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Oswald knew Edward so well that even his knock on the door had a special cadence to it, a particular melody played out on a few particular points that reverberated uniquely through the foyer of the mansion. For a moment, he considered not answering the door, letting him knock all night long if necessary; it’s what he deserved.
Victor glanced up at him from his chair by the window. “Nygma,” he reported, as if Oswald didn’t already know.
Oswald didn’t immediately answer, and Victor didn’t push. He kept his eyes on him, waiting for the order, should it come.
“He left me,” Oswald muttered, “locked in a bank vault, while he skipped off into the sunset with Lee Thompkins.”
The knock came again, the same rhythm.
“Don’t let him in, then,” Victor supplied, the double meaning evident. “It’s your house.” It’s your heart.
“It’s like what happened on that pier meant nothing to him,” Oswald continued, pretending like he hadn’t heard. “I could have killed Sofia, I could have gotten my revenge, but I chose to save him. I chose to put aside our differences for a truce, and this is how he repays me?”
“Want me to teach him gratitude?” Victor idly offered, patting his leather vest lightly. Oswald glanced up at him with a smile that he returned.
He shook his head. “It’s a sweet offer, but,” he sighed heavily. “Let him in.”
“You’re sure?”
Oswald let his chin fall to his hand and nodded.
The rain that always loomed over Gotham must have finally followed through on its threats; Ed’s suit was splattered with fat raindrops, his bowler hat in his hand probably damp. Victor followed him into the room and took up his post again, making sure to have his favorite pistol idly sitting on the small round table beside him. Ed’s eyes found it for a moment before they found Oswald.
“What are you doing here?” Oswald asked when he didn’t speak.
Ed straightened his shoulders. “I came by to let you know that I am trying to convince Lee to take your deal after all,” he said, his voice still deep and so very much the Riddler. “It’s not wise to make enemies out of the most powerful man in Gotham.”
“I haven’t been the most powerful man in Gotham for a long time,” Oswald deflected. “And I certainly don’t need a cut of your girlfriend’s money. I can get my own.”
Victor, by the door, raised his eyebrows proudly.
“Oswald –”
“Penguin,” Oswald corrected him. “If we’re constantly going to be on opposite sides, you might as well call me what my enemies call me.”
Ed glanced over at Victor for a moment before taking a step closer to Oswald’s chair. Oswald let his eyes fall to Ed’s feet, the traitors that brought him closer, and brought them back up to his face. “I’m trying to help you,” he implored.
“The way you helped me by locking me in a bank vault?” Oswald asked venomously. “The way you helped me by laughing when Lee declined my original offer? For a guy who supposedly got his intelligence back, I think you need to review the definition of the word help.”
“Os –”
“Penguin.”
“Penguin,” Ed relented. “You forced me to choose a side –”
“I acted in my own best interests,” Oswald interrupted. “Because that is what I’ve had to do, since I never know if you’re going to stab me in the back or not. I told you, on that pier, that I trusted you. And what did you do? You disappeared and came back to lock me in a bank vault. To tell me that going against Lee meant going against you.” He could feel his voice starting to lose its strength; he could feel the emotion he did not want to feel threatening to break through.
“I can be loyal to you both –”
Oswald shook his head. “No, you can’t.” He heard more than saw Victor rise from his chair by the window and come to stand beside his chair. His hand landed on his shoulder, a silent show of solidarity. “You are loyal to no one, not even yourself. I thought, when I saved you at the pier, that you finally understood that I would do anything for you. It seems that loyalty is only returned when you need a favor.”
“I think what the boss is saying is that you can go now,” Victor said, his voice quiet and menacing. Ed’s eyes immediately found him, and the pistol in his hand. Oswald’s hand landed on Victor’s own and squeezed for a moment.
“Will you show Mr. Nygma to the door, please, Victor?” he asked, trying to keep the shaking from his voice.
“Oswald –”
“Call me that again and I’ll have Victor blow your brains out,” he snarled, one tear snaking down his cheek. Beside him, Victor cocked his gun. Ed’s eyes never left the tear that slid down Oswald’s cheek. “I will not let you play me again.”
***
“Are you going to stare at the fire all night?” Victor asked. Oswald shrugged, his eyes following tendrils of flame as they ebbed and flowed. “Here, I got you something.”
Suddenly, Victor was sitting on the arm of the chair Oswald had been occupying all night, passing a Styrofoam cup into his hands, holding one of his own. Oswald squinted at the cup, and then up at Victor.
“It’s a milkshake,” Victor supplied helpfully. “I didn’t know what flavor you liked, so I guessed and got you cherry.”
Oswald’s eyes fell to the cup again, and back up to Victor. “A cherry milkshake?”
Victor nodded. “Try it. Unless you’re too dignified to eat a milkshake through a straw.”
“Is that a challenge?” Oswald asked, only half-teasingly. Still, he looked at the milkshake like he wasn’t quite sure how to attack it.
“Wanna try mine?” Victor offered up his own cup. “It’s more melted.”
“Is that supposed to make it…more appealing?” Oswald asked.
“Just try it, Boss,” Victor insisted, two fingers pushing the top of cup closer to Oswald’s mouth. “Milkshakes always cheer me up.”
Oswald, with the straw in his mouth, could do nothing but shrug. He realized, as the cold ice cream hit his mouth (was a milkshake made of just ice cream? He didn’t know) that he never asked Victor what flavor his milkshake was.
“It’s banana,” Victor said at Oswald’s bewildered face. “But it’s good, right?”
He reclaimed his own cup and nudged Oswald’s hand holding his own milkshake toward his mouth. “Now, walk on the wild side for once and try yours.”
“I walk on the wild side all the time,” Oswald protested, offended.
“Murder is not wild,” Victor replied. “Now a cherry milkshake, that’s wild.”
Oswald knew the nonchalance, the cheeriness, and the teasing was all to make him feel better, and while that would usually sour his mood even more, he couldn’t help but smile. It had been so long since he had a normal conversation with someone, much less a conversation where someone tried to make him happy. For that reason alone, he took a sip of the cherry milkshake.
He must have betrayed his opinion on his face, because Victor’s smile widened. “Good, right?” he prompted. “Here, trade.”
They passed their milkshakes back and forth for a few minutes, watching the flames, Victor’s arm thrown lazily over the back of the chair. It was almost comfortable, sitting like this, almost in someone’s embrace, knowing they didn’t mind your company.
“Boss,” Victor’s voice was almost lost to the crackling of the fireplace. “Give me an order.”
Oswald tilted his chin to survey his face. He was looking down at him, eyes dark. It was almost predatory, but it wasn’t meant for him. “I don’t want you to kill him.”
“I don’t care about Edward Nygma,” Victor sneered. “I care about you.”
Oswald blinked and looked down at his lap, at the little cup, almost empty. What an odd choice of words.
“What helps?” Victor coaxed, sliding off the arm of the chair and onto his knee, beside Oswald. “Getting blackout drunk? Going out and beating someone senseless? Give me an order.”
“You don’t have to do this,” Oswald said softly, fidgeting with the cup.
“Boss,” Victor’s voice was suddenly stern, as if he was reprimanding him without using the words. “Give me an order.”
Oswald released his cup and let one hand cup Victor’s cheek. The fire had left it warm while the milkshake left his hand cold. “Take me to a bar,” he said. “Not the Sirens, for the love of God.”
Victor smirked and stood. “Consider it done.”
***
“This place plays…disco,” Oswald could barely be heard over the music. Victor laughed, one of the first real laughs he’d ever heard, and put a hand on Oswald’s back.
“Well spotted, Boss,” he teased. “At least no one you know will see you here.”
Oswald shrugged as if that was hardly a consolation prize and continued to take in the surroundings. In spite of the questionable music, the people looked classy enough; there were no drug deals going on in the open, at least, and as he searched the crowd a second time, he realized he didn’t recognize a single person there.
There was some comfort in that.
“Grab a booth,” Victor had to speak almost directly into Oswald’s ear, his breath still smelling like cherries and banana. “I’ll get us some drinks.”
Oswald wanted to protest, wanted to get his own drinks, wanted all sorts of things, but Victor was gone before he could transform those protestations into coherent sentences. He was left to ponder his current situation while he searched for an open booth. For the first time, he felt like he and Victor were…friends, rather than a boss and his employee. But then again, there was always something incredibly familiar about Victor, when he wasn’t being absolutely terrifying.
In spite of his absolute deadliness, Victor was one of the softest people Oswald knew. He cared for Martin with the same misplaced ferocity Oswald did himself; he hated to see those he considered a friend hurting, evidenced by this probably poorly-planned outing.
He slid into the booth, beside Oswald rather than in front of him, holding a tray with two glasses and a bottle.
“What is this?” Oswald asked, taking the bottle in his hand and trying to read the foreign script.
“I have no idea,” Victor shrugged gleefully. “But it tastes good.”
“This is going to be another milkshake incident, isn’t it?” Oswald asked.
Victor looked momentarily scandalized. “You liked the milkshake, Boss.”
“I did,” Oswald admitted. “Well,” he paused. “Fine, pour me a drink, Victor.”
“Yes, sir,” he smirked, uncorking the top of the weirdly-shaped bottle, pouring a generous amount in each.
“You know, you don’t have to call me that when we’re not working,” Oswald pointed out, taking a tentative sniff of the drink. He was struck by the overwhelming scent of alcohol, followed by something that might be cinnamon, and apple.
Victor was holding up his glass like they were going to toast. “Fine. Then, to you, Oswald,” he clinked his glass against Oswald’s, downing the whole thing in one gulp.
Had Victor ever called him by his first name before? Oswald wasn’t sure, but hearing his name come from his mouth was a heady experience, only bolstered by the unknown, unnamed drink. It had to be some form of scotch, but the fruity aftertaste was completely incongruent with that conclusion.
“Do you want to dance?” Victor’s voice was warm in Oswald’s ear, and that, along with the alcohol, warmed Oswald all the way to his toes.
“Absolutely not,” he shot back. Victor threw back his head and laughed, taking another sip of his drink.
“I’m just teasing you,” he said, patting Oswald’s leg with his free hand.
In spite of working in clubs for years and constantly sampling the alcohol, Oswald realized about four drinks too late that his tolerance was having trouble keeping up with Victor’s. The disco music had long lost its grating qualities and just seemed like a swirling void of noise, a cacophony that soothed him and chased sad thoughts from his mind.
“I think that’s enough,” Victor gently slid the glass away from Oswald’s reaching hand. “I promised to take you to a bar, not to get you blackout drunk.”
“Victor!” Oswald whined.
“Should have been more specific in your orders, Oswald,” Victor shrugged, scooting as in front of Oswald as he could in the narrow booth to block him from the alcohol. “Blackout drunk isn’t fun when you wake up. At least now you’ll just sleep well.”
“I like it when you call me by my real name,” Oswald said, his fingers reaching and failing to catch his glass. “It sounds nice.”
“Does it?” Victor asked, and Oswald could hear his glass sliding even farther away. “Oswald?”
There was something different about the way he said it this time, deep and low and dangerous, that drew Oswald’s attention away from the glass on the table. He had shifted in the booth, so he was blocking the glass, his chest flush with Oswald’s.
Before he could comprehend what was happening, Victor’s gloved hand was tilting his chin up and his lips were pressed to his, soft and pliant, so different from the way the man did his job. Oswald had been kissed before, but not like this. Not so reverently, not gently.
Victor pulled away, to gauge his reaction, but Oswald fastened his hand around the back of his neck and pulled him back in for a better kiss, urgent but still gentle. He could feel Victor smiling against his lips; he could taste the alcohol, the milkshakes. He pulled Victor even closer, feeling the buckle of his holster pressing against his ribcage.
“Wait,” Victor wrenched himself away, pulling at the gloves on his hands. Oswald watched him yank the leather off, realizing as he did that he had never seen Victor without the gloves. With his hands free, he reached for Oswald’s cheek, brushing his thumb over his lips, his cheekbones, brushing back a stray piece of his hair.
His hands were tantalizingly soft. He pulled Oswald in for another kiss, this one entirely different, languid and full of longing.
“Let me take you home,” his voice was barely a whisper, but Oswald felt the words wash over his skin. He nodded, pressing the gloves into Victor’s hands so they wouldn’t get lost.
“Bring the bottle,” he ordered.