#i changed the hyphens owo

[mayor-crumblepot]

owo listen.. meetcute where Oswald comes up to Ed, asks him to fake being his boyfriend in front of Gertrud, who just wants her boy to settle down (bonus points if Gertrud is under the impression that Ed has some Snazzy Job).. thanks b stan u 5eva

my main squeeze always coming through with the fantastic concepts

ilu !!!! 

Oswald isn’t sure how he got this deeply trapped in his own lies. Lies he’s told his own mother, which somehow makes it ten thousand times worse. She’s convinced herself that when she meets Oswald for lunch today, she’s going to be meeting his mysterious boyfriend, whose name he hasn’t mentioned to her, but he is a lawyer.

Where the fuck does someone like Oswald even find a lawyer to date? His poor mother, bless her heart, she’s just so willing to believe anything he says. Oswald imagines that if his father were around, he would have seen right through his story, but Gertrud— she loves him too much to think him a liar.

Just a few weeks ago, Oswald landed himself a job cleaning cups and sweeping the floor at a club, holding wet coats and umbrellas for those who make more money than he does. He tells his mother that he works as a bar manager, and it isn’t entirely a lie, because that’s what his job is on the payroll, as well.

It doesn’t account for the various murders he’s already been a party to, or the number of times he’s had to oversee the sale of illegal contraband in the last week alone, but the sound of it makes his mother happy. That’s what matters most to him.

And that’s the problem; disappointing his mother is something he’d rather die than do. She thinks so highly of him, has so many lofty plans for who he could be, who he deserves to be. Oswald knows that with the years, his mother has lost more and more of herself, of her mind, and he can’t help but think about how hard it would be for her to cope with what he’s had to do to make money for the two of them to survive.

So, he lies. It breaks his heart, but he lies to her.

“How was work, Oswald?”

“It was fine, mother.”

“How are you feeling, Oswald?”

“Just fine, mother.”

“Are you eating well? Are you sleeping enough?”

“Yes, mother. Of course, mother.”

It’s easier this way.

She doesn’t have to see it. He spends most days and nights at the club, working, and Fish is kind enough to let him have a spare room. If it ensures that her businesses stay a secret, without too many privy eyes, she can be very charitable. When Oswald does visit his mother, he makes sure that he looks his best, and he never turns down an invitation to meet her somewhere for lunch.

And here he sits, in the middle of some restaurant with a limp excuse for a bar in the center of it. Date-less, because of course he is, and expecting his mother at any minute.

He thinks, faintly, that maybe someone will be willing to take pity on him. Maybe someone, anyone, will be willing to sit next to him and play nice, just for the duration of his mother’s questioning, then take a quick exit when the time is right. The few people that Oswald just up and asks are all moderately sympathetic of his situation, but ultimately are unable or unwilling to help him. He can understand that.

Oswald is close to giving up and accepting defeat, when he sees a man in an off the rack suit that barely fits him order red wine at the bar. It’s only a little after noon, and normally Oswald would think it’s a bit early for wine, but he considers his situation, then asks the bartender for two glasses of the same wine for the table he’s left his things at.

“Hi, sorry,” Oswald sits himself down in the bar stool next to the new man, skinny and unassuming, “what’s your name?”

“Edward,” behind his glasses, the man squints. “Do I know you?”

“I’m Oswald,” he watches the wine get delivered to his table, and he can’t wait until he makes enough money to never come back to this place, “now you know me. I need a favor.” The man doesn’t respond, merely continues to stare. That’s better than immediate refusal, Oswald supposes. “My mother is going to be here in less than ten minutes. She expects me to be with a man. I’ve lied to her for over six months that I’m dating some lawyer; handsome, kind, intelligent, you know. Help me.”

“A lawyer?”

“My mother’s English isn’t great, she won’t ask difficult questions,” Oswald knows he’s started to take on a begging tone, but as time ticks down, he’s become so much more desperate, “and I’ll buy you lunch.”

“Okay,” Edward offers up his hand, smiling, “sure.”

Edward is terrifyingly good at stealing Gertrud’s heart. Much to Oswald’s surprise, Edward knows simple Hungarian, has extensive knowledge of the justice system, and either has an extremely vivid imagination or works in the criminal justice field. Oswald isn’t sure about the last one, but as his mother walks off toward the bathroom, he’s practically bursting with questions.

“What the fuck do you do for a living?” Oswald’s chair is fixed uncomfortably closely to Edward’s, to sell the illusion of their relationship to Gertrud. It’s working, mostly.

“I’m a forensics tech at the GCPD,” he fills in quickly, putting a part of the various appetizers Gertrud has ordered into his mouth, “I hope the details weren’t too off putting, I mean— she asked.”

“No, it’s fine,” resting his chin in his hand, Oswald finds himself a bit too spun out to eat, “she loves to be indulged. I just didn’t— I didn’t expect this to go so well.”

“Didn’t have much faith in me?” It doesn’t seem like Edward is very surprised by this assumption, and it only makes Oswald feel even worse.

“To be fair, I didn’t know you,” he laughs, taking a sip of his wine, “but I’m very impressed.”

“So, Edward,” Gertrud walks back up to the table, layers flowing behind her, “for wedding, you will change your name, yes?”

Oswald shares a mortified glance with Edward, unsure of where to take this. Had he known his mother would ask about marriage, he’d have just told her he didn’t have a boyfriend. There’s no way for him to tell her that he doubts his ever getting married; that his line of work leaves him better off unencumbered, and that marriage is the ultimate contradiction to that. She’d be heartbroken, though, and Oswald can’t imagine doing that to her.

“I think we’ll hyphenate,” Edward leads, warmly. “I changed my name when I left my family— it’s very important to me, but sharing Oswald’s name is as well. Hyphenation seems like a fair compromise, don’t you think, dear?” In the moment, Edward has placed his hand over Oswald’s, out in the open, on the tabletop. Oswald’s mouth hangs open for a split second.

“Yes,” he says, putting his expression back together, “I would hate to take that from Eddie, mother. You understand.”

“Why did you leave your family?” Gertrud asks, wine poised halfway to her mouth, very clearly seeking gossip.

“Mother—!”

“They weren’t very kind to me,” the words are very weighted, but Edward shrugs them off with a practiced ease, “but that was a very long time ago.” How long ago could it have been? Edward is barely thirty, if that, and Oswald knows ten years isn’t enough time to mend a wound like that.

“Our family, we will treat you better.”

“I’m so sorry that took so long,” Oswald holds Edward’s arm as he apologizes, just a bit tipsy, “it’s so hard to stop her.”

“She’s very charming,” the feeling of Oswald’s hand on his arm burns, something warm and trusting. “It’s no problem— my boss was happy to give me the evening off.”

“You called out of work?”

“I didn’t want to run out on you,” he laughs, nervous, “I hope that isn’t strange.”

“No, it’s— it’s very sweet.” On one hand, Oswald can count the number of times someone other than his mother has done something this kind for him. It dawns on him, faintly, that Edward is everything Oswald explained his mystery boyfriend to be; handsome, kind, smart. How convenient. “I hate that I’ve kept you so late—” Beyond them, the sun is only just starting to set, casting the both of them in warm colors that make everything seem softer, “and that I won’t be able to continue to keep you company. I have work, and—”

“Let me buy you a coffee on the way,” when Edward smiles, there’s a warm edge of care to it, so Oswald predictably leans right into it. “You told your mother you worked in a club, does that mean you’re working downtown?” 

“Something like that,” he gestures vaguely in the direction of the club, “I work at Fish Mooney’s.” 

And Edward doesn’t ask any questions. He doesn’t tell Oswald about Fish’s murderous inclinations, doesn’t tell him he should find somewhere else to work, doesn’t express a distaste at the well-known implications of working for someone like Fish. To a trained eye, one like Edward’s, it’s very clear that Oswald is already well entrenched in a life that is anything but holy. He’s created a half notch in his belt to make room for the added inches of a gun in his waistband, he shies away from the exposure of streetlights; he knows the alleyways and hideaways of Gotham City better than her taxi drivers. Edward sees these things, he acknowledges them and considers what they could mean for him, holding onto Oswald’s arm, knowing so little about him— he understands that Oswald’s life is not his to guide, but he would very much like to follow it, if given the chance. 

From the moment Edward pulls out his wallet, snickering when Oswald laughs far too loudly in the quiet cafe they’ve stopped at, Oswald knows he’s found something he doesn’t want to lose. And if Edward wants to use him, well, Oswald thinks he could learn to live with that. The risk is one he’s willing to take, because between taking care of his mother and working every night, he’s forgotten what it feels like to enjoy himself. 

(Faintly, he wonders, if he’s ever quite enjoyed himself. Has he ever allowed himself to follow a questionable whim, to introduce himself to a stranger and introduce that stranger to his mother? It feels unsafe, feels too risky, but god, the rush is something Oswald could live on forever. Maybe he could continue to find that in Edward.) 

If Edward has any problem with the way Oswald stares at him as he thinks, he doesn’t say a thing. Drinking coffee under streetlights, as the night descends around them; Edward feels as though he’s doing everything backwards. What’s worse is that it feels like it was meant to go this way from the very beginning.

As they come up on Fish Mooney’s notorious club, a line of desperate people slowly forming outside of the door, Edward mourns all of the things he can’t think to say. There must be something, but his mouth is glued to the lid of his travel cup. 

Oswald takes the cardboard sleeve off of his cup and writes a phone number down on it in an unduly elegant script. He’s left handed, and for some reason this minute little detail makes Edward’s chest constrict. There’s so many things he doesn’t know about Oswald, so many things he’d like to learn. 

“You’re not a cop, right?” Oswald says, holding the phone number close to his chest. 

“Just forensics,” he reiterates, looking for a trash can to throw his own cup in, “nothing close to an officer. I’m not sure that I’d want to be one.��� 

“You are a very interesting man, Edward,” with a hint of hesitation, Oswald relinquishes the phone number, pressing it into Edward’s palm. He has to get up on the tips of his toes, but Oswald manages to press a chaste and painfully polite kiss to Edward’s cheek, “We should do this again sometime.” 

As Oswald disappears into the club, greeting the bouncer at the door with a nod, Edward nearly drops his phone as he fumbles to enter the number into his contacts. He knows it might be seen as improper manners, it might seem a bit eager, but he sends Oswald a message before he even walks away from the club.