#dmitri oswald.

[vitalphenomena]

@arcticrime said: forgive me. i didn't mean to laugh.

WHAT THE FUCK IS HE, THEN, THIS FAT FUCK HERE, SOME KIND OF JO—

"This is hardly a laughing matter, Cobblepot."

Perhaps due to his Russian nature, Dmitri is immune to the contagious quality sometimes possessed by certain people's laughter. He remains severe—almost gaunt. There is a cut above his eyebrow that will not heal.

He comes to Oswald not as the Gothamite from that morning after the club, but as a could-be-anybody, just-has-one-of-those-faces meaningless motherfucker meant to help him evade detection until he got his audience with the Penguin.

"You screwed me over. You set me up."

[vitalphenomena]

@arcticrime // x

DMITRI LOATHES THIS.

He is meant to move in silence. He blends in, forgotten. To need an alibi this badly—desperate to be remarkable enough to be remembered after a long, crowded, sweaty night in a club full of high-profile mal-intents—is humiliating and out of his comfort zone.

To that point—his anonymity, his nobody-ness—Dmitri is almost one-hundred percent certain that Oswald has no idea who he is. Oswald would have to be some sort of stalker or superfan, things Dmitri does not have, to recognize Dmitri in a face this pathologically, unrepentantly average. Still—Oswald plays along without hesitation, without question.

Dmitri narrows his eyes in suspicion. Getting what he wants is never this easy. He is a man accustomed to hardship, struggle.

"I wouldn't say I made a fool of myself," he begins slowly, "But maybe that's up to interpretation." He reaches into his pockets, fingers brushing against his mask. He looks down at Oswald meaningfully.

"If paying my tab might sharpen your memory..." He sighs. He will regret this. "By all means. Tell me the damage."