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sirius-whoisleft · 5 years

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shacking up // remus & sirius

Sirius had every confidence that he could walk the many—dilapidated, but many—rooms of the Shrieking Shack blindfolded.

Still, no matter how well he knew the walls and their gashes, the floorboards and their creaks, he looked at everything this afternoon with a fresh set of eyes.

Light filtered in through the windows, none cracked despite activities within that would have left them shattered without wards, and traced rainbows across tables, lit pieces of dust up from behind and made them shimmer like fae. The building was not as old as it looked. But, like Remus, it had been aged prematurely – partly for show, but mainly because of the toll each new moon month took on the bones and colors and spirit.

Everything was covered in a fine dusting of grey but, although the curtains gave off the donated scent of mothballs and the pieces of furniture couldn’t seem to agree to any common theme, the place did have a feeling of being loved. Like Sirius. Maybe not loved well, maybe a little too haunted to appreciate, but it was a building with a story to tell and, after the Marauders had their hooks in a place for long enough, it was almost impossible not to catch a whiff of affection rolling off the place, even on the stormiest days.

It went without saying that this was not the house Sirius would have chosen for Remus Lupin to spend his time in – especially his most vulnerable times. He could no longer think of transformation nights without thinking about Remus, stripped down to naked skin and transparent fears, on his knees in the dripping chill of the Lupins’ basement, waiting for his inner demons to burst free from his chest. This place was not much nicer, even with the grand, half-broken furniture. Sirius would have liked blankets, velvets, walls with brighter colors. Not to mask the pain of what went on here, but to make the house feel more like an ally than a prison before Remus went under.

Sirius would have liked books. But of course, that wasn’t possible. The pages would be torn out, the covers destroyed, the comforting words sliced into nonsense and lost to the ages. The wolf took that possibility away from Remus. The wolf took and took and took.

“Oi, Lupin,” called Sirius up the stairs, his shoes creaking under his weight. The acoustics in the house were not much to speak of—all the better for discouraging howls to carry—but he heard evidence of his own voice floating up to the second story, where he knew Remus was waiting for him.

Sirius had been rummaging around in the useless kitchen. There was no food, no wine to speak of; but there was a deck of cards that a keen James Potter had stashed away once, and Sirius had gotten in his head about tracking them down today. They fit easily into his pants pocket, and their weight was a present comfort as he moved deeper into the belly of the house.

The boys had not gotten any alone time since the attack at Hogsmeade – not that Sirius was surprised by that in the slightest. Their tight-knit group, including the girls, had become inseparable. Eyes were on Lily all the time, brows knit about Lily, eggshells walked on around James, who seemed insistent on flagellating himself for an attack he’d played no part in. Which, of course, was why he was kicking himself now – not jumping in to be the hero that saved the day, even when it was an impossibility. Sirius understood the reasons for the Gryffindors closing rank, and cherished it ninety-nine percent of the time.

But for every night he was glad to fall asleep with the steady laughs of Peter Marlene McKinnon punctuating James’s snores, there was a morning when Sirius woke up, erection pressed flush to the small of Remus’s arched back, and had to stew in the knowledge that there was nothing he could do about it. Not nothing, but close enough. Sirius, in all his voyeristic glory, would actually have loved nothing more than to pull the bedcurtains around himself and Remus, cast a half-hearted silencing charm and see what they could get away with in the midst of so many present, unaware others. But even he understood things like the right time and the right place.

Besides, it wasn’t just the sex Sirius missed.

He was getting claustrophobic. He wanted to have a conversation with Remus without factoring in every other pair of ears in the room. He wanted their alone time, the breathing room that was special because Sirius just breathed differently when it was he and Remus alone. As a couple, as partners. Like they would be in the flat in a few months. He didn’t love his friends any less for it, but by the gods did he like the idea of having somewhere to retreat to.

And Remus was riled up. There was no denying that, not that Sirius would ever try to. The moon was fast approaching, a blurry twenty-four hours away, and Sirius could see the wolf peering through Remus’s eyes sometimes when Peter was crunching crisps with his proud, wide mouth wide open, or when the girls threw back the curtains and insisted on filling the room with sunlight before Remus had been able to slip off into his fitfully needed fifteen minutes of sleep. The close-quarters weren’t good for him either, especially as his sensory processing swung in and out of order. He needed time, and space. Sirius desperately wanted to give him that, with the caveat that they ignore the real premise of aloneness and spend the time together.

The Shrieking Shack had been a last resort. The Prefects bathroom, the kitchens full of elves, even the Quidditch Pitch seemed like they could have been better options at first – Sirius knew the connotations these walls held for Remus, the bad memories they conjured. But as time stretched on and privacy became more of a commodity—as the moon became more full-figured and increased its attraction of Remus Lupin’s golden eyes—it had become their only option.

Sirius had done his best to make it a good day, but it had been a day spent in relative silence. They were happy, of course they were happy, but they were carrying different burdens.

Remus was sore; Remus was snappish; Remus was wound tighter than the Shack’s ancient grandfather clock, which Sirius had religiously watched during the second transformation he bore witness to, so that he wouldn’t have to put an image to the sound of Remus crying out as his skin split open. He gave the weathered wood a fond stroke as he passed it, turning into the bedroom and fixing Remus with a slow, fond smile. It was clear, from the moment he entered, that Remus was a million miles away. Sirius was good for nothing, if not trying to coax him back to safe ground.

“Found them,” he announced, fishing out the deck and holding them up as proof. “Fancy a round of strip poke?” Sirius was joking. Mostly. “You’ve a better poker face than I do, though. I want a handicap. Take your shit off; it’s only fair.”

@remus-whoisleft

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greenygma · 7 years

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Progress is Progress

Day 3: Domestic

It takes a while for Ed to settle in.

During the first two days of his stay at the Van Dahl mansion, Ed can’t shake the persistent feeling that he’s intruding. Thankfully, he hasn’t had much time to dwell on it. Oswald’s campaign has been taking up the majority of their time so the past 48 hours have gone by in a flurry of activity that keeps the manor crowded and buzzing with energy. They’re hardly ever the only people in the mansion, with the exceptions of their shared breakfasts in the morning and late evenings when the last of Oswald’s campaign staff has left.

And while the long-awaited quiet would normally have been a blessing, the evenings are also when Ed becomes painfully aware of the fact that he doesn’t quite fit in. Although the decor certainly matches the mansion’s exterior and its current owner, it makes him long for the industrial, organized chaos of his old apartment. Even his room feels too big for one person, and his current lack of possessions doesn’t help in the slightest. Altogether, the large ornate windows, the looming portraits of dead ancestors that line the halls, and the refined desks and upholstery are nearly as stifling as they are intimidating. It’s clutter, belongings gathered over the years, but it’s not his clutter. Technically speaking, it isn’t Oswald’s clutter either, but he seems to have taken to it just by virtue of it having belonged to his father.

Ed’s already made a habit of skirting around the furniture, vaguely worried that he’ll knock something over and break it. It would do him no good to irk the man who was currently housing him.

But it seems his plans to keep himself busy to avoid his lurking unease aren’t going to see fruition as today appears to have been an early day because it’s hardly 8 p.m. when Olga ushers the last staffer out the door.

Tidying up scattered papers, posters and the like keeps him entertained for all of five minutes before he’s being shooed out of the room by the housekeeper as she takes over, scowling fiercely at him or at the room in general. He’s not entirely sure. Left with no other options as it’s still too early to retire to his room, he wanders until he finds Oswald in the sitting room, still immaculately coiffed but now nursing a glass of wine and half slumped in an armchair in front of the lit fireplace.

Hovering in the doorway, Ed clears his throat to announce his arrival and blinks at the immediate smile that overtakes Oswald’s face when he turns to face him, returning it after a moment.

“Ed! I’d say today was a productive day, wouldn’t you? The polls are looking good and our soon-to-be former mayor is scrambling. A fat load of good that his legal experts are doing him, hm?” Oswald’s expression is caught somewhere between self-satisfied and scornful, though the combination seems to be his natural reaction to any mention of his rival.

Nodding his agreement, Ed comes a few steps further into the room. “The people’s support for you is… unprecedented, but not wholly surprising. They want a leader, not a figurehead. And that Aubrey James is resorting to smear tactics is rather telling,” he confirms.

Their shared gratification lapses into a short silence, but it’s long enough for Oswald to start looking bemused, quirking an eyebrow at the taller man when he remains standing. “Would you like a seat, Ed?”

Starting, Ed hastily claims the nearest seat, the sofa. His hands land in his lap and he twists his fingers together in a restless tangle as he casts a look around the room for something to focus on. He belatedly catches the still perplexed look on Oswald’s face and realises he’s practically perched on the edge of the sofa cushion. Scooting back, he wills his shoulders to relax as he sinks into the upholstery, faintly aware that Oswald has been watching the entire process from over the rim of his glass.

“Ed?”

He turns to face the other man, a passive smile plastered across his face. “Yes?”

Oswald considers him for several seconds before leaning forward in his chair. “Have I done something to make you uncomfortable?”

The question takes Ed by surprise and it must show on his face because the confusion on Oswald’s only grows more pronounced as he shakes his head.

“Then… why is it that I hardly see you when we’re not working? You’re immensely helpful, Ed, and I’m more than willing to admit that you have single-handedly made this entire process more manageable for me, and I can’t thank you enough for that, but outside of our meals together, we don’t…” Oswald trails off, glancing down into his half-drained glass. His voice goes oddly flat. “I was under the impression that we were friends.”

Ed stares, wide-eyed. “I- Yes, we- we are friends! I just-” He makes a frustrated noise, shoulders hunching forward as he slips his fingers behind his glasses to press against his eyes, giving himself a moment to gather his thoughts.

Finally straightening his back, he regards Oswald steadily before blurting out: “Your house is too big.”

Apparently, that isn’t the answer Oswald was expecting, if his bewilderment is anything to go by. “...what?”

“Your house is too big,” Ed repeats, lurching out of his seat to pace the room. “It’s too…” He flaps his hands, only pausing to bite at his thumbnail. “It’s not my apartment,” he finally settles on, turning to face the other man. “The last time we shared a living space, it was a familiar environment for me and considerably smaller than this. I don’t know what to do with this much space, Oswald, and I don’t mean to sound unappreciative, but none of it is mine or even to my tastes, really. Out of place. I feel out of place?” He hazards with a small wince.

Another silence descends upon them, and Ed’s fidgeting grows worse until Oswald stands, placing his glass on a side table. “Wait here,” he says quietly, turning on his heel and leaving Ed to stare after him as he disappears down a hall.

Sagging in relief at finally having gotten that admission off his chest but now confronted with a developing sense of dread at Oswald’s non-reaction, Ed quickly makes his way back over to the sofa and collapses onto it. It’s not long before he hears the uneven gait returning, but then he has little time to react before Oswald is marching over to him, a leather bound book clutched in the hand not clasped around his cane.

The book is promptly shoved at him but he barely spares it a glance when he catches Oswald’s fiercely determined expression. That is, until Oswald shakes it impatiently, then he takes it carefully.

By touch alone he can tell it’s old, the leather worn but well cared for. Redirecting his attention to the book in his hands, he tentatively opens it to a random page to find a series of meticulously detailed illustrations that the caption announces to be an Operation for Cancer of the Tongue. Intrigued, he examines the drawings closely before closing the book in search of the title.

Joseph Pancoast’s A Treatise on Operative Surgery. Fascinating.

Opening his mouth to ask where Oswald had managed to find such a title, he’s rather taken aback when he meets the other’s intense gaze, leaning back into the sofa with the book to his chest.

“There are at least a dozen more books like that one in the library,” Oswald tells him, eyes never leaving his.

“...okay,” he replies, uncertain.

“I’ve been meaning to show you but we’re so busy and… The point, Ed, is that this isn’t just my house, not anymore. You live here now, and- no, let me finish,” Oswald interrupts himself, holding a hand up to cut off Ed’s protest. They’ve gone over Ed’s living arrangements at least twice already, given Ed’s initial belief that his current one was temporary and his ensuing insistence on finding a new apartment. “We both live here, and yes, maybe it’s not quite a home yet, but that can be fixed! There are things here that I know you would like, and there are things here that even I don’t like! We don’t have to keep everything the way it is. And as for your current lack of belongings, just say the word! Anything you want, it’s yours! Ed, you should have told me you didn’t feel comfortable here,” he finishes, distress colouring his voice. “I didn’t know.”

Regarding Oswald with something like wonder, Ed lets his fingers trail over the small cracks in the book’s leather, grounding himself with the sensation while he thinks. He eventually flips the book back open and, reassured, settles properly into the sofa for the first time. This time he’s the one raising an eyebrow at the still standing man, nodding at the abandoned glass of wine expectantly.

At a loss but likely seeing that he’s made himself clear, Oswald only hesitates for a moment before returning to his armchair and wine, his earlier agitation smoothing out into a tentative calm.

Ed manages to read through the first several pages, stopping intermittently to study the accompanying illustrations, before he speaks, a half-grin tugging at his lips in anticipation of the response he knows is coming. “Does this mean we can get a fortune telling machine?”

He has a distinct memory of Oswald, clad in pyjamas that were a few inches too long for him with a box of Chinese take-out clutched to his chest, eyeing the machine in his old apartment with open distaste as he demanded to know why Ed would own “such a useless thing.”

A long-suffering sigh fills the room.

“Ed.”

“Olga?” Oswald calls out, scrutinizing the large arrangement of white lilies situated in the middle of the dining table. They hadn’t been there when he’d left for City Hall this morning and had somehow materialised sometime between then and now. It’s tempting to run his fingers along the flowers’ petals but he refrains for the time being until he can determine their origin.

The housekeeper appears at his side within moments, her usual stern expression firmly in place.

“Did you accept a delivery of flowers today?”

Impassive as ever, she only shakes her head in response.

Raising a hand to smooth over his forehead and ward off the likely incoming headache, Oswald bites back a sigh. “Did you happen see who put them here, then?”

Another shake of her head.

He rounds on her, mouth twisting in irritation at her lack of help but she beats him to the punch.

“Flowers appeared while I clean kitchen but no one came to make delivery. Only person to come in through whole day is Mr. Nygma,” she reports, meeting his rapidly fading annoyance with an unimpressed look.

Now puzzled but oddly assured, he dismisses her with a mumble, turning back to the arrangement with a mystified look. The familiar, comforting fragrance that greets him when he approaches it causes him to take in a shuddering breath and, with a faintly trembling hand, he delicately traces the edges of one flower.

He stays like that for a minute, indulging the treasured memories of bringing the occasional bouquet of lilies to his mother and watching her entire being light up with delight.

Reluctantly dragging himself out of the depths of mind, Oswald gives himself a small shake, blinking away the tears stinging his eyes as he straightens and wipes the mournful smile from his face. Recalling Olga’s mention of Ed, he takes off in search of his housemate, cane clicking against the floor as he searches the manor’s lower level, periodically calling out for Ed.

Eventually, he runs into Olga at the bottom of the stairs, where she informs him that the other man isn’t upstairs either. Huffing out his exasperation at his inability to locate his chief of staff, he whips out his phone, dialling Ed’s number with practiced ease. It takes a surprising three rings before he hears Ed pick up.

Instead of Ed’s usual prompt greeting, he’s met with what sounds like the rustle of fumbled movement. It takes a couple of seconds for it to settle and for Ed’s voice to ring through, sounding a little harried. “This is Edward Nygma.”

“Ed?”

The other man’s voice brightens immediately. “Oswald, hi!”

“...are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine, why?” He replies, confusion is palpable even through the phone.

“Because- where are you? Did you go out? I’ve been looking all over and I can’t find you.”

Oswald can already picture the amused smirk that must be taking over Ed’s face when he replies, “you obviously didn’t look everywhere if you didn’t find me-”

“Ed, please.”

“You bury me when I’m alive and dig me up when I die. What am I?”

“I-” Breaking off with a drawn out sigh, Oswald scowls at the wall opposite him. Of course he wouldn't give him a straight answer.

Ed's voice dips in faint disappointment when Oswald doesn't reply after several seconds. “Give up? I’m-”

“No, just hold on, give me a- Plant! You're a plant!” Oswald declares triumphantly, wheeling around to glance at the flowers that are still in his field of vision from the foot of the stairs.

“...correct,” comes Ed’s response, pleasantly surprised. “I’m in the greenhouse.”

"What? Why?"

Ed hangs up on him before he can get the second word out.

Oswald takes off, snapping his phone shut as he goes. The greenhouse is probably the most overlooked area of the estate, his next to non-existent interest in plant life contributing to its neglect. But sure enough, when he arrives at the glass building he finds Ed and, to his surprise, fresh gardening supplies cluttering the mostly cleared space. Ed is kneeling, sans suit jacket, with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a pair of gardening gloves reaching halfway up his forearms.

Ed barely spares him a glance, only twisting around to give him a quick wave with a gloved hand before returning to the soil bed in front of him.

Bewildered, Oswald takes a few hesitant steps closer, peering over Ed’s shoulder. “I didn’t know you were… much of a gardener, Ed.”

“I’m not,” Ed replies cheerfully, though he remains intent on planting the last of the bulbs from the package beside him.

“Okay,” Oswald says slowly, brow furrowing as he rests his weight on his good leg. Shaking his head, he remembers his initial reason for wanting to find Ed. “Did you have lilies delivered to the house?”

“Well,” Ed starts, “yes and no. They weren’t delivered, but I did buy them. They’re for you.”

“Oh.” Oswald blinks rapidly. “They’re beautiful, Ed, but why…?”

With a clap of his gloved hands, Ed gets to his feet and faces him, a small frown tugging at his lips. “To thank you. I thought you liked lilies,” he mutters, eyes darting down to the freshly planted bulbs.

“I do, bu-” He stops, considering, then gestures at the bed of soil. “Is that what those are? Lilies?”

The pout that overtakes Ed’s face is so unexpected that he almost laughs, barely managing to stifle the reaction in favour of schooling his expression into a small smile.

“You stole my thunder,” Ed mumbles, briskly tugging his gloves off and pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. He turns away, scooping the container he’d been working on up off the floor and setting it out of harm's way. He lingers by the tray. “It’s going to take a few months for them to grow stems and leaves, then it’ll take another few for them to bloom. The clerk at the store said that Lilium candidum are one the most disease-prone of kinds of lilies so I’ll have to monitor them to make sure they stay healthy, but in the meantime I can-”

“Ed,” he interrupts gently, moving over to the other man and pressing a brief touch to his elbow. “Thank you for the flowers. However, we’ve talked about this. There’s no need to thank me. I’m more than happy having you here and this isn’t something that you need to pay me back for in any way.” He pauses then allows himself an earnest smile as he takes in the neatly covered lily bulbs in their tray. “I have to ask, though, why did you buy these? The full grown ones in the dining room are more than enough.”

The taller man shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “The grounds look empty and we don’t have much in the way of a garden.” Ed clears his throat, twisting the gardening gloves in his hands. “That, and you said lilies were your mother’s favourites, so I thought… maybe a garden of lilies on your father’s estate would be a fitting tribute to your parents’ memory.”

Abruptly fighting back tears for the second time in less than an hour and feeling entirely overwhelmed, Oswald lets out a wet laugh, ducking his head to nod down at their shoes. “That… yes, my friend, that would be more than fitting.”

Oswald considers the puzzle book lying innocently on the table.

He’d seen a another one earlier, in his office, though that one bore the noticeable difference of being a crossword book with only the first few pages filled out. A quick flip through this one reveals it to be a mostly completed sudoku book. The difference can easily be attributed to the fact that their lunch breaks are the only times where Ed is in Oswald’s office without a daunting stack of paperwork for him to go through. They’ve taken to ordering food in for them to eat in Oswald’s office. Typically, they’re left alone for an hour and they make the most of it, laughing over their chosen meal of the day and occasionally lapsing into comfortable silence where Oswald idly shuffles through his correspondence and Ed works on his crosswords.

It’s nice routine, he thinks, giving the sudoku book an absent pat.

Even better than that, he has noticed that Ed finally seems to be settling into the manor properly. To his endless satisfaction, Oswald has gradually been finding more and more signs of the other man littered throughout the house, starting with their Arkham certificates hanging side by side on the wall. Every now and then he comes across the odd puzzle box positioned precisely atop one of the mansion’s many desks, or a neatly folded newspaper that he knows he hasn’t touched set aside on a side table.

Additionally, from his infrequent ventures into Ed’s room he’s noticed that he’s been working on making it more to his liking, judging by the repositioned and swapped furniture. The room also seems to have gained several new green features, but Oswald has refrained from commenting on it, recalling the ever present green light that had saturated Ed’s old apartment from the neon signs outside

However, the biggest achievement had come after a bit of prompting. It took some persuasion and reassurance but Ed had eventually claimed one of the bookshelves in the sitting room as his own and promptly reorganized the entire thing. Two evenings had been dedicated to the process. First came the sorting through the books already housed there as Ed carefully selected which would stay and which would be moved into the library. On the second day Oswald had found Ed in the library, absorbed in the task of picking out books to bring out to his bookshelf. There had been a great deal of indecision involved and, after noting the growing distress on Ed’s face, Oswald had found himself suggesting that Ed take a break so they could go out for dinner.

The temporary distraction had worked in relieving the tension from Ed’s shoulders. Although, as soon as they had arrived back home Ed had hurried off to the library, only emerging after another hour but looking pleased with his selection. Oswald vividly remembers offering to help situate the books in their new home but soon regretting it as Ed had continuously looked over his shoulder and proceeded to rearrange the books he'd just put away.

He had quickly given up and settled for handing the books to Ed for him to order in whatever way he saw fit.

“I have a system,” Ed had insisted, though he never did get around to sharing the particulars of it with Oswald. It was definitely not alphabetical.

Still, those two nights had been well worth it to see Ed make himself at home, plucking books from his shelf to read by the fireplace in the evenings with a cup of tea at his elbow.

The only possible problem Oswald can see cropping up now is keeping Ed from replacing their current dishware with repurposed lab equipment. Granted, he supposes he’s not opposed to letting a few beakers slip into their cupboards if it'll keep Ed looking at ease in their shared home.

Their mornings usually follow a routine.

They have breakfast, a comfortably familiar affair involving a bleary-eyed Oswald still in the process of fully waking up and Ed, his nose buried in the morning newspaper while he picks blindly at his breakfast. Oswald rarely bothers with reading the paper anymore, given that Ed has started reading articles out loud between bites of food, leaving Oswald to signal his level of interest through a range of hums.

When they've eaten their fill they leave for their separate rooms to change and meet again at the front door before they depart for the day, Ed listing off the day's appointments as they make their way to the limo.

Ed breaks the routine with little warning.

Oswald is in the middle of picking out today's tie when there's a knock at the door. He turns in time to see Ed poke his head in, brow furrowed.

At a loss, Oswald waves him into the room before returning his attention to his ties. “What can I do for you, Ed?”

“One of our informants reported in. She says there are two gangs, small but growing, and from what she's gathered they seem to be working together and they're planning to hit the arms shipment scheduled for three days from now,” Ed informs him, now fully dressed and impeccable, Oswald notes distantly. He moves to stand a few feet behind Oswald and watches him while he talks. “According to her, they're gaining enough traction for it to possibly become a problem if they succeed. And I don't disagree.”

Nabbing two ties from his selection, Oswald eyes them both as he processes the news. “Do we know where their bases are located?” He asks, considering the two contenders in the mirror and holding each up to his throat in turn.

He sees Ed’s reflection nod behind him. “One group operates out of the Bowery, the other out of the Narrows. And since we don't want any attention being drawn to the docks, I say we strike before the weapons arrive. We collect proof of their current deals and crimes, plant other evidence hinting at betrayal and make them turn against each other. And while they're busy with that, an anonymous source informs the police of whatever information we've gathered. Given they're recruiting, it shouldn't be too hard to slip some of our own people into their ranks to find all that out.”

“Excellent plan, Ed. Have any known members tailed as well. We don't want them getting their hands on any other weapons in the meantime.”

“Roger.” Ed makes an aborted motion as if to turn to leave, only to stop and shuffle closer. “The maroon one.”

Raising a brow, Oswald casts him an inquisitive glance. “What?”

Watching Ed’s reflection sigh, he's promptly faced with the man himself when he moves in front of him, plucking one of the ties from his lax grip. “This one. Red tones complement your- it works better than the blue,” Ed changes tack partway through, wrinkling his nose at the tie still in Oswald's grasp.

Oswald has half a mind to be offended on his tie’s behalf at the blatant rejection. “I like the blue,” he retorts, half amused and half indignant.

“Maroon is better,” Ed maintains staunchly, surprising Oswald when he puts an end to the discussion by busying himself with looping his chosen tie around Oswald’s neck.

Stupefied, Oswald automatically tilts his head back to give the taller man easier access, even as he questions his own willingness to accept Ed picking his ties for him.

He's long grown used to Ed's fluctuating sense of personal space, having already spent a few weeks living in the man's studio apartment, but this is new. Ed, he's noticed, tends to switch from hovering uncomfortably close to keeping a notable distance between himself and others.

But now Ed is fully invested in his self-appointed task, hands working meticulously at his throat and seemingly unbothered by their close proximity. When Ed leans back and scrutinises his handiwork his look of concentration doesn't shift, if anything it grows sharper and Oswald finds himself straightening his back and jutting his chin out in response. Moving back in, Ed fusses with his shirt collar and tie for another few seconds and goes so far as straightening his apparently out of place suit jacket before he finally steps back with a satisfied smile.

Still a little taken aback by the sudden display of informal familiarity, Oswald fiddles with the tie he suddenly realises is still in his hand, winding and unwinding it around his palm. “Happy now?” He challenges, daring the other man to change any other facet of his outfit.

Ed’s hand darts forward and robs him of the strip of fabric, leaving his hands to fall uselessly to his sides. He endures a long stretch of silence while Ed looks him up and down with a critical eye. “Yep,” the man practically chirps at last, returning the stolen tie to its brethren. “Spick and span.”

“So glad I have your approval,” Oswald grumbles, though once he inspects himself in the mirror he has to sigh.

The maroon does work better.

“Fine. You were right,” he admits, watching a wide grin appear on Ed's face.

“I know,” Ed says easily, turning on his heel and walking out the door before Oswald can think of an appropriately sarcastic counter.

Oswald notices a marked increase in casual touches from Ed after that. They usually come in the form of Ed picking lint from his suits, straightening his collar or brushing at his shoulders to smooth any wrinkles that may have formed throughout the day. He can't help but preen under the attention, smiling his thanks up at the other man when he finds Ed’s hands fluttering to fix any imperfections on his person.

Afterwards, their morning routine changes by silent agreement. Ed stops meeting him by the door and instead comes to his room early to help him decide on the finishing touches to his outfit for the day. More often than not he's content to let Ed pick for him, only challenging his decisions when he's feeling particularly argumentative. Mostly though, he watches Ed mull over the selection of ties, vests and cufflinks, offering input when he starts to look too conflicted.

At some point Ed completely takes over the process of tying of his ties and fastening his cufflinks as well, diligently ensuring that nothing looks out place.

Oswald can't really say he minds.

#nygmobblepot #nygmobblepot fic #nygmobblepotweek #oswald cobblepot #edward nygma #*yo #back at it after not writing them for months eyooo

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