Chapter Text
Nightmares were something that Ed was fairly familiar with. That creeping panic when you’re running from something you won’t dare to look at, that heart-stopping jolt as you plummet off a cliff, the absolute devouring pain and heartbreak when you lose someone you love for the umpteenth time. He’d experienced them all, every nightmare in the book, every nondescript cryptic dream that left you waking up feeling sick with unease and confusion — he’d had them all before.
Before was something Ed wanted to stress with every fibre in his being. He’d had them before he’d grown up, before he’d matured, before he’d stopped being a snivelling, tormented nobody. He hadn't had nightmares in far too long of a time for him to be having them again.
And yet, here he was, seizing so intensely that he’d ripped himself from the hellish, blood-chilling confines of his nightmare and gasping so hard it made his lungs ache.
He’d had nightmares before, yes, but none like this one (or at least, none that were voluntarily jumping to the forefronts of his memory at the moment). He’d been having the same nightmare over and over again since he’d lost Isabella, and only now, almost two weeks later, were they actually beginning to affect him emotionally.
There was no distinctly stressful factor to the dreams, just…the feeling. The aura. The dark walls peeling in stained, curling strands of sun-bleached paper, the floorboards moldy and rotting and wet with an unknown substance, and the panic that permeated the air like electricity, prickling at the back of Ed’s neck and coaxing forth his tears with little to no effort.
It was illogical, irrational, and downright shameful, and all Ed could do about it was bolt upright in bed and sob himself into a state that only somewhat resembled serenity.
Only this night, he didn't do that. He didn't launch himself forward with a poorly held back sob and fight the bile that was rising in his throat with whatever ounce of strength he had left. This night, after he’d jerked himself awake so hard the bed shook and he lied there gagging and gasping, he realized with a new rush of terror like white-hot blood through his veins that he couldn't move. That alone, that lack of mobility, of freedom, that feeling of being controlled was enough to make him choke out a broken whine, the sound not unlike that of a wounded dog.
He would have blamed it on sleep paralysis (something he’d never had to deal with before) if it weren't for the fact that he could move his head and individual extremities, kicking his legs and straining his arms against his unknown captor in pitifully fruitless attempts to break free. He could scream for help if he wanted, but he didn't want to, didn't want to seem weaker than he already felt, more helpless than he already knew he was. And helpless as he might have been, he would have kept fighting if he hadn't managed to pick up on a small sound coming from his corner.
In all honesty, he was surprised he could hear it at all through the blood roaring in his ears, but he turned his attention to it anyway, and finally did let out a scream.
Or at least, he tried to.
She was barely even visible, hardly even there, blanketed in thick, viscous shadow and standing ever so still. He could have even convinced himself it was the murky vestiges of sleep still plaguing his already poor vision if it weren't for those two cold, beady eyes staring out at him from beneath the dark, protective shawl of obscurity.
“I-Isabella?”
“Edward.”
At that Ed’s breath caught in his throat as if some cold, beastly hand had grabbed it, pulling it down, down, down, back down into his chest where it burned and filled his lungs to the point of bursting, and he wanted to use all of it, all of that pent up oxygen to scream and cry and beg for forgiveness and help, somebody, God, please help.
All he could manage was a senseless stream of panic-stricken consciousness, words forced out between suffocating sobs.
“N-No, no, let me go, please, p-please Isab—Isabella, I’m s…I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”
“I understand your fear,” she said, her voice strangely thick and warbling like some distorted recording. “It comes from a place of love.”
No, no, no no no no no nononono—
“You’re so sweet,” she continued, but the voice was different, more strained and broken and disconcertingly raspy.
And coming from the other corner of his room.
“I know you won’t hurt me,” Isabella whispered, the tone so loving and trusting even underneath all of the fluctuating octaves and record scratches.
“I’m scared,” the choked voice whimpered, so gentle it was almost endearing, yet so sharp it made Ed wonder if his ears were going to bleed.
“Of what?” Ed gasped breathlessly, instinctively averting his gaze as his dead girlfriend eased herself out of the shadows, her footfalls silent and nonexistent, a breath in a lifeless vacuum, a lie.
“Of Tom Dougherty.”
Ed froze. That was wrong — Isabella had never said that, she had no right to, no reason to, no one knew, no one cared except—
“Kristen?” he sobbed, his tear-blurred eyes finally noticing the other figure in the corner, eerily still and so hauntingly similar to Isabella in stature and demeanor he almost retched over the side of the bed.
“I found old photos in newspapers,” Isabella purred, her voice dropping to a bass note Ed could never even dream of hitting before rocketing to an ear-splitting squeak, as deafening as nails on a chalkboard or…train wheels screeching on the tracks, metal shredding metal, blood curdling screams of lifeless machines that were adopting a more and more humane sound to them as they echoed in the back of Ed’s mind.
“He used to tell me…if he ever saw me with another man, he would kill me.”
“No, no, he won’t, he can’t, Kristen, he can’t—”
“Look at me,” the wavering record demanded, the tone so controlling and so, so terrifying that Ed couldn't stop his head from whipping back to the left, his eyes focusing and unfocusing on the mangled, bloody corpse of the woman he once loved.
“O-Oh, God—”
“I’m terrified of what will happen when he comes back.” A mousy whimper.
“I am forcing you to face your fear.” A deafening, authoritative boom, so powerful it shook the bed, so loud it hurt. Oh, God, it hurt.
“You would never hurt me—”
“You don’t know him, he’s a monster.”
“—even when I look like this.”
Ed forced his eyes closed to fight the burn and strain of how wide they were stretched, tears mixing with sweat and soaking his face, his mouth gaping in a silent wail.
“Everything I ever thought about you, I was right,” the raspy squeak snapped, stepping out from the shadows to remain parallel with her twin.
Twins, yes, but not identical — not now. Not now when half of Isabella’s face was shredded to a bloody pulp, her eye a pulverized and unrecognizable reflection of its former self, sparkling and lively in its hazel-green beauty, now swimming in a swollen, purpled socket of blood. Not now when Kristen’s face was a startlingly unhealthy shade of blue, her eyes bloodshot and bulging, her neck marred with the dark impression of a hand, a contusion Ed knew would match up perfectly with his own if he were to check. The sight of it winded him.
“I should have my head examined,” the spectre of Kristen growled, her voice breaking and her breaths rattling her swollen throat and aching lungs.
“I’d have your neck checked, first,” another voice added, so close it was as if it was inside of Ed, so similar to his own he was teetering on the edge of terror, yet so dark and sinister it was almost starkly different.
“You would never hurt me, even when I look like this,” Isabella reiterated, tilting her head to the side and coaxing thick rivulets of blood to pour from her lacerated eye socket, her hesitant smile stretching the taut skin of her face to the point that it creaked like leather, her teeth stained red with blood and rotting in their gums.
“You were stalking me — you are a psychopath!” Kristen gritted out, the noise too painful to hear.
“No, no, oh God, I’m not…”
“You would never hurt me—”
“You are going to prison—”
“—even when I look like this.”
“—where they will do horrible things to you.”
“I think prison would have been a mercy, don’t you?” the other him whispered with a dry chuckle, and Ed could feel him there, feel the weight of his body on the bed, next to him, around him, in him.
“You would never —”
“Things you deserve.”
“ — hurt me …”
“Did we deserve it, Eddie? The punishment we got?”
“…when I look like this.”
“N-No,” Ed said with a sob, not sure what statement he was denying or if the negation was just a reassurance to himself that this couldn't be real.
“We didn't deserve it?” the other Ed asked with an inflection so innocent and childlike Ed wanted to vomit again.
“Yes,” he sobbed in response, the weight of his other self inside of him so suffocating and disorienting.
“We did deserve it?”
“Yes,” Ed hissed, hoping he sounded stronger and more confident than he felt. “We deserved it, and we deserve it again. Look at what we've done!”
The Other hummed thoughtfully, the sound rumbling in Ed’s chest, the feel of another person’s skin against his own, the heat of their body blending with his to make them perfect doubles, those red and blue mirror images just barely overlapping each other to the extent that it was dizzying to look at.
“I see two gorgeous women, Eddie.”
“One of which we killed!”
"And the other?”
Ed swallowed back the sob that threatened to peal through his throat, his body shaking so violently that it felt like a seismic shift in his bones.
“The other…we didn't save.”
“You would never hurt me, even when I look like this.”
“You’re a psychopath!”
“I understand your fear.”
“I’m terrified of what will happen when he comes back.”
“It comes from a place of love.”
“Fear. That’s all you have — that’s all you are. That’s what got us hurt!” the Other roared, Kristen and Isabella retreating to their respective corners in choppy, hurried movements, like a video played in reverse, and all that was left was a figure looming over him, so close he couldn't make out the features, but he knew. He knew and he wanted to run, but he couldn't because he couldn't move, and he couldn't scream because that was fear. He was afraid.
“What has no hands but grips you tight and squeezes out your grit? What whispers warnings in your ear and makes you lose all wit? What has no fangs yet bites down hard and causes valor’s bleed? What makes the indomitable spirit of man concede?”
“It comes from a place of love.”
“I’m scared.” Of what? “Of Tom Dougherty.”
“What has no form yet plagues your dreams at night and robs your sleep? What cannot possess anything yet never stops to reap? What tells you it cannot be done yet can’t bear any weight? What dwells within your ponderings yet cannot contemplate?”
There was something dripping. He could hear it down the hall. Drip, drip, dripping like a bleeding pig, drip, drip, dripping like a gutted carcass, dripping on the floor, ruining the floor.
“I’m terrified of what will happen when he comes back.” You don’t need to worry about that. “You don’t know him, he is a monster.”
“What is the simplest foe to quell yet costs the highest fare? What tangles men throughout their lives despite its brittle snare? What keeps you on your knees and loyal, captive, victim, slave? What only withdraws its cold grip moments before the grave?”
Damn that dripping, that hollow pattering against the floor, damn it to hell! Where was it even coming from, that dripping, that pattering, that tap, tap, tapping?
You do not need to worry about Tom Dougherty. “You are sweet.”
“What wastes a life and spawns regret and anguish, grief, concern? What stifles your desire all life long, then makes you yearn? What cruel and callous King rules over all the meek and frail? What has no blade but does behead and bludgeon and impale?”
God damn that dripping, that pattering, that tip-tap-tapping, tap tap tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“You’re not a fighter, you couldn't possibly take him on.” Trust me, it’s been taken care of.
Tis some visitor, I muttered, tapping at my chamber door — only this, and nothing more.
“What does that mean?” Some time ago, he and I had an altercation…
(Goddamn that infernal tapping! That soft, incessant tapping!)
Vainly I had sought to borrow from my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for my lost Lenore — for the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore — nameless here for evermore.
…I asked him to treat you with more respect — “Oh, my God” — and he said he would treat you any way he liked…
(DAMN THAT TAPPING! That soft, distant, tapping. That relentless, insufferable tapping — damn it to Hell!)
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before.
…And he assaulted me. “Oh my God!”
(Yet the sound increased — and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound — much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton.)
“Ed…”
So, anyhow, long story short…
(Oh God! What could I do? I foamed — I raved — I swore!)
So that now, to still the beating of my heart (His heart! His heart!) I stood repeating ‘tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door — (Villains! I shrieked, dissemble no more!) — Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door — This it is and nothing more.
…I killed him.
“Edward.”
He was outside your apartment under the elevated train…
Pleasantly my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, (I admit the deed!) Sir, said I, or Madam, truly your forgiveness I must implore; (—tear up the planks! Here, here!) But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping; And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door…
…I stabbed him and he died.
(It is the beating of his hideous heart!)
Darkness there and nothing more.
“Ed!”
When Ed’s eyes opened again, he was wracked with a such a deep, painful sob that he had no choice but to let out a wail, ripping at his sheets where they’d tangled around him and adhered to his sweat-slicked skin and pitching himself forward, clutching his head in his hands and weeping. He could do nothing more.
“Ed! Oh, God, Ed,” Oswald’s voice came, so rich and thick with concern and such a blessing to hear that Ed could only sob harder.
“The light, Oswald, please…please turn on the lights, please,” Ed begged, his own voice so meek and childish and broken that some deep, pretentious part of him was ashamed. He might have even cared, might have even had that itch deep in his chest to prove that overly-judgemental part of him wrong, to show that he wasn't a disgrace and that he was better and braver and stronger than anyone gave him credit for. He might have cared, but the given circumstances had rendered him so ill and transfixed with terror that he couldn't even open his eyes to face the darkness, let alone confront his poorly internalized self-loathing.
“Oh, yes! The light, of course,” Oswald said breathlessly, careening toward the light switch and flicking it so aggressively Ed was subconsciously sure that he’d accidentally punched the wall in the process. “Th-There! There, the light’s on — see, Ed? Ed?”
The grief and panic in Oswald’s voice was like a slap to the face, so painful to hear that it seemed almost physically capable of taking a fistful of Ed’s hair and jerking his head up so that he’d at least look at his confused, jittery, concerned friend, who was currently standing by the door wringing his hands like an anxious child.
God, Ed wanted so badly to lift up his head, to look Oswald in the eye, to assure him through his tears and hiccups that he was okay, that it was just a bad dream, that they’d been happening recently and it was likely just the cause of losing Isabella, they’d pass. But he couldn't do that. No matter how hard he tried, how many times he counted down from three or five or ten in order to prepare, he couldn't lift his head. Not when he feared what he might see — what he knew he’d see. His confidence in what he’d find only scared him that much more.
He lifted his head anyway.
Two rotting corpses. Living. Breathing. Standing in his corners, taunting. Smiling. Laughing.
“Psychopath.”
“O-Oh, God,” Ed whimpered, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes so hard it hurt, red and blue bursts of color sparking to life against the inside of his eyelids.
“Ed? What is it? What happened? What’s wrong?” Oswald stammered, his uneven footsteps heavy and reassuring, spiritually grounding Ed in a world where he was with Oswald and no one else, safe in his bed, in his room, in a house in the more rural world just on the outskirts of Gotham.
Safe. He was safe.
And the weight that hesitantly lowered itself onto the space of bed in front of him only helped calm his racing mind that much more.
The consolation of merely being with Oswald was so powerful it was almost overwhelming, and in his distressed state, Ed couldn't bring himself to care too much when he threw himself into Oswald’s arms. The surprised grunt that the smaller man managed before having to focus on not toppling off the bed with Ed on top of him made his heart flutter briefly with mirth.
“Oh …O-Okay — it’s okay, Ed, I’m here, I’m…” Oswald took in a shaky breath (one that Ed felt tremble in his chest) then slowly tightened his hold on Ed, the action so excruciatingly reluctant and uncertain that it practically screamed inexperience. Ed was half tempted to drop to his knees and beg Oswald to grip him like a viper, to hold him in those slim arms as hard as he could, to trap him in warmth and comfort, squeeze the air out of him, squeeze the life out of him — hell, bruise him, he just needed to feel something. But he didn't do that. Not only would it put him in the uncomfortable position of being on his knees in front of Oswald (and begging, nonetheless), but it would also mean having to leave his current position and risk dragging Oswald into unfamiliar territory he wasn't quite ready to dabble in just yet. The last thing he wanted was to overstep Oswald’s boundaries, wherever they may be.
So instead, he clung to Oswald like his life depended on it, burying into the soft fabric of his pajamas and letting himself cry — and only slightly pretending like he hadn't noticed Oswald’s little hitch of breath when Ed had accidentally nuzzled the junction where his neck met his shoulder. The succeeding reiteration of aforementioned nuzzle was slightly more deliberate on Ed’s part, partly for the unexpected reaction it had earned him, and largely for the sense of safety such a secretive, unsullied place as Oswald’s neck offered him.
He pulled Oswald closer, practically crushing their chests together, craving that warmth, that safety, settling his cheek against the slope of Oswald’s shoulder and pressing his nose just above the collar of his nightshirt. Oswald’s little gasp of breath was more noticeable this time.
“Ed…”
“I’m sorry if I woke you up,” Ed interrupted, his tone barely above a whisper. His voice was significantly muffled by Oswald’s skin, but the comfort of the close proximity blew any possibility of pulling away to repeat himself more coherently right out of the water. Oswald’s warmth, his smell, the silky smoothness of his pajamas and the fact that his skin somehow managed to be even softer left Ed seriously considering tying them together so that he might never have to leave the solace of Oswald’s neck.
“O-Oh, you didn't — I couldn't sleep anyway,” Oswald said with a humorless chuckle, haltingly running his hand over Ed’s sweat-soaked shirt before letting it relax into an unconscious glide. “I just…I-I heard you rambling to yourself, so I thought I’d come ask you if you wanted some tea or something — m-maybe some company — but when I got to your door I could hear you moaning, and I didn't know if you were in distress or…I-I didn't wanna come in if it wasn't distress — like, the opposite, actually—” Ed felt his face heat up, and he pulled Oswald even closer for it—“uh, but…but then you started talking and so I thought I could just knock…”
“Talking?” Ed asked, his voice low and cautious. “What was I saying?”
“Oh, like I know," Oswald scoffed, “I couldn't hear you that well.” When he was met with nothing but Ed’s own painfully patient silence, he sighed and continued. “You were…reciting poetry. It was Poe, I think.”
A smile tugged at the corner of Ed’s mouth. He took in a shuddering breath and pulled away slightly, propping his chin on Oswald’s shoulder so that he could speak clearly into his ear.
“‘Vainly I had sought to borrow from my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for my lost Lenore — for the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore — nameless here for evermore.’”
“The Raven,” Oswald commented without waiting a beat, shifting slightly to avoid putting too much strain on his wounded leg. Ed almost slapped himself for his inconsideration, pulling away and scooting back against the headboard so that Oswald could move himself into a more comfortable position. In a perfect world, Ed would have said that Oswald almost looked disappointed by the abrupt end to their prolonged hug.
“Yes,” Ed said with a sigh, keeping his head lowered in a half-hearted attempt to hide his bloodshot eyes and splotchy face. “One of my favorites.”
“You…” Oswald frowned for a moment, his eyes dark with thought before he licked his lips and leaned closer to Ed. “You kept changing the pitch of your voice, too. While you were reciting it. Like there were two people. Or two poems.”
This time, Ed couldn't help his smile. People often underestimated Oswald in many things, his intelligence being one of them, and it seemed that Ed was the one guilty of that tonight. He certainly hadn't expected the kingpin to actually care enough to follow the changes in Ed’s voice to the conclusion that he’d been rambling on and on in his sleep about more than one of Poe’s works.
“‘Villains!’ I shrieked, ‘dissemble no more! I admit the deed! — tear up the planks! here, here! — It is the beating of his hideous heart!’”
“The Tell-Tale Heart,” Oswald remarked, just as fast.
He sat there a moment, seeming to be carefully mulling over his next words as if the wrong thing might just pitch Ed into a mindless killing spree.
“Both…rather dark poems from a dark writer…both dealing with death and loss in one way or another.” Oswald looked up at from beneath his lashes, something that made Ed’s spine tingle for reasons he wasn't quite clear on. “This…wouldn't be about Isabella, would it?”
Dammit. Now Ed wished people’s underestimations and belittlements of Oswald were true. Maybe then he wouldn't be so damn perceptive.
He glanced down, endeavoring to avoid Oswald’s gaze and the raw judgement he would undoubtedly find there. He didn't need that now. Especially not from him.
“I…lost someone, Oswald,” Ed croaked out, absentmindedly reaching up to fiddle with his glasses. Upon realizing their absence, he pushed his hand higher, running his fingers through the matted mess of sweaty curls adorning his head. “Someone very important to me. Someone I cared about very deeply. I think I’m allowed to dream about them.”
His tone had certainly been colder than he’d intended — more blunt, more clipped, more…hurtful — but it was too late to take it back now, and if the shaky intake of breath that came from Oswald’s direction broke Ed’s heart just a little bit more, he saw no point in letting it show.
“N-No, of course! I-I didn't—I hadn't meant—Th-That’s not what I was trying to say, Edward—”
“You’re worried about me remaining fixated on her death and subconsciously relating my loss to the macabre works of a nineteenth-century poet, inevitably driving myself down a dark path into an unhealthy mental state,” Ed rattled off monotonously, leaning over to his nightstand and yanking open the bottom drawer, promptly extracting the half-full bottle of wine that had been rolling around inside of it rather uselessly. “Well…an even unhealthier mental state, realistically speaking,” he grunted, tacking it on like an afterthought as he pulled himself back into a sitting position, bottle cradled carefully in his arms. “You’re concerned for me, Oswald. The sentiment is appreciated.”
“Of course I’m concerned for you, Ed,” Oswald said, sounding on the verge of offended, his eyes shining with something Ed was currently too blind to even attempt to read. “Because you lost someone, yes, of course — I've lost people, too, Ed — but because you’re having nightmares about them. Because you’re waking up crying. Because you’re in such a panicked state of unrest that you’re reciting Poe in your sleep.” He stopped and frowned, looking pointedly at the partially drunk bottle of Zinfandel currently being held to Ed’s chest as if it were some priceless treasure. “Because you keep one of my highest ABV wines in your nightstand.”
Ed followed Oswald’s gaze a little shamefully, running his thumb over the label, his lip twitching with a wave of self-loathing he belligerently bottled up and stashed away in some dark, dusty corner of his heart — a nightstand of disgraceful secrets only he could see, bound with chains and weighed down by locks the size of his fist. At some point, he’d lost the keys, and he didn't dare bother looking for them. What was in there could rot for all he cared.
“You’re lucky I didn't take your Châteauneuf-du-Pape,” Ed said with a sly smirk, turning the bottle upright and unceremoniously popping the cork. “I have a little too much respect for you and a good bottle of wine to go hiding something so expensive in my drawer of secrets.”
“You have more secrets in there, then?” Oswald asked with a playful tilt of his head, eyeing the drawer curiously.
Ed shrugged and took a swig of wine straight from the bottle, his tongue curling in surprise at the sharpness of alcohol so soon after waking up. “Nothing too well-kept. Sleeping aids, or so I like to call them,” he said, nudging the edge of the nightstand with his elbow almost heartily, as if he were joking around with an old friend and not sharing a drink with an inanimate object.
“Sleeping aids?” Oswald asked, and when Ed looked back at him, all cheerful pretenses had been shed from his face, leaving him bare and exposing the raw worry with a dash of fear that so devilishly coaxed an almost imperceptible quiver to his lip.
“Oswald, it’s nothing like that!” Ed said, placing a hand on Oswald’s knee and shaking his head vehemently, huffing out a few dry laughs. “They’re simple things — melatonin, Benadryl, over the counter stuff.”
When Oswald didn't react, Ed felt pressured to continue, if not by the silence alone then by that eerie knowing look in Oswald’s eye. Ed was lying. Evading the truth. And Oswald knew.
“Maybe a few smaller bottles of alcohol — a-an airplane bottle of Moscato or two.” Silence. Patience. Knowing. “Maybe a small white Zinfandel.” Silence. “And a bottle of Pinot Noir under the bed.”
Finally, Oswald sighed, eyes softening and eyebrows furrowing with an understanding gaze that felt too painfully maternal.
“When did you find the time to raid my wine cellar?”
Ed flexed his grip nervously on the neck of the bottle, glancing down at the dark liquid sloshing within as if it would give him some suitable response, like those cryptic and humorously unreliable answers that floated to the surface of a Magic 8 ball.
No such thing happened.
Distantly, Ed wondered if he should give shaking the bottle a go, as one usually did with the aforementioned prophetic children’s toy, but pushed the thought away in exchange for taking another sip.
“Such an opportunity is really not as rare as it should be. All I had to do was slip away while you were adequately preoccupied with business.”
Oswald raised his eyebrows. “What could possibly render me too busy to notice you sneaking off to the cellar?” Ed shrugged with a smirk. “And then sneaking back up with your arms full of wine bottles?” At that, Ed allowed himself a laugh.
“I’m good at what I do, I guess,” he said, raising the bottle in a half-hearted toast before taking another swig.
Oswald smiled softly, his eyes just slightly crinkling at the corners. Ed wanted to drown in that expression, commit it to memory and lock it away somewhere safe, to gaze upon whenever he was sad like this again. In any other instance, he might have, but just then, he found he couldn't. He couldn't drown in a pool with no water, couldn't bask in the sunlight if the sky was overcast.
The smile was fake, the joy in it lost somewhere on the journey from Oswald’s brain to his muscles. Either that, or Oswald was too distracted to put enough effort into making it look genuine. Ed was about to bring it up when the grandfather clock downstairs distantly chimed three.
Oswald jumped and looked over his shoulder at the doorway, fidgeting slightly where he was sitting.
“Three a.m. already, my dear Edward,” he said, turning back with a much more convincing smile — the contrast between it and its predecessor made Ed feel slightly ill. “Time certainly does fly, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” Ed mumbled, hugging the bottle closer to his chest. “I suppose it does.”
“As much as I’d love to continue this chat of ours, I should probably be returning to my quarters. You need rest, Ed. As much as you can get, and you certainly won’t be getting it if I’m sitting here talking your ear off!” he said, his smile stretching wider, shining brighter, and he climbed to his feet, correcting his pajamas where they’d become slightly twisted. Ed wanted to remark on the fact that really he had done all the talking, but before he could, Oswald was wishing him goodnight and turning to leave.
“Wait!” Ed shouted, lunging forward and grabbing vacant air. Oswald was too far to reach — perhaps a yard from the foot of the bed — but luckily Ed’s outburst had stopped him in his tracks. He turned back, his eyes wide with surprise, mouth slightly agape, curious, waiting. Ed composed himself and withdrew his arm, swallowing nervously. “Wait, Oswald,” he said softer, more of a plea than a command.
“What is it, Ed?” Oswald asked, his seemingly omnipresent concern taking over his voice once more.
“I…Don’t go.” Ed tightened his grip around the bottle, blinking slowly and taking a deep breath to calm himself. “Stay.”
Oswald let out a soft chuckle, flashing another sincere smile. “Ed, I've just said that you can’t get any sleep if we keep talking—”
“Then don’t talk,” Ed interrupted vaguely, shifting the bottle in his lap and trying to focus his blurry gaze on Oswald’s face. “I don’t want you to talk. I want you to stay. With me…Please.”
Oswald’s brow furrowed and his mouth opened, ready to say something, ready to question, but no words came out. Instead, he stood there gaping like a buffoon, blinking erratically and struggling to comprehend Ed’s request.
“Ed, I’m afraid I don’t—”
“If you want to sleep…sleep here,” Ed clarified, choosing to ignore the racing of his own heart as one might ignore the droning of a pesky fly.
It was a meaningless request — a show of weakness, sure, a particularly shameful admission, but nothing more than his inner frightened child seeking comfort after waking up from a nasty nightmare. Oswald was his best friend, and Ed had just lost the love of his life for the second time — he needed a friend. That’s all he was asking for.
“Ed,” Oswald gasped, mouth still fighting to form words, eyes wide and glassy, fists clenched at his sides. “Ed, are you…” He took a faltering step forward, licking his lips anxiously and sinking back down onto the foot of the bed. “Are you asking me to…?”
“Sleep with me,” Ed blurted out, internally cringing at the inherently suggestive request. It was just a friend he was looking for, nothing else. It didn't have to be a provocative statement, he was just making it into that. He was just looking for a friend, just a friend, just a friend…
Oswald’s back stiffened and his face flushed such a dark shade of crimson so quickly that Ed felt a flicker of mild concern for the smaller man’s well-being. He could imagine that he himself wasn't in too much of a better state — he had felt the heat flood his cheeks the minute he’d all but commanded Oswald to stop walking.
“Ed, I…hardly think that’s practical—”
“The bed is big enough,” Ed replied a little too eagerly, scooting to the edge of the mattress and gesturing at the rest of the space available. “And if your next objection is that it’s inappropriate, I’ll accuse you of having a dirty mind.”
Oswald blushed harder, a feat which Ed would have previously thought impossible and currently thought extremely unhealthy.
“Please, Oswald. I never really…had anyone when I used to have nightmares. You’re the first person to ever check up on me like you did. It’s…indescribably comforting. Your presence is comforting, Oswald. If I can wake up…” Ed choked, his throat constricting around the words, as if they shouldn't be said, were too risky to be said. He persisted, gulping strenuously, forcing some moisture into his painfully dry mouth. “If I can wake up to you, Oswald, I’ll know I’m safe.”
Oswald tried and failed to suppress a shiver, avoiding Ed’s stare and reaching up to fiddle with his collar. “You are safe, Ed,” he said softly, letting his eyes travel from the closet to the ceiling, and finally back to Ed’s face. “And…if I’m the best way for you to realize that, then I suppose it’s my duty to stay.”
Ed smiled. It wasn't like Oswald to resort to morals and duties as a means of justifying his actions, and the fact that he felt the need to do so with Ed stoked a fire in Ed’s heart that he subconsciously knew should never have been lit.
“But only if you let me have a drink. You did steal it from me, after all,” Oswald said, crossing his arms and glaring at Ed in a very unintimidating manner, so nearly childlike that Ed couldn't help but grin.
“You drive a hard bargain, Mayor Cobblepot,” he said, passing the bottle to Oswald, who promptly seized it and crawled to the other side of the bed. Ed pulled the covers back, the equivalent of opening a door in their given circumstances, and smiled even harder when Oswald grew ever more flustered by the action.
“And, as I recall, when I moved in, you told me that everything in this house was as much mine as it was yours,” he remarked with a rather smug grin.
“Well, I hadn't been accounting for the probability of you ransacking my wine stash then,” Oswald retorted with a genially mocking smirk, tugging the covers up to his stomach and tipping the bottle back, taking much more than just a drink, Ed noted with an exaggerated raise of his eyebrows.
“Oh, please,” Oswald scoffed, passing the now quarter-full bottle back to Ed, “you’re hardly one to judge, Ed. I’m not the one who keeps a bottle of Cabernet under the bed like some lewd magazine.” He crossed his arms with a self-satisfied grin, scooting down the bed and settling against the pillows, only slightly propped up.
“It’s…Pinot Noir, actually,” Ed corrected, swishing the contents of the bottle around before taking a few consecutive drinks as Oswald had done, not wanting to be shown up by a man significantly smaller in stature than him.
“Semantics, Ed,” Oswald groaned, snatching the bottle from Ed’s grip before he could sneak in another sip.
“It’s not semantics, it’s you misremembering possibly important information. That’s hardly characteristic of you.” Ed yanked the bottle back just as abruptly.
“Ed, I highly doubt that you stashing bottles of wine under your bed like a teenager will prove to be ‘important information’.”
“You never know,” Ed said, holding the bottle just out of Oswald’s reach, shaking the last ounces around tauntingly. “Maybe knowing where I keep my super-secret alcohol stash will prove useful one day.”
“Yeah, right,” Oswald snorted, lunging over Ed and taking the bottle back with a triumphant laugh. “It’ll prove useful the day I bring Jim Gordon in here to bust you.”
Ed paused, frowning, genuinely worrying if he had done something recently that would warrant Jim Gordon’s summoning. “For what?”
“Stealing from the mayor, obviously,” Oswald said, waving the bottle in front of Ed’s face before downing the rest of the contents like a man dying of thirst. Ed smiled fondly.
“As your live-in chief of staff, I highly doubt that arrest would stand in a court of law.”
“Then the court won’t be involved,” Oswald said with a contented sigh, lowering the bottle from his mouth and examining the label with vague fascination. “I get favors,” he added with a wink, setting the bottle down on the floor.
“Apparently, so do I,” Ed said, shuffling further into the sheets, smiling when the apples of Oswald’s cheeks pinkened with a rather becoming blush. “For which I am eternally grateful.”
“Ed,” Oswald said with a breathless laugh, scooting until he was entirely horizontal, arranging the pillows on his side of the bed into a vague simulation of a nest, “you really shouldn't thank me. Like I said, it’s my…duty as your boss, host, and friend to make sure that you feel safe in your accommodations.”
“And I do. Now,” Ed said, smiling at both his bedfellow and the warm buzz blossoming in his chest, a golden glow that made him feel rather free and forthcoming, his tongue loose and his mind just a tad too hazy to care. He blamed it on sleep deprivation and the rather high alcohol content of the Zinfandel Oswald had mentioned. “I mean it, Oswald. Thank you for staying. It means…” He glanced down nervously, tracing his fingers over the creases in the sheet. “It means a lot. Truly.”
“Ed,” Oswald said, so softly that Ed just had to look up, eyes darting over every nuance of Oswald’s gentle and otherwise unreadable expression. “I never got the chance to return the sentiment all those nights ago, but…” He shuffled forward ever so slightly, hesitantly bringing a hand up between their bodies to meet Ed’s, fingertips brushing against Ed’s knuckles in a silent question. Ed answered by upturning his palm, lacing their fingers together and feeling his heart skip from such a simple action, eyes locked with Oswald’s as they bore into him, powerful and relentless. “I would do anything for you, Ed. Any wish you have, granted; any need, sated; any want, met. Anything you ask, Ed, anything at all…I’ll do it.”
Any other time in any other place with anyone else, Ed might have brushed off the confession as a deliberate distraction with the belief the speaker had some ulterior motive — wanting to trick him, wanting to manipulate him, wanting to get under his skin. Here, he couldn't do that, even if he had wanted to. The raw, dangerous, unguarded honesty in Oswald’s pale eyes was captivating, of course, but also so earnest and bona fide that Ed found himself practically shaking with nondescript desire. It was a passionate gaze, a heartfelt gaze — in a world where Ed could allow himself such wistful fantasies, he might have even called it a loving gaze. It was a dangerous trap, one destined for heartbreaking disillusionment, but Ed let it snare him nonetheless.
He squeezed Oswald’s hand in nonverbal acknowledgement, hoping it served as a sufficient response to buy him time while he tore through his mind in search of the right words.
“In…In that case,” Ed began, eyelids fluttering and teeth grinding anxiously, “might I…might I trouble you for one more favor?”
Oswald took in a shaky breath and reached over with his free hand, gripping Ed’s shoulder and rubbing concentric circles into the fabric of his nightshirt with his thumb. “Anything, Ed.”
“Will you…” He broke off, hooking his teeth into his bottom lip and shaking his head stiffly, trying to force his thoughts into a cleaner place, a more innocent place. “Just…Hold me?”
He could feel Oswald stiffen, could hear his breath hitch, could feel his grip tighten at both points of contact. He kept his eyes trained on the buttons of Oswald’s shirt, not daring to meet his eyes — he was filled to the brim and near bubbling over with a sickening, poisonous kind of fear, dreading what he might find in the place of that once gentle and intimate stare.
Eventually, Oswald let out a wavering sigh, smoothing his hand down Ed’s arm and giving his hand one more comforting squeeze. “Of…Of course, Ed. Turn over.”
Ed obliged, perhaps a little too eagerly, hastily relinquishing his hold on Oswald’s hand to flip over onto his other side, curling into a tight ball and pulling the covers up to his chin.
He could hear Oswald’s unsteady breathing, could feel him trembling when he pressed his chest to Ed’s back, wrapping his arm around Ed’s waist with halting trepidation, a feeling Ed understood all too well, its inky black talons gripping his own heart and making him hold his breath, bite his lip, and squeeze his eyes shut as he waited for Oswald’s inevitable refusal to go through with the action Ed had asked of him.
Inevitable, perhaps, but apparently only in the dark, nightmarish world of Ed’s insecurity. Oswald didn't refuse, didn't draw back, but instead pulled Ed closer, molding his body to fit the curve of Ed’s spine, pressing his forehead between Ed’s shoulder blades.
“Is this okay?” he asked, mercifully cutting the silent tension between them. Ed was thankful for the intervention, immeasurably so, yet not so thankful for the way he had to strain to hear what it was that Oswald had said.
“Yes,” he gasped, burying his face further into the sheets. “Perfect.”
“Do you want me to turn off the lights?”
Ed pried one eye open, glaring at the glowing light fixture with venomous hostility, despising it for even coming close to ruining such a divine moment.
“Not if it means you letting go.”
Oswald huffed out a laugh, his breath hot against Ed’s back, even through his shirt. “Guess it’ll stay on, then.”
“I guess it will.”
“Does it bother you?”
“Not really,” Ed said truthfully, letting his eyes slip shut once more. “You?”
“A little bit. But your body serves as a pretty good shield.”
Ed smiled, hoping Oswald couldn't feel the way his heart sped up at that. “I’m glad it’s good for something.”
Oswald hummed in agreement, the vibration sending chills down Ed’s spine, and it took all of his gradually depleting will power not to shiver violently.
“Goodnight, Ed,” Oswald mumbled, his hushed tone adding to his already muffled voice and making it that much harder for Ed to understand him. Even if he hadn't caught all of the ending consonants, Ed could guess what Oswald had said and beamed secretly to himself.
“Goodnight, Oswald.”