Disclaimer: Gotham is copyright its respective creators and license holders, etc. This is a transformative fanwork written for non-commercial purposes, and it was approached as an educational exercise.

Part of Gobblepot Gazette's Gobblepot Spring 2017 event (prompts: "free space" and "new beginnings").

This story was written in its entirety, and should not be considered a WIP. Chapters will be released periodically, with the final chapter released at the end of hiatus.

This is a canon-divergent fic. Spoilers for the mid-season finale of season 3.

Reset

by Margaret Smoke

chapter 1: not dead

"Wake up, Penguin."

At the sound of her voice, I jerked into something soft and dry. I drew in my first sharp breath in eons, the air burning and raking a throat once consumed by the filthy waters of the harbor. A droplet of saliva caught somewhere between lung and tongue turned my unsteady breaths into hot coughs. Embarrassing.

"Whoa, hey, Os, are you okay?"

My eyes shot open, but not before lashing out with a surprisingly dry arm and thwacking Barbara Kean in what I hoped was some tender part of her traitorous skull. Of all people to wake up to after being…after being…shot?!

Barbara rubbed her shoulder where my wrist had landed. "Ow," she murmured. "Some kind of bad dream?"

I flexed my aching wrist, taking deep breaths of leather. I hated the smell, sometimes, hated how you were supposed to pretend to love it just because it was more opulent, when it would forever just be the tanned skin of a dead animal. Despite a lifelong envy of the rich and powerful, I could never erase the deep hatred I held for each and every one of them. I turned away from the sofa, eyes falling on a coffee table holding two empty wine glasses with red pooled where stem held bowl. I wondered if the wine smelled of leather too. Winemakers certainly loved their odd flavors—leather, tobacco, petroleum. From here, over the harsh scent of the couch, I could tell that this wine had been jammier, more fruitful. My kind of wine—the kind of wine that still tasted remotely like the grapes it was made from.

"Os?" Barbara beamed softly at me, her curls framing her face, the rest of her dressed as expected, in fine, stylish fabrics cut perfectly for her shape. It became apparent she'd stopped in the midst of her morning routine to harass me. "Come on, Little Penguin. Wakey wakey."

"Why are you being so gentle?" I said, watching her eyes flit over my aching body. Her brows were creased in confusion, and a slight blush crossed her creamy, peach face, but she was otherwise unfazed by our interaction, and those eyes, those damn eyes, so wicked when I last saw them, now held torrents of care.

Barbara merely arched over me more, and booped me on the nose with a single finger. The nerve! The pleasant perfume on her wrist pervaded the air, momentarily ridding me of the stinky leather. She smirked, then lay back on the sofa in her…was this her place? Her first place? "Your phone's dead. Your alarm never went off. You're going to be late."

I shot up, expecting to wince at an injury I thought I'd sustained, but instead I winced at the glaring morning light coming through the large window. At the other end of the sofa, Barbara poked the bottom of my purple-and-black socked feet, then grasped an open box of sugary cereal and shoved her manicured hand in. Yes, this was Barbara's old place, where I'd first met her. Perhaps, to some degree, this was that same Barbara.

"I'm not dead?" I wondered.

"No. Not unless your captain has a mean streak." She offered the box to me, then sucked in a hiss. "Ow, you really hurt me, Pengy. Did I do something nasty to you in that dream or what?"

"I…" Wasn't this the dream? "I thought you were someone else. I'm sorry."

She gave the box another shake. "You need to go, and I need to do my hair." I never took the box, so she retracted it, then gave my toes a…loving wiggle. "Come on. Up. I'll get your badge, but I'm not touching that gun."

I gaped at her. "My…what?"

The Gotham I knew was gray, as gray and blurred as an old black and white film, whereas this Gotham—and the pleasant Barbara Kean in the driver's seat beside me—were like the land of Oz, full of color and bizarre happenings.

For instance, the doorman to Barbara's building, Mr. Yearling, was actually Mick the Stick, a low-level grunt who'd been beaten with a literal stick by a former boss for holding a door open on the wrong side.

For instance, the badge on my belt and the registered gun holstered at my side were not actually mine, but here, they were.

For instance, this best-friend level of intimacy Oz-Barbara and I seemed to share, but in reality did not. It hadn't been entirely easy to lie my way through the morning while I figured out just what the hell was happening. I hated Barbara. Particularly for the role she played in me getting shot by someone I loved and then dumped in the harbor.

For instance, this particular stretch of road lacked its usual graffiti and crime-scene tape, and instead was deemed a very safe stretch of road by Barbara. She had no trouble finding a parking space, and she pulled over before stepping out of the white sedan and passing me the keys.

"Try to use Butch's car for any high-speed chases with bad guys, okay?"

I swallowed the surprisingly fresh air and took the keys from Barbara, who'd styled her curls into a professional, yet hip updo befitting the art gallery only a handful of feet away. Butch. Butch. From the serious look in Barbara's eyes to the twitch of a smirk on her lips, I got the sense that this had happened before. With Butch. My…partner? "Yes, ma'am."

She gave a quick groan and rolled her eyes. " 'Ma'am'? Since when do you say ma'am?" Before I could reply, she gave me a quick shrug and kissed me on the cheek. "See you later. Love you."

My hand clenched around the cold keys, its sharp ridges digging into my palm. "Yes, love you too."

I sat in the car and waited for Barbara to get inside before frantically digging out a phone that I didn't remember giving my thumbprints to. I started the car, plugged in the low-battery phone, and fiddled with the console until ice-cold air blasted my face and neck. It came with a rush of dust and Barbara's unique, flowery perfume, neither of which comforted me. I groaned and activated the dictation on the phone with a blasé landscape set as a wallpaper. This was not my phone. And I would never choose that wallpaper.

"Take me to work," I ordered the phone.

It responded robotically, " 'Take Me To Church' is a song by—"

I slammed my finger on the phone and re-dictated the order. "Take me to work."

"Starting route to 'Work.' In five-hundred feet, turn left on Broadway Avenue."

I set the phone in the passenger seat and drove through familiar, slightly altered neighborhoods, until arriving at Jim Gordon's home precinct. He would know what to do about this. I only hoped he would believe me.

This vintage palace of Art-Deco and Gothic fusion hadn't changed a bit, that is, with exception to the serious lack of my old friend. Instead, the nameplate on Jim's desk read "Det. Oswald Cobblepot." Wonderful. At least I knew how to think like a criminal. I looked about for a coat rack, then begrudgingly slung my coat on the back of a worn thing that qualified as a desk chair. It was an uncomfortable beast, with a fussy wheel and a lump that dug into my thigh.

The place was not absent the odd looks I usually received upon arrival, but their motivations were different. I had seen those kinds of looks in my youth. I grumbled and poked through Jim's—my desk, trying to make sense of whatever life I had fallen into.

A file fell from the sky like a raindrop, its storm cloud my stocky, round-faced partner, Butch Gilzean. Butch mumbled a greeting through the pink-frosted doughnut hanging out of his mouth, and as he flicked a sprinkle off the side of his peach face, I was reminded of Detective Harvey Bullock. I scoffed inwardly at the universe's unusual sense of humor. Perhaps there was a well-groomed Bullock looming beside a mob-boss somewhere, using glares and cracked knuckles to remind some lackey how they kept the peace.

I turned on my inner thespian, and casually asked, "What's this?"

"Same old shit," said Butch. "Guy kills his girlfriend with a registered gun, goes on the run. Thinking we need to visit the family, use some of your magic on 'em to get 'em to talk." He polished off the doughnut and wiped his fingers on one of many napkins stacked neatly on the corner of his desk. "While we're at it, you can use that magic on our asshole mayor who keeps his mouth shut on DV issues."

"You? An advocate for smarter gun control?"

Butch's face dropped. "Are you serious? Were you even listening the other night?"

Woops. "Of course," I said. "You know me and my sarcastic jokes." I tittered for effect, and Butch just rolled his eyes and turned his attention toward his computer. I flipped open the file. The person of interest looked like…someone I'd seen here before. Thomas Dougherty. I winced at the photographs of the body—so cruel, some killers—then blanched as I read the victim's name: Kristen Kringle. I turned to the next page quickly, and it responded with a sharp paper cut. "No addresses for his family?"

"Workin' on it, Os, gimme a sec."

Didn't detectives have lackeys for this sort of thing? Well, Butch had always been a lackey himself. Never could take the lead properly. I shuffled through the file, then stared at my computer, which begged for my login credentials. I typed my mother's first name into the password field and got in. Some things didn't change. I sank back into the uncomfortable chair with relief. I wasn't great with computers, but given time, I could figure out how to run a few searches on Ed and Jim and see what the hell was—

"God damn carpal tunnel," Butch cursed, rubbing his wrist. Well, that was interesting. Butch had both hands. I still bore the injury Fish Mooney had given me, but I'd made my peace with it long ago. Perhaps whatever had happened here preyed upon some aspect of our psyches. "How the hell's a guy supposed to hold a gun when he can barely use a computer?"

"I…I don't know," I said. "Perhaps look into your, our, benefits. Maybe you can squeeze some better equipment out of someone."

Butch pshawed and shook his head. "Yeah. Right." He returned to his careful computer work, and I placed my attention back into the file.

A detective. At Jim Gordon's desk. With Butch as my partner. So if I were Jim Gordon, did that make Jim me? I smirked devilishly. Just what would Jim Gordon's criminal empire look like, given whom he was?

I lifted my phone, irritated at the length of its charger's cord, and scrolled through my contacts. Did I really need all these numbers? Who were half these people anyway? A few familiar names crossed my path. Barbara. Butch. No. Not that letter either. No Gordon. A John in the Js. No Penguin, though Barbara had called me that earlier this morning, so I'd retained that lovable/hatable name.

Barbara. Horror crossed my face.

"Am I dating Barbara?"

"Huh?" Butch said with a casual grunt. "When did that happen?

"I…just overheard some of the fellas in the…locker room the other day. Wondering. Is all."

Butch furrowed his brows and leveled a gaze at me. "You feelin' alright, Os?"

Os. Oz. No, I was not feeling alright at all. "It's nothing." I patted my neck like a showman and gave a brief smile. "Just woke up with a stiff neck."

"Sounds more like you woke up with a stiff drink."

I gave him a playful shrug. "If only."

Butch shook his head and grinned. "Speaking of stiffs and drinks…maybe you oughta head over to the ME's lab, get a little spring in your step before we head out today? Know what I mean?"

The medical examiner. Did I not bother bringing water to my desk? My tongue turned to sandpaper. I needed to drink something before I passed out right here in front of everyone who hated me already.

Butch caught my distress. "Or…maybe things aren't going so smoothly?"

"Right, the uh, ME. Visit. You know, I really should help you work here."

Butch nodded knowingly. "I got you. Forget I—"

My desk phone rang. We stared at it through two more rings before I picked it up. "Hello? I mean, this is Cobblepot. Detective Cobblepot." Butch gave me a peculiar look and I shook my head.

"Detective. I mean, Detective Cobblepot. Oswald."

Edward Nygma.

I barely caught the rest. I hung up the phone, my eyes wide, and I looked at Butch as if I were watching a movie about our lives in this moment.

"That one of those freaky possessed phones or something?" he asked. "You look like you've seen a ghost. You're pale as shit, partner."

"The, uh, that was the ME," I stammered out like a fool, and Butch nodded, mistaking my shaky words for something far less nefarious than fear. "He has, um, something to talk about, with a case. The—"

"The Banks?"

"Yes, the Banks." I was unsure if we were talking about buildings or people. "I have to go to him."

Butch laughed like this were the latest piece of juicy office gossip, and not a possible confrontation with Edward Nygma. The man I loved. The man who shot me in the stomach and left me for dead. The last man I had seen before waking up in Oz.

"Go, you idiot. I've got this. Just don't take forever."

I gripped the arms of my chair until my knuckles turned bone-white. I finally found the steel I needed, and lifted myself from the now-quite-comfortable chair, only I had no idea where to go.

Butch pointed, thinking this momentary lapse of memory to be something adorable and mockable.

I walked the hallways, breathing air laden with the bitter aroma of burnt coffee, and arrived at the ME's lab sooner than hoped. My eyes felt enlarged, as if they would cross and pop like balloons at any minute, and I relied on the steadiness of my cane to keep from spinning all the way to the slick, musty floor.

I knocked on the door. Quickly. In hopes it would be mistaken for anything other than an announcement of my arrival.

Edward opened the door, beaming. His thick-rimmed glasses reflected my shocked face, and his hair smelled of the same shampoo I remembered from when Ed had taken me into his home and rehabilitated my broken wings. "Oswald. So good to see you. Come in. I have your file."

Ed stepped aside, letting me enter first, and thankfully left the door open before heading to the back of the lab to retrieve said file. In the middle of the room sat an empty examination table, but it looked like Ed was in the midst of preparing for an autopsy. I wondered if my mere presence would contaminate any evidence, and I considered using that as an excuse before Ed interrupted his thoughts.

"I regret that I couldn't deliver this to you and Detective Gilzean myself. I have a full schedule today. Did you know there are—actually, never mind." He snatched the file, and turned my way. "I was thinking about what you said." Ed smiled and approached me.

I put my weight on my back foot, my stomach swelling. How could someone with such a perfect smile have done something so terrible? "What did I say?" I did not hide the tremble in my voice well. Where was out? Behind me? Yes, there. Nearest weapons: any tools behind Ed. Damn it.

Jim's—no, my gun.

"About…" A passerby in the hall paused him. Ed waited until their heels faded enough to speak, but his voice was considerably lower. "About you being…gray. So I went home, did some reading, and I wanted to say that I am perfectly okay with that. My interest in you is romantic. And intellectual. And…" He swallowed, throat visibly, uncomfortably, bobbing. "And I do you find you pleasing to look at. You have a unique way of dressing and styling your hair, particularly today. I find it very charming. But your boundaries are your boundaries and they would be that way regardless of who you are. Should you still want to consider dating. Dating me. That is to say, dating me in a romantic sense, not dating me like carbon dating." He let out a classic, nervous chuckle, fixed his glasses, then frowned. "Oswald, is something wrong?"

This Ed certainly rambled the way the other Ed could, but he was equally as terrifying. Suddenly, my head cleared, and a tense anger clenched my tingling nerves.

"Are you behind this, Ed?" I gestured to my badge, to the ID clipped to his chest, to the entirety of Oz. "This whole thing?"

Ed looked genuinely baffled, but he'd successfully conned me before. I knew better. "Oswald, I'm not sure what you mean."

"This." The gun. I had the gun. I had power. Ed had nothing. I just had put a little more distance between us. I took a step back. "This whole charade. Convincing everyone to swap places? Just to screw with me?"

When Ed didn't reply, I scowled. Heat rushed to my face, and the gun seemed to pulse at my side. "Did you really think it would work this time, Nygma? Wasn't shooting me and throwing me into the harbor enough?"

Ed backed into a cart, and its contents protested with loud clanks. "Oswald, I…I don't know what you're talking about."

I glared at him. The echo of my outburst against the sickly yellow tiles resonated in my mind, and the thick silence in the room gave rise to more doubts. I took a moment to let the powerful nausea ebb away, and to feel the tingling in my feet again. I was here, in the ME's lab, receiving a file about a case. Butch could do this task. Not me. "My apologies, Ed. I haven't felt well all morning. Excuse me." I slowly turned, still afraid to face my back to Ed, but then finally acquiesced and stepped for the door.

"Is it your PTSD?"

I gave him a half-turn of my head. "What?"

"Your PTSD? From when you were shot on that case? I understand." Ed shied away from me as he expedited his words. "I shouldn't bring up these inappropriate things in the workplace. Not your PTSD. I mean, your PTSD, and dating. I apologize. I overstepped my bounds. I hope you feel better. Goodbye, Oswald."

I clenched my jaw. I didn't know whether I were angry or about to get sick, but from the heat on my neck and the cold sweat beading down my forehead, I felt more and more certain that the former was producing the latter. I scrambled out of Ed's office before I humiliated myself further.