Birds of a Feather (Oswald Cobblepot)

God's Love Gotham

   I return home to find Oswald sitting on my living room couch, his legs spread slightly apart and his hands folded in his lap. He holds up a set of white kitchen worker's clothes.

"Could you be a dear and clean these for me?"

I cross my arms, "I'm not your maid, Oswald."

He pouts, "I know, but I've never been good at cleaning stains," he drops the set, revealing deep, dark blood stains marking up the pristine white cloth.

"Oh don't worry, I've already taken care of the body," he assures me.

He also scoots a pair of bloodied shoes from under the coffee table to complete the laundry work he’s presenting me with. Pressing my index finger against my lips, I sigh, and smile, “Alright, but you have to do something for me.”

“What?”

   “This…? Why...why?!” Oswald protests as we walk up to a tall warehouse.

“You’ll see why,” I assure him.

There’s a long line in front of the warehouse as we pass the front doors. A woman at the front greets us.

“Natalie, it’s been forever, I was wondering if you’d ever show up here again. And who’s this? Should I set up a private table for two-”

I smile, “No Ms. Thompkins, we’re here to clock in some volunteer hours.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful! I’ll set you two up in the kitchen,” Ms. Thompkins leans in and whispers, “by the way, I liked the tall boy better. This one looks like he hasn’t been getting any sleep.”

I glance over at Oswald, who just seems to be staring off into space. When was the last time this guy has gotten a good night’s sleep?

I take Oswald’s hand, “C’mon, we’re going now.”

“Why are we volunteering at a soup kitchen? Have you gone insane?”

“I use to come here all the time as a kid,” I explain.

He raises an eyebrow, “Yeah, but you don’t need the assistance anymore. So, why come back?”

I stop and squeeze his hand, “I just feel like you need to see this place. Haven’t you ever worked at a soup kitchen before?”

He shakes his head, and I smirk, “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

Ms. Thompkins leads us to the kitchen area, where several other volunteers are already working. After giving us hairnets and smocks she puts us to work bringing food out to the dining room.

“I still don’t see the purpose behind this,” Oswald protests as we bring out our first batch of trays.

I pull him to the side, “Look around. What do you see?”

The dining area is lined with long metal tables where countless men, women, and children are huddled or walking around with trays. They all wear the same dark, dingy, heavy clothing, their faces dirty and their heads bowed down.

“I see a bunch of crooks and thieves looking for a free meal,” Oswald observes snidely.

I roll my eyes, "Says the guy who eats seemingly nothing but government tuna."

He scrunches his brow, and I smile at my small victory.

I set out the trays at the serving stations with Oswald. As we work, I take brief glances at him. I know that having him serve at a soup kitchen won't change him into an honest man, but it's a start.