#oswald always had sort of a fond spot for fish

[julpux]

“Everything I've done in my life, possibly the best thing was turning Oswald Cobblepot into... the Penguin.”

[fairyroses]

SECOND CHANCES [Part Four]

I swear, every time I start a new part for this fic, I think “Yes, here we are, we’ve FINALLY reached the first Ed and Os scene!” and yet somehow I always find myself getting sidetracked and going off on narrative tangents instead. 

On a semi-related note, this fic has made me realize just how much I actually love Gabe, apparently, because I didn’t intend to write this much of him at all, and yet here we are. If you also love Gabe, you’ll probably enjoy this part as much as I do. :) 

[PART ONE] [PART TWO] [PART THREE]

Tags/Thank you’s to those who commented!:  @flux--and--flow, @jessiekitty123, @vampirebillionaire, @corymichaelsmithofficial, @roguepythia, @carry-on-my-wayward-shadowhunter, @balestrazzi, @alwayysblue, @zsaszmatazz, @conflicted-boy, @nygmobblespot, @blackratchet, @salt-throne, @moraltwinkles, @fandoms-n-ship

(If I didn’t tag you here but you’d like to me tag you when I update this fic in the future, please let me know!)

Oswald remains on edge throughout the entire ride home, his feet tapping a nonsense rhythm into the dirty floor mat, a buzzing noise between his ears driving a wedge through his ability to focus. He is occasionally aware of Gabe’s eyes on him, the other glancing to the side every few minutes in what Oswald can only assume is suspicion of some sort. Gabe, he knows, has a tendency to poke his nose into Oswald’s business when he suspects that something is wrong. 

He keeps expecting Gabe to speak, to pester him further with questions, but he never does. Oswald tells himself that he shouldn’t be too surprised—silence is, after all, more or less Gabe’s usual modus operandi. Normally Oswald would be grateful for it, but tonight the absence of words feels suffocating.

A trip that should take twenty minutes seems to take fifty, the mansion materializing in the distance with agonizing slowness. Its windows are darkened, the building’s few permanent residents all sound asleep, no doubt. 

The buzzing continues, leaving a beehive where a brain should be.

Oswald leaps out of the car before it can fully roll to a stop, ignoring the surprised shout of “Boss!” that comes from Gabe. He doesn’t quite register where he’s going, or what the hurry is, until he’s stumbling into the mansion’s multi-car garage, and—

There, parked two cars down on the right. To most, it is simply a nondescript sedan, one of many used by Oswald’s various employees. But to Oswald, this car is special. It’s the car that he had set aside for Ed’s personal use as soon as he’d gotten the other out of Arkham, in an effort to ensure that Ed was afforded all the freedoms he had been so cruelly denied of in that place.

Oswald had wanted to make it clear from the beginning that staying here, with him, was Ed’s choice to make. Ed, and his car, could always come and go as he pleased. 

Oswald remembers passing by the garage in the weeks after his disastrous confession of love, after Ed had run out on him, and how his heart had sunk low in his chest every time he’d registered the empty parking spot. 

But right now the car is here, in its rightful place—and thus, by extension, so is Ed. He had not, in fact, rushed off to help Isabella with her tires. He hasn’t abandoned Oswald. He’s still home.

Oswald’s panic recedes like a spent wave, and he slumps against the chilled concrete wall, boneless in his relief. He sighs, the steady exhale curling like mist in the cool November air, and allows the stillness of the night to slowly envelope him, the weight of it settling down comfortably upon his shoulders. 

He has always preferred the darkness to the light, after all. 

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, eyes staring, unfocused, at nothing in particular. His mind has drifted, caught somewhere between the present and the future, and Oswald cannot be bothered to reign it back in, too distracted by what he now recognizes as a headache buzzing at his temples. 

No bees, then. Just insurmountable stress, manifesting itself as a dull pain pulsing beneath his skin. 

“So his car’s still here, huh?”

Oswald zaps back into his body as if struck by lightning, and he stares at Gabe’s familiar silhouette in the doorway with too-wide eyes. Oswald knows that he should collect himself, deny it, anything, but he’s too stunned to move. 

“What?” Gabe asks with a shrug, like it’s nothing, and Oswald gapes like a fish. 

“How...how did you—”

Gabe sighs and steps forward into the dim yellow light, and if Oswald’s mind weren’t stretched so thin, he would have recognized the softness of Gabe’s face, the angle of his eyebrows and the tilt of his head, as an expression of almost startling fondness. 

“Y'know,” Gabe rumbles. “I may not be as sharp as you, Boss...” His large hand lands on Oswald’s shoulder with a solid clap. “But I ain’t blind, either.” 

He chuckles, and Oswald thinks that it might be the first time he’s ever heard such a noise coming from his stoic bodyguard. It’s almost as disorienting as traveling back in time.

Amidst the jumbled noises and kaleidoscope of colors whirling through his consciousness, one coherent thought breaks through, and Oswald whispers, “You can’t tell him.” 

He means for it to be an order, but it comes out more like a plea, and Oswald hates how his voice cracks, how small he sounds, how scared.

If you know what a man loves, you know what can kill him.

Oswald knows, logically, that it was Isabella’s murder alone that led to the moment on the docks, to the gun in Ed’s hands and the single shot ringing out into the damp air. But he cannot stop himself from conflating that with his feelings for Ed, with the words I don’t love you, growled out through Ed’s clenched teeth. 

No, no, Ed cannot find out that Oswald loves him. Doing so could have unforeseen, potentially disastrous consequences. It’s better, therefore, to simply ignore his feelings, to suffer in silence in order to maintain the status quo. The status quo is safe. The status quo is what will keep Oswald alive, and keep Ed in his life.  

But as the list of those who know of his feelings grows longer, it will be harder and harder to keep them a secret. 

Oswald looks up at Gabe, his mouth opening, prepared to bargain or grovel if he has to—but he's struck frozen by the look in Gabe’s eyes. To Oswald’s shock, he sees no judgement, no conniving, no malice or intentions of blackmail. Instead, he’s met with understanding, with acceptance and concern and care, and his throat closes with a choking noise. 

Gabe ignores the sound. “Now why would I go and do a thing like that?” he asks, one brow arching in feigned ignorance, and Oswald has no idea what to say to that. He never does have any clue what to say to those who show genuine care for him. There are so terribly few of them, after all. 

I’m going to give you a raise, he thinks instead, mind numb. He takes a breath—it shudders. 

“C’mon, Boss.” Gabe says, surprisingly gentle, and the hand on Oswald’s shoulder begins to push, encouraging him to walk forward, out of the garage and back into the mansion. In the privacy of the night, separated from the typical social hierarchy of the day, Oswald allows himself to be led.

Gabe stops pushing as they reach the main foyer, pausing beneath a massive chandelier. It glitters blue and silver in the moonlight. 

“Go on upstairs. Get some sleep. You sure as hell look like you need it.” 

Oswald nods absently, not even registering that Gabe has suddenly begun to give him orders. All he hears is the tone, the gentle, yet firm paternalistic edge to the words. He thinks of his father, then, and his heart clenches. 

Gabe returns the nod, releasing Oswald’s shoulder and stepping back, effortlessly sliding back into the role of distant bodyguard, as if the past few minutes had not occurred. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Boss,” he says, with a pointed tilt of his head towards the stairs, and only turns around to leave when Oswald’s foot lands on the first step. 

Oswald pauses, hand gripping the wooden banister. “Gabriel,” he says, finally finding his voice, and he watches as Gabe stops and turns to look at him. He takes another breath, slowly gathering the pieces of himself back together, then allows his lips to twitch into a smile. “Thank you.” 

Gabe does not match the smile, but his features do soften a tad. “Anytime, Boss,” is all he says, and Oswald nods again, officially releasing him. Oswald stays put though, waiting until Gabe’s broad shoulders have disappeared from his sight. 

He glances up briefly, following the length of the stairs, and then pinches the bridge of his nose, allowing some of the pressure behind his eyes to drain. With a sigh, Oswald steps away from the staircase, limping towards the kitchen instead. He’s exhausted, and absolutely needs sleep.

But first, he needs a drink.