Birds of a Feather (Oswald Cobblepot)

A Bet Worth Making

   I open the door of my apartment to find Oswald putting on one of my records, his back turned to me. I can’t help but smile as I slowly walk toward him, psychopath or not, he’s a man of impeccable taste.

“Where did you find these records?” he asks, setting the needle on the record.

“Your mother gave them to me. While you were...away,” I explain.

He turns to me, his eyes wide and long lashes giving him a slightly youthful appearance, “I notice you share many similar traits to Mom.”

He looks down, folding his hands as he chuckles quietly to himself, “You’re both so caring and kind-”

“If this is a ploy to make me do good on my end of the bargain, you’re not fooling anyone,” I interrupt him, raising my hand to gesture.

He smirks, his smile growing steadily wider, “Oh, no trickery here, and have I ever lied to you?”

I think back through the short time we’ve known each other, has he ever lied to me?

“Not directly, but a lie of omission is still a lie,” I point out.

He laughs through his closed lips, shrugging his shoulders, “Oh Trixie, are you really going to linger on a little technicality like that?”

Closing the space between us, he wraps his arms around my waist, “No matter what happened before, all that matters now is that we’re together,” his hands wander down lower than they should, “together, in a loving relationship.”

Oh...that’s what he was after, “Who said this is a relationship?”

“Who says it isn’t?”

We kiss, Oswald shuffling his feet so that his body is touching mine. We let go, and I smile.

“That was very sweet Oswald...now give the knife back.”

He sighs, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the knife. I place the knife in the back pocket of my jeans. Oswald glances at the dining room table, where several envelopes lie.

“I’ve been reading some of your letters,” he confesses, keeping one arm wrapped around me.

I raise an eyebrow, “You do know reading other peoples’ mail is illegal, right?”

“You left them out on the table, I saw it as an open invitation,” he reasons, “so...Ed, your friend from school, correct?”

I nod, “Yes. He and I have resumed exchanging letters.”

He leads me to the couch, where we sit down, “And is this also the man who was with you in your apartment the day I returned? And I’m also to assume that he works with you at the GCPD?”

“This is not the Spanish Inquisition, Oswald. Yes, I have contacts, why is that such a shock to you?” I counter.

“Speaking of the GCPD, I better write Ed a letter telling him that I’m going to be out of town,” I get up, Oswald grasping out for a second.

“Hopefully the letter gets to him before Monday...maybe if I can send it before six tonight…” I think aloud, although I soon realize that’s a dangerous thing to do around Oswald.

“What are you going to do on your little vacation?” he asks.

“None of your business,” I chastise as I begin opening a drawer for some supplies.

"Everything is my business," he claims, getting up from his seat, "information is power."

I roll my eyes, “And how would this useless piece of information be of any significance to you?”