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]

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.

[theansweris]

Taking his time to make sure the pressure is off the breaks and badly fused bones, Ed is careful not to reach too far, not to flare up the pain or Oswald's prickly sense of pride.

Neatening the cuff of his pants leg, Ed moves back to the couch, looking to the food. "I- truthfully, I've been having trouble with- Shush, no, I am sharing this- they'd drug my food sometimes. But things in wrappers, sealed..." They were safe. "I know this food is fine. Intellectually."

[hobblepot]

[The admission has Oswald lifting his head to look at him, wide-eyed.]

Oh. [He says lamely, feeling a vague clenching in the pit of his stomach and kicking himself for not having guessed as much.] ...There should be canned goods in the pantry... sardines and the like, from what I recall. Or we could make an omelet, if you prefer. If there is anything you need, please, do not hesitate to ask.

[theansweris]

Ed gives a tired smile. "No, I just, need to get over the hiccup." He knows the food is okay. Olga would never drug Oswald and she knew this was for him.

It takes a moment still, but then Riddler reaches out and takes a slice of the herb butter laden bread and bites into it, giving a soft sigh of contentment.

[hobblepot]

[Ed's reward for trying is a small, gently hopeful smile.]

Good, right? Now I won't be feeling quite so guilty if I end up devouring half this board.

[Relaxing, he spears a cherry tomato on the end of his toothpick. A refreshing burst of tart and sweet fills his mouth, so sorely missed.]

I thought the bland, mushy meatloaf and equally bland, mushy beans they were fond of serving was cruel and unusual punishment as far as food went. But the coleslaw... it was enough to give a man nightmares. I cannot decide what's worse - something drowning in vinegar, or in mayonnaise; the smell alone made me nauseous. [Another tomato.] It was so much easier just to go hungry.

[theansweris]

"Arkham's food hasn't really changed." It was the same fairly bland, neutral fare. "But we did get ice cream on occasion. I stopped getting it after I incited a riot during group therapy. When I started 'playing along', I asked for my reward to be library access instead."

That's far more likely Riddler than Ed and he reaches across for an olive.

[hobblepot]

[An uptick to his smile.] Choosing between brain freeze and a modicum of mental stimulation while trapped in a dreary hellhole? Kind of a no-brainer, really... if you'll pardon the pun.

[And yet if others were presented with both options, he'd be entirely unsurprised if the library proved unpopular.]

Besides -- what's that saying? A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips? [He lets out a scoffing laugh. Some spiced jam on a cracker has left a blood-like smudge over his chin.] The case for most people, at least. You, I imagine, are an exception with your... [pausing, his gaze flickers over him, thoughtful] ...rangy physique and efficient metabolism. [He's assuming the latter is true, anyway.]

[theansweris]

"The new therapist they brought in made the offer. She argued that universal rewards were ineffective; what I consider a reward compared to... Mr Tetch, for example, not the same."

Riddler shrugs and reaches to wipe the smudge away with his thumb, absently sucking it clean. "A mixture of lots of things. My metabolism burns too fast and my body is ill adapted to stress chemicals, making it burn faster."

[hobblepot]

[Mother would always swoop in to rub at his face with a handkerchief well into his adulthood, much to his squirming annoyance. But moms will be moms, and Ed isn't his, the gesture causing him to lose his place mid-sentence, blushing as he touches his fingers to his chin after the fact and boggles at him, wide-eyed. No tissues around, of course.]