Nygmobblepot One Shots

Lay Me Down

Summary: Oswald can't sleep. Naturally, she goes to Edward.

A/N: meant to be short. had gotham thoughts. Get Rid of Them

Nights shouldn't be easy for either of them, but tonight is especially hard for Oswald. Her heart thumps like a jackhammer drilling into the very core of her being, beating at her bones and driving her wild, unable to sleep even a wink. When she closes her eyes, she can hear herself screaming, in danger. She lives dangerously, of course it should be that way! It doesn't make it any less unbearable, however.

Frustrated, she gets out of bed, ruffling her dark hair. It's terribly messy at night, but she doubts anyone she'll come across will make fun of that right now. (Besides: Gotham nights are dark, and her jet black hair blends right in.) It's well past midnight, and Ed is probably sleeping (the lucky bastard), so it doesn't make sense to go to her room and possibly wake her. Even if she's letting Ed stay with her and offering her more grace than any reasonable person would, Oswald is adverse to disrupting her friend in the late hours of the night. Probably because they're not quite friends anymore. Oswald doesn't know.

The walk to Ed's room is a little ways away, considering the size of the manor. Their relationship has been bothering her heavily for the past few days. They both keep looking at each other for longer than they should (Oswald can feel when she's watching her, and she's acutely aware of each second she herself spends looking at Ed), and sometimes they'll catch each other's gaze. These brief moments of two thieves, prolific in stealing glances, staring at one another—they seem to get longer and longer.

When she reaches her room, the bed is empty, and her heart leaps for just a moment before she sees the rest of her belongings still left in place. She turns to go back, not to her room, but to the lounge area.

This too has become an issue as of late. When Oswald wakes in the night or cannot sleep, she finds Ed sleeping on the couch instead of in the room she specifically set aside for her. She tried asking if her bed was uncomfortable one morning after, but Ed didn't have any complaints. It confuses her, but Ed isn't very easy to understand, and Oswald has come to learn and respect that fact. It's one of the things that makes her so charming—oh.

She would hit herself, if not faced with the sleeping form of Edward Nygma on her couch directly before her. The sound of a smack might wake her from rest, and Oswald would never forgive herself. She doesn't know what to do—though she's seen Ed sleeping from afar in previous nights, she's never actually approached her or gotten close enough to see her like this. It's a little overwhelming, a little scary, but also a little thrilling.

Edward's face has always been pretty to Oswald, even if the former complains that it's too thin or long. That feeling is more than doubled with such a peaceful expression settled over it, and Oswald feels physical pain from the heartache it induces. She sits down on the opposite sofa to steady and still herself, holding a hand over her chest as if there was any chance of such a pain subsiding anytime soon. She bends and breaks for Ed, like a young willow in the wind, knowing full well she should be as sturdy as an old oak. Rest, my beating heart! She thinks to herself, melodramatically.

It's hard not to engage in dramatics when you're next to a sleeping angel. Strands of her chestnut hair fall out of place, framing her face, the very picture of style and grace. Oswald sighs, quietly, and grabs her own wrist in a warning motion (to herself? tsk, tsk) for making any noise. She wants to scream into a pillow like a teenage girl with a crush on the school's lover boy. It's hard enough to be in love, let alone in love with Edward Nygma.

Oswald has the terrible urge to reach out and brush aside some of those stray hairs to see her face better, and she grabs her wrist tighter, forceful enough to bruise. She sees herself, in her mind's eye, laying a tender kiss to Edward's forehead—a peck, a brief brushing of the lips, so quick, it's barely even a kiss. With that impulse, that fantasy, she twists her own wrist slightly, wincing at the pain. It's bad to have these kinds of thoughts. It's bad to have these kinds of feelings. In front of your best friend. While she's sleeping. (And you should be sleeping, too.)