Gotham imagines/Preferences ~❤~

Wasn't Enough

The slap echoed in the lounge it barely covered the sound of your heart breaking. Victor didn't even make eye contact during them handcuffing you, Oswald screaming he was a liar as they took you both away. No one saw him when he finally broke down, he’d lost the closest thing he had to a father, lost his closest friend, and his lover in the span of a few days…

      
Finding out he made the wrong decision tore at Victor's heart all over again. And he couldn't even make amends by killing the actual guilty party, Sofia was dead. Penguin would be difficult to make amends with, assuming the man would understand where Victor was emotionally at the time. And then there was you.

       
Victor Zsasz is not a man who begs, he humbled himself the only way Victor could, by offering Oswald the chance to take his life, instead, Oswald beat him within an inch of his life before accepting Victor’s apology. You, however, wouldn't take his calls, refusing to hear him out.

        
It was only a matter of time before Zsasz invaded your space, walking in, the look on his face, every ounce of you wanting to just run to him. He’d barely given himself time to heal from Oswald's thorough beating. “Get out.” Victor winced at your tone, he deserved it, but he stayed leaning against the wall. The angry clacking of your heels across the wood floor, the sting of your hand meeting his cheek just like that night bringing a fresh wave of pain to his heart. Turning his head to give you the chance to slap the other side.

      
When he did that you saw the discoloration on his face, inwardly cursing at yourself when your hand instinctively caressed his bruised cheek. “Penguin.” He answered your unasked question. You heard a slight hitch in his tone, the oddness in his breathing. Pressing a hand to his ribs, gauging his reaction, wincing but Victor doesn't move to stop you. Watching you as you unbutton his shirt quietly, the little gasp you gave at the large patches of dark blueish purple reaching his ears. Keeping still, the urge to lean in to kiss you strong, knowing it would be a mistake to try it.

         
Trying to keep your voice devoid of the mixed emotions you were going through, “Oswald did all this?”
 “Yes.”

 “You let him beat you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because a slap was not enough.”

You kept running fingers over the bruises occasionally pressing on them, the ones on his chest hurt the most, probably a few crack ribs. It was torture not touching you back.

        
 “He could have killed you, Victor.” He heard it in your tone the fear you used to whisper when you thought he was asleep, it was enough to give Victor hope.

        
 “I gave him that option, (y/n).” Damn it, he knew you would halt your anger seeing him like this cracked and bruised. The clenching pain in your heart at the thought of him being dead.

        
“Asshole.” Leaning against him, crying against that map of black and blue his skin was, “I don't forgive you.” His arms wrapping around you, knowing he’d spend the rest of his life seeking your forgiveness.