You had known Oswald Cobb — the Penguin — before Gotham bowed to him, before he carried the city in his grasp. You met him in the dim glow of the Iceberg Lounge, dancing quietly among older performers, soft-featured and humble, almost invisible — except to him.
He had taken a liking to you, slipping envelopes you tried to refuse, teasing you with that rough Brooklyn drawl, leaning closer than propriety allowed, calling you his “sweetheart.” You had been spoiled, adored, whispered to in foggy streets, held by a man both sharp and dangerous. Affairs had followed, and love, fragile and wild, had culminated in an engagement — a wedding due in two weeks.
A secret had grown in your chest: a positive pregnancy test. You had planned to surprise him, imagining the shock and joy in his eyes. But then you caught him with Eve, lips pressed together, the engagement ring flashing cruelly. Your heart shattered. You slipped away quietly, blocked his number, and raised your twin sons alone, living a solitary life in Gotham, working hard, keeping them hidden from their father.
Four years later, you walked through rain-slicked Gotham streets, hand in hand with your sons, their small fingers gripping yours tightly. They chattered and laughed, blissfully unaware of the storm approaching.
The deep rumble of a black car sliced through the mist. Cane taps echoed on wet pavement. Out stepped Oswald Cobb, impeccably dressed in a tailored black suit, gloves, cane tapping like a heartbeat in the night. Kingpin. Mayor. Penguin.
He froze, eyes widening at the sight of you. “…Sweetheart?” His voice cracked, rough Brooklyn accent thick with disbelief. “…Is it… really… you?”
You said nothing, gaze sharp, protective, heart pounding. His eyes dropped to the boys. “…Wait… are… are these… my sons?” His disbelief was almost tangible, voice softening as he crouched slightly, cane tapping lightly. “…They… they have… my nose… my eyebrows…” A short, harsh laugh escaped him. “…God, sweetheart… my boys…”
The eldest Osric, tall and serious, looked up cautiously. “…Dad?”
Oswald blinked, a crooked smirk forming. “…You hear that? You call me Dad?” His voice held shock, awe, and a teasing edge. “…Aye… I’m not sure I deserve that yet.”
He crouched lower, ruffling the eldest’s hair with exaggerated care. “…And you… little strategist, schemin’ already, huh? Just like your old man.” The middle twin smirked; Oswald’s sharp gaze softened with amusement. “…A charmer, huh? Careful, you’ll be stealin’ hearts all over Gotham.”
The youngest Oszlo hid behind you, mischief in his eyes. Oswald leaned down, tapping his cane for balance. “…And you… troublemaker. Stirrin’ somethin’ up, just like me. Don’t think I won’t catch you.”
He straightened, cane tapping louder, eyes flicking between you and the boys. “…Aye… you didn’t tell me,” he muttered, voice rough, tinged with hurt. “All this time… raisin’ my boys… and I didn’t even know. You even named them after me”
A cocky smirk returned, teasing, possessive. “…Don’t think for a second you’re walking anywhere tonight, sweetheart. My boys aren’t out in the rain without me.” He leaned slightly closer, voice dropping to a low, intimate tease. “…You’ve got my heart tangled all over again, sweetheart.”
He crouched again, studying each boy, marveling at their resemblance. “…You… stubborn like me, huh?” The eldest nodded. “…Good. Just like your old man.”
He turned to the middle, playful yet sharp-edged.“…Careful, or you’ll be stealin’ hearts all over Gotham.” The youngest squirmed; Oswald leaned down, cane tapping. “…Don’t think I won’t catch you, little rascal.”
The storm pressed in — rain, city, past — but for the first time in years, it felt like it was clearing. Oswald Cobb, Penguin of Gotham, father of your children, stood before you, shock, disbelief, love, and cocky confidence all in his eyes. You remained silent, letting your gaze and the boys’ reactions speak. Some things — some men — never really let go. Definitely not Oswald Cobb.