PSL 02: Fresh Air

[theansweris]

It took Ed four days, and most of that seemed to be waiting for approval from one office to go to the next office and get approved further along the line. Then they had to give appropriate notice and argue among themselves until it was agreed that it had to proceed, even with the objections from the DA and the GCPD.

The allowed clothing was restricted, but for the court appearance, Oswald was given some of his own clothes back, even if just his shirt, pants and jacket.

The session was mostly reading a list of the charges Oswald had been convicted of and the lawyer using Ed's neatly produced list to cite off why each of those was unsound and would require, at minimum, re-trial with due consideration to the burden of proof and threshold of prosecution.

It was a long, long session. But it ended with the conclusion that the state could not hold Oswald at this interval and thus

"-Mr Cobblepot, it is the finding of this court that your conviction was unsound and thus, you are free to leave this court. This is not a finding of not guilty, nor an absolution of charges, but a legal determination that the burden of proof has not been met."

There were reporters outside, of course. There were also several men in suits by a limo that was ready and waiting to whisk Oswald and his lawyer off.

From there, it was a drive. Out and to the Van Dahl manor, past the gates to keep out intruders and press and there, waiting on the stoop, was Ed, hands laced and a smile on his face as the car pulled up.

Comments

[hobblepot]

[The long road to freedom begins with being startled out of sleep at five in the morning - first by the sound of his door jarring open and then by the hand around his arm, a gruff voice. He's more awake by the time he is subjected to the indignity of one last search - prying fingers and penlights reminding him that his aching body still belonged to the penitentiary down to the very last second - and brought before the court dressed in some of his old clothes. The verdict is everything Ed promised it would be, but he feels less triumphant than he knows he should be, and than he knows he will feel once he's at home, settled in his own bed over fresh, dryer-hot sheets with an aspirin in him. There is little room to stop and breathe before the press swarm him like vultures, thrusting mics and cameras at him for a sound bite. Before ducking inside the waiting limo, he wets his lips and looks around and leaves them with the following: 'today, we have witnessed the triumph of justice -- and it is my sincere hope that all others who stand trial in the days to come shall be tried fairly, as is their right, and not be made to suffer as long or as cruelly as I have.'

He's too tired to consider the possible repercussions of anything he has said once he drops into his seat and leans his head against the window, not realizing he has fallen asleep until the car rolls to a gentle stop in front of the Van Dahl mansion. A jolt of adrenaline snaps him upright.

He knuckles away the drool at the corner of his mouth and fumbles to open his seatbelt, shoving his way out of the car. Ed is just ahead, waiting with a smile so welcome Oswald could cry. He quickens his pace with a ragged, panting sort of laugh, stumbling his way to Ed, into Ed. Chin bumping Ed's chest as he puts his arms around him like a drowning man and all but collapses into him, sobbing his relief into his shirt.

Ed is home.

His fingers tighten around the back of Ed's suit jacket. Needy, a child's grip.]

[theansweris]

Ed is waiting and when the car stops, he takes half a step forward before Oswald is lurching out of the car. He lengthens his stride to meet Oswald, catching him as he half falls into Ed's waiting embrace.

"Welcome home, Oswald," he whispers. His knowledge about hugging people has improved in leaps and bounds since those awkward embraces on the couch all those years ago, and without a knife in his hand like the most memorable, recent touch.

One arm curls around Oswald's shoulders. The other holds the back of his neck, careful not to be rough or hard, be protective, not aggressive. "There's a hot bath, clean clothes and pajamas, an open bottle of wine and Olga's putting together a selection of cold meats and cheeses. Oh, and-" He gives a whistle.

There's a whuffling noise, the skittering of blunt claws and a very excited dog being nursed back into good condition comes running for his owner.

"I found him. Well, Ivy found him at my request."

[hobblepot]

[Oswald closes his eye. It's the kind of embrace he has had eight long months to dream about with a yearning as deep and lasting as the ache of a broken bone, something he knows all too much about. It hurts just as badly to pull back when he does, slowly, gaping dumbly at Ed as he rattles off all the preparations he's made for his arrival. The words form a haze around him and he's left stunned into silence when Ed whistles and Edward comes barreling out the door.

It doesn't feel real, none of this does. It takes a bolt of pain splitting his knee to realize he has dropped down to put his arms around the whining, wriggly mass of muscle that is Edward. The dog's enthusiasm is overwhelming and he laughs a giddy laugh when Edward clumsily wrestles free and slathers his neck and chin in dog-kisses, an eager flick of the tongue shifting his eye patch off-centre. A wisp of a breeze licks his socket - a strange, ugly sensation. But it's not until Edward has wound down and sprawled onto his side for a well-deserved belly rub that Oswald adjusts the patch, needing a moment longer to smudge his face dry before looking up at Ed. He pushes to his feet a little unsteadily, sniffing as he brushes the front of Ed's suit smooth as though he's made an awful mess of it. Then he just looks him up and down, fighting to keep his face from crumpling.

It's a losing battle.]

...Thank you. [He nods and wipes at his cheeks again, his nose clogging a little with the backflow of tears. Head ducked, he mutely motions Ed inside so he won't have to watch and wait.]

[theansweris]

Ed lets Oswald go with only a mild pang of jealousy that he wants to cuddle the dog and be slobbered over. Ed doesn't really understand the appeal, Riddler even less so, but it matters to Oswald, so they let him go.

He offers down a clean, folded handkerchief. "I'll go inside if you want, but I'd rather stay if you can bear it."

He doesn't want Oswald out of sight, except as Oswald wants him to be. He wants to stay. Wants to know oswald is here, with him, out of Blackgate and Arkham.

[hobblepot]

[He takes the handkerchief quietly, pressing it to the corner of his eye for a while and dabbing at his nose until his tears slow and he can survive without it, keeping it wadded up in his fist. Edward rights himself, leaning against Oswald's leg.]

...I've kept you waiting long enough. [He chokes out, swallowing back a sob.] We should... be celebrating our success, not standing out here in the cold. Come - let's get settled, shall we? You must be exhausted.

[He moves to rest a hand over Ed's back, gentle and urging.]

[theansweris]

Ed, rather than accept the hand on his back, offers his arm to Oswald. To help him walk, yes, but also to keep him close and offer him something more than just walking support. "Oswald, you haven't kept me waiting. If anything, I kept you waiting, not least of all by not being in court, but I thought it would only cause more furore. My presence. Our presence."

Away from the prison and Arkham and the courts, they can give up the pretense that they aren't both there.

So it's Riddler who turns to face Oswald and smiles this time, hand coming up to cup Oswald's neck. "It took us longer than I wanted to convince the idiots in charge to let us out. I kept calling it couples' therapy. Ed wasn't amused."

[hobblepot]

[There's a slight quickening of his pulse at his touch, his breath catching softly. He blinks, finding his voice.]

...Well. [A huff.] I can't say I'm terribly surprised. Still, despite the obvious challenges facing you both, you made it out on your own, and I couldn't be happier to see you. Truly, I... [he shakes his head, solemn] ...I don't know what I would've done without you.

[The dog trots on ahead, past the padded stool where Oswald eventually sits to unlace and shuck off his shoes. He lingers a while, taking in the sprawling entrance hall with the same sort of wonder he did when his father had brought him in from the rain like a sickly stray. The furnishings and the rich collection of curios amassed over generations are exactly as he left them, as far as he can tell. Nothing has changed and yet everything has, so much grander than he remembers.]

...You're welcome to spend the night here, by the way, in case that wasn't clear. It's the least I can do. [A beat. His throat bobs, his gaze unfocused.] In fact... I would very much like it if you were to consider extending your stay indefinitely.

[theansweris]

Ed is quiet for a moment, then he stands and stretches out his shoulders, moving to look at one of the vases he's studied a dozen times before.

"I have been staying here. I needed an address to give for your lawyer and while I was organising your affairs and release and homecoming, it was- convenient." He doesn't look back, but the body language is Ed and slightly awkward. "Even Olga didn't object once she realised I was working to have your conviction overturned." And Olga had always been a bit standoffish with Ed, even before the two of them blew up.

"I know your pride might object but... there's a hot bath upstairs and the quickest way up would be for Olga to carry you, rather than strain and hurt your leg further." He finally looks back at Oswald, "A glowing grate, a diamond plate, a place you never leave. Here has been closest. Please let Olga help you upstairs, Oswald."

[hobblepot]

Ah. Well. [Oswald tips his head in the equivalent of a shrug, not minding Ed having occupied his home.] Fair enough.

[But the suggestion that Ed puts forward isn't as well-received. He'd be lying if he argued that pride has nothing to do with it; he'd rather frame it as a matter of dignity, but it's easier for him to say nothing at all, to try and leave Blackgate in Blackgate although it hasn't left him, his shoulders hunching defensively and his hands clenching and unclenching in his lap as if he isn't being asked but forced to surrender to Olga and to being scooped into her arms.]

No. [Comes his knee-jerk answer. He studies his socks, ears burning. Pulls in a breath before trying again, looking up.] Your concern is duly noted. ...And appreciated. [He adds, a wry half-smile curving the corner of his mouth.] But I can handle it.

[He makes a point of standing without using the nearest table to help himself up, shifting his weight off his bad leg. Meeting Ed's eyes with sudden difficulty, he continues:]

If you're hungry at all, please, help yourself. No need to wait on my account.

[Not pausing for an answer, he'll see Ed off with an easy shoulder clap and make his way for the stairs, jaw tensing as he grips the bannister and hauls himself along. At the second floor landing, when he's fairly sure he's out of sight, he'll stop to rest for a minute, temples sheening with sweat.]

[theansweris]

And in typical Ed fashion and despite riddler's protesting, Ed follows after Oswald, because now he's in socks and he's likely to slip in those. He wants to help and he wants to stay near. "I ate lunch," is what he ends up offering. "Please, Oswald, let me help."

If Oswald refuses... Ed will keep trying. Riddler's not prepared to lay down their pride like that.

[hobblepot]

[It's tempting to press on and pretend he hasn't heard Ed calling. But there Ed is, pleading as he trails after him, and he winces before giving in and half-turning to face him, keeping a hand wrapped around the banister.]

Ed, I'm fine -- [He insists, exasperation creeping into his voice. Gesturing to the floor:] You'll notice that I've already made it up here, so I'm pretty sure I can manage just a few more steps.

[He realizes, mid-answer, that it's hardly the tone he means to be taking with Ed, and he sighs at himself, worn and frayed and sorry. He scrubs at his face.]

...You have truly gone above and beyond, Ed, [he says, softer] ...and for that I cannot thank you enough. But I promise you that there is nothing more that I need in this moment. Should something arise, however, I'll certainly know who to ask.

[He makes to hobble off only to stop, and double back.]

Y'know what? If you really want to do me something for me, then please have Olga make you a grilled cheese or something. I'll be joining you shortly.

[theansweris]

Ed looks pained. He clearly wants to protest and follow, to help Oswald into the bath, to help him with his dressing like he did once, to know he's there and safe. He takes a step forward, then his attention snaps to a picture on the wall.

Or to his reflection in the glass, far more likely.

"Don't say that," he says softly, clearly not to Oswald. "You know I don't like that word."

Another pause and his attention drifts more to the reflection.

[hobblepot]

[Oswald lingers only briefly at the top of the stairs, unable to make out what Ed is murmuring to the mirror and sensing their conversation is over. They'd have the rest of the evening to make up for lost time, and he's eager to lounge by the fireplace, to talk long into the night until his tea goes cold and sleep pulls him under. But first comes the bath he has wanted for eight long months; the luxury of having a fresh, silky bar of soap to himself and of soaking until the pads of his fingers and toes prune up.

He closes the door behind him, turning from the mirror while sloughing off his clothes.

The water isn't scaldingly hot, as he has come to expect, but comfortable. Warm enough for the bruises mottling his skin - a scattering of black and scarlet and muddy yellow ones he can't all placee - to burn when he dips his foot in and eases the rest of him in after, hissing. He shivers, sighing as he settles. And then he waits, listening, staring dully at the islands of his pale, knobby knees. It's strange, how quiet it is. As if the whole mansion is holding its breath too. No whistling or hollering or laughter. No roar of blood in his ears. He's forgotten what it's like, the sound of silence. He's forgotten the calm and the comfort in it and moves his leg just to hear the squeal of porcelain, the water sloshing around the tub. He wonders if Ed can hear it too.

His skin feels too raw for the green, crunchy-dry loofah lying in reach, but he lathers it up anyway and scrubs himself all over, roughest where the touch and the gazes of strangers still stick to him. Whiteish scum rings the tub when he finally drains the bath and steps out on the mat, trembling under a towel. He tugs on pajamas and throws his silk robe over his shoulders, unable to dredge up the energy or the will to give the tub more than a brisk rinse before making his way downstairs.] ...Ed?

[He calls out, loosely knotting his robe.]

[theansweris]

Oswald leaving was both a blessing and a curse.

It triggers Riddler and Ed into a full blown argument, the likes of which they have managed to keep hidden for months upon months. Riddler calls Ed a freak and a creep who terrorises anyone he has any affection for. Ed tells Riddler he's a psychopath with no capacity for basic human emotion and bankrupt of any endearing traits that might make Oswald want him around.

They take their fight downstairs until Olga threatens to shoot the body if there isn't some calming down and then pushes him into the study where there's a fire lit and the food laid out.

Ed hangs his jacket over the single mirror in the room, leaving his vest and tie on, even if he concedes to loosening his tie.

Olga spots Oswald and nods to the study, indicating where the other man is. "Was fighting, now sulking."

"I'm not sulking!" Is yelled out, sounding decidedly... petulant.

hope this works

[hobblepot]

[Oh, that's sulking all right.

And on a different day, in a different mood, Oswald could have easily rolled his eye. But he's too needy now, too lonely, for any annoyance to stick, blessed with a rare patience that the throbbing of his leg is no match for, not right now. He blinks at Olga and then at the door to the study, bracing for whatever situation he's about to march himself into. Knocking first, with a tap of his knuckle, feels like the right thing to do.]

...A famous artist once said, one is company, two's a crowd, and three's a party. [His gaze falls on the jacket draped over the mirror as he shows himself in. Over a table are a few artfully arranged charcuterie platters and he considers them a moment, honest regret straining his expression when he turns to Ed.]

While, tonight, I cannot promise you a grand celebration worthy of our success, I can, at the very least, offer you my heartfelt gratitude once more... and some of my father's finest wine, if you're willing.

[The fire spits and crackles away, shadows dancing across the walls. He suddenly feels too big and too small for the room at the same time, his lashes trembling faintly and lips moving, shaping themselves around words he hasn't plucked out of the air yet.]

I missed you, Ed. [He says, finally. Swallowing.] More than I have in a very long time.

[theansweris]

It's totally sulking, whatever Ed is protesting.

He looks over to Oswald and whatever problems the two are having with one another, it's not with Oswald in the slightest and instead he beams, genuinely pleased to see him looking much more himself. "Oswald, I didn't free you to celebrate. I helped you get out because we're- no, I am saying this, because you make us better. We're better with you."

There's no protest to the statement from Riddler.

"I'll pour the wine but first..." He holds out his arm, inviting another hug, one less desperate than the one from outside.

[hobblepot]

[Oswald leaves the food behind and sinks into Ed's arms without hesitation, bodies coming together - chin slotting into the crook of Ed's neck - like they're two pieces of the same puzzle. He breathes a sigh, softening into Ed in degrees. A slow surrender, and the easiest it has ever been.

He presses a kiss over Ed's collar unthinkingly, gentle and sexless. Making no demands of him.]

Happy to be of service. [He mumbles, aware of his heart still loudly pounding away in the silence while the rest of him calms.] Still think you deserve a little better than a few finger foods and a pat on the back, but that's just me.

[theansweris]

Riddler has always been aware of the small tokens of affection from Oswald. Given how Oswald was with his mother, they both take it as a compliment that Oswald wants to show a fraction of the affection he showered on her and was given in return.

"You can get us something nice when you've settled in. After eight months in Arkham, being a building where I can always open the doors has been novel enough. And you've invited us to stay here. That- means a lot."

legend has it that they're still hugging to this day

[hobblepot]

What can I say? [He lets out a breathy laugh edging dangerously close to a sob, thinking of how small and isolated he felt in his block surrounding by dozens of seething inmates, though never quite as invisible as he often wanted to be.] It just wouldn't be the same without you.

[theansweris]

Riddler leans back to look at Oswald. "Is there anyone in Blackgate that needs to be paid back for their treatment of you? I got some wonderful ideas from the novels they gave me access to."

There were people in Blackgate who may have tried to break Oswald's spirit, so Riddler would just break them.

[hobblepot]

[He slides his arms from around Ed, reluctantly, blinking at him with a fresh sense of self-awareness. There's a tightening of his shoulders, the smile on his lips.]

Oh? [He snorts softly.] Any particularly inspired punishments in there for a smug murderer and serial rapist and his knuckle-dragging cronies? I could use the laugh.

[Folding his arms.]

I won't pretend drowning Mr. Markus Cervelli in that vile toilet-brew of his would've been terribly clever, but the thought never failed to entertain.

[theansweris]

"Mm." Riddler retreats to the couch, patting for Oswald to sit down and dragging the coffee table and food closer. "Well, I found these movies, 'Saw'. They're hilarious. Ed is a little less enchanted, but the engineering involved is fascinating. Anyway, point is, yes, we can make all sorts of interesting retributions. Including ones they willingly smuggle in for themselves."

[hobblepot]

[Sighing, he settles in beside him, lightly bumping shoulders. It's a relief to get off his feet, and if the ottoman were any closer, he'd prop his leg up on it to bring his mild post-bath swelling down. He adjusts the elastic of his compression sock before reaching for prosciutto-wrapped bocconcini on a skewer.]

Now there's a fun project I would be delighted to partake in... after we've paid our dear commissioner a visit, of course. ...Oh.

[It's his first bite of food all day, and easily the boldest, most sophisticated marriage of flavours his palate has known in over half a year. His brain lights up like a slot machine and his hunger comes alive, his hands a little shaky as they go for a baguette round slicked with herb butter and another skewer that misses his open mouth on the first try, the little wooden tines poking his lip.

He moans around a mouthful, can't help himself.]

That is absolutely delicious. Oh my god. [He says as he finishes.] Have you tried this?

[theansweris]

Riddler looks, realises and stretches a foot out to drag the ottoman closer so Oswald can prop his foot up. Getting that foot and ankle back into something like working condition is one of his priorities.

Then Ed butts in and shifts off the couch, moving to near Oswald's foot, hands moving to carefully settle it into place. "Mm? No, not that specifically. I've been cooking for myself, or more, grabbing energy bars along the way."

[hobblepot]

[He flushes and jerks his foot away a little, as if he touched fire.]

I can do it myself-- [He says, not to Ed so much as the couch, in a tone more pleading than it is sullen and upset. But by then, his leg has already been repositioned and there's nothing more for him to do.

A goon once said, on a bad day, that he ought to pay one of Gotham's top back alley butchers to see if he could break and reset the bones, and was lucky not to caught a bullet between the eyes for the unsolicited advice. It's too late in the game for him to experience any sort of improvement, he tells himself, or that whatever pinning his re-fractured bones in place could accomplish wouldn't be worth the misery. His hopes of someday walking painlessly were dashed long before Jim put a round in his leg.

He looks to his lap, twisting a loose fold of his robe in his hands. Ed's less-than-ideal eating habits are worth addressing, but he's left fumbling to pick up the conversation where it dropped hard, unsure how to carry on as though nothing happened and everything is fine.

He grabs a dry cut of sausage and gnaws on it for a while, not quite as ravenous as before.]

You should eat. [He urges, as if Ed hasn't been at all, dimly focused on a toothpick he's turning between his fingers.] There's nothing you'll find under a wrapper that is better than this, I promise you.