Chapter Text
If Gotham City had an award for the most hare-brained plan of the year, Ed Nygma is sure the predicament he's found himself in would certainly qualify if not for the award itself then at least an honorable mention.
Speaking of…
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” a sing-song voice calls from somewhere to his left.
Ed pushes down the urge to dart from his hiding place behind some conveniently stacked crates and instead clutches the pager in his hand, wondering for the fifth time this evening just what he's gotten himself into.
“Yoo hoo,” the voice calls again, and there’s a shuffling sound somewhere to his right, followed by a muttered, “normally I love hide-and-seek, and chasing sneaky little rats, but you're no fun.”
What is she…
“Gotcha!”
Ed manages to push but one key on the pager before a swift kick flings it from his hands entirely.
He blinks once, twice, staring at the spot the pager landed, several feet away, in disbelief.
So much for that.
Looking up, he sees the source of the voice – a woman, wearing a garish outfit and even more garish face paint – standing right in front of him.
What is easy to get into but hard to get out of?
In the split second it takes for the situation to fully register, Ed figures he might be able to knock her down and make a break for it. In the split second after that, however, he remembers his injured ankle.
“Uh oh,” the woman says, her hands behind her back and her mouth twisted into a sadistic grin, “looks like someone's in trouble. Oh, and a tip for the next time: check that your feet ain't stickin' outta your hidey-hole, mkay?”
Ed opens his mouth to reply something, anything, but the words die on his tongue as she switches her stance and swings a comically oversized mallet at his head.
So that's why her hands were behind her back, he thinks, watching as the mallet approaches his head almost as if in slow motion.
A jubilant cry of “Lights out!” is the last thing he hears before everything goes dark.
***
Three days earlier
Standing in the foyer of the former city hall, Ed can't help but think that Oswald really needs to up his security measures to include guards at the more unconventional entrances of the building.
Then again, better security would mean Ed might not get into the building this easily next time. Presuming, of course, that there will be a next time.
He takes a few tentative steps, listening for any movement as he mulls over the pros and cons of informing Oswald about the weaknesses in the building's defenses. Cursory revision indicates it would be far more beneficial to keep the knowledge to himself. At the same time, the knowledge is a potential bargaining chip... and he sorely needs one.
The sound of claws on marble floor yanks him from his thoughts and a look around reveals a stout bulldog bounding towards him.
Well, technically it's Edward the stout bulldog that's bounding towards him, but Ed refuses to refer to the dog by its name – at least until Oswald finally admits that the dog's name being his name is no coincide.
In any case, the dog in question skids to a stop in front of Ed, looking up at him quizzically. A moment later, it whines plaintively, wagging its stubby tail.
Deciding that to indulge the animal is easier in the long run than to endure whatever might happen if it started barking loudly enough to bring unwanted attention, Ed crouches down and scratches the soft, foldy skin behind its ears.
The dog whines again, this time in appreciation.
After about a minute of cycling between the whining and the scratching, Ed's patience is starting to thin. “That's enough for now, I think,” he tells the dog, standing up to stretch his cramping legs. “Where's Oswald? I need to talk to him.”
The dog only pants happily in response to the name of its owner, wagging its stubby tail even more forcefully than before. Its entire body follows the motion, conjuring the image of a tree quaking in strong wind. Or perhaps an especially enthusiastic club-goer, complete with a matching level of mental awareness.
Ed sighs. “If I promise to pet you some more later, will you take me to him?” he asks, acutely aware that he's talking to a dog as if it could understand his words.
The dog stares at him for a moment before huffing and trotting off.
Ed fights the urge to rub his temples. In the end, having decided that one way or another, he'll run into Oswald eventually, he follows the dog deeper into the building.
Fortunately – or perhaps unfortunately, but he doesn't have neither the time, the presence of mind nor, frankly, any particular desire to weigh the pros and cons of the situation – eventually comes sooner rather than later, because it takes him only a minute of wandering the halls before bumping into Oswald.
Quite literally, in fact.
“What the hell do you–” Oswald starts as their collision forces the trash-bag he’d been carrying to go flying from his hand, his voice rising to an alarming pitch before coming to a sudden stop entirely as he realizes who he’s looking at. “...Ed? What are you doing in my house?”
Admitting he was following the dog around seems a tinge too pathetic, so Ed decides against it – as well as against pointing out the fact that it isn't technically Oswald's house at all but a municipal building commandeered by him when the city became a free-for-all.
So, instead he says, “A strength for friend, a weakness for foe, my birth heralds fences mended and quarrels ended. What am I?” and hopes that Oswald doesn’t ask how he got into the building.
Of course, said hope is in vain.
“How did you get past the guards?” Oswald asks, ignoring the riddle entirely as he leans down to scoop the dog into his arms. “And past Edward, for that matter?”
Pausing to weigh his options, Ed decides deflection is the best course of action available at the moment. “Never mind that,” he says, turning his gaze from Oswald's face to the dog in his arms. “How about we finally address the fact that you named your dog after me?”
Oswald's eyes narrow, but he doesn't rise to the bait. “Make one wrong move,” he replies, shifting the dog in his arms, “and my guards will come running.”
Back to the old game of cat and mouse, then. “If you were going to call for your guards,” Ed responds nonchalantly, leaning closer to pet the dog, “you would've done it by now. Actually, now that I think about it – your guards would've already spotted me... if you had any to spare for the inside of the building. Besides, I thought we were beyond threats. For the moment, at least.”
Oswald exhales sharply. “Fair enough, I suppose,” he says eventually, sounding suspiciously distracted. “Why are you here?”
Ed draws back, crossing his arms and attempting to project an air of confidence – if only to try and ignore the sinking feeling that coming here was a mistake; whatever reception he’d expected, it certainly wasn’t this. “As you well know, most of Gotham thinks me a mass murderer, even despite the truth of the matter. Needless to say, this is a problem.”
Oswald tenses almost imperceptibly, clutching the dog a little closer to his chest. “I take it you got your answers, then.”
“What happened… Well, I'm in full control of my actions once more.”
“Good to know.”
They stand in silence for a moment, both occupied with their own thoughts. Then, the dog whines and wriggles in Oswald’s arms, indicating it's had enough of being held for the moment.
With a sigh, Oswald sets it down gently, almost gingerly, watching as it trots off to sniff at the trash-bag lying a few feet away.
For some reason, though, his eyes widen almost comically once the dog starts chewing on the drawstring holding the bag closed. “Edward, stop that this instant or–” he starts, an almost shrill hint of panic creeping into his voice even as he keeps his tone forceful but even.
However, the words come far too late and, with a satisfied grunt, the dog pulls the bag open.
Instead of trash, as Ed had expected, though, an exorbitant amount of loose cash spills out; the dog claims a good mouthful of it and happily gets to work on chewing it.
Oswald curses under his breath and hobbles over to reclaim the rest of the bag from the dog, his back to Ed as he hovers over both dog and bag – suspicious enough on its own, considering their history and the state of the city, but when coupled with the distracted demeanor, the trash-bag of money, the lack of guards inside the building as well as the lack of any recent attempts at territory expansion…
The dog wanders off, presumably in search of something else to chew on, leaving behind a drool-soaked bundle of hundred-dollar bills alongside his frustrated owner.
Of course.
“What do you call having a tiger in the cabin on a passenger plane?” Ed asks a few seconds later, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow.
The sound of his voice causes Oswald’s shoulders to visibly slump, fuelling Ed's suspicions further.
“Answer the riddle, Oswald.”
Standing up, the haphazardly reassembled bag dangling in his left hand, Oswald turns to face him. “A risky flight,” he says, the note of defeat in his voice barely concealed by his annoyance; it’s clear he knows that Ed knows. “Or, as I suspect you want it answered: it's a flight risk. Not one of your best riddles, you know – too much room for interpretation.”
Electing to ignore the thinly veiled insult – room for interpretation was exactly the point – Ed narrows his eyes. “So you are making a break for it,” he says triumphantly, even as a part of him remains adamant that rubbing salt in the wound might not a good idea – especially considering why he risked coming here in the first place. The rest of him, though, stomps that thought out quick as can be.
“I don’t see how that's any of your business,” Oswald says, narrowing his eyes in return, but the defensiveness in his tone tells Ed all he needs to know.
A huff of laughter escapes Ed’s throat before he can stop it. “I'm coming with you. I figure that makes it my business, don’t you?” he says, smiling pleasantly.
Oswald stares at him for a good ten seconds, dumbfounded, before erupting in disbelieving laughter. “And what makes you think that's going to happen?”
“Simple: you need me.”
There's a brief pause – and Oswald laughs again. “Right,” he says, trying to keep a straight face and, judging by the twitching at the corners of his mouth, clearly failing. “That's your best offer?”
“You know what I can do,” Ed says, hating the fact that his mounting desperation is readily apparent in his voice no matter how much he tries to hide it. “Besides, I have personal incentive to get out of the city. If you ask me, that's a more than good enough reason.”
“I didn't ask,” Oswald replies, “and thanks for the offer. But no.”
Unbelievable.
“Fine,” Ed says casually, “I guess I'll be leaving then. By myself. Via the escape route. That I know. Without telling you about it.”
An exaggeration of the truth, perhaps – he doesn’t actually know a way out of the locked-down city, merely rumors of one – but it appears to do the trick as Oswald perks up for a moment before schooling his features back into neutrality.
“The escape route?” he asks equally casually, although a slight tremble in his voice betrays his interest.
Bingo.
Ed smiles. “I imagine you'd planned to buy your way out of the city... but you'd much rather keep the money and get to leave all the same, wouldn't you.”
The trash-bag, half-filled with cash and still dangling from Oswald's grip, illustrates the point perfectly; loathe to admit it as Ed is, they do know each other well.
“Get to the point, Ed,” Oswald says, crossing his arms defensively, careful not to jostle the bag too much lest any of its contents spill out again.
“It's simple, really: I have a way out, you have plenty of ammunition – and valuables,” Ed says, giving the bag a pointed look for good measure. “I'll tell you how to get out, and in exchange I get to leave the city the same time as you. And a cut of your stash, of course.”
Oswald seems to consider the offer for a moment – an unnecessary charade, really, given that he won't get a better offer from anyone else anyway – before nodding. “Fine.”
Excellent. Ed's luck is turning – finally.
Keeping his smile as neutral as possible, he says, “You didn't even ask how big a cut I want.”
“You'll get as much as I'll give you once we're out of the city, seeing as you have no other option,” Oswald replies, a pleasant, if somewhat sarcastic, smile quirking his lips.
Unfortunately, he's right – technically, anyway, since Ed supposes he could also take however much he wants, but figures pointing this out would be detrimental to any potential cooperation.
“Fine,” Ed says, purposefully echoing Oswald's inflection. “We have a deal.”
They shake hands on it for good measure, and there's a short, somewhat awkward pause as Oswald begins to say something. Before he can get to it, though, the sound of light footsteps comes from the end of the hallway, followed by Selina Kyle, yawning pointedly and stretching her arms.
“I thought I heard someone talking,” she says, feigning sleepiness even though, given her ever so timely appearance, it's obvious she'd been eavesdropping if not the entire conversation then at least the tail end of it.
Her presence in the building, however, appears to be no surprise to Oswald, so Ed follows suit and doesn't question it. For the moment, anyway.
“Ed's coming with us,” Oswald says to Selina, a pointed flatness in his voice that makes it apparent he, too, is aware her well-timed arrival is no coincidence.
Selina, for her part, simply shrugs. “Fine by me,” she says, turning to leave. “Oh, by the way,” she adds, almost as an afterthought, “you're out of cereal,” before lazily sauntering off.
Ed waits a moment before giving Oswald a pointed look.
Oswald only stares back. “What?”
“Collecting strays now, are you?” Ed asks, although he already suspects what the answer is.
“I simply owe her a favor.”
“I figured as much.”
“Aren't you clever. And, speaking of clever things: where is that escape route, then?”
Well.
“Ah. About that...” Ed starts, unsure of where he's going with it but hoping he'll figure it out along the way.