Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Victor stared listlessly ahead of him, at the myriad of empty bottles strewn across his coffee table. His head pounded in time with his heartbeat, and he couldn’t quite tell if it was the massive hangover or something else that was making him feel so utterly miserable. He decided to blame it on the hangover.

He was in one of his safe houses, the ones he used in between working for people who gave him somewhere to live. It’d been a while since he’d had to use one, and he chose the most isolated one to live in after Sofia had been killed. He wanted a chance to be on his own. He hadn’t felt so lost since, well, since his parents died. But it had been a long time since then, he was a different man now. He literally killed people for a living, something as simple as death shouldn’t bother him so much. Because that’s what it all boiled down to, wasn’t it?

The death of Falcone - the older Falcone - had shaken him more than he’d ever wanted to admit. The man had found Victor during the darkest time of his life, and given him a purpose in working for him. He’d given him something to live for, and there was no doubt in his mind that he’d be dead by now without Falcone’s intervention. And then he was gone. The man who, in a way, was as much of a father to him as his biological one, gone in an instant. He hadn’t known what to think or what to do when he’d heard the news, he hadn’t even believed it really until he’d seen the body for himself. Even then, he kept expecting to one day wake up and find the man waiting outside his door with open arms. Metaphorically, of course.

But he never did. He never found Falcone waiting outside his door. He never saw him in the street under a wide-brimmed hat. He never heard whispers or implications that it was all a ruse. As much as it would pain him to learn that the older man had deceived him, he wanted it to be fake more than anything. But every day that passed made the feeling in his chest that Don Falcone wasn’t coming back grow stronger. And he hated it.

He still remembered when he’d found out. It wasn’t because anyone’d sat him down and told him, no, that would be too kind. He was on one of Penguin’s tables, legs hanging languidly off the edge, watching the television over the shorter man’s shoulder. He was fingers deep in a bowl of custard, despite how many times Oswald had explained to him in great detail how disgusting it was. Honestly at that point, he mainly did it to annoy him. Then, all of a sudden it seemed, their broadcast was interrupted with the news that Carmine Falcone was dead. Victor had frozen with his fingers halfway to his mouth, Oswald had turned back to look at him as if he knew what was going on. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think. It was false, surely. The news anchor would say in a moment that they apologize for the misinformation they just shared, and carry on with the news that was true. But it never came - no take-backs, no apologies - only a photo of Falcone’s dead body.

Victor felt sick, he couldn’t even bring himself to eat the custard he already had on his fingers. He wiped them on the tablecloth, knowing there was a good chance he’d get a stern talking-to from Oswald, Olga, or both later, but in the moment he didn’t care. Oswald was saying something, asking him a question maybe, but Victor put a hand up and he stopped. He didn’t know what was happening to him, didn’t recognize the feeling building in his chest and at the back of his throat and behind his eyes. It wasn’t right, wasn’t something he was meant to be capable of feeling.

“Victor?”

And when had Oswald gotten right in front of him, and why was his face like that, and why was his hand resting so gently on Victor’s knee? He wanted Oswald to stop, just stop doing that and back off and stop looking like that and maybe Victor should just crack a joke as he normally does and lighten the mood but he couldn’t get a word out and could Oswald stop looking at him like that?? He stood up from the table, brushing past the shorter man on his way to the stairs. He didn’t look back as he made his way to the room Oswald had let him stay in, closing the door and just laying down on his bed. He didn’t cry, or shake, or sob like perhaps one was meant to do. Just laid there, feeling emptier than before, like a part of him was suddenly missing.

He remembered that evening so vividly, there were times where it just played in his head in a loop. Maybe he’d missed something, maybe this was all some elaborate prank that everyone was in on but him. Or maybe Falcone really was just dead. Occam’s Razor.

Victor was nothing if not loyal. He liked having a boss to listen to, and he liked carrying out orders. It was fulfilling, it gave him purpose. And he’d liked working for Penguin, the man was one of the best bosses he’d had second only to Falcone himself. He was funny to be around and entertaining to mess with, and he had the grit and ambition that made him an unstoppable force. And he didn’t think Oswald had ever truly understood just how much Victor was willing to do for him, just how deep his loyalty to the man had run.

But when he had been led to believe that Penguin was responsible for the death of Falcone, something inside Victor broke. The betrayal he’d felt had cut deeper than any tally, and hurt in a way that nothing ever had before. He was angry, and rash, and let his emotions drive his actions against his better judgement. When he’d sold out Penguin, he’d felt a rush of vindication. As Oswald screamed his name in hurt and anger, he’d felt some level of thrill. When he’d lied in his testimonial, he’d enjoyed it. Now, all he felt like was that he’d failed at one of the only principals he actively upheld.

Looking back, he’s not sure that he actually ever liked Sofia. She was less fun than Oswald, less cunning than her father, and held him on a tighter leash than either of them ever had. But he’d latched onto her and the Falcone name, hoping, perhaps vainly, that it would fill the hole left by the older Falcone, and later he’d realized left by Oswald. Maybe he’d kiss her hand and pledge his allegiance, maybe he’d bring back Headhunter to work with him, that would make him feel like his usual self, surely. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t help a little, but not enough. Not nearly enough.

After Sofia’s death, a lot of things had come to light - the main one being that she had been the one responsible for Carmine Falcone’s death the entire time. Victor, for the second time, felt his worldview shatter. He’d betrayed his boss, his friend, to work for the woman that had been playing everyone. Playing him. Without his loyalty, Victor wasn’t sure there was anything left of him. Now he was just sat in a safe house, waiting for… something. Maybe it was Falcone at his door, maybe it was Oswald, maybe it was just to finally die. Falcone had saved Victor once, after all, wasn’t it only right that his death should be the thing to set Victor free?

His thoughts were rudely interrupted by a banging at the door, which quickly became breaking his front door open. Great, something he’d have to fix later. He recognized the gait of Wendell even before he’d entered Victor’s field of vision. The man set down an assortment of food on the table, as Victor squinted up at him against the light that made his head pound.

“Come on Zsasz, don’t just mope around all day.” Wendell poked him a few times, and he hit the man’s hands away far harder than he’d had to. “We’ll never find more jobs if you just lie there all the time.”

“I don’t want more jobs, I want you to leave.”

“Zsasz, you can’t be serious.”

Victor grabbed the pistol above his head he’d set on the side table, cocking it and aiming it right at Wendell.

“Do I look serious to you?”

“Buddy-“

He fired a shot that missed the man’s head by about a foot.

“Get the fuck out.”

Wendell did something akin to snarling, taking a few steps back.

“Well maybe I don’t need you, maybe I’ll just go find jobs on my own.”

“Yeah you go do that, see how nobody hires ‘Headhunter’ without my recommendation because of just how intolerably annoying you are.” Wendell just stared at him, with a shocked, almost hurt, expression on his face. He didn’t know why he said that, really, but he’d be damned if he was going to take it back now. He fired another warning shot, this one just grazing the man’s cheek. “Leave, or the next one’s in your brain.”

Finally getting the message, Wendell turned and left, slamming what was left of Victor’s door. Victor turned his face into the couch, wincing against his ever growing headache. He blinked back the bit of moisture that had gathered in his eyes from the bright lights.

Yeah, the lights.

Chapter Text

The cold breeze nipped at Victor’s skin, and he suppressed a shiver as he gazed down at the crashing waves below him. It was not unbeknownst to him that this could very well be his final night in Gotham. His final night anywhere, for that matter.

He still remembered the first time he stood at this bridge, on a night not unlike this one. He’d been a younger man then, barely 18 years old, and much different to the one he was now. His parents were dead, he’d gambled away everything he’d had left in some misguided attempt at feeling something, and then he had nothing. No family, no friends, no purpose, nothing to live for. And just as he put one foot on the railing, who interrupts him? A fucking mugger.

He started shouting at Victor about money, and wallets, and waving his gun around. Victor stood there for a moment shocked - dumbfounded. Was this guy serious? It didn’t take long before his anger built to a point of no return, and he punched the guy in the jaw. The gun fell out of his hand as the mugger tripped over his own two feet, and Victor didn’t waste any time in kneeling on top of him. He took a fistful of the man’s hair, bashing his head against the pavement again, and again, and again. Blood splattered as pent up tears of anger and hurt and frustration poured out of him, and he just kept hitting the criminal's head against the ground. Victor sobbed and skull cracked and when he was too tired to keep going, he knew the man was already long dead. He sat heavily on the ground, wiping away his tears and smearing blood in their place. He was too tired to care.

“There are more efficient ways to kill someone, you know.”

A voice sounded to his left, and he looked up to see none other than Don Falcone standing over him. Of course he’d heard of the man, but he’d always seemed a bit more of an urban legend in Victor’s opinion.

“Well, next time I’m about to jump and get interrupted by a mugger, I’ll just shoot the bastard.”

He nodded his head to the mugger’s gun still sitting on the ground, which Don Falcone picked up. He examined it for a moment, before tossing it to Victor.

“Those guns are more for intimidation than anything, they don’t shoot with much power and their bullets make a mess.” Victor looked at the gun the same way Don Falcone had, but it just looked like a gun to him. “What’s your name, son?”

“Victor Zsasz.” He responded, figuring he had nothing to lose telling the Don his name. The older man killing him certainly wasn’t the worst way his night could end. “I know who you are, Don Falcone. Hope he wasn’t one of yours.”

He added as an afterthought, eyes shifting to the dead criminal beside him. Don Falcone leaned over to better look at the mugger, then shook his head.

“I would have given my men better guns.” Victor laughed despite himself, and if he wasn’t mistaken, Don Falcone even smiled a little. “Look, Victor, I know what you’re here to do, so there’s no real point in me asking or trying to stop you. Everyone has their reasons. What I would like to do, is offer you a deal of sorts.”

Victor cocked his head, futilely attempting to read Don Falcone’s expression.

“What kind of deal?”

“Come work for me.”

Victor shot him a look full of disbelief, along with a spark of confusion.

“Me? Why?”

“A man with nothing to lose can be a powerful thing, Victor.”

“I have…” No skills, no talent, no money, “Nothing to offer you…”

Don Falcone knelt beside him, touching his cheek gently. Victor looked at him, and saw the world.

“And yet it is because of that, that you have everything.” The Don stood again, brushing off his dress pants. “If you still want to die, I won’t stop you. I’m not that cruel of a man. But if you would consider my offer, I’d be most grateful.”

The man turned to walk back to his car that Victor hadn’t even realized was there, and he came to a decision in an instant.

“Don Falcone!” The Don looked over his shoulder, as Victor stood. Victor walked over to him as Don Falcone turned fully to face him, and he knelt before the older man. “I offer you my life. Every day I live from this point forwards is yours, I will follow you for as long as you let me.”

Perhaps it was dramatic, but truly, it was the only thing Victor could think of that felt right to say. The Don rested a hand on his shoulder, and he looked up to meet the man’s eyes.

“Stand up.” He did so without question. Don Falcone shifted his arm so that it was then laid across both Victor’s shoulders, leading him to the car. “We will do great things together, Victor.”

And now, standing at the same bridge, Victor felt an odd sense of closure. His presence back on the bridge marked the true end of working for Falcone, and he had returned to having nothing to give and yet everything to offer. He did the only thing he could think of to make the situation right - he would give Oswald the same choice.

It didn’t take long before a sleek black car pulled up to the bridge, and out walked Oswald. He limped over to Victor, leaning on his cane, and Victor could tell it was hurting more than usual. A part of him hoped that wasn’t his fault. Before Victor could even get a word out, Penguin pulled out a gun pointed straight at his head.

“I should kill you right here.”

Victor nodded, eyes shifting away from the gun and towards the Penguin’s angry expression. No, not just angry - furious. Pained.

“You should.”

This seemed to make Oswald pause, lowering the gun slightly, before resuming his earlier position and cocking it with a click.

“Alright then, that makes this easy. Any last words, Zsasz?”

His last name felt almost wrong coming from Oswald’s mouth. Maybe he’d just gotten used to being ‘Victor’, to him.

“I do, actually.” Penguin nodded for him to continue, and in a fluid motion he pulled a knife and held it to his own throat. Oswald was immediately on guard at the sight of the switchblade, though his caution quickly morphed into confusion, and was that a tinge of worry? The point of the knife rested against the top of his throat, as if to cut downwards. “The moment you tell me to, I will kill myself. I will mark one final tally, and throw myself from this bridge.”

“I’m guessing there’s an ‘or’?”

“I offer you my life. Every day I would live from this point forwards will be yours, I will follow you for as long as you let me.” He repeated the same words he’d spoken to a different man, on the same bridge, long ago. The same promise. “Carmine Falcone had the same choice a long time ago, and now I’m giving it to you, Oswald.”

Oswald looked almost… taken aback.

“Don Falcone…?”

He supposed he owed Oswald the information he’d kept to himself for years. The man now held his life in his hands, he was entitled to every part of it, just as Falcone had been.

“Many years ago Falcone found me on this bridge, ready to give it all up. He saved me, gave me purpose.”

“So you weren’t actually loyal to me before!?”

Victor looked down, a trickle of blood running down his neck from where the knife pierced.

“You had my loyalty, Oswald. I truly thought you had broken that, and I was wrong. I’m sorry.” He let the silence sit for a moment, as he gathered his thoughts. “Before, Falcone owned my life. I’m now offering it to you.”

Victor looked back up as Oswald seemed to consider this, looking every bit at war with himself.

“How can I trust you won’t betray me again, Zsasz?”

He sounded so… desperate. He knew full well that trust was one of the hardest things to find in Gotham.

“Don’t trust me, Oswald. Trust in my loyalty.” Because without it, Victor was nothing. “And if you can’t do that, please, tell me to end my own life.”

He pressed the knife harder against his throat, feeling more blood run down his neck. After a moment in which Victor truly thought the Penguin was going to shoot him, Oswald lowered his gun and tucked it back in his waistcoat.

“Don’t… don’t do it.” He lowered the knife as it slipped out of his hands, clattering to the ground. Perhaps it was against the man’s better judgement, or perhaps Oswald really had put some modicum of faith back into Victor, but the shorter man limped forward towards Victor. Oswald patted him down, finding no further weapons, and hugged him. Victor was at a bit of a loss at what to do, so he leaned down a little to rest his head on Oswald’s shoulder. “I didn’t know you were capable of being so formal, Victor.”

Victor found his face screwing up involuntarily, and he let a few silent tears slip down his cheeks. The last time he’d cried had been on this bridge, he decided it was fitting. The only place he could be that 18 year old kid again, just for a moment.

“Well I’m sure you’ll be glad to know that it’s never happening again.”

Oswald pulled away and Victor knowing the shorter was eyeing the tears on his face, but wisely said nothing.

“Just let me make one thing absolutely clear. If I get any word whatsoever that you’re even thinking about betraying me again, I will shove that small knife so far through your throat that it sticks out the other side, and throw your lifeless body off of this bridge myself.”

Victor smiled a little, despite himself.

“You got it, boss.”

Oswald patted his shoulder, leading him back to his car just as Carmine Falcone once had. He supposed history didn’t repeat, but it surely did rhyme.

He’d betrayed Oswald Cobblepot once, and it had almost destroyed him. He still didn’t feel fully worthy of the man’s trust and loyalty, but he had the rest of his life to earn it back.