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[ Awareness comes to him by inches. As slow as the creep of the sun over the horizon. First in the headache that has indeed set up behind his eyes and then in the quiet realization that he is not in the manor or cave or even a safehouse. Finally, in the gentle tug of his jacket, covered in glitter and a suspicious dark stain on the sleeve.

His eyes open quickly, despite the throb of pain the light is causing and he bolts upright. The training helps; he can compartmentalize. The headache is not an immediate concern. The person laying beside him is. Cobblepot. Still asleep by the looks of it. But not for long as Bruce works to untangle himself. Reaching for his phone is his second priority, finding it in an inner pocket. He would have to call Alfred for a pick up. He shoves at Oswald, to give himself a little bit more room to work. But he'll pretend it's to wake him. ]

Good morning, Mr. Cobblepot. Hope you slept well.

[The cozy sleep-heat leaves his head and chest. Around him, things are changing, moving, leather cushions squeaking as they dip under someone else’s weight. He hears a voice through the haze, and it's the calmness of it that Oswald registers first. It suggests he's still safe, wherever and whenever he is. But what he sees when he finally cracks his eye open to the world tells him otherwise.

Sure, there’s nothing inherently threatening about Bruce Wayne. Or there wouldn’t be, if Oswald could place a name to the smear of colors in his vision. All he knows, in the moment, is that someone is hovering over him, watching. The realization jolts him upright onto his ass, his body flailing, squeezing itself into a corner of the sofa. Moving is a mistake: the headrush clocks him in the forehead and nearly flattens him back out. Clutching his skull, he squints at the figure beside him. The face swimming into focus is just the first of many surprises today.]

Mr. Wayne...?

[Blinking, Oswald’s hand flies to his eyepatch on instinct - because god forbid the ugly, limp flap of his eyelid should be showing.]

...What’s, what’s going on?

Edited 2025-06-13 02:29 (UTC)

[ What's going on? A question with a variety of answers Bruce is set out to answer. He let's Oswald untangle himself, doesn't try to hinder him or stop him from jerking away, though he would have surely advised from moving too quickly if his instinct is correct. But it's for his own benefit; While Bruce's state was self induced, it seemed Oswald's was not and that could open a door wide enough for Batman to wedge through.

But for now, he'd play along.

What is going on? Firstly, Bruce drags up the names of the folks who accompanied him to the club last night. They were all missing, either have found themselves a paramour for the evening or moved the party elsewhere, and assumed Bruce would do the same. Secondly, Bruce ingested a drink, laced with what he could only assume was Crocodile Tears. Thirdly, he'd need a blood sample from Oswald. How could he get it? Hopefully by being clever enough. ]

I think we fell asleep together here. I...[ He looks around, confused ] I came with Veronica and Brute and someone else. But I don't think I see them.

Together?

[Fell asleep together, and not slept together. It’s an important distinction, a detail his mind snags on. The little furrow between his brows sharpens as he gives Bruce another once-over, then looks down at himself. They’re both a little rumpled; not so disheveled as to confirm the worst possible scenario beyond all doubt. Still, he can’t shake the ill-feeling he’s left with as he checks in with his body, struggling to separate the rising anxiety and chronic pain he has learned to live with from everything else, from the different kind of wrongness he's woken up to. It’s hard to think past the throbbing in his head.

He mirrors Bruce’s glances across the dance floor, the vacant leather booths, his pulse jumping in his throat. The stanchions stand at the Lounge’s entryway, but the velvet rope dangles uselessly. No security. No staff. Beyond, the club's frosted windows glow with the dawning day. Oswald can't remember lying down, or resting his eye. Can’t remember when Bruce joined him – or if he had already been there when his head and chest had grown heavy.]

...Where’s my security??

[Oswald pats around his suit, lurching to his feet like a man who hadn’t downed Crocodile Tears on a near-empty stomach, no less. His body puts him in his place, bad leg suddenly giving out. He jerks, grabbing for the armrest. Fast enough to avoid crushing his nose on the tiles, at least - but not enough to keep from slamming his knee with a force that drives a gasp from his lungs. His flip phone clatters free.]

Edited 2025-06-19 14:25 (UTC)

[ As reality asserts itself, it's easier for him to collect what memories the drugs have left him and he can lay out a somewhat coherent sequence of events. Arrival time is accounted for, how many drinks he had before consuming the spiked one is accounted for. How curling up on the sofa with Oswald works into that still isn't entirely clear, but Bruce doesn't really need it to be. There are worse people to wake up next to, Bruce decides, and if nothing unseemly happened between them, he's fine with that. The call to Alfred is a brief one and he feels better knowing he's on his way.

But it also meant the time he had to get that blood sample would be limited. He would have to act quickly. ]

Mr. Cobblepot, I--

[ He winces as Oswald tries to stand, winces at the sound his knee makes when it collides with the floor. His phone clattering to the floor, however, is just the opportunity he'd need. Bruce is fast – hopefully much faster than Oswald Cobblepot and reaches with decidedly clumsy fingers for the phone. They bump the phone just bit and Bruce braces himself for what he's about to do. ]

Oh let me get that!

[ When his fingers feel secure around the phone, he snaps his head upward, hoping to crack it against Oswald's in the upswing of it. ]

[Oswald paws at his phone - a half-hearted effort. Between the angry throbbing in his knee and the wave of nausea that follows, he’s dazed and unprepared for how quickly Bruce’s hand shoots out from his blindspot. Even less prepared for the sudden force that rocks his head back and the new, unfamiliar pain flaring through his skull. His vision flickers, then goes dark before he can even begin to understand what struck him. He flops over, dead to the world.]

Edited 2025-06-29 17:55 (UTC)

[ When Bruce's head collides with Oswald's, knocking him out had not been the goal. It was a possibility of course, but Bruce had tried to temper the force he used so he did not rattle Oswald's brain too badly. The impact dazes him a little, no doubt thanks to the drugs still swimming in his system. But once the stars in his vision clears, he gives Oswald a once over.

He'd only needed some blood for analysis. He did not need Oswald unconsciousness for that. But it did make the collection easier. He searched his pockets for a handkerchief and moped up the blood leaking from Cobblepot's nose and when he's satisfied, he puts it away in again.

Alfred would be only moments out from whisking him away, but Bruce took the time to note other oddities around the club, pocketing things he would look over more thoroughly once he was back home in the cave. He took note of Oswald's inventory too and frowned he saw the gun hidden away.

Bruce is careful as he pulls the gun out, quiet as he extracts the bullets, and nimble as he tampers with it to keep it from firing at anyone. It wouldn't stop Oswald from getting a new weapon. But it satisfied Bruce knowing he wouldn't be using this one. He put the gun back in its place and left quietly when Alfred alerted him to make his escape.

He would be be back. The investigation wound deeply in this place. And Bruce Wayne probably owed Oswald an apology for knocking him out. ]

[The doors to the Iceberg Lounge are open.

The bars are fully staffed and stocked, fresh, uncorked bottles lining the shelves and glasses at the ready. Everything polished to a sheen. Music plays, keeping a steady pulse: dreamy and bass-heavy, but low enough not to intrude. No live band this evening.

It might be business as usual, on a glance. But under its sleek exterior, the club thrums with a nervous, live-wire energy.

Within hours of coming to, Oswald nearly doubled his security. Big brute-types, dressed to code, are posted by the exit, near the bathrooms, flanking the bars. Not just sizing up the guests trickling in, but the staff Oswald had once trusted. Of course, neither Oswald’s newest recruits nor his core crew are aware of the plainclothes spies out on the floor, hired only hours prior. A few sets of extra eyes and ears, each with a crisp, expensive outfit and a backstory to match.

Whoever it was who slipped something into Oswald's drink could’ve slit his throat. Could’ve done worse, and forced him to live with it. That it would have happened so easily is the point he’s been left to dwell on, obsess over.

There is no ignoring the message.

Which is why Oswald didn’t shut the place down for the night, despite being four extra-strength capsules into a headache that won’t quit. It’s why he isn’t holed up in his office, busying himself with the administrative side of managing an empire. He has a point of his own to make in being visible, being present. Dressed for a different kind of spectacle than the one he provided the other night.

His choice of suit - a morning coat with a furry collar, dusted gold at the cuffs and hem - and spike-studded Oxfords are as deliberate as every other choice he’s made today. From the moment he rounded up his staff for an early, off-the-clock meeting, a simple plan was already in motion.

The drugging has left him genuinely shaken, violated; he hadn’t had to try very hard to sell the idea that he’s spiraling. Bags were emptied, phones confiscated. Every wide-eyed accusation and snarled word edged with madness. The paranoia he's exuding looks real because enough of it is. The rest would be enough, he thinks, to tempt the one brazen enough to spike his drink into trying something else. Whether it was or wasn't a member of his staff, though, he'll find out soon enough.

And when that moment comes, he’ll be ready.

No matter how long it takes.

Oswald leans back against the bar, gazing out across the club over the rim of the whisky he’s polishing off. One he poured himself.

Someone had to pay.]

Edited 2025-07-04 19:05 (UTC)

[ Tonight the Iceberg Lounge is alive.

More so than Bruce had been expecting considering what happened the night before. He'd thought Oswald would have taken time to regroup. Maybe even tear apart Gotham's underworld to find whoever drugged him. Instead, Cobblepot sets up burly guards like sentries at the entrances and exits and bathrooms and hallways and lets Gotham's night life spill in, glittering and oblivious.

The club hums with decadence, packed shoulder-to-shoulder with people who have no idea how close they'd came to seeing blood on the floor. Seeing it thrive despite last night's unfortunate encounter tells Bruce one of two things: Oswald doesn't care (unlikely) or he believed the assailant might be bold enough to return and he would use tonight's revelry to flush them out and deal with them in a way Bruce would be forced to stop.

Either way, he's ready for it.

He'd spent his daylight hours breaking the drug down into its base components and preliminary results allowed him to develop a neutralizer to at least slow the effects and keep them on their feet should they find themselves on the bad side of the bartender again.

Bruce Wayne cuts through the crowd, all easy charm and lazy smiles, but it is really Batman who walks among them. Watching. Measuring. Absorbing the currents of the room – every laugh and twitch and sigh and too casual glance.

There is something terribly wrong here and Bruce would find out what.

For now, he lounges lazily on the sofa, smiling at the woman hanging on his arm and laughing at her stories about her summer spent in the bay. Until he spies Oswald at the bar and quietly excuses himself to get a drink. He smiles at Oswald and flags down the bartender. ]

Hope this night goes better than the last.

Edited (wrong formatting lmao) 2025-07-10 03:10 (UTC)

[Oswald straightens up against the counter, feeling his whole body tighten. He had seen Bruce enter; it's impossible not to notice him or the admiration he attracts by virtue of simply existing in a space. But the usual pang of envy he stirs in Oswald gives way to a complicated swell of emotion when he finally makes his approach, whispers and furtive glances trailing him across the club. Bruce’s tone is friendly enough, seemingly unbothered; it doesn’t come off as passive-aggressive. The remark still lands like a slap to the face all the same. Oswald blinks owlishly, a blush showing through his concealer.

Recovering, he answers:]

I do not consider hope a strategy, Mr. Wayne.

[The smile he offers in turn is small and thin, his fingers tightening around his glass – fine-boned, better suited, one might think, for playing scales up and down a piano than the messy business of killing people. He has opted to wear leather gloves this time, as if not a single surface in the place can be trusted.]

...I will admit, I was not entirely sure you would show.

[His voice has lost some of its edge, but his gaze is still keen, seeking. There are blanks in his memory that only Bruce can fill, and in light of how they left things last - how Bruce left him - he feels an explanation is in order.]

[ Bruce looks like he isn't paying attention - lazy posture, gaze set anywhere but on Oswald. But it's a lie. He notes that straighter spine, that owlish sharpness in his eye. The faint blush coloring his cheeks. It's subtle, but Bruce notices it all. He can't say for certain, but he thought he might be having an effect on Oswald. Which, of course, is by design. Brucie is always meant to be charming. Or disarming. Whatever the occasion calls for. ]

Maybe not for anything tangible. But in my experience, it's perfect for motivation.

[ He orders a drink when the bartender turns his way and then he looks at Oswsald again, to catch that smile thin smile. The tight way his fingers fits around the glass in his hand. Bruce thinks it's partly the nerves of situation. Not knowing if there's someone out there trying to kill you, is a nerve wracking thing. But Bruce has to wonder if that's all there is to it. ]

I thought the least I could do was come to apologize in person. I hadn't meant to disappear like that. I admit I was a little embarrassed.

[A pause. He's weighing everything, searching Bruce’s face, feeling for the truth in his answer. Needing someone whose word he can place his faith in. Needing a friend.]

Yes, I was wondering where you had made off to after leaving me with quite the headache.

[He notes, humourlessly - annoyed, but not pissed.

Graceless exits aren’t unusual for Bruce Wayne; tales abound of abrupt endings to candlelit dinners and occasional no-shows, the trail of broken expectations and broken hearts left in his wake. It’s the kind of reputation that could’ve been damaging if not for the privilege granted by his status, effortless charm, and generous philanthropic donations. Oswald would’ve thought Casanova Bruce Wayne to be more inured to embarrassment, as one of the most unserious men that he has ever met. But then again, Oswald Cobblepot isn’t just anyone to wake up next to - or accidentally knock out. He’s not some airheaded socialite prattling on about the country club, his inheritance, or his nonexistent yachts.

Oswald’s lips press together, the look on his face sobering. When he speaks again, his irritation has mostly settled.]

I would have very much liked for us to have parted under better circumstances.

[He never had the chance to explain himself and make it clear that what happened to them wasn’t normal, not here, not for him. Standing here now, he feels compelled to say something, anything, to distance himself from the class of criminal who would've seen a compromised Bruce and taken advantage of him. Oswald may be an incurable opportunist, but a rapist, he is not.]

I am not so ignorant as to believe that my reputation has not shaped your opinion of me, Mr. Wayne; the realities of overseeing the businesses that I do can, at times, be rather... unglamorous.

[His own embarrassment is bearing down on him. But he refuses to squirm under the brutal, uncompromising weight of a very public failure, offering Bruce nothing less than his full, unblinking attention.]

But, I want you to know that I would never, under any circumstances, engage you or anyone else in a manner that is vulgar and untoward.

[His brows draw together, his expression unusually open and honest - the look of a man both aching to be understood, and who understands well what it's like to be preyed on.]

I am not that kind of man.

Edited 2025-07-18 20:19 (UTC)

[ Sometimes, people never realize how much they give way just by how they move in the world. Jealousy suggested in a gaze that lingers too long. Familiarity in the way a hand settles at the small of a companion's back. Uncertainty, when the eyes search the face of another. Like Oswald, staring at him like Bruce might know the answer to who poisoned him. And maybe Bruce did. He had his suspicions. It's not enough for accusations. Not yet. But enough to start laying the groundwork.

He shelves the thought for now.

Instead he offers the bartender a generous tip. Fifty dollars, crumpled in the pocket of his shirt. He has what he's came for. Friends waiting for him on the other side of the room. But he lingers near Oswald a little while longer, sipping slowly and letting the other man give himself away, one unconscious gesture at a time. ]

Ah, I've woken up in worse places. There was this one time when I was on the coast. Woke up in a Holiday Inn with a popcorn bucket on my face and two left shoes.

[ He chuckles. Amused, self deprecating, maybe even a little honest. Its an absurd story. But it serves a purpose – setting Oswald at ease so he'd keep talking. Bruce isn't offended by what happened. There's no reason they couldn't be friends, even if Bruce bashed his face in with his head. The smile he offers Oswald looks sincere enough. ]

I try not to let what other people think shape my opinion, Mr. Cobblepot. My friends circle would be incredibly small if I did.

[ Not that kind of man. Oswald says with sincerity Bruce doesn't exactly expect to find in him. He can see it in the way Oswald's brows draw together, the look in his eye – it's an openness Bruce cannot help but notice. He murders and steals and runs guns. But Oswald does not drug his patrons. Bruce could believe that. He did believe it. ]

I believe you. It was just a weird thing that happened. I'm not upset about it if that's what you're worried about.

[His gaze snaps, mid-conversation, to the rumpled bill trading hands. The tip is pocketed with a nod, a polite, restrained smile - a sort of Mona Lisa smile that could mean nothing and everything under the circumstances. Frowning, Oswald lifts his drink to his lips, half-listening as Bruce talks about hotels and left shoes, his headache sharpening behind his eyebrows. He finds himself wondering if it’s even true, this story, or just one of those go-to cocktail party anecdotes people like Bruce tend to keep on hand. Maybe this is Bruce giving him permission to relax, offering an out. Or just filling the silence before it has a chance to settle. Either way, the answer matters less to Oswald than Bruce’s tone as it shifts away from humour.

Worried almost feels like an exaggeration on Bruce’s part. But Oswald can’t deny the flutter of relief he feels at Bruce’s willingness to extend him the benefit of the doubt. As someone too used to being assumed guilty by default, and yet, never so used to it that it doesn’t hurt, he can’t help the slight softening of his features any more than he can help the click in his throat when he swallows.]

Thank you, Mr. Wayne.

[Real or not, Bruce’s grace has given him something else to think about. Something he’d think about long after the club’s doors closed for the night. But for now, his moment of vulnerability passes, and he’s sucked back into the hungry black hole of his anger.]

But, with all due respect, what you call a mere inconvenience was a brazen, calculated attack - one that could have ended very differently for you. Whether you were the intended target or simply caught in the crossfire, I cannot, in good conscience, let this slide - nor do I have the luxury.

[He inhales sharply, with the bold, almost defiant energy of a man drawing himself up before a firing squad.]

I made a promise to this city the day I first stood before the lectern outside City Hall as its mayor. The people of Gotham turned to me in their hour of need - brothers, sisters, families - and, time and again, I delivered on that promise. I answered their pleas when the GCPD had failed them.

[He insists, the fierceness in his eye daring anyone to tell him differently with more than a few public safety reports speaking to his success.]

And while I may no longer hold office, my commitment to order remains unchanged - here, and in the streets. I give you my word, Bruce: I will find whoever was responsible for this, and they will be brought to justice.

Edited 2025-07-30 03:00 (UTC)

[ There's always one of two reactions to that story. A polite laugh. A knowing smirk. An acknowledgment of his antics. Ol Brucie's at it again as it were. And then there's reactions like Oswald's: subdued. Uninterested. Like its one of those dime-a-dozen kind of tales, something to laugh about over expensive cocktails and backhanded compliments. Those reactions are almost always the most interesting. Because the charm isn't working as intended and Bruce has to find another advantage.

That billion dollar smile and that somewhat crass humor would only carry him so far with someone like Oswald. Eventually, he'd see right through him--or worse, get bored of him. So it's often better to lean into something a little more sincere. Men like Oswald didn't want to be jerked around. Selectively offered sincerity could keep the conversation flowing just as effectively.

Bruce softens the smile, so it doesn't feel quite so forced. Lowers his pitch and slows the pace of his words. Not enough to be noticed outright. But it's enough to shift the rhythm, make the conversation flow a little slower. He leans in against the bar, shifts just so, so he's leaning that much closer to Oswald. Like they're old friends having a quiet chat over drinks. ]

I don't know if I was or not. People think they'll get something out of me if they threaten me or kidnap me. Maybe that's what happened last night. Maybe not. [ He shrugs a little; like it happens often enough Bruce barely thinks about it anymore. ]

I remember that speech. [ And it made him recoil. ] I think you know what Gotham needs, probably better than any of us. You're out here in the trenches, I guess you could say.

[ He shifts a little where he stands, like something inside won't let him be still. Like something anxious is pushing and pulling him. ]

If I can help you in anyway, will you let me know?

Exactly so.

[A lifetime of being ruthlessly bullied has made him hypersensitive to anything even vaguely resembling mockery. But he believes Bruce is being honest with him, because he wants it to be true. Because, most days, in the trenches couldn’t feel more accurate.

Chasing his dreams have come at a cost, like all dreams do. He’s been threatened in nearly every way a man can be, and there are limits, he has realized, to how far his cunning can take him, the situations it can weasel him out of. He knows the grinding crunch his own bones can make; knows the rusty tang of blood in his mouth. With every passing year, he leans more heavily on his cane, the pain in his leg reaching further up into his hip. But he’s still swift on his feet when he needs to be, always keeping a few paces ahead of this life he chose, or that has chosen him. What hasn’t killed him has only made him meaner; whatever good is left in him survives buried deep under sarcasm and scar tissue, and even there, it isn’t always safe. Yet, despite the worst the city has dashed him against, how close he’s come to giving up, Oswald can’t imagine quitting. Can’t imagine letting go of the dream - for the effort and loss and pain to have all been for nothing. He will live and die a great man, just like his mom had promised him. He can’t do it being good; if Gotham has taught him anything, it’s that kindness and mercy don’t get results. Sooner or later, they just get a man killed.

Bruce’s slow, conspiratorial lean, their shared closeness, makes it more noticeable when a sort of restlessness comes over Bruce. Had his conviction come off as too fierce? Had the force of his unflinching resolve - his idea of justice, and the lengths he was willing to go to see it realized - stirred something dark and ugly in Bruce? Oswald doesn’t ask. He doesn’t apologize, either.]

Of course. [Said like an old friend to an old friend, a smoky hint of whisky on his breath. His intensity has dropped off a notch. But the line of his shoulders holds a piano-wire tightness.] If there is anything you feel I should know about - anything at all - you can tell me.

[Anything, with a caveat. But he trusts Bruce not to abuse the invitation.

His smile finally reappears: small and lopsided. All lips, no teeth. He polishes off the rest of his glass in a single, wincing gulp and sets it down to give Bruce’s arm a pat. A soft puff of laughter escapes him, despite himself, at the firmness of his arm.]

Someone’s been hitting the gym. [He notes, his eyebrows lifting.] ...Well. Don’t let me keep you. I am sure your companion would love to have your ear back.

Edited 2025-08-04 18:23 (UTC)

[ He wouldn't say for sure, but he's comfortable assuming Oswald believes him. Or at least finds him plausible. Maybe not enough to trust, but there's no recoil when Bruce leans in, no questions to press the matter beyond what little Bruce has already given him. It helps that there's some sincerity in what he's saying. He never doubted Oswald's commitment. Despite everything that's come after, he didn't doubt for a single second that Oswald wanted to help Gotham.

It's just sometimes, Gotham has to be dragged into the light – kicking and screaming and leaving claw marks on the floor. Bruce knows that. Oswald did too.

The shame is that for all their similarities, their differences keep them at odds. Bruce hates that they couldn't meet somewhere in the middle. Hates that Oswald dresses his ambition up like its salvation. Hates that a man's desire for something better could put him on the wrong side of Arkham's walls. Could make him so diametrically opposed to what the Bat's mission that is shattered the foundation for an alliance before it could ever truly exist.

Must be the Gotham in them though. Divide and conquer. Keep them divided so there's never a united front to root out all the ugly parts of her.

Oswald reassures him that he could speak freely and for some that might seem like an invitation to babble endlessly about the most inane of topics and Bruce almost takes him up on it. He has a name in mind, and it would be an easy thing to weave it into the conversation. Let it slip like it's an accident. He makes a show of it, like he's holding something back – opening his mouth and closing it again. Then smiling and nodding when Oswald pats his arm. It's permission to walk away. The grin widens into something bright and sunny while he flexes a bit. ]

Can you tell? I've been going to the gym four days a week. Vanessa Stirling told me my arms felt flabby last summer and I haven't slept right since.

[ He turns to go, leaving his drink behind. Then pretending to remember it. When he turns to look at Oswald, he finally leans in again and says in a low voice ]

If you really mean that I can tell you anything, well I think you should know this. I hear Alberto Falcone is pushing Crocodile Tears.

[ Then he snags his drink, gives a friendly wave, and heads back to his friends. ]

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