(Y/n) had been watching him for months. The unusual, awkward man that seemed to limp in a waddling motion along the streets of Gotham, dressed in his always smartly pressed suits.

She had seen him first when he had made his way into her local pharmacy. (Y/n) finding it impossible not to notice the strange man. And from the moment that she had seen that sad, yet handsome face, she knew that she had found her muse. The spark for her creativity. Something about him speaking loudly to her soul. Something about him that spoke to her heart, as he waited for the pharmacist to finish serving his current customer.

(Y/n) had hidden behind the shelves, using one of the mirrors that hung on the wall to spy on the uncomfortable looking man. Her heart going out to him as he pushed his dripping wet hair from his face. As she saw that he was soaked to the skin yet didn't seem to care that he was visibly shaking from the cold.

Quickly (Y/n) had pulled out the little sketch book that she always kept with her and began to draw the melancholic man that she could see. Furiously scribbling down every subtle line and angle of his face. She could imagine him as an angel. A beautiful yet sad dark angel, that hid a pair of huge black wings that grew from the back of his lithe body, under that suit. An angel that would sit atop the great gothic cathedral of Gotham in an eternal vigil over the equally dark city.

Now all these long months later, her work had become obsessed with the unusual man that she had discovered was called Oswald. A man that spent his working hours as the umbrella boy for the infamous Fish Mooney. His face painted with a smile that concealed a sadness that to (Y/n), seemed to consume him. His great black wings stifled under the stiff suit that he wore. Yet in his own hours. As he made his way home; he would become her sad angel again. He would become her inspiration.

She was ashamed to admit that she had been following him. Watching his every move, his every gesture; but without him, her work would have been nothing. His features haunting her every waking moment as she painstakingly replicated his every nuance. The thoughts of her sad angel, pushing her to achieve the perfection that she saw him as.

"My god (Y/n), this has to be some of your best work. Its haunting, eerily beautiful. Who is he?" Douglas, her manager asked, as he looked through the vast array of sketches and black and white paintings that were amassed in her small studio. (Y/n) not really taking notice of the question, as she added the last touches to the large canvas in front of her. Dropping the brush to the floor and taking a few steps back so she could survey the masterpiece that she had been working on every spare hour, for months. There was her sad angel in all his glory, his pale naked torso and face standing out starkly from the great dark gothic build upon which he stood. His wings were outstretched, seemingly glowing in the rays of a high moon. The kisses of the celestial orb gracing every taut, sinewy muscle and protruding bone of his lean frame. Below him was Gotham. The vile city that (Y/n) and her muse called home. The white lights of downtown the only thing that seemed to brighten the all invasive gloom that permanently hung over the great metropolis. He was Gotham's fallen angel, the combined images of thousands of nameless people. He was the personification of man. Yet he was a god. Their god. The only hope for the unknown masses.

"Jesus (Y/n), who is this guy?" Douglas asked again, as he came to stand behind her, unable to move his gaze from the two perfect green eyes that (Y/n) had given her muse. The eyes the only bright colour that appeared in any of her paintings of him.

"All I really know is that he is called Oswald. He works for Fish Mooney, as her umbrella boy." (Y/n) told Douglas, as she continued to look upon her work. Struggling to pull her eyes away from her angel's gaze.

"Any gallery in the country would fight to display this work (Y/n); but I think that I can finally persuade Macintyre to give you that show you always wanted in the city." Douglas said, as he stood behind (Y/n), and placed his hand on her shoulder.

                                                        >>---------------------------------<<

Oswald slowly made his way into work. His journey in had been uncomfortable, and he had no real desire to smile meekly through yet another day. But as he pushed open the door to make his way into the club; he saw a smiling Butch.

"Fish wants to see ya." The big man informed him. Chuckling as Oswald's head and shoulders dropped.

"I think that you might actually like this meeting." Butch continued. His chuckle turning into a laugh as he saw a glimmer of hope in the smaller man's eyes.

"What do you mean?" Oswald enquired nervously. Failing to see how any kind of sudden meeting with Fish could be enjoyable.

"Go and find out. Fish is waiting for ya." Butch sniffed. Watching as Oswald reluctantly made his way to Fish's office. The umbrella boy, tentatively knocking on the door, and entering when he heard his bosses voice.

"Yes, that's him." An unfamiliar male voice exclaimed, as Oswald moved into the office.

"Come and sit down Oswald." Fish said with a soft smile. Signalling to a chair on the other side of the desk.

"I would like you to meet Mister Douglas Campbell. He is the manager of one of Gotham's most preeminent artists, and he has something to invite you to." The club owner informed a stunned Oswald, as the man in question came forward to meet him.

"Mister Cobblepot, it's a pleasure actually meet the real man. I have only ever seen you on canvas." Douglas said, chuckling at the other man's obvious confusion.

"I-I-I'm sorry.....but, do I know you." Oswald asked, taking Douglas' hand and shaking it.

"No, Mister Cobblepot, but I feel like I know you. I feel like I've seen you a thousand times without actually setting eyes on the real you." Douglas continued, as he sat in a chair next to him.

"Have you ever heard of the artist (Y/f/n) (Y/l/n)?" Douglas asked, watching as Oswald turned his gaze to the floor, mussing over the question.

"Well, no matter, but I can assure you that (Y/n) certainly has knowledge of you. And I would like you to be a special guest at a show of her work; I assure you that you could find it most enlightening." Douglas cryptically explained. Handing a stunned Oswald, a card with the time and details of a show in one of the most prestigious art galleries in the city, on it.

"I am quite sure that it would pay you to attend." Douglas told him, placing a reassuring hand on Oswald's arm.

                                                             >>-------------------------------<<

Oswald looked at himself in the window of one of the big stores. He was only around the corner from the gallery, but he was still having an internal battle with himself as to whether he should go or not. He had made sure that he was neatly dressed as always, still not sure what to expect. Mister Campbell had said that it would pay him to attend, but how could attending some fancy art gallery full of rich people possibly benefit someone like him? No, he had promised that he would be there for the opening night, and he was already half an hour late. So, despite the fact that he didn't like the idea of walking into some unknown situation, he straightened his jacket. Combed his fingers through his slicked back hair. Took a deep breath and headed off around the corner.

As he got to the gallery, Oswald's eyes grew wide as he looked in the display window. There on a large canvas, under a banner entitled, 'The Sad Angel' was a painting of him. A painting of monochromatic mastery that made him gasp in disbelief.

He gulped down the large lump that had formed in his throat, and tentatively pushed his way into the disturbingly busy gallery. His eyes scanning the faces of the crowd, looking for the only person that he knew.

"Ah, Mister Cobblepot, I am so glad that you could come. Well? What do you think?" Douglas asked, watching as Oswald's eyes skipped from one glorious image to another. Each one a well-studied likeness of him. But how could it be him? He was an umbrella boy. A simple man, despite his hopes and plans for the future. Yet here he was portrayed as some kind of deity. A dark god that ruled over the dark city.

"They....... they're amazing, but, but how.......who?" Oswald asked, turning his gaze from the pictures to the man stood next to him.

"You are a muse, Mister Cobblepot, and I think that it's about time you met the artist that you inspired. Just wait here, I'll be right back." Doulas chuckled, handing Oswald a glass of champagne before disappearing into the crowd.

Nervously, the unknowing muse walked around. Trying the best he could to avoid the looks of the people that milled around and spoke in hushed tones, as they looked between him and the paintings.

Suddenly he found himself stood in front of the largest painting in the show. His eyes taking in every last detail of the painting that had been titled 'Gotham's Saviour'. The image of a glorious angel staring back at him as if he were looking into a mirror.

"That's how I see you." A soft voice said from behind him. A voice that made Oswald spin around. Nearly spilling the undrunk glass of champagne on the woman behind him. His eyes growing wide as he found himself face to face with another angel.

"You...... I mean you painted this, you painted me?" Oswald asked nervously, as the woman smiled at him.

"Yes. You are my muse, Oswald. My sad angel." (Y/n) explained, as she looked at the features of the man that she knew all too well.

"Do, do I know you?" A confused muse asked, as she took his hand.

"No, but I would like to get to know you. I would like to get to know my greatest inspiration, better. If he will allow it?" (Y/n) asked hopefully, as Oswald looked down at their hands. Her fingers gently intertwining with his.

"My name is...... is Oswald Cobblepot, it's nice to meet you." Oswald replied hesitantly, as he looked deep into (Y/n)'s eyes.

"Hello Oswald, it's nice to properly meet you at last. My name is (Y/n)." (Y/n) told him, smiling as she felt Oswald's hand grip hers a little tighter.

"Well, let me show you the rest of the show, Oswald. After all, it's as much yours, as it is mine." (Y/n) said, taking him by the arm and leading him through the gallery. The two talking as they walked. The artist and the sad angel together at last.