[As far as culture shocks over the first few days go, Oswald is arguably having something of a few ups and downs. This is, in point of fact, the first night he's spent in the designated housing in the Down--the result of a few serendipitous encounters since his arrival and wrangling his own stubbornness into such a state that he wouldn't have to suffer the consequences of his own foolish pride.
But eventually, that pride would mean he'd end up spending at least one night in that dingy motel, in the room on the little piece of paper that had been handed to him on arrival.
There's something about the whole thing that's nostalgic in a way he'd prefer was long behind him--tight narrow stairs in tightly packed accommodation where every sigh could be heard and every fight had an audience at each wall, not to mention the floor and ceiling; he could remember the upstairs neighbours at his mother's apartment and how sometimes they'd make the overhead light shake and shake loose dusty plasterboard when the stomping got especially loud.
Before, that sort of thing had been a minor annoyance along with a few thumps with a broom handle. Now, it's different. Now, security is everything: Oswald Cobblepot is a name that Gotham knows.
So it took him a fair few hours to settle, starting out sat up and hunched in a corner of the bed, back to the wall, knife close to hand. But over time, he slid down, head drooped, shifting around to leave him more horizontally settled against the shitty mattress, probably from pure emotional and mental exhaustion more than feeling relaxed.
And then, just like, he's wide awake.
In the dull light of the room, Oswald's eyes are wide and panic-flooded, darting around rapidly trying to make sense of things. He doesn't scream exactly, though that is mostly due to the distressed cry he does make getting muffled beneath the palm over his mouth. Oh god. Oh god. He's going to die in this godforsaken sex hell hole in a nasty room all alone to some freak with a knife. What a way to go.
His heavy, ragged breathing against the stranger's hand comes out through his flaring nostrils, though he forces himself into stillness and quiet, eyes still wild and now fixed firmly on the other man's face as he gives a few small impressions of nods. Yes, yes he understands. Still and quiet. He can do still and quiet.]
😱
But eventually, that pride would mean he'd end up spending at least one night in that dingy motel, in the room on the little piece of paper that had been handed to him on arrival.
There's something about the whole thing that's nostalgic in a way he'd prefer was long behind him--tight narrow stairs in tightly packed accommodation where every sigh could be heard and every fight had an audience at each wall, not to mention the floor and ceiling; he could remember the upstairs neighbours at his mother's apartment and how sometimes they'd make the overhead light shake and shake loose dusty plasterboard when the stomping got especially loud.
Before, that sort of thing had been a minor annoyance along with a few thumps with a broom handle. Now, it's different. Now, security is everything: Oswald Cobblepot is a name that Gotham knows.
So it took him a fair few hours to settle, starting out sat up and hunched in a corner of the bed, back to the wall, knife close to hand. But over time, he slid down, head drooped, shifting around to leave him more horizontally settled against the shitty mattress, probably from pure emotional and mental exhaustion more than feeling relaxed.
And then, just like, he's wide awake.
In the dull light of the room, Oswald's eyes are wide and panic-flooded, darting around rapidly trying to make sense of things. He doesn't scream exactly, though that is mostly due to the distressed cry he does make getting muffled beneath the palm over his mouth. Oh god. Oh god. He's going to die in this godforsaken sex hell hole in a nasty room all alone to some freak with a knife. What a way to go.
His heavy, ragged breathing against the stranger's hand comes out through his flaring nostrils, though he forces himself into stillness and quiet, eyes still wild and now fixed firmly on the other man's face as he gives a few small impressions of nods. Yes, yes he understands. Still and quiet. He can do still and quiet.]