°.•* Camille *•.°

No.

No, Oswald thinks, no, as all other thoughts turn to static and rattle around in his skull. He stands there, nailed to the spot, slackjawed and blank faced, grasping at straws; there is no good reason why one of Gotham's most dangerous men should be standing so close to you with that expression on his face. 

Victor's hand is on the small of your back, far from any exposed skin, and yet that doesn't diminish Oswald's knee-jerk reaction at seeing you and his right-hand hitman playing house. There's nothing domesticated about the bloodthirsty killer beside you, and Oswald of all people should know. 

His fingers twitch. 

"Oh. Hey Boss," Victor greets, sparing Oswald a glance. He lifts his hand from your back to wave. 

Hiding the sordid bits of his "business" activities from your keen eye has been hard enough on its own. Oswald thought it’d be easier to keep you out of the line of fire when you'd moved into the mansion; the last thing he needs is for you to form some kind of attachment with the goddamn hitman. 

Oswald grits his teeth. "Hello, Victor."

The pale, leather-clad man dips his head in acknowledgement. Well, good. At least he remembers his place, though for how long that will last is anybody's guess. Perhaps Oswald's flying off the handle right now, assuming far more than he should, but you're standing in the kitchen with Victor at your side, panting like a dog—

"You alright, boss?" Victor asks. 

"Fine," Oswald says through pursed lips, "Just fine." 

"Could've fooled me," you snark from across the room, not bothering to look up. 

"Having fun?" Oswald asks, and even he can hear the syrupy-sweet, over-the-top note in his voice. 

You roll your eyes, but finally look up from what you're doing (from the looks of it, making chocolate chip cookies). "I guess."

Victor's tone is even, empty. "She's a riot." 

"Yes, well. I suppose some things never change," Oswald replies, forcing himself to laugh. 

You shoot him a look that screams 'what the fuck are you doing?'

Oswald catches your eye and starts to say your name. He stops himself after the first syllable. 

Oh, he needs to talk to you. He needs to explain that you're safer if you stay away from Victor — yet Oswald knows you well, and he knows for a fact that the only reason you'd ever do anything he said was if he had a damn good reason why you should. 

So he can't talk to you! Because he'd have to explain that Victor's dangerous! He'd have to explain that Victor's a cold-blooded killer! Which, inevitably, will make you grill your brother about why the fuck he's in league with a dangerous, cold-blooded killer, and then this whole carefully constructed house of cards that he's set up to keep you out of harm's way will come crumbling down around him. 

Still: this situation can be salvaged. 

"Victor? A word," Oswald finally says. 

Your brow furrows, suspicious, but you say nothing as Victor leaves your side to follow Oswald out of the room. 

He has a semblance of a plan to fix this. He'll send Victor on a long-winded job, a task that will keep him out of doors and away from you. 

You — you've never stepped a toe out of line. You feel guilty when the cashier at the corner store forgets to ring up one of the items in your bag. You don't have so much as a speeding ticket to your name.