Trigger warning: rated M for domestic abuse and violence, graphic violence, sexual content and self harm.

Taking place after season 1, episode 17, The Red Hood

Chapter 1 - The Knick Knacks

The hot water darkened slowly in the teacup, the teabag bobbing along the edge. Oswald twirled its string between his fingers thoughtfully, an anxious pit rising in his stomach. Although it was still early morning, the emptiness of his club only fueled his anxiety. The tip of his shoe tapped the wall of the bar rhythmically, waiting for his tea.

It had been weeks since Don Falcone had given Fish Mooney's club to him. He had been unbelievably grateful to his Don to trust him enough for the job and he had even been a little excited for the change in scenery. But business was not booming. Business was in a rapid tailspin of disaster.

He dunked the teabag in the water, up and down, up and down.

The comedian that was supposed to begin performing twenty minutes ago never showed and Oswald didn't have the energy to care. So, he stared at the empty stage, sparkling from the neon blue umbrella against the back wall. A naked microphone stand stood at the front, an empty chair seated behind it. The tables were aglow with small, dim lanterns at their center, and were just as empty. Even his mother hadn't come by to visit in days.

The front door opened, blaring morning light that swallowed the entranceway. Oswald perked up. Finally, a patron was here! But the happiness burst when he saw who it was.

"Morning," Butch offered, shouldering off his wool coat and slipping off his gloves. His nose and ears were pink from the harsh wind's autumn bite. When he noticed Oswald's half-hearted wave of his hand in greeting, he cautiously asked, "What happened?"

"Nothing happened, that's the problem," Oswald sighed, testing a sip of his drink. He'd wait another minute for it to soak. "I thought you were to help me with his place."

"We just got the booze back. Success isn't going to happen overnight." Butch patted him on the shoulder. The gesture left a soft throb in Oswald's back.

"Then what do you propose we do?" The Penguin's icy eyes pierced through the thug as he walked around the bar and poured himself a drink. "Clearly my ideas have no lasting positive impression."

Butch took a sip and, without hesitation, said, "We need better entertainment. If the entertainment is wrong, then people have no reason to come." He eyed the deserted stage. He had hated most of the people Oswald had hired, especially the ventriloquist. The puppet's bulging, ever-staring eyes still gave him shivers. He could kill a man with no problem but puppets… A quiver ran up his spine.

Oswald took another testing sip of his drink. Maybe the tea had just gone bad. He sighed and accepted the off taste for what it was. "Alright, new entertainment." He pulled the teabag from the cup and placed it on the cloth napkin next to it. "Any suggestions?" He took a longer sip, grimacing softly.

Butch finished his drink in one lasting gulp. "No more puppets."

Oswald rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, fine."

"I think we should try more musical acts. Maybe some with more," he raised his fist, thrusting it outwards, "more oomph."

"More oomph?" Oswald raised a brow, staring at him with contempt.

"You know, like the kids like these days. Rock 'n roll, electric guitars and bass drums."

Oswald's cheeks slightly puffed to hold back a laugh. "You're not that much older than I am. Why are you acting like you are?"

"All I'm saying is we need more life in this place. It's being killed from the inside out." From Oswald's reaction to his own management, Butch quickly added, "You know what I mean."

"Yes, I know what you mean." Oswald swallowed down the rest of his tea, placing the bag back inside and the napkin thrown over it all. He wasn't too favorable toward rock and roll, at least not the heavier side of it. It all seemed too unorganized to be considered music. It just sounded like noise. But if Butch, someone who had been in the clubbing scene for almost a decade, thought it was a good idea, he'd be a fool not to at least consider it.

"We can have auditions if it'll make you feel better." Butch rinsed his glass in the sink under the counter and left it to be washed. "I knew a few people that Fish rejected that you may be interested in."

"Auditions would be best," Oswald agreed, then contemplated whether to close the club for the day for it or not. He took another look around and sighed. The place would be empty anyway, may as well as have the advantage of privacy. Maybe he could squeeze in a nap to calm is nerves. "Send out word today. We'll hold them tomorrow afternoon."

A surprising amount of people filled the main room of the club, both bands and solo artists lugging their instruments at their sides. Oswald and Butch sat at the last table in the back, a list of names in front of them. The stage before them was already equipped with a drumset, electric keyboard, three amplifiers and three mic stands. Oswald sipped from a glass of red wine while Butch stood and addressed the crowd.

"Alright, I'll make this short and sweet," his voice roared over the shushed group. All their eyes were on him, except for a few that stared at Oswald's odd appearance. But the Penguin ignored them. He should've kicked them out for being disrespectful, after all he would be the one employing them, but the situation was too dire for him to care.

"One song per group, no longer than five minutes," Butch continued. "When you finish, please exit the club. If Mr. Cobblepot likes you," he gestured to Oswald, who nodded his head in acknowledgment, "you'll be hearing from us within the next day or so. Thanks for coming and let's start with," Butch picked up the paper and read the first name, sitting down. "The Knick Knacks?" He looked around the room and a group of teenagers sitting near the stage rose from their seats.

Oswald rolled his eyes and took a longer sip from his glass. "We should've established an age limit. They look like they could still be in high school."

"Probably," Butch groaned. "But we need all the help we can get. Who knows? They could be good."

It didn't take long for the band set up their equipment. The first note the band strung was screeching and it echoed off the walls with such force. The singer, who had several piercings on his lips alone, screamed into the microphone, pounding his fist and bouncing around the stage. The lead guitarist strummed his strings so hard one broke within a few seconds, the metal wire swaying in the air.

I would love to wrap that around his throat. Oswald cupped his hands over his ears, scowling at Butch, his eyes wild and flamed. If you don't stop this madness, I will.

After a few tries, Butch managed to get the band's attention. They stopped and were promptly escorted out, Gabe wrestling the lead singer out the door.

"Let's keep it to a dull roar for the rest of the afternoon, shall we?" Oswald snapped at the crowd, a high pitch ringing buzzing in his ears. He rubbed his temples, a headache threatening to start. He took another sip of wine. He'd need a few bottles if he was going to get through the day.

"Next up, Adam Harrison and Emily Goldsmith," Butch called, scratching The Knick Knacks from the list with vigor.

"The Pink Eyes."

"Heather Fern and the Bushes." Oswald couldn't have rolled his eyes hard enough.

"Jennifer Thomas."

"Birds of a Feather."

Musician after musician performed with only a handful considered to be good enough to perform on his stage. The Penguin drank the last of his fifth glass of wine, his mind rocking on loose hinges. His body was warm and comfortable, and he was so ready for the auditions to be over. Just one more name on the list.

"Last but not least," Butch said, gesturing to the last musician.

The girl sighed, sucking in confidence and stood, brushing out any wrinkles in her black slacks. She checked and rechecked to be sure the sleeves of her navy sweater were down to her palms. She waved and smiled before making her way to the stage, her small heels clicking on the linoleum. Her guitar case banged against her thigh. Her long chocolate hair bounced against her back with every step, the color complimenting her olive skin.

"Hi, my name is Sammy O'Shea," she said quietly into the microphone before setting her guitar case down next to her, unlatching it then lifting the acoustic guitar strap above her head. She checked a few notes, checking and rechecking that it was in tune. "And this is an original piece called One Last Kiss."

Oswald perked up from the first note, her voice was raspy but smooth and controlled. Her fingers danced about the strings, slow and deliberate, plucking each string at precisely the right time. The rhythm was slow, almost torturous as he waited for the next note to vibrate. He hung on her every vowel, every consonant. She was a breath of fresh air. At least compared to most of the others he had watched earlier in the day.

He wanted to kill The Knick Knacks.

Sam's tone wasn't harsh or even rock and roll. And that was what Oswald liked about her most, even if she did happen to fail to follow instructions.

"I thought you said we needed more oomph," Oswald whispered to Butch, not being able to take his eyes off the performer.

"I found her at a bar uptown. She had more oomph then. I don't know why she's playing so soft."

"You did tell her what we were looking for, right?" Oswald asked accusingly, reaching for his glass before realizing it was still empty.

"Of course I did. Even her appearance is much tamer than when I first met her." He tapped the tip of his pen near her name, itching to slash it out. "You want me to stop her?"

Oswald listened to her voice, a gentle high note sending shivers through his scalp. His breath caught in his throat and he felt tears well in the corners of his eyes. "Tell her to come here."

Butch raised a hand and Sam stopped in the middle of a word. He waved her over and she placed her guitar back in its case before walking over.

"You have a very pretty voice," Butch started. "But I'm sorry to say that—"

Oswald nudged Butch with a pointy elbow. "Butch, please, we said that we would get into contact with them at a later date." His voice was calm and polite but his eyes were wide and demanding.

Butch glanced back at the girl and nodded with a strained smile. "We'll let you know."

But Sam didn't move. "Look, I know that when we met," he gestured to Butch. "you initially said that you were looking for something hard rock, right?" An eyebrow raised under her wispy bangs.

Butch nodded again, his forced smile still plastered on.

"But being last has its advantages." Her eyes were now on Oswald and he noticed how dark they were, almost enveloping her pupils. "With all due respect, Mr. Cobblepot, I noticed that you didn't seem to be enjoying yourself."

The bridge of Oswald's nose turned pink.

"My apologies, sir, if I'm incorrect. But I'd like to think I have the ability to read an audience. I'm a versatile artist, I can play many different genres, and I'd be more than happy and honored to be able to work here."

"Great, we'll let you know," Butch interjected, his smile faltering. His pen still tapped.

"Thanks," Sam smiled. She shifted the guitar case to her other hand then headed for the door until the clicking of her heels disappeared outside.

"She's hired," Oswald said, smacking his hands on the table as he stood. His shoe caught on the leg of the chair and he almost toppled over.

"What, because she's pretty?" Butch scoffed, standing as well. "Remember what I told you about oomph."

"You said that she's capable of having oomph so there's the oomph I'm offering. She's also capable of having no oomph and that's more than fine with me. You can pick out whatever other oomph you'd like. "He limped behind the bar and fetched another bottle of wine.

"Oswald, we just restocked, remember? Save some for the flood of patrons we're about to have." Butch chuckled.

Oswald's nose pinked again and he set the bottle back down. "I'm just trying to drown myself before Don Falcone does it for me."

The following Saturday night was established as the new grand re-reopening of the Iceberg Lounge. Heather Fern and the Bushes headlined that evening on the promise that they'd change their name to something "less ridiculous". Their fans told their friends, who told their friends. Almost every table and booth was full and Oswald couldn't have been happier.

He took a small sip of his champagne and watched the crowd cheer as the band finished their second song. He winced, massaging his right knee. Moist weather always made it ache terribly. The storm outside must've been lingering longer than he expected.

"Am I right, or am I right?" Butch smirked, his hands planted firmly on his hips. His eyes sparkled in the neon lights. He stood next to Oswald, gleaming with delight.

"I don't know how I ever doubted you." Oswald smiled, raising his glass to him. The band began another song and he turned to watch.

Their sound wasn't terribly obnoxious. Oswald even found his foot tapping to the beat from time to time, until he caught himself doing so. But even if the band wasn't completely to his liking, nothing could ruin the wonderful evening. His club was almost full to the brim with happy patrons. They were smiling, lounging, enjoying themselves inside his establishment. It had been all he ever wanted since Don Falcone entrusted him to take Fish's place all those weeks ago. Perhaps life was finally starting to turn around.

He swallowed the last of his champagne with such enthusiasm he nearly choked.

"Another glass, please," he instructed the bartender. He realized his liver had taken a beating within the last week for one reason or another. Tonight was about celebration, surely his body could forgive him.

As the bartender ducked below the counter to find the bottle, a figure caught Oswald's eye, sparkling like stars in the blue lights. He almost didn't recognize her and he turned away in embarrassment when she noticed him staring.

"Hey, Boss!" Sam shouted over the music, waving her guitar case in greeting. She sat near him at the bar, leaving a stool between them. She set her case down at her knees.

Oswald eyed the heavy case. "I'm sorry, but you're not performing tonight. Were you not informed?" He specifically remembered Butch suggested she perform on a slow night, to attract less attention if she failed, in which Oswald responded by biting the inside of his cheek. He kept quiet, reminding himself that Butch had the nightlife experience and he didn't.

Sam flapped out her leather jacket, spraying a thin mist of rain water into the air. "No, I know," she chuckled, swiping her wet bangs to the side. "I figured I'd stop by for a quick visit before my next show to show my support. Hey, Butch." Her smile revealed a dimple forming only on her left cheek.

Butch flashed her a crooked smile.

"Oh, well, thank you." Had Oswald noticed the small scar just under her left eye before? Just a pink sliver of a line down the side of her nose but it shimmered under the lights. "Would you like a drink? My compliments, of course."

"Water, please."

"Come now, you've come to celebrate so please, celebrate." He couldn't hide his proud smile.

"No, I'm sorry, I can't," Sam laughed. "I never drink before a show. It dries out my throat."

Suddenly his champagne didn't seem as appetizing, but he took a sip anyway. It was his night to shine, his time to be proud. Then she waltzed in and refused his hospitality, refused to join in the celebration. "Water, then," he snapped at the bartender, who flinched.

"Hey, don't worry about it." Sam raised a hand, dismissing her order. "It's not a big deal." Her dark eyes pierced daggers at Oswald, waiting for an explanation, but he only took another sip from his glass, keeping her gaze.

"I hope with your next visit you'll be more enthused to join in the festivities," he said with a cock of his head. A heated smirk rested on his lips. "I will see you Monday night."

Sam scoffed and rolled her eyes, escalating Oswald's annoyance. But she stepped down from her stool, collecting her case and leaving without another word, slamming the door against the wall as she flung it open.

Oswald turned his attention back to the stage, his glass firm in his grip, but noticed Butch looking at him. "Can I help you?"

"You're not the greatest with the ladies, are you?" Butch asked, watching the main entrance swing closed.

Oswald's eyes widened, both surprised and disgusted by his question. His cheeks flushed crimson. "I beg your pardon? That's extremely inappropriate."

"I'll put it to you simply." Butch leaned against the bar and gestured to the full tables. "If we can keep this up, we've got a good thing here. The Iceberg is going to be popular and people are going to want to meet you, especially the ladies. If you don't know how to act around a beautiful woman, there will be so many missed opportunities that you will regret for the rest of your life."

Sneering at the very idea of receiving dating advice from Butch, especially when Oswald was skeptical that he had had enough experience to give advice, Oswald stood abruptly, slamming his glass down on the bar. It shattered and he made sure not to flinch as the glass cut deep. A few people turned to see the origin of the noise but the music drowned out most of the high pitch. Butch raised his hands in defense and said nothing else, turning back toward the stage. A small smile rose on his face.

Oswald shuffled up the stairway opposite the bar, leading to the balcony. The managerial office was located at the far end, away from the stage. He scampered inside and promptly locked the door. He yanked the blinds shut. He stood before his desk, his hand trembling as blood dripped down his palm.

How dare Butch embarrass him like that. Who did he think he was?

He tugged open the top drawer of his desk, pulling out a first aid kit and tossing it onto the surface. He bit his lip, pain shooting into his wrist.

Even if it was true that his experience with the opposite sex was almost nonexistent, which he'd never admit even in death, it wasn't because he didn't try.

He sat in his tall, leather chair and opened the kit, searching for a pair of tweezers to pluck the large glass shard that stuck out between his thumb and forefinger.

He had tried several times during his younger days at school to woo someone, and more recently while under Fish's thumb. He thought he could impress them.

"I work close with Fish Mooney," he'd say and he could see the dollar signs in their eyes. The whole ordeal left an emptiness deep in his stomach. But at times he'd press on, ignoring the callused way they told him they loved him, just to feel a little less lonely. Usually once they realized he was too old to still be living with his English-challenged mother, they'd reject him outright.

He found the tweezers and, with a steady hand, slid the shard from his skin with a hiss. A new flow of blood gushed then and he pressed a thick piece of gauze over it. He made a fist to apply added pressure. With another pad of gauze, he wiped away the droplets of blood on his desk.

He hadn't attempted with another woman since owning the club. It had been too much pressure just to slink away from Maroni's grasp and needing to deal with the Liza fiasco all at once.

He sighed, remembering the sleepless nights trying to think of plausible evidence to expose Falcone's former housekeeper, who happened to die in the very spot where several of his customers were now seated.

But maybe Butch was right again. The club was suddenly a huge success and if they could keep the entertainment fresh, then there would be nothing to stop them. As long as Maroni kept his promise to Falcone. The last thing Oswald needed was to constantly look over his shoulder at his own club.

He ripped open another package of gauze with his teeth, replacing the blood drenched cloth.

Perhaps taking advantage of the situation would be good for him, allow him to live a little. His thirtieth birthday had long since passed. His plan to become King of Gotham was certainly taking longer than he expected and his youthful years were dwindling. He already felt older than he was with the unwanted help of his crooked leg, which ached terribly on snowy and rainy nights.

And Sam was quite beautiful, both physically and musically. Oswald was fully aware his outburst had been uncalled for despite his personal reasoning behind it. She had politely declined his offer, that was all.

Still clenching his blooded fist tightly, he rummaged through his desk, trying carefully to not push over a pile of papers.

"This place is a pigsty," he growled.

The manila folder was toward the bottom of the second stack he shuffled through and he flipped it open. Sam's employee photo smiled up at him, the single dimple indented in her cheek. Her thick hair was gathered onto one shoulder, a single strand in the bunch spiraling into the air. He gazed into her dark, almost black, eyes and wondered what sorts of things she had seen in her lifetime.

An apology was in order for his rude behavior, she being one of the few who truly deserved one from him. A flash of apologizing to Maroni or Fish entered his mind and he couldn't stop his laughter. Maybe if they cried for their lives hard enough he would, but that was a very strong maybe. But first he'd plant a shoe on each of their faces and stomp hard.

He lifted the gauze and examined the wound. Blood still flowed but at a slower rate. He didn't see any need for stitches so he dressed the wound neatly, wrapping a bandage around the width of his palm to keep it secure.

He scanned through Samantha "Sam" O'Shea's folder and found her primary contact phone number. It would just be a simple, quick, informal apology, no longer than a couple of minutes. Hello, apology, goodbye, hang up. He read the phone number once, twice, singing it in his head, his hand hovering over the corded phone sitting at the corner of his desk. But he never picked up the receiver. Again, he read aloud the phone number, ten simple numbers. It was easy. Just pick up the phone, Oswald.

He closed the folder and huffed. He'd be seeing her in a few days anyway. He'd apologize then. He tossed the folder back onto the pile, the thin corner of the paper slitting his thumb.