Work Text:
Oswald Cobblepot had learned a long time ago that success was measured in property, not people. People were fallible; feelings were for those who couldn’t balance a checkbook, or mortgage a house. Or run a thriving, profitable business. Proper financial acumen required a black heart and a blind eye. Wealth was a goal unto itself, and the sacrifice of all else--family, friends, love--was a miniscule deduction indeed.
An ordinary man was too terrified to be ruthless. And Cobblepot refused to be an ordinary man.
He sat in the back of his Mercedes, resting his hunched back against the plush semi-aniline leather seats. He ran through the third quarter earnings on the Lounge and mentally ticked off a list of which waitstaff to fire in case of a loss going into the holiday season, while also considering just how much money laundering he could do for Falcone and his ilk without catching The Bat’s attention. Oswald had always been good at multitasking; as long as it was a subject that held his interest, he could usually process three or four avenues of information without breaking his concentration. It was a skill that had served him well in both the legitimate and extralegal aspects of his two worlds.
It might have also been this quality that caused him to glance up at the dreary, dampened Gotham boulevards at that particular moment. It was a cold, soggy afternoon; the sun couldn’t seem to break through the mist and smog of the city’s skyline. And there, in the fog, struggling along in an oily puddle of muck, was a pigeon. One of its wings was bent and twisted out of joint, and it hopped as best it could, trying to get out of the traffic that surrounded it.
“Stop the car!” he bellowed, startling his driver, Ibis. The big man slammed a foot into the breaks--one did not ignore the shouting of a man like Cobblepot--and craned his thick neck around to check on the boss.
“Everything okay back there, sir?”
“Yes, yes, I’ll just be a moment,” Cobblepot snapped as he jerked and shook himself to his feet. He opened the door with a shove, grabbed his ever-present umbrella, and stepped out into the roadway.
Ibis was stunned. The boss never opened a door himself unless the driver had been knocked unconscious by a bata-whatsit. He scrambled to get his own door open, to get out, to follow the eccentric, waddling man into whatever mad passion had possessed him.
Cobblepot shuffled on short, graceless legs out into the miasa of transit, waving his umbrella in great wide arcs and squawking angrily at any who dared try to maneuver around him. After some few moments, he came upon the toiling bird and, with a gentleness no one there could credit, lifted it in considerate fingers and cradled its sodden, grimy frame against his silken dress shirt. The creature struggled for a moment, then lay still, accepting whatever fate might befall it.
“It’s fine,” Cobblepot murmured in a low voice. “It’s okay, my feathered friend.” He held up a probing finger, and accepted the frightened nip without a note of pain. “I can fix this,” he soothed. “I’ve done it before.”
Still offering gentle coos to the injured avian, he slowly returned to his vehicle, he driver gaping in stunned silence.