Archive of Our Own

Oswald sits across from him in a booth at The Iceberg Lounge, wine-stained mouth split in a smile.

For no real reason Ed can ascertain, he wants to make him bleed.

This impulse is a frequent one, creeping up on him like a sick shiver whenever him and Oswald spend any time alone together. Ed always swallows it back, represses it, and forgets, up until it’s a new night, with a new bottle of wine, new matters to discuss, and it comes rushing back, always at the most innocuous moments, when Oswald is laughing or listening intently or picking lint off his sleeves.

Ed doesn’t fully understand it. Of course, after Isabella, and being frozen, then un-frozen, then brain damaged, things between the two of them will never be as simply affectionate as they once had been. But nevertheless Ed had meant it when he’d told Oswald all those months ago that it was behind him, behind them, and that he was ready to strike up some approximation of their old friendship, for convenience’s sake (Oswald is powerful, after all, the most valuable ally anyone in Gotham could hope to have, and, though Ed wouldn’t admit this part out loud, the most valuable conversation partner, too, full of cunning and humor and a sharp insight Ed has never found in anyone else).

And still, here Oswald sits, lit in blue, cheeks flushed and smile sweet, and Ed wants desperately to hurt him. Ed’s fingers flex, as if of their own accord. He drops them into his lap.

“Ed?” Oswald asks, voice inquisitive, and it’s only then that Ed realizes Oswald has been talking at some length, “You still with me?”

“Yes, sorry,” Ed replies, with a shake of his head, “There’s just a lot on my mind.”

“Isn’t there always,” Oswald says, sounding vaguely fond, and Ed feels his fingers twitching in his lap again.

“I should go,” Ed announces suddenly, finishing what’s left of his wine glass, “I’ll be back when I have an update on the Arkham situation.”

Oswald nods, and Ed tries not to focus on the way his eyes go dim or the renewed tremble it brings to his hands.

***

Ed is back as promised, in Oswald’s office this time, a corked-open bottle of Pinot Noir on the desk between them. Ed is sipping his glass of it at a speed inappropriate for the bottle’s exorbitant price tag.

Oswald is talking, and Ed is loosely following, nodding and smiling at the proper beats of the unfolding narrative. The bulk of his focus is on Oswald’s face, though, lit dramatically from above, dark shadow in the hollows of his eyes and cheekbones.

I’d like to bruise you everywhere the shadow’s touching, Ed thinks.

“Ed,” Oswald speaks then, sharp and commanding, “Is everything alright? You’ve seemed increasingly distracted over these past few visits of yours.”

Ed swallows at that. Oswald is too incisive to be lied to, but Ed can’t exactly confess where his mind has been.

“Ed,” Oswald repeats, and his voice is soft but the way he leans forward almost predatory, as if he’s catching the scent of something potentially useful to him and he’s eager to get his hands on it now, “Whatever it is, you can tell me. That’s one of the perks of rekindled friendship.”

The tone of his voice is practiced, condescending in that way it’d been when he’d offered comfort just after Isabella’s death.

Irritation floods Ed overwhelmingly and all at once.

“Oh, I was just thinking about how much I’d like to reach across this table and strike you black and blue,” Ed says with comic bluntness, punctuating the statement with a smile.

Oswald blinks, mouth dropping open.

Ed feels a rush of victory. Then, just as quickly, something like guilt.

“I’m -” Oswald starts, taken aback, before his features sharpen and he’s slamming his glass down on the table, the sound of its impact like a threat, “I’m sorry, have I missed something? Are we back to this ? Because if we are -”

“No,” Ed interrupts with a sigh, “I apologize. I shouldn’t have admitted that. Not like that.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Oswald agrees, petulant, but not without menace, “This new arrangement of ours is more useful to you than it is to me, you’re no doubt aware.”

Ed feels the threat of another impulsive spike of rage coming and digs his nails into his palm to quell it. No good will come of escalating the situation.

“I should be clear, Oswald,” Ed says, calmly, “What I said before - it’s not a desire born of any lingering antagonistic feelings. I’m happy with where we are.”

“What, pray tell, is it born of, then?” Oswald asks, the anger in the lines of his face undercut by clear confusion.

“I don’t know,” Ed confesses, a phrase it pains him to breathe aloud, but he knows that at this point honesty is all that can potentially salvage this situation.

“Is it a common occurrence for you to wish physical injury on people you consider friends?” Oswald asks then, with a sincere curiosity the snide twist of his mouth can’t fully cover.

“I don’t consider many people friends,” Ed says truthfully, pausing to fully reflect on Oswald’s question nonetheless, “But, yes, I suppose I have had impulses like this before, now that I think about it.”

“With who?” Oswald presses, and Ed is growing weary of the interrogation, but knows it’s only fair after his clumsily reckless admission.

“Isabella, Kristen,” Ed begins, “Jim Gordon, back when we were still friendly. Others, probably.”

“Hm,” Oswald says, bringing his glass up to his mouth again, seemingly placated, “Well, I suppose it’s not a problem so long as you have no intentions of acting on it.”

“I don’t,” Ed assures him, “You’re quite safe, I promise you.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” Oswald replies, smiling unpleasantly.

Ed remembers cold, then, and the three months of his life forever lost to a frosty void.

All he can do is smile back.

***

Things normalize after that, as much as anything between Edward Nygma and Oswald Cobblepot can be said to normalize. Ed visits him at The Lounge on a weekly basis. The two play catch-up both business-wise and personal, wine and laughter between them.

Ed catches Oswald eyeing him curiously every now and then, in quiet moments between sentences, as though Oswald is wondering what Ed still thinks about doing to him and whether or not he was right to trust Ed when he’d promised him he’d never act on these odd drives of his.

Tonight, Oswald is a touch drunker than his usual, coherent as ever but with the edges of his words slightly blurred and the line of his mouth quicker to laughter. It’s not a shift that would be perceptible to most, but Ed knows the man as few (perhaps none) do.

Ed is, truth be told, tipsier than he prefers to be as well, but it’s hard to resist refills of his glass when Oswald is so cheery and the two are celebrating the rather massive Arkham breakout they’ve orchestrated.

Oswald turns to him, face slightly smushed against his palm, elbow resting on the table, and gives Ed that same searching look he defaults to during lapses of silence these days.

Ed takes a sip of his glass (the wine is a red blend tonight, full-bodied and excellent), and can’t help but to laugh quizzically.

“What?” Ed asks, when Oswald’s peer only intensifies.

“Do you still think about bruising me?” Oswald asks.

“Oh,” Ed reacts, “Well, I confess it isn’t always bruising I imagine. But yes. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I-”

“It’s fine,” Oswald interrupts, with an impatient wave of his hand, “What besides bruising do you imagine doing?”

The question hits the air like a wave of electricity. Ed sits up straighter.

“Sometimes I imagine using a knife,” Ed confesses in a heady whisper, “Other times my cane, or just my hands.”

Ed feels that old flex in his hands return. This time, he doesn’t bother hiding it.

“Huh,” Oswald says, and Ed isn’t sure what to make of that.

Silence falls between them, still-crackling yet somehow not uncomfortable. Ed is readying to shift to a new conversation topic when Oswald opens his mouth first, seemingly intent on staying on the old one.

“There are people who enjoy that sort of thing,” Oswald suggests with some careful detachment.

“Hurting people?” Ed asks, feeling a thrill.

“That,” Oswald says, lifting his head and drumming his fingers on the table, “And being hurt.”

“Under controlled circumstances, yes,” Ed says, “There are people who enjoy that sort of thing.”

He feels as though he and Oswald both are teetering over the edge of a precipice, one quirk away from being consumed by the abyssal unknown.

Oswald’s eyes are scanning his face. Ed’s heart is in his throat.

“I think I might like that,” Oswald breathes, face darkening.

And there they are: hurtling forward off the edge of all reason.

“Hurting people?” Ed asks, leaning forward just a hair, “Or -”

“Being hurt,” Oswald answers, eyes wide, bringing his arms around himself, “Under controlled circumstances, of course.”

“Of course,” Ed confirms, his mouth bending into a smirk.

Oswald’s own mouth is slack, staring bright-eyed at Ed as if on tenterhooks.

“There are, you are obviously aware, places that cater to precisely that desire,” Ed puts forward, play-helpful, deciding he’s going to let Oswald squirm a little longer.

“Not precisely,” Oswald says, a little enigmatically, fingers absently stroking the stem of his wine glass.

“And what,” Ed begins, smirk stretching, “Is the missing element?”

Oswald holds Ed’s stare for several seconds. He breaks it to bring his glass up to his lips and throw back all that’s left in it.

He places it delicately back down onto the table, then looks up into Ed’s eyes once more, newly emboldened.

“The missing element,” Oswald repeats, licking wine droplets off his nether lip, “Why, that’s you, of course.”

“I see,” Ed says.

His smirk fractures into a grin.

In a move that surprises Ed, Oswald grins back, no self-consciousness or regret palpable in it.

“So,” Oswald says, sliding closer to Ed, “It appears we have complementary desires. What’s to be done about that?”

“Well, we are Gotham’s most brilliant,” Ed supplies, “I imagine we’ll think of something.”

“I imagine that we will,” Oswald agrees, eyes dancing as if aflame.

He brings a hand up to Ed’s shoulder. Ed leans into the touch and brings his own to Oswald’s knee, smile wicked.

It’s the first time they’ve touched in months, and the contact vibrates with a possibility that makes Ed’s chest tight.

Ed has questions, ideas, curiosities on the tip of his tongue, but he holds them back.

He squeezes his grip on Oswald’s thigh hard enough to bruise, and shivers when Oswald gasps.

***

To start, Ed binds Oswald’s hands behind his back in one of the Lounge’s backrooms, watching him carefully.

This Oswald scarcely reacts to. Ed supposes the man has been forcibly restrained frequently enough in life that it feels like little more than another day on the job. Ed smiles at this, lovingly tugging the knot all the tighter.

I’ll get you to react soon enough, Ed thinks, running his hands from Oswald’s bound wrists up to his shoulderblades. He digs his thumbs into the muscles there with some force. At that, Oswald trembles.

Ed turns Oswald around to face him. Oswald’s eyes are wide and vivid. Ed strokes at his cheekbone with a gloved finger, then opens his palm to give him a light smack across the face.

Oswald flinches, then opens his eyes, nodding minutely. Ed nods back, and caresses the softly reddened area with his knuckles.

That will have to be it for the face - Oswald had made it clear that Ed is not to do anything that will leave visible marks (at least not on open areas of skin that can’t be covered with clothing).

Thankfully, so much of you is covered in fabric at all times, Ed muses, fingers trailing down to Oswald’s violet tie as his eyes rake over his body, clad as it ever is in thick, luxurious layers.

Ed focuses on his slight frame, imagining it stripped of cloth and skin, mentally mapping the tissue-red musculature beneath. Large muscle groups are the safest areas to target, Ed knows, and though the sickest parts of him ache to abandon caution and control entirely, the other parts, larger and more essential, long only to make this good for Oswald, who is placing a trust in him Ed isn’t sure he’s done anything to deserve.

Ed folds his hand into a fist. He drives whitened knuckles into the tender spot just beneath Oswald’s right collarbone.

Oswald gasps upon impact. Ed goes light-headed with the sound of it, then punches into the same spot again, a touch harder this time. Oswald emits a sound like a moan at this, eyes scrunched tightly closed, and Ed lands another blow, still harder, before moving without warning to the left pectoral, rhythm steady.

Ed keeps up the pace until Oswald is whining and jerking beneath his fist with each new land. Satisfied, Ed travels downward, both fists at the ready now, punching into Oswald’s sides, mid- and lower-torso first before concentrating on the especially sensitive stretch beneath his armpit.

When Ed stills, he’s breathing hard, eerily calm and in a trance-like state that makes time feel suspended, somehow, as if he could stand here lobbing jabs into Oswald’s softest bits for an eternity and step outside to find nothing out there changed.

Ed looks at Oswald’s face, tear-streaked and blotched ruddy red, eyes and lips pressed close together, sniffles racking his dripping nose. He looks so simultaneously vulnerable and strong that Ed moans himself, before closing his fists once more and resuming his punishing pattern anew, pecs first, then his sides, down and up, the force of each blow intensifying with every beat.

Oswald begins emitting a ceaseless whimper that builds to a crescendo until he’s halfway howling, body recoiling then arching up for more after every crack Ed makes at him. Ed feels dizzier the louder he gets, muscles in his arms screaming, knuckles alight, and when Oswald breaks the whine to gasp “oh god, Ed, it hurts,” Ed snarls, and imagines, for a moment, letting go completely, knocking Oswald to the ground and making mincemeat of his face, bruises and swelling on display for all to see.

Ed has to pull back at that, lungs filling with air as he physically steps back, fighting to get a handle on himself, fists opening and closing as he stares down at the ground, shaking.

“I didn’t say the safeword,” Oswald gasps, sounding distant through the maddened whir in Ed’s head, “I can take more.”

“I know,” Ed says, voice weak, looking up at Oswald, whose hunched forward in pain, arms still tied behind him, face wet and scarlet, “I can’t, though.”

Oswald looks surprised at that, but nods, understanding.

Ed feels a swell of affection and steps forward, wrapping his arms around him and rubbing at his shoulder blades, soothing strokes and circles, and Oswald is shaking all over again.

“You did so well,” Ed breathes into his ear, delighting at the desperate sound Oswald makes in response, “So well.”

Ed holds him just like that for a while, then reaches down to unbind his wrists. Oswald’s arms immediately fly around his middle in response.

“Thank you,” Oswald breathes, still shaking beneath Ed’s hands.

***

“Was it good?” Ed asks, after, once they’re back in Oswald’s office, heart rates back to normal.

“Oh, yes,” Oswald answers, rubbing at his collarbone.

“How long have you been wanting that?” Ed inquires, because, really, he never would have guessed.

“From you?” Oswald asks in reply, “Or in general?”

“Both,” Ed says, hit suddenly by a wave of heat.

“Hm,” Oswald considers, pouring himself a glass of wine, the movement visibly stilted with soreness, “I feel like maybe I’ve always wanted it. I overheard Fish Mooney in an, ahem, session one day, and something clicked.”

Melancholy crosses Oswald’s features at the mention of his old enemy (is that what she was?), eyes fixed on his wine glass. Ed cocks his head, curious.

“Did Ms. Mooney ever do anything like that to you?”

“Not...overtly,” is all Oswald says.

Ed wants to press further, but Oswald looks unwilling, so he concedes.

“And how long have you wanted me to do it to you?” Ed settles for.

Oswald looks up at that, edge of his mouth quirked up slightly.

“Since you looked me in the eye and told me you wanted to strike me black and blue,” he answers, playful but sincere.

“Not before that?” Ed questions, thinking far, far back to love confessions and shared quarters and his hands arranging Oswald’s life for him.

“No,” Oswald says, eyes going distant, “I wanted something gentler from you before that.”

Ed can think of nothing to say in response. He raises his glass up to his lips and drinks deeply.

***

It’s their second go at this, and this time Ed has Oswald strapped down to a gurney, a knife in his hand.

Ed brings the knife down to the buttons of his jacket, cutting through each, then once more through his vest, and finally, yet again, the shirt still beneath.

“Less layers next time,” Ed growls, an order, and Oswald nods.

Ed dips his hand between the slashed-up levels of fabric, parting them as wide as he can, an expanse of Oswald’s skin revealed. Ed’s handle on the knife tightens as his eyes stare down at Oswald’s bare torso, its smooth pale surface bruised everywhere Ed had struck him last time, and riddled with other scars besides (Ed can’t help but to run a fingertip over the bullet scar he’s responsible for).

Ed’s hands press lightly on the brightly colored bruising next, feeling Oswald squirm beneath the pressure.

“Lovely,” Ed breathes, his hands on Oswald’s purpled sides now, “I was always partial to you in purple.”

Oswald swallows loudly at that. Ed smiles.

Ed brings the knife up to Oswald’s face, running the sharpened tip of it down the line of his cheekbone, too lightly to draw blood. Oswalds eyes flutter shut, goosebumps prickling up his chest.

He runs the blade down Oswald’s neck then, scolding Oswald when he reacts by craning his head back, raising his throat up into the knife’s edge and causing an accidental nick, a small trail of blood dripping down.

“Sorry,” Oswald says, quiet, and Ed leans forward to lick the blood away in a hard wet stripe, the taste of iron and the strangled sound Oswald makes making his own blood rush to his crotch.

That he ignores.

Now that he’s seen and tasted Oswald’s blood he’s desperate for more, doing away with all planned teasing to bring the blade straight to his chest, just outside the bruised perimeters. He sinks it in across unsullied white and watches the cut bloom liquid scarlet.

He slices a symmetrical slit on the opposite side, biting down on his lip when Oswald exhales a pained “ fuck ” and squirms up, down, to the side, the movement sending slow trickles of blood down over his beaded nipples.

Oswald cries out when Ed scratches a swirl of bloody red over the left side of his ribcage, then the right, watching the pretty gore spread before moving down as Oswald grunts in pain. Near the V of his hipbones Ed paints diagonal incisions, and Oswald writhes under his restraints, choking sounds filling the air as Ed pauses to admire the tableau before him, cream-white squirming skin mottled with red and purple.

“You’re beautiful,” Ed can’t help but breathe as he brings the blade tip just beneath Oswald’s heart, dragging straight down, and Oswald howls.

“Ed, I -” Oswald gasps, “I can’t, you need to, I - cherry!”

At the sound of their safeword, Ed stops immediately, blade dropping to the floor with a bouncing clatter.

Ed brings his hands to Oswald’s face (wet with tears again), stroking down the sides.

“Are you okay?” Ed asks, not bothering to conceal the worry on his face.

“Yes, of course, can you just - unstrap me?”

Ed does so without question, and Oswald instantly sits up, wincing as his cut-up skin bends with the motion.

Ed gives Oswald some space as Oswald catches his breath, his arms encircling himself.

“We should disinfect and dress those cuts,” Ed says once Oswald seems calm again and has reached for Ed’s hand, “I have some materials ready in your office.”

“Okay.”

As Ed helps Oswald off the gurney, free hand on his back, Oswald squeezes their hands tighter and gives him a small smile.

Ed smiles back, warming with relief. The knife lies forgotten on the floor behind them.

***

Once Oswald has been cleaned and dressed, looking tired but otherwise quite content in his throne-like office chair, Ed decides they should probably talk about what happened.

“So, the knife,” he begins, “Not something you’ll be wanting me to whip out again, I imagine.”

“I don’t know,” Oswald says, looking contemplative, “I didn’t dislike it. I think I simply...”

Oswald trails off at that, cheeks flushing. Insatiably curious, Ed presses:

“You simply…?”

“Prefer your hands,” Oswald admits in a rush.

“Duly noted,” Ed says.

Oswald smiles softly as Ed clasps his hands together, the promise of ‘next time’ already hanging thickly in the air between them.

***

Ed goes into their next session with nothing on him, hands already twitching with the power Oswald has imbued them with.

When Oswald moves to lead him into their usual backroom, Ed stops him with a sharp “no.”

Oswald stiffens, looking startled and briefly, blindingly angry, but he turns to Ed nonetheless with a curious cock of the head.

“Bend over your desk,” Ed commands.

Oswald stares at him for several beats but then complies, bracing his hands on the desks’ outer edge as he folds over it, backside raised in the air, the position utterly vulnerable.

Ed feels a stirring in his groin at the sight: Oswald fully clothed and ass-up, framed by the elegant trappings of his office, his tall sumptuous chair his backdrop.

Ed moves toward him in a few swift strides, settling just at Oswald’s side. He lifts the tails of Oswald’s jacket up over his back, one at a time.

Oswald is already whimpering.

“You told me you wanted my hands,” Ed announces, low and dripping with drama, “I intend to give them to you.”

Ed watches Oswald’s fingers tense at desk’s edge.

He reaches down and places a palm on Oswald’s right ass cheek through the fabric of his pants, squeezing.

Releasing his grip, Ed rubs the rise of flesh and then brings his hand down in a hard, fast swat.

Oswald draws in his breath sharply. He hasn’t even exhaled yet before Ed is smacking his hand down again, in the same spot, harder, and then once more, staring heatedly as Oswald’s body jerks forward with the force of it.

He moves to the other cheek next, pace faster, three smacks in quick succession, then returns to the first, swinging his hand back further with each motion and feeling the shock of impact jolt further up his arm each time. Oswald is moaning, wriggling back to meet Ed with each thwack, nothing about his body language or the noises leaving his mouth suggesting he’s in anything even resembling pain.

Time to change that, Ed thinks, reaching his hands around Oswald’s hips to unfasten his pants, pulling them down and letting them pool around his ankles.

Oswald lets out a shocked-but-not-unhappy sigh, hands moving to cover his own face even as he arches his back and raises his ass higher still into the air.

His briefs are black and made of silk, the smooth white of his thighs highlighted by the void of color. They’re tight enough that the lower curves of his cheeks are puffing out where the silk has ridden up.

With a gloved fingertip, Ed traces the two curves, dipping gently into the crevice where ass meets thigh, retreating when Oswald makes a pleased, breathy noise.

Ed drops his hand to Oswald’s bared upper thigh and gives it a rough spank. Oswald tenses with a startled “oh,” and Ed is spanking the other, grinning menacingly down at the already-reddening skin, coming down again to meet the hand-shaped imprint of the previous impact.

Ed moves to Oswald’s ass then, with no warning, slamming open-palm smacks against the silk fabric of his briefs. He watches the fleshy rises of Oswald’s backside bounce with each collision, flushed with the complete control of it, smacks coming harder and harder until -

“Pull my briefs down already,” Oswald spits, shocking Ed enough that his hand goes limp, “And take your gloves off while you’re at it.”

Ed’s spine goes stiff. He considers, for a moment, telling Oswald to bear in mind who’s in control here.

After a split-second of reflection, he opts instead to swallow the retort back with a smirk. I’ll give you exactly what you want, Oswald, he thinks, pulling his gloves off with purpose, And let that be your punishment.

He’s yanking Oswald’s underwear off next, just as requested, leaving them clinging around the middle of his thighs and stopping all movement to drink in the vision of Oswald’s exposed ass, high and spread just enough that Ed can see the dusky, shadowed skin inside the crack. The outer skin is still unmarked, seemingly protected by the fabric that’s been covering it.

A blank canvas for Ed to color red.

When Oswald issues a noise of complaint at Ed’s unmoving stare, Ed flexes his digits and brings the tip of his pointer up the curvature of Oswald’s rear, the textured drag of his fingerpad against Oswald’s bare skin delicious.

“Oh,” Oswald gasps, preening at the gentle friction.

Ed digs a hand into the turned-up fabric sitting at the base of Oswald’s spine, gripping firmly.

What comes next is a flurry of sound and feel and color: Ed’s hands slapping brutally and mercilessly; Oswald’s grunts, cries, screams; his smooth, yielding flesh; the burn of Ed’s muscles and the stinging sensitivity of both palms; white pigmentation turning to burning bruising red; the relentless smack-smack-smack of skin hitting skin; Ed grunting with effort, exhilaration, enjoyment -

“Ed oh god Ed I’m going to - I’m going to - to come -”

“Come?” Ed asks, incredulous even in his breathlessness, one hand dropping while the other maintains the punishing tempo, “From this?”

“Ed please can you just -”

Ed ceases smacking, dipping two fingers inside the warm crease of Oswald’s ass and roughly stroking at the dent of his rim.

He’s massaged for all of twenty seconds when Oswald slams a hand down onto the table with a strangled cry, muscles contracting beneath Ed’s fingertips as he comes messily all over his desk. 

Ed runs both hands up beneath the shirt clinging sweatily to Oswald’s body, petting at the bare skin across his lower back, humming contentedly as Oswald comes down, the space between his ragged breaths lengthening.

“Fuck,” Oswald exhales finally, turning his face onto its side where it’s still pressed against the desk, “I apologize.”

“What for?” Ed asks, pulling one hand out from beneath his shirt to rub at the sweaty nape of his neck.

Oswald’s eyes fill with tears, and it’s the only response he offers.

“Shhh,” Ed whispers, “It’s okay.”

Oswald’s tears fall, sniffs and quiet sobs filling the air.

Ed keeps rubbing at his neck and back, whispering it’s okay it’s okay it’s okay until the phrase loses all immediate meaning.

***

It’s a touch awkward after, despite Ed’s efforts to the contrary. Oswald is composed and zipped back up, hair in a state of disarray no worse than its usual, but he’s clearly embarrassed by the whole affair.

The two sit in silence in a secluded booth, sipping absently at wine.

“I think this may have been a poor idea,” Oswald breaks the silence finally to say, frowning.

I disagree, Ed wants to say.

“Do you want to stop?” is what he says instead.

Oswald is quiet for several seconds, gazing into the contents of his glass as he swirls it in hand.

“No,” he answers, at last.

He looks up at Ed with a strange smile.

“I don’t want to stop, either,” Ed says.

The air in the room shifts, an unspoken tension resolved.

Ed eyes Oswald curiously. This, all of it, has been rather unexpected. He’s gone with it with little question thus far, too caught up in the heady thrill of it to dwell on the why. Oswald’s climactic break earlier, however, has made Ed see there’s a bigger puzzle beneath all this loving blood and bruising.

Ed can’t help but try to solve it.

“I have a question, Oswald,” Ed states, “A curiosity, if you will.”

Oswald raises his eyebrows, looking hesitant but amenable.

“Your mother,” Ed begins, watching Oswald’s face pinch slightly, “Did she favor...corporal punishment?”

Oswald looks taken aback by the question.

“No,” he says, head tilted, “Not at all. She didn’t favor any kind of punishment.”

“Did you ever wish she would?” Ed presses.

“Favor punishment?” Oswald asks, dubious, “No. Why would I?”

He falls quiet again at that, lost in sudden thought. Ed watches raptly.

“I suppose it may have helped if she had,” Oswald continues after a stretch of contemplation, brow in lines.

“Helped with what?”

“The guilt,” Oswald professes, voice barely more than a whisper.

“The guilt over…?”

“I don’t know,” Oswald sighs, small and sad, “Everything, I guess.”

Ed nods at that.

“And does this - our arrangement - help with that?” Ed continues, unable to stop the line of questioning.

“The guilt?” Oswald looks up at Ed again, green eyes wet, “No. And yes. I don’t know.”

Ed opens his mouth, another question at the back of his throat. Oswald stops him with a raised hand.

“Ed, please,” he says, sounding exhausted, “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Okay,” Ed agrees, sliding closer to bring an arm around Oswald.

It’s a move uncharacteristically gentle for the two of them, but it feels right, somehow.

Oswald seems to agree, allowing his head to drop onto Ed’s shoulder with a soft nuzzle.

Overcome by a tenderness he can’t explain, Ed presses a kiss at the crown of Oswald’s head.

It’s only when he feels Oswald trembling beneath the touch that Ed realizes he’s trembling, too.

He squeezes Oswald closer, his fingers twitching at his side.