry about it!” A tense smile spreads across his face. “It’s all taken care of. Nothing you need to worry about.”

Ed stares at him appraisingly. Oswald tries not to flinch under his gaze. A moment passes. 

“Well?” Ed presses, and when Oswald does nothing but blink back at him he adds, “what was it?”

“What was what?” 

“The thing you wanted to discuss with me that’s been ‘taken care of’,” Ed, well, not quite snaps but there’s a shortness, a lack of patience that wasn’t there before. He must be less willing to leave things vague now that he knows bombshells like Barbara could be hiding in the fine print. And Oswald knows he’s the one currently lying to his face, but he does not appreciate that tone. 

Still, conspirators can’t be choosers. “You know what? Let’s just have the dinner anyways. For old times’ sake.” Oswald says placatingly, instead of trying to outmaneuver Ed any longer. “And… I’ll fill you in then.”

Ed backs down then, shoulders lowering from where they’d been gradually raised. “Alright.” He gives Oswald a hesitant smile. “I’ll grab us.a bottle of wine.”

Oswald does inadvertently laugh out lout at that, but Ed joins in with a small laugh of his own, so it feels a bit more camaradic instead of caustic and tense. 

Besides, it’s not like Ed can meet another girl at the liquor store. 

Chapter Text

“I guess the car thief didn’t get far.” 

“I guess not.”

Oswald appraises the scene with a carefully blank face that still feels more like a grimace. A heap of twisted red metal and shattered glass lays out before him, haphazardly strewn across a random section of a random junk yard. The doors on the side where it must have been hit are caved inward, and every window is unsurprisingly blown out. Under the overcast skies and thin, steady drizzle, it looks mostly unremarkable, indistinguishable from every other wrecked car surrounding it, but to Oswald it may as well have a halo of light illuminating it for the relief he feels seeing it. One less moving part to track.

He glances skeptically at Barbara. “Are you sure it hasn’t already been crushed?”

“Guy on the phone said it came in a day ago. Worst crash he’s seen all year.” Barbara stands to his side with her arms crossed, head tilted, like a particularly inquisitive bird. 

“That’s a bit dramatic. I mean, it’s Gotham, there are semi-truck pile-ups and city bus-jackings near weekly.” A rearview mirror falls to the ground with a ca-lunk from where it had been hanging by a wire. 

“Although it does look bad.”

“It is bad. And it fulfills my end of the bargain, so…” Oswald ignores her pointed trail-off and moves in to get a better look. A few more steps and he now has a view of the interior of the car, whose seats turned out to not actually be blood red, just stained that way. He winces. 

“God, did they even find a body?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t ask. You told me to find a car, I found a car.” He takes a moment to glare at her before turning back to the wreck, but there’s not much else to see. Most everything’s been destroyed beyond recognition, and if the crime scene is anything to go off of, he doesn’t have to waste any time hunting down whatever idiot tried to steal a sabotaged car. Some things just take care of themselves. 

“You don’t seem very surprised to see your car like this,” Barbara calls out, still standing a healthy distance away from the wreck. 

He scoffs. “I didn’t expect to find a stolen car in Gotham in one piece, no.”

“No, you expect to find it on cinderblocks in an alley somewhere. Probably a smashed window or two. Not completely obliterated.”

“It’s Gotham,” Oswald offers as a non-answer. Barbara hums. He braces himself for the interrogation to continue, but she doesn’t push. 

Then a glint catches his eye, which should be unremarkable since he’s standing in a maze of crumpled metal glistening in even the dull light of the overcast sky, but he looks anyway. There’s something caught in between the dashboard and (what used to be) the windshield. Another step and he can finally make out what it actually is: a smashed pair of glasses, identical to the ones he’d seen Isabella in before. 

The sight of it stops him in his tracks, though he only hesitates for a moment before grabbing them. They’re as devastated as the rest of the wreck, he observes as he turns them around in his hands. He’s not sure why he grabs them at all, really; some kind of self-punishing reminder about near misses, maybe. It’s just surreal to see them so destroyed when he’s seen Isabella walking around just fine earlier in the day. A bit strange, too, since she doesn’t even need glasses and within a couple days of her and Ed’s bizarre dead girlfriend role-play she now keeps them in her car. 

Wait. That is strange. Not his typical paranoid, hyper-vigilant strange either, but actually strange.

“Hit gone wrong? Or, right maybe? I didn’t know you kept trophies,” Barbara says, snapping Oswald out of his thoughts. He ignores her, again, pockets the glasses, and turns away from the car to start making his way out of the junk yard entirely. “I didn’t think you were the type. I thought that was more Nygma’s whole deal.” 

“If it was a hit, I would probably know where the car ended up, now wouldn’t I?” Oswald counters condescendingly. That’s not true, of course; since it was a cut brake line he wouldn’t know much about where exactly it happened at all, only that it did. Not that Barbara would know that. 

“Not if it’s a snipped brake line,” Barbara says. Oswalds blinks. 

“Wh—“

“I had the guy check the car out when I got here, since clearly, I wasn’t going to get anything from you. And cutting the brake lines is the oldest mob-trick in the book. So,” she smiles at her own cleverness, “who got iced?” 

“No one,” he answers, stupidly, because from the sheer amount of blood soaked into the seats obviously someone got killed, and answering that loaded question at all assumes guilt.

“Apparently the body was nowhere to be found when the GCPD finally got to the scene,” she continues. “I thought it must be your doing, but you needed help to find the car in the first place, so it couldn’t have been you.” She shrugs. “I guess there are some things that even you don’t know about in this city.” Barbara watches him with a smile hidden underneath her crafted bored and innocent facade. It is so obviously a manipulation tactic, Oswald should laugh in her face, turn on his heel, and walk right out of there. Unfortunately, his precarious hold on power in Gotham is a bit of a sore spot for him, so that thought barely crosses his mind before he lashes out. 

“One stupid, stolen car does not mean that I don’t know every in and out and going on in Gotham and where exactly you land in it. And I promise you, if you think I’m sidelining you now,” he steps towards her, crowding into her space, “just wait until you’ve given me a real reason to freeze you out.” He tries to tower over her even though they’re about the same height. In his more insecure moments he imagines it looks not unlike one of those Chihuahuas that think they’re Pit Bulls. 

“I’m on your side, remember? Barbara says, stepping back from him. “I helped you find the car.”

“For a reward, yes, I know. So what do you want in return? Your assassin girlfriend and her backstabbing boyfriend to come out of hiding?” 

“Gee, really?” She snarks back.

When Oswald just glares at her in return she sighs and looks away. 

“Forget about them. At least let me into the conversation. I know you’ve been meeting with all of the head families without me.”

“What makes you think that?” he asks innocently. At her unamused stare, he concedes, “it’s not my fault none of them take you seriously.” 

She laughs. “So now the guy calling himself ‘penguin’ is gonna preach to me about respectability?”

“It’s a power move,” he snaps. People not taking him seriously is also a bit of a sore spot—admittedly, it was one of the main reasons he ran for mayor in the first place. He thought he had made some progress with it, after he won the position without so much as a single bribe, but he supposes deep wounds need time to heal. 

(And obviously ‘penguin’ wasn’t his first choice of name; it’s just the one that stuck. ‘King of Gotham’, try as he might, never really caught on.)

“It’s taking the power away from a name used disparagingly towards yourself. Maybe you should start calling yourself—“ she narrows her eyes at him. He falters, “…whatever they’re calling you behind your back.”

“I can handle myself once I get through the door,” she says. “I just need to get in." Oswald suppresses an eye-roll at that, seeing as how she’s never managed to handle herself in anything he’s seen her put her mind to, though it’s nice that she has the confidence. And, more than he would like to admit, he knows if she did get through that door there’s always a chance she might actually gain enough momentum to shake him from his throne, or at least destabilize what he has tried so hard to set in stone. To her face, he acts like her every move is insignificant to him, but underestimating often gets you killed in this line of business. 

“Hmm. How about you’ll get a cut on protections for a couple of months instead?” he says with a smile. “You’re welcome.”

She scowls at him, and he can see she’s revving up to argue some more, but as far as Oswald is concerned he can finally put this whole car ordeal behind him. All that’s left to do is get back home and iron out the details of his plan B for Isabella. He had a particularly vivid daydream on the ride over that involved alligators, but he suspects that one might be a bit hard to pull off. 

As he turns to leave, Barbara’s hand shoots out to grab him by the shoulder. “You won’t even consider it? 

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” He snipes back on instinct, wrenching his arm from her grasp. “Striking out with Jim or third-wheeling Butch and Tabitha, perhaps?”

“I found this thing in a couple hours; I guarantee Jim doesn’t even remember you asked.” Barbara sounds uncharacteristically sincere. “Doesn’t loyalty mean anything?" 

He sighs. “Fine. Fine. By all means, lets discuss this for even longer, but just so you know, I don’t foresee my mind ever changing in your favor.” 

So she follows him back to the mansion (against his better instincts), though at least when he has the same exact answer for her there he’ll also have someone around to physically toss her out. She rides with him in his car, which leads to a comically short but only marginally hostile argument about lowering the A/C. She doesn’t try to make conversation, which is just as well by him since they can only seem to argue any time they come into contact at all. He really can’t see what she wants from any kind of partnership with him. 

When they get there, Oswald notices the rental car from earlier parked near the driveway, which means Ed and possibly Isabella are here already. He is getting a bit tired of having to prepare himself to enter his own home. 

Oswald audibly sighs upon the sight of it, leading to a sideways glance from Barbara. 

“Ed’s girlfriend, Isabella” he says, pointing to the car, trying not to gag on the word girlfriend, and then, because he really can’t help himself, he adds, “she seems to always be here, for some reason!” Barbara squints at him but nods her head in polite acknowledgement that he was speaking to her and they move on, entering through the side door, near the kitchen. With any luck, Ed and Isabella will be in the main foyer, and he won’t have to walk in on… anything that he doesn’t want to walk in on. 

Barbara eyes dance wildly around the walls and ceiling, like a thief eyeing her next prize. She looks enthralled by even the plain entry way they’re in, but when she finally speaks its only to hum and say, “seen better.”

Oswald takes a deep breath to try and circumvent the fit of rage he feels coming on. 

“Barbara,” he starts placatingly, “I will admit you have been helpful. I have already cut protection fees to practically nothing. If you really want me to sweeten the deal I’ll keep pretending not to notice, as mayor, all the money laundering your little club does,” she rolls her eyes at him, “or all the less than upstanding citizens it employes. But I don’t know what else you expect from me.” He tilts his head condescendingly. “It was only a car. Not exactly rocket science”

“I just want you to know that as an ally, I’m indispensable,” she turns to face him fully, “and as your enemy I’ll be worse than you ever could have imagined,” she says, manic glint in her eye. 

Oh no, a blonde woman promising to make his life hell? He hasn’t faced that a million times over—in high school alone. 

He’s about to voice that thought when they’re interrupted by Ed walking in with Isabella at his side, practically joined at the hip but at least they didn’t walk in holding hands, or worse. Isabella is wearing an annoyingly friendly grin, which Ed mimics imperfectly and turns into a grimace as soon as he spots Barbara. 

“Oswald,” he greets, and then, with much less enthusiasm, “Barbara.”

“Ed,” she greets him back. She looks at Isabella, “Izzy.” Instantly Oswald realizes his mistake in telling Barbara her name, or letting her come inside to talk instead of dealing with it in the car. Ever speaking to her at all, really, even though he does find it just the slightest bit funny seeing Isabella almost physically recoil from the nickname. 

“It’s… Isabella,” she corrects, but Barbara makes no sound of apology and the seconds of silence that follow feel like eons. 

“Well!” Oswald tries to steer the situation back in his favor (or at least towards ending very soon), “I just need a moment with Barbara and then she will be on her way, won’t you?”

“I mean—“ Barbara starts, horrifyingly, but Oswald won’t let her get another word in. 

“Anyway, Ed, I see Isabella is… still here. Will she be,” inhale, exhale, “joining us for dinner this evening?” He asks reluctantly, because even though he’s already dreading the answer, his mother raised him right. 

“Actually, no,” Isabella answers even though he clearly didn’t direct the question towards her. “I’m meeting up with an old friend later. Thank you for the kind offer, though,” she smiles at him. Despite their hostile encounter earlier, he frustratingly cant find a trace of animosity in her expression, and the sickening sincerity makes him reflexively frown. 

Ed turns toward her, as if he’s hearing this for the first time, too. “But I thought we were going to—“

“I know, it’s just, I got a call when you were gone and…”

Oswald tunes out of the rest of their discussion—just keeps his ear out for a sign that someone might expect him to respond—because she’s just going on and on. He’s almost tempted to mime a ‘blah blah blah’ gesture towards Barbara, but stops himself on account of she is not his friend, just the closest person not directly involved in this juvenile love-triangle situation he’s found himself in. He settles on a pointed brow raise and tasteful slight eye roll instead. She almost-smiles and wrinkles her nose at them in return. 

Ed and Isabella finally come to some consensus, one Oswald is not a part of, of course (of course), and he and Barbara are finally set free of their dreadful surprise encounter. Ed gives Oswald, specifically, a polite nod goodbye and an afterthought remark that he had to speak with him about a work matter once Barbara left. Oswald responds far too eagerly for it to solely be about the work matter with, “yes, of course, I’ll come find you as soon as she leaves!”—most of which is said to Ed’s back as he walks with Isabella back towards the living room, hand on the small of her back. As soon as they’re out of earshot, he whips around to face Barbara. 

“What the hell is wrong with you? ‘Izzy’?” He asks sincerely. She ignores him. Her eyes dart back and forth between Oswald and Ed’s disappearing form as he walks down the hallway, her brows furrowed. He mirrors her expression, even looking down the hallway in case he might be able to see what has her so confused. Suddenly, her face lights up. 

“Oh my god,” she says. “You like Nygma?”

Oswald’s face goes completely blank. There is no way she just guessed that. 

“What? No. What? How—why would you think that?” He eventually settles on, trailing off with a painfully insincere and transparently anxious laugh that leaves the tail end of his sentence sounding like he has hiccups. He fears the damage is done. 

She gasps, and raises a hand to cover her open mouth melodramatically. “You do! I knew it! You like—“

“Shhhhhh! Shush!” Oswald whisper yells, snatching her hands out of mid-air where they were animatedly accenting her yelling. “Keep your voice down, what is wrong with you?” He asks again, but she doesn’t answer, instead choosing to continue being irritatingly smug. 

“I knew it,” she repeats in a stage whisper. 

“Yes, you said that,” he snaps, shoving her hands out of his and brushing them off on his suit jacket. She shrugs him off in kind and pretends to be interested in the items on his shelf suddenly, obviously dying to say something else.  

“So that’s why you tried to have that woman killed.” 

His head whips around to look at her, fighting off an outright gasp of shock that would surely be admitting fault, but come on. There is no way she just guessed that too. 

Oswald blinks a few times to collect himself. “And you’re basing that on…?”

“Your little trophy you took earlier. She has the same glasses.” Of course. It’s a shot in the dark as far as accusations go (Isabella doesn’t have a monopoly on cat-eye brow-line frames, after all), but his face involuntarily flinches and gives him away anyway. “So, you’re trying to get rid of her to have Nygma all to yourself? This is seriously all because of Nygma?”

“No,” Oswald answers too quickly, then realizes that giving any answer at all incriminates him and his mouth snaps shut. Barbara blinks at him. “…It shouldn’t matter to you either way,” he says, instead of talking himself into a deeper hole. She scoffs and shakes her head, as if she has any room at all to judge. Her little wedding dress tantrum over Lee was very widely reported on. “You get what you want, I get what I want, we never have to speak about this again.” 

“I’m not getting quite all that I want,” Barbara reminds him, “and—don’t you think killing her is a bit, well, overkill?” She waves a hand. “I mean, can’t you just tell her to get lost? ‘Find your own nerdy psychopath, this one’s mine’?”

“You don’t think I thought of that?” An incredulous laugh bubbles up from his throat before he can stop it. “I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve threatened her—the woman is insane.” He leans in conspiratorially. “You know, she dyed her hair that color and wears those glasses because that’s what his,” he mouths ‘dead girlfriend’, “looked like?”

She winces. “Okay, that is strange.”

“I know! But when I tried—“ he stops mid-sentence, having realized he’d just been gossiping with Barbara. “It doesn’t matter. Just, take your win and we will never talk about this again.”

“No way, this is way more interesting. You know, you should’ve said something earlier. I have much more experience dealing with guy problems.” 

“You know, I actually believe that. But—”

“Now, what have you already tried?” She continues as if he hadn’t spoke. “I can guarantee there are some angles you haven’t thought of yet.” 

Oswald’s hands are already pressing into his eyes in exasperation. “No—no, this is exactly why no one takes you seriously. And I certainly don’t want any ‘advice’ from you—you don’t exactly have the best track record with men. That picture of you in the wedding dress was in the news for a week.” She scoffs as though she’s offended but they both know it’s true. “Just pretend like this conversation never happened, and in a week when Isabella eventually does go missing, you’ll keep your mouth shut.” 

“And then what?”

“…And then we never have to speak directly to each other again?”

“No, ugh,” she rolls her eyes, “what happens after she ‘disappears? Did you see the way they were together?”

Oh, did he? It’s not like it’s been the only thing he could concentrate on for the entire day. 

Deep breath. Sharp exhale. “Yes, Barbara, I saw them.”

“Even if you do, eventually, get rid of her, he’s not just going to bounce back in a week,” she says. Oswald’s mouth opens and shuts while he tries and fails to counter that argument. In a week? Obviously he knows Ed won’t be okay in a week; the vague timeline in his head extends to about a month. Although he is worried the longer he takes to finish the job, the longer it will take Ed to get over it. He needs to hurry up and get rid of her before he makes any more precious memories with the so-called love of his life. 

Hmm. Oswald does not like the way his stomach sinks when he puts it like that. 

“And don’t you think he’ll be just a little bit suspicious of the whole thing? A severed brake line is, like, the first thing anyone looks for in a hit. Once he finds out it was on purpose, where do you think he’ll look?”

“First of all, he won’t know it was on purpose at all, it would be an ‘accident’ and there was going to be a whole—and why would he have any reason to suspect me?”

She lets out a laugh at that, a short, mean, loud laugh. “You’re kidding, right?” She heaves a dramatic sigh that he quickly realizes is a mockery of himself moments before.  “Is Isabella,” she drawls mopily, “going to join us tonight? Or can I get you allll to myself—“

“Stop that!” He says from behind gritted teeth instead of trying to defend himself, half-heartedly shoving her back just to make his point. And again, instead of trying to defend himself, he says, “we’re not in your garish club, you don’t have to shout.” Now, of course, he trusts Barbara about as far as he could throw her, but if her little display holds even an echo of truth, it is a horrifying glimpse into the way he’s perceived. At the very least he needs to crack down on his eye rolls. 

“It’s what you were doing,” she says with a shrug. “I’m just saying, you are prime suspect number one. Motive, means, and opportunity.”

“Motive he’s never picked up on,” he counters, half self-pityingly. “You’re just strangely attuned to tension—did that come about after your coma or before?” 

“Oh, I think he just needs a push,” she says, smile never wavering but somehow turning sharp in seconds. What he thought was a harmless, albeit very catty, back-and-forth suddenly feels dead serious. Maybe the coma jab crossed a line. 

Oswald steps closer to her. “It’s a miracle they let you out of Arkham because you’re so obviously still insane. You wouldn’t even get anything out of that.”

“Sure I would,” she says, calm as ever. It clicks for him, then, and he kicks himself for not seeing it coming a mile away. He was under no illusions that she took a genuine sympathy or understanding for his situation, but he may have gotten a bit too comfortable in airing out his bottled up grievances to someone who would throw them right back in his face. Again, just like high school.  

“You could let me in on the family meetings, like I asked, or I could just tell him. Right now.”

Oswald’s stomach drops, but he’s had a lifetime of masking the feeling and his expression doesn’t so much as twitch. Any kind of “no” or “don’t” will only egg her on, show her she has leverage—which of course she does. He was nervous trying to say it himself; he doesn’t even want to think about what kind of reaction Ed would have hearing it from someone else, let alone Barbara. So, game of chicken it is. 

“He has no reason to believe you,” he says.

“Hmm,” she looks off to the distance for a moment, pretending to be in thought, “but he is smart, right? He could put together all the pieces once he knows he’s looking at a puzzle? I know you know he loves a puzzle. And, lucky for me, you’ve made it all but obvious.” Oswald says nothing but purses his lips and raises his chin at her, not budging. 

Barbara stares back at him. It’s a silent, tense few seconds. 

“Ed, could you come here?” She doesn’t break eye contact as she calls out. “I need to tell you something.” He thinks he hears a muffled affirmative called back, then the sound of footsteps getting closer. His next words come out in a rush.

“If you really think something as trivial as this is equivalent to actual influence in Gotham or that I could be persuaded to trade something so important for a little—“ he remembers to take a breath, “—it’s not gonna change anything,” he bites out. Down the hallway, Ed’s approaching footsteps ring out like thunder on a sunny day. 

“Sure it won’t,” Barbara says, smile widening like a shark smelling blood in the water, “but now I kinda want to see how he reacts.” Right, she’s completely ruthless and now Oswald is stuck between a rock and a rapidly approaching hard place. 

“You really are such a—“ Oswald’s mouth snaps shut as Ed finally enters the room. Not like Barbara couldn’t guess what he was about to say. He stands there for a moment, impatiently expectant. Oswald is trying to silently impart a number of threats to Barbara through eye contact alone but she avoids his gaze expertly. 

“Well?” Ed prompts, “you wanted to tell me something?”

“Why, yes, I did,” Barbara answers, voice brimming with the giddiness of someone who finally found an opportunity to be mean. 

Oswald considers just letting her do it, letting her try and cause a scene and refusing to budge on the issue any further. It would be the smart thing to do. The strong, unyielding thing to do. Let her know he couldn’t be pushed around with petty who-likes-who gossip, especially because that kind of trait would not be becoming of a mayor or crime lord. His grasp on the underworld could very well disappear over night. 

It’s not like Ed would even believe her. He’s had maybe one cordial interaction with her since Oswald’s known him, and it would be vastly overshadowed by the time he almost died in her club. All Oswald would have to do is deny it; she’s untrustworthy and unreliable.

…But damnit if she isn’t right that a single push might send him compulsively searching for absolute truth. And then what are his options? Admit he heard the truth from Barbara before himself or deny and bottle it up and hope he finds a natural moment to bring it up again a couple months down the line? 

In the end he finds he didn’t have to make a decision. His mouth moves before he can think as soon as Barbara says, “Did you know that Oswald here—“

“—has to plan a fundraiser? For the GCPD, I mean.” Ed raises his eyebrows but says nothing. “Jim was very insistent on it, in exchange for helping with the car.” The lie is pulled out of him as if he were being held at gunpoint. Actually, he would rather be held at gunpoint than at whatever smug expression Barbara is pulling at him right now. 

“The annual GCPD Spring Gala?” Ed asks.

Probably? He always forgets Ed used to work at the GCPD. “Right, that one.”

Ed opens and shuts his mouth, then puts his fingertips together in the middle of his lips, seemingly holding back from saying something. Abruptly he drops his hands to point at Barbara. “And she’s here because…?”

“I’m helping Ozzy plan, of course,” she says, and without missing a beat she sidles up to Oswald, leans her wrist on his shoulder and very obviously winks at him, which he pretends to not notice. Ed’s lips are pressed together. He just hums. 

“Is this the ‘small thing’ she was helping with?” Even his air quotes feel hostile. He knew Ed wasn’t crazy about Barbara but he had no idea how much malice he really held towards her. Or at least it never came up also directed towards him before. 

“Yes, I hadn’t told you because it—”

“Slipped your mind,” Ed supplies, before Oswald is forced to think of a good lie. "Got it. You’re busy.” He’s being uncharacteristically short with him. Oswald doesn’t really know what to say to that either, so they spend a few seconds in tense silence.

“So I’ll just see Barbara out, now,” Oswald says, and thankfully Ed takes it as his cue to leave. He gives Oswald a curt nod and ignores Barbara completely as he swiftly walks out of the room. Unfortunately, as soon as he does, Barbara has to speak again. She smiles impishly at him. 

“He seemed kinda jealous, right?” Barbara asks.

“You are out of your mind,” Oswald replies. 

She shrugs her shoulders. Oswald presses his lips together. 

“…What makes you say that?” He asks without thinking, then just as quickly shakes his head as if to dispel the thought. “No, no—we’re not doing this. Just leave. And, I guess, start finding catering for a fundraising gala,” he says with sarcastic enthusiasm. 

“I almost can’t believe you stopped me. He probably wouldn’t have believed me anyways,” she says  airily, and Oswald is inclined to agree. Once again, he’s let rash emotions cloud his judgement and now he’s paying for it. 

“So I guess I’ll see you at the meeting?” 

Dearly. 

“I promise you, if you so much as breathe a word of this to anyone, you will end up right along with—“ he nods his head to the side and, a bit more quietly, says, “her.”

“So alive and well?” She calls over her shoulder, managing to catch his gaze one last time before the door shuts behind her. Oswald silently understands it to be her having the last laugh. 

Chapter Text

Oswald is either living his sweetest dream or his worst nightmare, and the fact that he can’t tell the difference is just a testament to how downright weird his life has become in the past couple of days. 

When he’d originally agreed to have this make-up dinner (for a confession that now wouldn’t be seeing the light of day any time soon, mind you), it was to placate Ed and drive away any remaining suspicion. He wasn’t thinking about anything as ridiculous as getting a “do-over”, and he certainly wasn’t thinking about what it would be like when he actually made it to the day.

The same day, in fact. When Barbara made her exit, Isabella followed shortly after (intentionally lingering on a goodbye kiss long enough for him to see, he’s sure of it), Ed insisted that the dinner be that night. No time like the present; they were both suddenly miraculously free, after all. 

May as well get it over with. 

Now, he sits at the head of his long, empty dining room table, swirling his secret first glass of wine absentmindedly, anxiously waiting for Ed to return from the liquor store. Ed insisted, too, on getting them a nice, new bottle of wine for the occasion, never mind that Oswald had an entire wine cellar that he regularly kept stocked. One of his best, and sometimes most annoying qualities, is that Ed is extremely exacting. Oswald would never necessarily change this about him, but he wouldn’t mind some kind of pause button, or discretion on what tasks actually require exacting. For this dinner in particular, Oswald wouldn’t care if Ed just brought over a plastic bottle of gas station vodka.

Ed still hasn’t arrived when Olga starts laying out plates and silverware in her usual wordless, no-nonsense way. She pauses only once to raise an eyebrow at the open seats around him, which he politely ignores. Oswald had to assure her Ed actually was coming this time, which was an unexpected and humbling experience. He even thinks he saw her roll her eyes when he mentioned Ed by name, but he is going to chalk that up to the language barrier. 

She leaves to get the food and he settles his gaze on the candlelit centerpiece, blurry and unfocused. The only other light in the dining room is the flicker of warm flames from the dim, crackling fire in the fireplace. Oswald takes a large drink of his wine, which lands warmly in his empty stomach as he weathers through the most predictable sensation of deja vu. 

In the absence of information his mind goes to the worst. Isabella called and was suddenly free, or they met on the way in and she needed a ride, or Ed saw a girl that looked just like her, again, and felt the need to spend several hours with her to tell her as much, something—and Ed would run right to her. Of course he would, why wouldn’t he? She is his girlfriend, after all, a title and promise of prioritization in Ed’s life that Oswald so, so, recently held. Well, not the title (he was working up to that) but it was not so long ago that he could reliably count on his support or input or general presence. Now, a five minute delay gives him a sinking feeling that he won’t show at all. 

He downs the rest of the glass in one fell swoop instead of ruminating any longer. May as well pour another, he thinks, self-pityingly, when he heard the front door swing open and he hastens to hand the open bottle to Olga, whose expression doesn’t so much as twitch. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Ed calls from the entry way, the rustling noise he’s making suggesting he’s shrugging off a coat, “the main road was blocked off, I’m sure it’ll be a headache for us later.”

“Not at all,” Oswald answers, quite nonsensically but the words have already left his mouth. He abruptly decides he should be standing to greet him, and shuffles out of his chair. For a split second, he mortifyingly considers pulling out his chair for him but thankfully stops himself short just as Ed rounds the corner. 

“Oh—wow,” Ed says, taking in the scene as Oswald realizes too late that it all comes off a little, well, romantic.

Which it technically was supposed to be, once upon a time, but now the mood lighting and candle centerpiece comes off confusing at best and deathly awkward at worst. In the context of their relationship now, he can hardly believe just a few weeks ago he was just going to spring this on Ed out of the blue in the first place. Of course, it’s much to late to change anything so he just sets his expression in stone and counts on, yep—

“It looks nice. Did Olga make the meal?”—Ed’s intermittent cluelessness when it came to social cues. At least it’s working in his favor this time. Oswald hums affirmatively, Ed shows off the bottle of wine he absolutely did not need to purchase, and they finally, finally, sit down to dinner. 

“You really went all out,” Ed remarks as Olga silently sets the first course down in front of them. 

“Well,” Oswald shrugs, “I figured we don’t have as much time together anymore,” he says plainly. Ed looks up from his plate and catches his gaze, eyes narrowing slightly. 

“Right. We’ve both been… busy,” he says before turning his attention back to the food. 

Oswald blinks. There is no way Ed is equating his weeks old relationship to running an entire city twice over. He bites back an accusatory “what’s that supposed to mean?” and settles for a more diplomatic “what’s that?” Ed’s fork clatters against his plate as he puts it down with more force than necessary, and he sighs. 

“Why didn’t you tell be about Barbara?” He asks, and Oswald’s irritation at his attitude stutters a bit. Is that seriously what his sour mood is about? Not ‘telling him’ about Barbara? Honestly, what was there to tell? He didn’t know he needed permission to ask people for favors now, but he navigates the question like he navigates every other situation in which he’s backed against a corner: turning it around on the other guy.

“We did have plans a while before this…” Oswald trails off meaningfully, purposefully avoiding Ed’s gaze which should be softening right about now, if he’s played his cards right. “After that, it never seemed like y—we, had the time.”

At that, he finally looks up from the table and evaluates his work, though he still doesn’t feel fantastic about how many times he’s had to use his tried and true manipulation tactics against Ed. How many more times he would have to lie right to Ed’s face if his original plan were to ever come into fruition. It seemed so simple when he’d talked it halfway through with Gabe and sent him on his way, way back when. It seems like a bubble waiting to burst when he’s up face to face with it, now.

Ed looks up at him, critical stare replaced with a more thoughtful one, and Oswald can’t decide whether he’s satisfied his gambit worked or nauseated at just how easily it did. 

“Oswald—“

“It’s fine,” he hand-waves the concern away, as if he hadn’t been the one to bring it up in the first place. “It’s… all in the open now, isn’t it?” Ed doesn’t react in a way that Oswald can read and looks away a second later. It’s definitely nausea. Nothing another large gulp of wine can’t fix.

Ed’s brow twitches, then he gives a slight shrug and wry smile. “All in the open,” he repeats. A beat. “It’s just… Barbara…” Sigh. It might take a while for it to sink in. 

“Really Ed, it’s fine,” he reassures, trying halfheartedly to hide his irritation. He almost can’t believe Ed is getting hung up on such an insignificant part of his cover-up, but at least he’s not honing in on the shakier details. “She’s just helping plan a fundraiser. It’s really more a way to keep her on a short leash. She might not look it but she’s really one of the ones to watch—“

“But I plan things like that,” Ed interrupts. Oswald’s mouth snaps shut. “Oswald, I plan almost everything you do. It doesn’t make sense to have her so involved, unless…”

Although he is just the tiniest bit flattered that Ed feels so strongly about being left out of something as insignificant as party planning, it’s strange to see him get so hostile so quickly. “Ed,” Oswald catches his eye, “it. Is. Fine. She’s not very involved, anyway.” He assumes that will be true because he can’t imagine her going out of her way to further the illusion of a lie she forced him to create in the first place. “Can’t we just enjoy the meal?” Ed nods, and they begin eating in tense silence. 

In an ideal world, or maybe just Oswald’s better dreams, the dinner doesn’t start this way. He doesn’t have to bend and twist conversation into shape against its will. He’s suave; he knows exactly what to say and when to say it, what jokes will get the biggest laugh and which compliments will get the brightest smile. Ed’s eyes would light up at every clever comment, and he’d have a million of his own to fire back. There isn’t anyone to argue about. He wouldn’t stutter or pause or second guess once while he laid his heart bare, and Ed would… 

Well, at the very least he wouldn’t look as dejected as he does now sitting across the table from him, but Oswald is nothing if not persistent. 

He slowly, tactfully, leads them to safer topics of conversation. In almost all situations, but especially among thieves, outlaws, and general ne’er do wells, a “remember when?” conversation is about the safest you can go. Oswald makes a calculated, offhand remark about a Mr. Leonard that draws a smile—an actual, genuine, smile from Ed, and finally the sun emerges from behind the clouds. 

So it’s not all bad. It’s not bad at all, really. They’ve settled into reminiscing on their earliest days, in that cramped studio apartment, back when Ed would do anything for the trust and attention o this favorite career criminal. Oswald has long been aware of the dramatic irony of how completely their attentions and affections have flipped from the day they first met, but it smarts a little now, like pressing gently on a fresh bruise. 

It really does all come down to timing, doesn’t it? He can only imagine what his life would be like now if he had just… realized what he knows now a little it sooner. Or at least had the guest to voice it a couple hours earlier. Maybe they’d be just like they are now, laughing at stories they’ve heard a million times over with an added air of conspiracy, like sharing the world’s greatest inside joke. This perfect view  is at the corner of his vision, on the tip of his tongue, and he can almost pretend that it is indeed his truth—the easy conversation and comfortable silence—but every time he gets close to the illusion it’s stained by every unsaid word, the idea alone of his failed confession haunting him even now. He can’t even imagine how he’d begin to approach the subject now—not like he had a solid plan to begin with—but now he’d have to factor in the grieving process and whether or not Ed subscribed to the three-month-rule in addition to getting over his own frayed nerves. What would his grieving process look like, anyway? He’d confidently (arrogantly) told Barbara gettin over Isabella would take no time at all, but the longer this goes on the more time doubt has to creep into his mind. 

Plus, every so often Ed says something off hand mentioning Isabella, something that Oswald can’t pretend isn’t irrefutable proof of a fantasy left dying, that makes him take a slightly longer swig of his wine, which is another strange development this eventing: Ed is trying to keep up with Oswald’s drink count. Or at least that’s what it looks like from this end of the table. He doesn’t consider himself an alcoholic in the classical sense, but he’s also not blithely unaware of his tendency to search for comfort at the bottom of a bottle. Ed, as far as he is aware, does not share this trait with him, so to see him consistently finish his own glass every time Oswald is about pour another is odd, to say the least. He’s not sure what to make of it, other than it must have been a hell of a week for them both. Maybe he’s finally growing into that hardened criminal he’s always claimed to be—it’s really not his place to judge.

Either way, in an ideal world, and most of his better dreams, this is the way the dinner eventually starts to go. 

Oswald doesn’t know who’s idea it was originally to move their conversation from the table to the couch besides the fireplace, but he’s happy they did. The wine is definitely catching up to him now; he’s loosened his tie already and is leaning back on the sofa, letting the pleasant fuzz the alcohol has cast wash over him. Ed is across the room, rummaging through a coat closet searching for something that would play a record—right, that’s why they’re in here. Oswald didn’t catch the name of the album or artist but could appreciate how excited Ed looked to play it for him. 

Ed emerges from around the corner of the hallway, victoriously brandishing a nondescript wire that is evidently the last remaining barrier to an evening with sound. He parks himself at the turntable near the stereo, and ed fumbles with the wires for just a second before a switch is flipped, and the first notes of a lively, rhythmic song pour through the speakers like a heavy smoke. Oswald closes his eyes and the smile on his face widens instinctively, savoring the moment. He thinks that even if he’d been stone cold sober, the setting alone would be enough to make his head spin.

“I’m telling you, Oswald, it’s a fantastic record,” Ed says, his footsteps getting closer to where Oswald is planted on the couch. Oswald hums in response, tapping his foot haphazardly to the beat. He doesn’t realize he’s still holding his empty wine glass until it’s plucked from his hand and set on the table beside him with a clink. He cracks an eye open to see a blindingly bright smile on Ed’s face, and though he doesn’t seem to be quite at Oswald’s level of intoxication, the slight flush on his face and uncharacteristically disheveled hair gives him away.

It startles a giggle out of him, strangely enough. He’s never seen him drunk before, somehow never even considered it a state he could reach. It’s the polar opposite of the rigid, methodical exterior he always projects. Ed laughs back, because everything is funny when you’re enough drinks in or maybe because Ed was always extremely diligent at following Oswald’s lead. He’s about to say something clever about it (he thinks) but his train of thought is derailed completely the instant that Ed takes his seat next to him. 

He sits close, closer than is really necessary; there’s a whole couch after all. Not that Oswald is complaining, he is swiftly recovering from his short-circuit and already working on how he can slowly, subtly press their legs closer together, not really for any greater purpose other than he might not get a chance like this again for a while. He’s also diligently working on pretending to be a great listener, because Ed is still somehow prattling on about the music playing and Oswald hasn’t heard a word past “this one’s called…”

The contact seems to slow time down to a crawl, and he is finally, finally regretting the wine not because the room is starting to spin (it has been for a while) but because it all feels so real, like he’s living in the daydream he’s had so often over the past few weeks. It feels real enough to reach out and grab, like if he wanted and willed this moment deep enough this reality would stay with him and become the truth. He holds his breath, not wanting any stray sudden movement to pop this precious bubble. Ed trails off of whatever point he was making and Oswald only notices when he makes an awkward sound at the back of his throat. It startles Oswald into actually making eye contact, and he realizes belatedly, embarrassingly, that he’d been more or less just staring at Ed’s lips the entire time he’d been talking. Ed tilts his head slightly and Oswald makes a silent promise to himself to be more invested in whatever music, artist, intellectual point Ed is trying to make this time. 

He’s not trying to blow him off, honestly! He’s just a bit inebriated, and extremely preoccupied, and then Oswald swears he sees Ed’s eyes flick briefly towards his own lips, and all bets are off. He must be dreaming, must have passed out an hour ago drinking his secret glasses of wine waiting for Ed to show up and this vision is just his mind trying to stay on the right side of alcohol poisoning. Then it happens again, and Oswald is reminded of just how close they are sitting, of how his knee is pressed into Ed’s leg, of how he can even feel the breeze of his breath when he exhales through his nose. He’s reminded of their first meeting a lifetime ago, when he’d told Ed he was standing too close, which is funny because he’s certain now he could never be close enough to him, and he might laugh out loud at the irony if he wasn’t so preoccupied with keeping the moment as it was, not wanting to startle them both back to reality.

Then Oswald does something truly bold, he leans towards Ed, almost imperceptibly, either out of a cynical belief that even the slight change will shock them out of the moment and they can move on with the night or pure brazen (drunken) confidence, but mostly he just really, really wants this to happen. Either way, he leans in, and to his surprise, Ed doesn’t move back, he stands his ground, eyes studying him intently (and he sees them focus in on his lips for the third time). In this instant, anything could happen. He could reach out and grab this, and in hindsight it feel like it was so easy to get here in the first place. He almost feels silly for obsessing and agonizing so much over how to deal with Isabella when all he’d had to do all along was have this dinner, as planned, and let the night lead them to something more. 

The distance between them is halved now. Neither of them seem to flinch at the proximity and his chest flutters at just the thought of what is about to happen. He closes his eyes, and—

There’s a sound from the foyer then, the front door opening and slamming shut in quick succession. Ed jumps away from Oswald like he’s been burned. The spell is broken. 

“Ed?” I’m—“

“Isabella!” Ed calls back immediately, jumping up and nearly breaking out into a run to greet her at the door (his door, and he doesn’t remember giving her a key). He doesn’t meet his eye, Oswald noticed, when he got up to go to her. It’s just as well—Oswald honestly doesn’t think he could stomach it, either. 

He hears the happy couple reunite (blegh) and takes that as his cue to officially call time of death on their evening. 

Oswald’s head feels a little clearer with that slight adrenaline rush, but he still stumbles over the threshold into the kitchen where he puts the wine glasses down in the sink. Ed and Isabella are still talking in the entry way as he does, he has his back to them now but they’re just behind him. He can hear their movements and the idea of their words. Isabella’s laugh rings softly out, shortly joined by Ed’s, and Oswald shouldn’t turn around, already knows it will only hurt, but he does anyway. To his horror, they look like a movie. A picture perfect scene plucked straight out of a romance. Her arms are draped around his neck, his around her waist, and they’re framed in a soft halo of yellow light. They don’t even seem to be aware of the scene they’re in, irritatingly; every perfect angle and light beam and frame is taken for granted. All they really see is each other. It takes the juxtaposition to realize, but he sees now that whatever charged moment Oswald just created in his mind minutes ago had been nothing more than  pathetic, wishful thinking. 

He draws a sharp breath and turns back around, the alcohol or something else turning in his stomach is making him sick. Ed and Isabella are in their own little world now, he knows, having witnessed it on more than one occasion before, but it didn’t quite have the same dull sting he feels now in his gut. 

What’s worse is that everything about the situation should only be strengthening his resolve to get rid of Isabella, to destroy the scene before him and take what he wants as he’s done a thousand times before, but instead, he falters. Instead, he feels a strange hesitation, something about the wide, genuine smile spread across Ed’s face, a far cry from the plain uncertainty he’d shown around Oswald. When Isabella is out of the picture, would Ed still reach that same level of radiant happiness? How could he ever know for sure? Would Oswald only ever be a consolation prize, what he has to settle for when he can’t have what he truly wants?

Oswald swallows down any other questions that might be bubbling to the surface and a curt goodnight is said, though whether it actually reaches any ears is another story. It’s just as well, he’s afraid any further conversation in his state will only lead to him saying things he can’t take back. Besides, he can feel a headache already starting in the corner of his eyes. He bites his tongue and trudges up to his room, leaving the lovers in peace. 

Oswald will wake the next morning with the kids of vengeful hangover he thought he’d left behind in his twenties, and the kind of hollow longing that may follow him for the rest of his life.