Chapter Text
“Ghosts aren’t real.”
The words, dripping with venom, had been deeply familiar to Edward. An unwanted familiarity – the way one’s stomach might clench suddenly when hearing a piece of music that evokes memories of a particularly difficult time. “Ghosts aren’t real,” he’d spat at Oswald. Ghosts aren’t real.
They’d been the very same words he’d attempted to comfort himself with as a boy – arms clutching his knees, eyes squeezed tight and brow damp with sweat as he endeavoured desperately to forget what he’d just seen in the mirror. The boy – the other boy (because despite how he appeared he had to be someone else, something else), had visited once more. He, no – it, simply had to be a separate entity; there was no other rational explanation. It couldn’t possibly have been Edward himself voicing those malevolent ideas about his friends, and his family. Particularly his family. But ghosts aren’t real.
Truth be told, he’d all but forgotten about these occurrences. Even after the murder of Officer Dougherty – when his inner demons had surfaced once more – he’d managed to keep these events from his childhood entrenched deep within his psyche; don’t ask, don’t tell. Onwards and upwards.
Tom Dougherty had been an act of justice, of righteous indignation. That brutish oaf had hurt the woman Ed loved and therefore he needed to hurt in kind. Kringle had been a crime of passion – unfortunate, but wholly necessary. Oswald had been a mixture of the two. His penance for murdering Isabella was due, yet within the act itself a small seed of desire and possibility – almost clouded completely by utmost contempt – had reared its head once more, minute and nagging, but ultimately there.
He’d tried to ignore it previously, and his relationship with Isabella had been a soothing poultice to shroud his base desires – a nice, safe relationship; no blood, no murder, no underworld. She had been his chance for redemption, but the question had always loomed in the shadows, intangible and unreachable, dense like a thick fog – did he ever even want redemption?
He was slipping now. He’d crossed a line. Oswald Cobblepot – perhaps the only person to ever truly love Edward for who he is – was dead by Ed’s own hand, a sacrifice to demons who were never truly silent.
“You need me, Edward Nygma. Just as I need you. You cannot have one without the other.”
As much as he hated to admit it, Oswald’s desperate, pleading words had rung fiercely true with Edward. God, how he’d wanted to claim Oswald from their very first encounter at the GCPD; the way Oswald had brushed him off with such contempt – and the superiority Ed had felt by flummoxing this self-proclaimed kingpin with a painfully simple riddle had been such an intoxicating draught. Edward had wanted to bury himself deep within Oswald and hear the desperate moans escaping his throat from precisely that moment onwards. He’d wanted to topple this hot-headed young gangster, bring him to his knees and see him weak and quivering and begging Ed to hurt him just a little more.
But their relationship had evolved into so much more, following their experience in the woods. What had begun as a fleeting desire to assert his dominance (a notion which had always eluded a man who was shot down as frequently as Edward Nygma), had matured into a state that had been tremendously significant for both of them: affection. Pure and simple. It became almost symbiotic; both knew things about the other that they’d shared with no one else, and baptised by the blood of the unfortunate Mr. Leonard, their friendship had been cemented.
Tending to Gertrud’s grave had never been a chore. Edward was aware of the niceties involved with maintaining a friendship – even though, prior to this point he’d never needed to engage in such activities. Oswald had asked him for a favour, and Ed had been happy to oblige. Fresh lilies. Every five days. Check.
When Oswald had visited, fresh from his sojourn at Arkham Asylum, Jim Gordon’s castigation had been at the forefront of Edward’s mind. Therefore he had very little patience for Oswald’s new, toothless incarnation. He hadn’t been freaked out though, as he’d stated. The truth was he simply didn’t have the time to spare for what he really wanted to do to assist with Oswald’s cordial demeanour.
Later on that night, as he showered away the blood of Carl Pinkney – the seemingly neverending streams of crimson cascading down his body and turning pastel pink as they merged with the mandarin and bergamot-scented suds at his feet – his thoughts turned once more to delicate, post-Arkham Oswald, as he closed slick fingers around his cock. Perhaps that had been the Oswald he needed – unable to fight back, unwilling to say no. Perhaps it was time to take what he was due. Perhaps it was... perhaps... fuuuuuck.
He’d pictured a vulnerable, unsuspecting Oswald, wholly submissive in body and mind. Expression dim, eyes questioning but voice silent, all but trembling at Edward’s touch. Sinking to his knees, bent over a piece of furniture, trussed up and used. Ed had imagined two dozen ways to wring pleasure from his closest friend, each more troubling – and in truth, more arousing – than the last.
The scenarios themselves hadn’t perturbed him. Fantasy is a healthy – even necessary – part of one’s sex life, and most of the time those dark urges never see the light of day, brushed aside like an intrusive flash of ultraviolence, gone before they’re ever allowed to take root.
But for Edward Nygma, those repressed urges would always reside in a shallow grave, barely covered over, half a heartbeat from bursting forth and razing everything in their path. And that was precisely what set his guilt aflame every time Oswald had visited him in Arkham. No sense of right or wrong had kept him from cornering Oswald like a feeble mouse and ruining him in every way imaginable that day; only his singular obsession with Jim Gordon had done that.
To Edward’s dismay, Oswald’s kindness persisted. His visits to Arkham Asylum – where he had suffered for months under the so-called care of Hugo Strange – were frequent and lengthy. He listened to Ed’s woes; he brought gifts. And in the grandest gesture of all – he’d facilitated Ed’s release and given him a purpose.
In short – Oswald Cobblepot needed Edward Nygma.
Somewhere during the course of nursing Oswald back to health and overseeing his mayoral campaign, Edward found his admiration for the gangster blooming into something more, something beyond the conventional give and take of mere friendship. Swatting that goon Gilzean wasn’t just about flaunting his intellectual superiority (though he couldn’t deny using the victory to get off a time or two); Edward had felt a sense of duty in doing so. Oswald – for lack of more eloquent phrasing – was his, and Ed wasn’t about to let anyone bring him harm.
Throughout his youth, his educative years and beyond, Ed had become resigned to the fact that friendships were the sort of luxury that other people enjoyed; social outcasts need not apply. But Oswald turned out to be the best friend that Edward never had, and the truth was – he did need Oswald Cobblepot, and always would.
****
It is often the simplest of things that can remind a person of something they’ve lost. A chill breeze on an otherwise pleasant spring day, for example, or a familiar tune in the middle of a crowded shop. Even the smallest and most innocuous of objects can tear open the gates to feelings entombed deep and best forgotten. Edward Nygma, though he endeavoured to plaster on a mask of stoicism in the days following his friend’s demise, wasn’t immune to such triggers either.
Reaching for his toothbrush he stills for a moment, fingers lightly brushing the bright yellow tin tucked snugly in the cupboard beside it. Frozen Primate. Oswald's particular favourite choice of hair product – a ridiculous name and an even more ridiculous price. The fragrance though, an aroma which is partly peppermint with an iota of citrus, and part some unknown warmth – somewhat akin to tobacco leaf, or black tea – was the reason Ed had made this particular purchase. The scent had always put Ed in mind of a brand of chewing gum he’d enjoyed as a boy, which was to his dismay, no longer available. But he’d long since attached it to so much more than simple nostalgia.
He’d first noticed it amidst the odour of blood and grime as he’d carried the wounded Penguin back to his car. Even later that day, as Oswald’s unsteady hands held a knife to his throat, the faint aroma was still prominent – despite the fact that Ed had gone to great lengths in bathing the unconscious man before he’d tended to his injuries. Coupled with the memories of Oswald’s warm embrace upon countless occasions since their first intimate moment beside the fireplace following Butch’s downfall, he drums his fingers against the top of the can before deciding that yes, he does wish to reminisce – just for a moment.
As he twists open the lid, it’s the stench that hits him first. Festering, putrid and rotten. Still waters, blood and bloat, death and decay.
The contents of the small tin begin to shimmer and move, and Ed’s eyes widen in horror as it becomes apparent what’s inside. Hydrophilidae. Water beetles of all shapes and sizes, crawling and skittering and scrambling free from their cramped confines in an unrelenting trail of glossy black carapaces, antennae and limbs.
With a strangled gasp Edward drops the container to the floor, but the tenacious insects continue to emerge, one after another, as though the tiny container possesses volume beyond all reasonable measure. They march towards him as if pulled by an invisible string, and Ed can only gape as the relentless legion begins to overtake him.
They do so with ease – the way snaking vines and piercing bramble might beset a shack long forsaken deep in the woods, winding their way over his bare feet and up his legs, the separate entities working as one, upward, ever upward, biting and prickling until at last they encircle his throat like a claw.
He squeezes his eyes shut; if he doesn’t look at them, they cannot be real. It’s a ludicrous postulation – he can still feel them after all, feel the undulating claw begin to contract, even as more of the insects clamber over his face in search of an orifice to burrow into.
He can hear them, too – a droning hum comparable to a dentist’s drill, and he can feel his voice growing hoarse with a protracted scream he cannot hear. The beetles buzz as they skitter across his flesh; they’re in his mouth, in his ears, in his nose – the tumultuous thrum growing steadily louder with each passing second. He feebly attempts to brush them away with little success, because for every beetle that hits the floor – limbs flailing wildly as they endeavour to right themselves – several more are birthed from the container, larger than their predecessors, and moving with increased momentum.
They aren’t real. This isn’t happening. They cannot be real, they’re not-
Someone is howling with laughter. His mirror-self – positively enraptured by the horrific display before him – is laughing with such fervour he could even be screaming. His face is contorted into an exuberant grin rather than an expression of terror, and there’s not a single bug in sight; in fact there’s nary a speck of dust marring his immaculate visage.
He has to get out of here.
****
Ghosts may not be real, but remorse most certainly is. As he drives, Edward contemplates visiting Oswald’s final resting place, simply to put his mind at ease. It’s a preposterous concept; while a simple “sorry”, or a “goodbye” might mollify the disquiet within himself, no amount of either would bring his friend back from the dead. After driving without purpose for what could possibly be hours, the pale, muted rays of the rising sun gently remind him that he really does need to sleep somewhere – anywhere, and so he settles upon the next motel he comes across.
His choice of lodgings – while of course nowhere near as ostentatious as his sumptuous bedchambers at the Van Dahl mansion, or even the modest-but-comfortable apartment he’d resided in since his resignation – are agreeable enough. He collapses, fully clothed, onto the tightly made bed, and drifts off into a fitful slumber.
****
The plan had played out just as Edward had anticipated, and now the stage was set and the clock was ticking. Oswald Cobblepot – crudely trussed to the remains of Isabella’s Plymouth Horizon – is entirely at his mercy.
Oswald begs. Pleads. Cries so hard he sputters to catch his breath, even has the audacity to profess his love. Oh, it’s a good show; Ed can admit that much. But it’s too little and too late, and crocodile tears won’t absolve his sins. Oswald must pay.
“Now, I was going to have you say hello to Isabella.” As he tightens the man’s silk cravat with more force than is entirely necessary, Edward has to restrain himself from simply wrapping his fingers around Oswald’s throat and gazing in merriment as his face contorts into ever more worrying shades of blue. “But... I think you are going to a very different place.”
You do realise he’d do anything for you, Eddie.
The suggestion comes from somewhere deep inside, quiet yet insistent – a siren’s song so entrancing that it cannot be ignored. And in truth, Edward doesn’t want to.
Anything.
It’s an absurd idea. Superfluous. Twenty minutes from now and the block of ice will melt, causing the vat of acid overhead to topple and annihilate them both. And yet...
Take him, Eddie. It’s what you deserve. He owes you. You’ve dreamed of ruining him from the moment you first met. God knows you’ve got off on the idea often enough. Go on, Eddie. Do it. Make him fucking scream.
Unwilling to waste another second on brainless indecision, Ed cuts the rope binding Oswald’s legs and yanks down the mobster’s trousers before fumbling with his own, relishing the obscene sob of the zipper giving way. He’s half hard already – has been since he’d put a bullet between the eyes of Oswald’s hired thugs, in truth.
Oswald’s sobs give way to slack-jawed bewilderment then, his pale eyes large as dinner plates as Ed gives his glistening length a few earnest strokes before fully turning his attention to his prize.
It’s a precarious manoeuvre but Ed clambers astride Oswald, wincing as his knees graze against the mangled hood of the car. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he growls, pausing mere millimetres from Oswald’s face as he grabs a handful of unkempt hair. He can feel the man’s heartbeat now, practically smell his terror as their bodies press together.
“Y-yes,” Oswald stammers, blinking furiously against the tears in his eyes, “but not-”
It’s more than enough for Edward; he doesn’t allow Oswald to finish the thought, clamping an overlarge palm over his mouth as he forces himself into Oswald’s ass with all the finesse of a barbarous horde.
It’s a catharsis of sorts, a culmination of want and desperation and base desire that has eaten away at Ed’s conscience for the better part of three years. As he begins to move, forcing Oswald to stretch ever wider to accommodate the impossibly large cock filling every inch of him, Edward removes the hand from Oswald’s mouth. He needs to hear him scream. Needs to own him, to make him hurt. Not for vengeance, not now – for the urges that won’t be satisfied otherwise. For the turmoil bubbling deep within his soul.
Push harder. Deeper. Take what you deserve! Take it. Take it. Take-
Oswald plays his part with utter perfection, howling as Ed impales him again and again, balls slapping skin in staccato precision, keeping pace like a tawdry sort of timepiece.
But somewhere between his cries and the vulgar squeals of the battered vehicle beneath them, Oswald is speaking, voice barely a whisper. A repeated mantra, cutting effortlessly through the din like a blade through silk. Without ceasing his frenetic momentum, Ed gazes down at his prey – an awed groan escaping his throat as he regards the tableau before him.
Oswald’s eyes are squeezed tight and his expression is one of cherubic ecstasy, rather than agony. His inky hair is plastered to his sweat-sodden forehead in severe streaks, and his reddened lips are barely parted as he reiterates, as if in prayer:
“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck-”
Spurred on by Oswald’s murmured incantation, Edward slams into the bound Penguin, blinded by obsessive need, perspiration beading on his forehead and dripping with every thrust. The slick impression of Oswald’s erection presses firmly into his stomach, and Ed is close now, so close. He just needs a little more-
But Oswald’s demeanour soon changes tack. His body tenses in Ed’s vice-like grip, and his pale, bloodshot eyes are now wide open and staring fixedly at the cauldron above them.
“We’re gonna die, Ed, fuck, we’re gonna die, we’re going to die!” he wails, shuddering beneath Edward as his worry melts into a guttural moan. “Oh, God, I’m gonna c- I’m gonna come, fuck-”
Edward scarcely cares. He needs this, all of this. The acute sense of dread, the adrenaline and the long-coveted prize of Oswald’s heated flesh pressed against his own. But amidst it all, another aspect becomes prominent, a dim, low buzzing, which – against his will – focuses Ed’s thoughts pointedly towards his earlier encounter with the swarm of beetles. He won’t think about that now. He won’t. He-
They’re coming...
“No, no! Not now!” Ed cries. He clutches tightly to Oswald’s thighs – nails leaving contusions on pale skin – and thrusts himself deeper still. He’s too close; they both are. He can’t stop now. He won’t. They just need-
Run.
****
Opening his eyes to the harsh light of the midday sun, it becomes apparent that this particular coitus interruptus is nothing more than his cellphone, practically vibrating itself off the nightstand. His sleep-fogged brain idly ponders the misnomer of so-called “silent mode” as he reluctantly answers the call.
A discordant pop and hiss are all that greet him from the other end of the line, however, and he nearly tosses the phone aside in exasperation. But as he fumbles with the buttons, eager for rest and – above all else – to return to the reverie he’s so abruptly left behind, the static gives way to a melody both sweet, and jarringly intimate.
“The fire has gone out, wet from snow above. But nothing will warm me more, than my, my mother’s love...”