Birds of a Feather (Oswald Cobblepot)

Still of the Night

   I wake up on the living room couch, Oswald cuddled up beside me. Sometime during the night, the television had been turned off, and the sun is just beginning to peek out from between the skyscrapers. A morning bird chirps in the distance, only slightly muffled by the sounds of the city. My eyes widening in horror, I gaze downward. A sigh of relief escapes me when I find that my clothes are still completely on. Sensing my movement beneath him, Oswald stirs, his arms shifting to maintain their hold on me.

“Mmm...Trixie…” he mutters, still half-asleep.

I chuckle, grabbing ahold of a couch arm and trying to pull myself out of his grasp. He immediately reacts, clamping down on my body with his own weight, his only way of physically overpowering me.

“Oswald, it’s morning, I have to go to work,” I reason, although I can’t help but smile at him.

He kisses me on the cheek, “It is not yet near day: it was the nightingale, and not the lark, that pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear.”

I raise an eyebrow, “Oh really?”

He starts kissing and licking my neck, “...stay, just a few minutes more.”

“Oswald, I know you. A few minutes is going to turn into a few hours, the next thing I know you’ll be asking to stay again. I already gave you the night, and I’m not inclined to give you any more.”

Drawing back his lips, he runs a hand through my hair, while brushing his thumb on my cheek with the other, “I...I don’t want this moment to ever end.”

“What, me trying to crawl out from under your stomach?” I ask sarcastically.

He tightens his grip, squeezing me against him, “You, in my arms, with me in complete control. All the power in the world is nothing compared to total dominance over a single person, a desirable person, a loved one…”

“I wouldn’t say you have complete control,” I counter.

He grunts, his playful smile darkening into a determined scowl, “Perhaps, but let’s face it, in spirit, you are mine. And when you’re in possession of someone’s spirit well...body and soul aren’t long to follow.”

And how exactly does he own my “spirit”? I can’t tell if he’s truly delusional or he’s just desperate to convince me he is.

At that moment, an idea comes to me, “Say Oswald, how long did you rent the television for?”

“...only for one night. It’s due to be returned at eight this morning,” he stops to kiss me, “and please, call me Ozzy.”

I glance up at the clock on the wall, and smile, “It’s seven-thirty.”

   Oswald leaps up, scrambling to find his footing. He grabs his pocketknife sitting on the kitchen counter, and whips around. Trixie’s disappeared, leaving him in the cold and empty living room. The cruel woman, teasing him with a night of love and comfort, and then rushing out come morning. True, they both have things to do this morning but, the way in which she left him to abandon. Carelessly tossed aside, used and forgotten.

Shouldn’t he be her hero? He saved her from her dream world, she’d still be stuck in that artificial fantasy…

True, he’d experienced his own personal dream world himself, and she had to pull him out of it. That was...embarrassing, but it’s her fault that such a wonderful fantasy could enrapture him so easily. If she could just make his dream a reality, it would be so easy...if only…