call it what you want || nygmobblepot x oc ✅

This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things

POV Five Jackson

It's quiet, just a little overcast but still warm that afternoon. There's a bridge in the middle of the city, and when I was homeless I'd sit on that bridge at night when the metal was still warm from the sun to stop myself from freezing. But when I get there, someone else is already there. The green-haired DJ from the club where I picked up the guy who looked like Oswald.

She's pale, threadbare black coat wrapped tight around her, lipstick gone. I haul myself up next to her and she shoots me a blank look, just cataloging my appearance. I get the chance to look at her close-up, something I didn't have the chance to do (and, quite frankly, wasn't really interested in) last night. Her face is almost heart-shaped, sharp cheekbones and a soft jaw. Her eyes are dark brown, almost black. She's got a little mole just by the side of her mouth, it reminds me of a movie star I used to know the name of. Her hair, it's bright green, yes, but her black roots show through. I think it's prettier this way.

"Hey," I offer after a few minutes. She looks at me again, up and down.

"Oh. You're the kid who went home with Thomas a few nights ago," she says.

"Not quite a kid," I snort.

"Really? How old are you," she says, eyebrow arched.

"Twenty-three," I grin.

"You look like a kid," she returns my smile, snorting. "I'm Snake."

It's my turn to raise an eyebrow. "Five. How'd you get Snake?" She grins and pulls the sleeve of her jacket up to reveal a scar, two dots on her forearm.

"A rattlesnake bit me where I used to live. I was a little kid, and it got infected and I almost died. The neighborhood kids started calling me Rattlesnake, then Snake for short."

"Better than my name," I smirk. "I had four other siblings, so I'm Five."

"Youngest?"

"Middle," I say.

She nods. "I was youngest," she tells me, and she tells me her DJ name is Snake, but all her friends call her Morgan. "You can call me Morgan," she says with a small smile. 

And we sit on that bridge, talking about absolutely nothing for at least two hours. At one point she pulls a joint and a lighter out of her pocket as traffic blazes by us. I shrug and let her take the first hit. We're stoned, she definitely more so than I am, and we lean against the metal rapports of the bridge and point out shapes in the clouds. At one point she leans over and just brushes her lips lightly over mine. It's barely a kiss, it's just a simple touch. Simple.

Everything with Oswald and Edward are insane and complicated, but here, on this bridge with Morgan, it's simple. With Oswald and Edward, it's dark looks, insane eyes and unspeakable tension. With Morgan it's quiet and soft, airy kisses and lightheadedness.

We make out lazily on the bridge, if you could even call it making out. There's no urgency, no need to touch each other besides her hands in my hair, and I don't want to fuck her. It's uncomplicated. A relief. She passes me the bag of weed she's got in her pocket and we make good use of it. We talk about what feels like everything and laugh at the strangest things.

It's 6:30 when I remember I've got something going on tonight. I tell Morgan, who just smiles and reaches up from where she lies on the metal, joint between her lips, to run her fingers through my hair. I look down and return her smile. I pluck the joint from her mouth and take a drag, giggling as I exhale the smoke. Morgan laughs with me, so I lean down, pressing my lips to hers, and she snickers into the kiss.

I hop off the railing and wave, her number in my phone and a smile on my lips as the pot leaves my head. She'd smoked more of the blunt than I had. I make my way home, hair undoubtedly messy with how much time her hands had spent tangled in it.

When I get home, nobody's there. I go upstairs again- I seem to be doing a lot of that lately- to lie on my bed and pet Ozzie and wonder what the hell did I think I was doing, offering to do this job in the first place?

And after another day of pretending I don't exist around Oswald, the man himself goes upstairs to his study. I get up, change into a white t-shirt, a black leather jacket and blue, faded jeans, and walk out of the main doors. I need air.

The next thing I know, I feel a sharp, needle-prick pain in the back of my neck and everything goes black.

I wake up tied to a chair in a dark place with a fancy window I struggle for a moment, pulling at my ropes and trying to figure out who would benefit from kidnapping me. 

"Don't try and pull loose. It won't work," a familiar voice says. Nygma. 

"What the hell, Ed?" I snarl. "Where the fuck have you been?" 

"Taking care of some things. Grieving for my dead girlfriend, you know, the usual." he snaps back.

"Why am I here, Nygma?" I demand, looking around. Oh. I'm at The Sirens. Why am I here? Why take me here, of all places. 

"You'll see." he says darkly. "What do you know about Isabella's death?" 

"I know she's dead," I say in a perfect deadpan. 

He sighs. "I'm not stupid, Five. I know Oswald killed Isabella. I want to know what you know about it." 

I have a decision to make. Do I lie through my teeth? Say I know nothing? And, by association, do I just say I know nothing about the situation at large, or say Oswald didn't do it? Or do I confess and drag Oswald down with me? 

Well, he already knows. What do we have to lose? I can't change his mind. He knows. 

"Sure." I shrug as best I can with the ropes on. "We killed her. Oswald gave the orders and I carried them out. Easy." 

"What did you do," he stresses. 

"Well, if you already know," I huff. "I cut her brake lines. Check her car, you'll see it." 

"Why." 

"Orders are orders," I say. "Look, I feel bad about it, alright? I feel bad that I did it and it killed her. I just didn't see another option. I'd have been homeless if I hadn't done it. Oswald would have kicked me out."

"He wouldn't have," Ed argues. "He'd have found somebody else to do it." 

"You don't know that," I return. "You can't tell me he makes rational decisions often enough for me to know where the lines are." 

"So you admit that he told you to do it and you did." he says, voice tight. 

"Yes," I say, lifting my chin. "And if I had the chance, to go back, to make that choice again, I wouldn't have. But I don't. Isabella is dead. I killed her. I can wish and you can mourn as long and as often as you like, but in the end it won't solve anything. It will not bring her back." 

"I know that," he growls and turns away. "Tabitha and Butch were supposed to get Oswald and bring him here," he snaps at a silhouette I hadn't noticed standing in the shadows. In a nice dress. It's Barbara Kean. She was in on this the whole time. Of course. But why? 

"They are," she retorts. "Here they are now." 

"Keep your mouth shut," Ed snarls at me, pulling my chair back into the shadows.