Chapter Text
Ed isn't a fan of public transport. The sticky floors, moquette seats worn shiny from the thousands of posteriors they harbor weekly, and fug of body odors are trying enough even without factoring in the other commuters. But he doesn't own a car, and the two-mile trek from his apartment to Gotham U is too far to walk at this hour without fear of being mugged. So he takes the train.
He's tired, eyes stinging from a two a.m. session spent writing up his lab book, slumped in a seat by the window and examining the smears on the glass. He wonders idly what weird and wonderful varieties of bacteria have set up shop there, and what exotic disease he's likely going to contract from the exposure.
"Excuse me."
Ah, there it is. The dreaded words. Someone has just boarded the crowded train and is now requesting the seat next to him.
"May I sit here?"
At least this fellow is asking. All too often people just plop themselves down, elbows spilling over the armrest into his personal space without so much as a warning or a by your leave. "Naturally," Ed says, not looking away from the window. It's not like he has any personal claim to the seat, much as he wishes that were the case.
The man stows his briefcase in the rack above and sits. He doesn't jostle Ed as he does so, which is an immediate point in his favor. "You have my thanks, kind stranger," the man says, mildly surprising Ed since this part of the journey normally lapses into silence. "You're the fourth person I asked."
This does snag Ed's attention. He turns his head to observe his seat-mate.
He looks about Ed's age - perhaps a little older – with pale eyes and a pointed nose. He's wearing a collared shirt, more grey than white, under an unflattering taupe suit-jacket. His dark hair, oily with pomade, is slicked back, and his face is haggard with exhaustion, fingers jittering with nerves. Ed understands why his previous requests for a seat were denied; Gothamites are a rude, mistrustful lot, and there's something a tad off-putting about the man beside him, something sharklike . . .
"Lawyer or mafia?" he says.
The man laughs uncertainly. "I could surely never afford law school." His eyes rake over Ed, scanning for something in his worn sweater and squeaky-polished glasses. There's a sharpness in his gaze that wasn't present in his chuckle or twitching hands. "How about you, friend? Something STEM-related, right?"
Ed smiles tightly. "I'm double-majoring in forensic science and anatomy."
The man whistles, clearly pleased at the accuracy of his cold-read. "Must involve a lot of dissections."
"They're my favorite part," Ed says, then kicks himself. Painful experience has taught him that confiding your enthusiasm for cutting up cadavers in strangers on crummy public transport is not an optimal social strategy.
This fellow doesn't edge away, though. "Really? Most men try to put off entering the morgue for as long as possible, in my experience."
Ed's grimace twitches into a genuine smile. "I'm not afraid of corpses," he says.
"Me neither," the man says. (Ed mentally adds a tally mark to the 'mafia' column.) "It's the living you've got to watch out for. People can be so cruel."
Ed remembers a time not too long ago, when he was going by a different name, and suppresses a shudder. "Yes, they can."
There's quiet for a few seconds, punctuated only by the thrum of the train and a hissed conversation over the phone from the seat behind them. Apparently it's not Janice's turn to take the kids, woman, and she needs to stop fucking pestering him before he goes round her house and knocks her fucking teeth out.
"So!" Ed says loudly. "Where are you headed?"
"I'm going for a job interview," the man says. He gestures to the ugly jacket. "Hence the penguin suit."
"I don't fucking care that it's 'your week', bitch. What are ya gonna do, call the cops? I'm sure they'd love to hear about your little crack habit."
Only in Gotham. "Where are you applying?" Ed says, raising his voice so he can be heard over the rapidly heating argument.
"Fish Mooney's place." The man says the name like Ed should know it.
"I'm not familiar," he admits.
The man looks at him oddly. "You don't get out much, do you?"
"Not really," he says, chipper as he can manage. "This interaction has already fulfilled my normal social quota for the day, if I'm being honest. I value a quiet life."
"Your life must be quiet indeed, with only corpses for company."
Ed can't tell if the man is insulting him or not. "Perhaps the dead can't talk, but their post-mortems can uncover the most fascinating stories," he retorts. "From the obvious – gunshot wounds to the back, bruising from autoerotic asphyxiation gone awry, railway spikes driven through the skull, you know the sort – through to the minutiae – burst blood vessels staining the sclera, track marks from needles, birthmarks. . . One can learn more about a person in ten minutes on a slab than in an entire hour of conversation."
"That might be true from a cold anatomical perspective," the man says, "but I am a firm believer in the human element." He crooks a smile. "It's one of the reasons I've applied to work in a bar."
It's funny. Physically, the man looks exactly the same as he did five minutes ago when he first sat down, slimy unctuousness exuding from his every pore. But the fact is that after Ed first locked eyes with him, he hasn't been able to drag his gaze away once. Is this what people call charisma? he wonders, envy bubbling up.
The PA system crackles to life. "We will shortly be arriving at Burnley West," drones the robotic female voice. "Please take all your belongings with you when alighting. We remind you that Gotham Rail is not responsible for any theft of personal property that may occur as a result of passengers' negligence. That being said, if you would kindly refrain from robbing other passengers until you have exited the station, we at Gotham Rail would be very appreciative."
Only in Gotham. The city has the third-highest crime rate in the developed world, God bless.
"Fuck you, Janice!" The ape behind them closes his flip-phone with a snap, swearing under his breath. Ed catches 'crack-riddled whore' and stops listening.
Only in Gotha–
Who is he kidding. He hates this hellhole of a city.
"This is my stop," the man beside him says, standing. He glances at Ed. "It's been pleasant talking to you . . .?"
"Ed," he supplies. "Ed Nygma." The fake name still tastes exciting on his tongue.
"Well, Mr. E. Nygma," the man says, and there's a warm flutter in Ed's stomach, "perhaps you can pay a visit to Fish Mooney's place in a couple weeks time – if you can free up a slot in your social calendar, of course – and we will continue this conversation."
"You sound confident. About getting the job, I mean," Ed says wonderingly. "Some would call that hubristic, sir."
"Ah, I have a good feeling about this one," the man says, tapping his sizeable nose. "Just call it intuition." He retrieves his briefcase, tiptoeing to reach it. He's shorter than Ed realized. "I'm of the mind that fate owes me something bright, after all the slings and arrows she has cast at me as of late."
"I wish you the best of luck staying afloat," Ed says.
"Thank you, friend, that means a lot." The train car jolts to a stop. "I really must be going now. Au revoir!"
"Goodbye."
He's nearly to the door before Ed remembers.
"Wait!" Ed calls, drawing a look from the woman sitting on the seat across from him, "I didn't catch your name."
The man turns. "Oswald Cobblepot," he says. "It's a name people are going to remember."