This started out as a little 800-word one-shot about Oswald being rascally, and then all this angst got in there, and issues about boundaries and public displays of affection, and now I just don't know. Enjoy!

Jim broke the kiss to look into Oswald's eyes. "Now will you do what I ask?"

Oswald had to catch his breath. "Come closer," he said, tugging on Jim's tie. "A little more."

Jim had him against the wall with both hands braced on either side of him, but their bodies were barely touching. It wasn't enough. He tugged on the tie again but Jim wouldn't budge, wouldn't close that last enticing little gap. "Oswald," he said quietly. "I do need to get back to work at some point."

"But you are at work." Oswald smoothed a hand over his chest.

"All the more reason to actually be working. I'm not asking you to be best friends with Bullock, but I am sick and tired of the two of you being at each other's throats. Just be civil. No more smarmy remarks. That's all. Please." He nuzzled Oswald's cheek.

Oswald adjusted the knot on Jim's tie to make it snug. He would much rather have untied it and undone Jim's shirt and generally made a mess of him, but Jim was so reticent about public displays of affection.

Even tucked away in this quiet corner he could feel the tension in Jim and knew it was stretching him to the limit, trying so hard not to look up and down the hall to see if anyone was about to catch them in the act. Oswald appreciated the effort. "Oh, all right. Since you asked so sweetly, I suppose I can be civil."

"Thanks, Oz," Jim said, and Oswald was rewarded with a soft smile and one more lingering kiss.

Oswald followed Jim back to his desk, en route to the stairs that led to the lower level . Oswald would have liked to have french-kissed Jim on the spot, if only to make Detective Bullock squirm with embarrassment, but he would never really do that. It would upset the delicate boundaries. It might have been an open secret that the Penguin and the GCPD's top detective were a couple, but it was best if it wasn't flaunted.

As it was, he and Jim exchanged quiet good-byes before Jim sat at his desk and Oswald headed for the stairs.

He glanced at Bullock to deliver the slightest of nods, merely to acknowledge the cessation of hostilities and so on and so forth. That was all he intended.

The malice in Bullock's eyes was a sucker punch.

Detective Bullock glowered for a moment before looking away and lifting his flask to his mouth, dismissing Oswald from further thought.

Somehow that was even worse, as if Bullock considered him not even worth the effort of contempt, as if the King of Gotham were still that pathetic little umbrella boy to be kicked around and spat upon.

The fact that Bullock despised him was no surprise. Oswald found him equally despicable, but that wasn't the point. The point was that there was supposed to be a truce.

A hot rush of fury set every one of Oswald's nerves on fire.

"Nothing like the first drink of the morning, eh, detective?" he said, his voice a dagger.

Bullock froze. Jim looked up, startled.

There was a heartbeat of silence while Bullock got over the surprise. Oswald didn't usually go for the jugular so fast, not without some build-up anyway, and it took a few seconds for the insult to register.

Bullock put the cap back on the flask carefully, the little tink of metal loud.

"Fuck you," Bullock said, lip twitching. Anger piled up behind his eyes like thunderheads, and Oswald was at ground zero.

Oswald shifted his stance so most of his weight was on his good leg. If there was an explosion he'd have to move fast.

Jim's face was a picture as he furiously sent warning signals. At Oswald, of course.

Yeah, because I'm the problem.

Oswald's smile widened, bright and razor-sharp. "Oh my, I didn't know you were of that persuasion, too, Harvey. I'm servicing Jim at seven, but perhaps I could fit you into my schedule around..."

Bullock lunged out of his chair.

Jim leaped up to intercept, but Oswald didn't wait for rescue. Bullock was too close.

Oswald bolted. He was never at his best on stairs but with an angry Bullock on his tail he shot down them in record time. On the last step his weak knee buckled for a sickening half-second, then his cane saved him from face-planting and he recovered his balance to scurry a safe distance across the floor.

He paused by some nameless cop's desk to straighten his suit jacket, chest heaving.

On the upper floor, Jim held on to the fuming Bullock, to stop him from racing down and murdering his boyfriend. Bullock jerked his arm out of Jim's grasp, recovering his dignity.

Oswald tossed off a sarcastic salute in Bullock's direction and left the station, his hands shaking, blood roaring in his ears. He was so angry...

So angry at Jim...

By the time he got outside, Jim caught up. Oswald refused to look at him, but pushed along with his cane, tapping it down with more force than necessary.

"The hell was that about?" Jim snapped. "Almost got your neck broken. If not the stairs, then Bullock."

"Should've seen the look he gave me," Oswald said through his teeth. "Like I was a cockroach he couldn't be bothered to squash."

"He looked at you. You've got to be kidding. All that for a look."

Oswald rounded on him. "Tell me, James, I'm curious. What did good old Harvey say when you asked him to temper his attitude toward me?"

Jim stared at him, his furious scowl fading to a guilty expression. He fidgeted, rubbing his mouth and ducking his head before finally meeting Oswald's eyes. "I...I didn't talk to him. I didn't think to."

A needle inserted itself into Oswald's chest, though he supposed he ought to appreciate Jim's honesty. He could have lied and said he'd been planning to talk to his fat slob of a partner but hadn't gotten around to it. Clearly it hadn't even occurred to him.

"I see," Oswald said. "So I'm expected to be the bigger man. How ironic. On so many levels."

Self-righteous anger carried him away from Jim and propelled him through the next couple of hours, until he fell into a blue funk of remorse. The rest of the day passed in a dreary haze of payrolls, scheduling, and listening to a half-baked comedian's audition.

Oswald struggled to pay attention, but the comedian's schtick turned into a droning sort of background noise while other more important matters occupied him.

He checked his phone. No messages from Jim.

Didn't Jim want to talk?

Let's see, I made a scene, embarrassed him, pissed off Bullock after I promised I wouldn't, and painted myself as a whore. Amazing, fantastic, splendid job. Just like the gutter trash Bullock thinks me.

Gabe touched his shoulder. "So what do you think, boss?"

Oswald stared at him. "About what?"

"The guy. Up there." Gabe waved at the stage where the comedic hopeful was twisting the microphone wire.

"Oh. What did you think?"

Gabe blinked. "What did I think?"

"Yes, what did you think?" Oswald said testily. "Was he funny?"

Gabe's eyes darted around. Usually the only questions the Penguin asked him ran along the lines of 'Think you should hit him again or is he ready to talk?' He wasn't used to this management stuff. "Uhh..."

Oswald tsked. "How long was the monologue?"

Gabe relaxed. That was an easy one. "About ten minutes."

"Fine. He can do his little routine at 6:30." Oswald went to go freshen up. Gabe squawked some question or other but Oswald was checking his phone again. "Yes, all right, whatever," he said, waving his hand. "Take care of it."

There still weren't any messages.

It was after five, which didn't mean anything. Jim often worked late, and he rarely made personal calls until he was off the clock.

Oswald called up the contact screen and his thumb hovered over Jim's number, then, disgusted at his own patheticness, he turned it off and put it away.

Tuesday nights were often slow, and this night proved no exception. Some people trickled in for happy hour, and later a few tables were taken by regulars.

The comedian on stage was bombing.

Oswald watched with his chin propped on his hand and considered having Gabe throw the idiot out, as he was pretty sure at least four customers had fled the premises. How long was this horrendous act going to take? It felt a lot longer than ten minutes.

From over his shoulder someone cleared his throat in a nervous sort of way, and he knew who it was before he turned around on the bar stool, his heart leaping.

Jim stood there, a sheepish expression on his face and a bouquet of flowers in his hands. "Hey." He leaned forward and tenderly kissed Oswald's lips. "These are for you," he said, holding out the bouquet.

Oswald gathered the flowers in his arms, feeling his throat tighten. Two public acts of affection in a row, he wasn't sure he could take it. "Who are you and what've you done with the real Jim?" he said plaintively.

Jim rubbed the back of his neck. "Yikes. I'm that bad?"

He looked so worried with that wrinkled forehead and wide eyes, Oswald got up and hugged the stuffing out of him, barely remembering to put the bouquet down. "Oh, no. No. No, Jim. Of course not." Oswald hesitated. "Maybe just a tiny bit."

Jim hugged back, his arms tight around him. "I'll try to do better."

They sat down at the bar and Jimreached for his hand. "I talked to Harvey and there's not going to be any more problems. No more dirty looks. If there is, I'm getting a new partner." A muscle jumped in his jaw.

"Don't do that!"

"Why not?"

Oswald felt as surprised as Jim, quite frankly. How often had he wished he never had to deal with Bullock again, and here Jim was one step away from expunging that fat slob from his life forever.

Oswald frowned as thought how to put it into words. "It's ...tacky. I wouldn't dream of forcing you into that kind of decision. 'Either choose me or your best friend.' Disgusting amount of insecurity, isn't there? In such an ultimatum? Besides, it's so manipulative."

Jim smiled. "Really. That's where you draw the line?"

"Have to have some standards." He adjusted the flower stems, inhaled the scent of the carnations, their stronger odor overpowering the roses. "These are beautiful, Jim. And such a...an interesting combination. Yellow roses and red carnations?"

Jim grimaced. "I couldn't find red roses. Went to two flower shops, nothing. The second place had yellow and white, and the guy behind the counter wasn't any help at all. it was getting late, and I wanted to get over here. I had to improvise."

Oswald patted his knee. "Well, I don't remember all the different meanings off the top of my head either."

The only thing he thought he remembered was that yellow roses stood for friendship. But he didn't want to tell Jim that as it might distress him further. "I love them. The first flowers you ever gave me." He summoned the bartender to take Jim's drink order.

The comedian had finally finished, thank all that was holy. There was some half-hearted clapping from sympathetic audience members.

"What's this?" Jim nodded at the stage.

"I was told that stand-up comedians were the latest thing. So I thought, slow night, why not?"

Gabe approached them and coughed respectfully. "The guy's asking for his one-fifty, boss."

"His what?"

"The one-fifty. You know. For the comedy bit."

Oswald glared at the end of the bar, where the comedian hovered nervously. "I said I'd pay one hundred and fifty dollars for that travesty?"

"And he wants to know if he can come back tomorrow."

A repeat performance? I think not! Oswald was about to tell Gabe to seize this comedic hack by the scruff of the neck and fling him out.

But Jim was next to him, studying his beer glass with great care, unwilling to get directly involved and yet giving off vibes of uneasiness over Oswald's reaction.

A bit of a grey area, here. If the comedian were belligerent Oswald would have no trouble kicking him out, but the chump was practically grovelling.

Oswald sighed. A minor concession, then, to ease Jim's concerns.

The club wasn't where the real money came in anyway. He could afford it. "Take it out of the register," he told Gabe. "But the only way he can come back tomorrow is if he brings a real comedian along." He glared at Jim. "See what you made me do?"

"What? You can't pin that on me," Jim protested.

"That ridiculous spat today put me off my game. You owe me," Oswald sniffed, crossing his arms. "I'd like to know what you plan to do about it."

A slow smile spread over Jim's face. "Come here," he said, and whispered in Oswald's ear.

Oswald swallowed hard. "Okay, now that's definitely something that ought to be in private."

A week later, Oswald found reason to drop by the station for a brief visit. He could have easily talked with Jim about it over the phone, but as part of his mission he wanted to see if the cease-fire was truly in effect.

"Not that I'm not enjoying the attention," Oswald said to Jim, "but the flowers need to stop."

"But I finally found the right ones."

"Two dozen red roses is a little excessive. Especially on top of the orchids. Really, you have to save something for special occasions."

"Overkill?" Jim's mouth crooked into a half grin.

"I think you can dial it back a few notches."

Your paycheck will thank you as well, he thought, but tactfully withheld it from the conversation. Jim had been true to his word. Simple kisses upon greeting and parting, an uptick in handholding, and once a sudden passionate embrace in the club's foyer. Which, while extremely enjoyable, had taken place in front of a couple of highly embarrassed henchmen, and it helped Oswald understand Jim's position a little better about workplace protocol.

"I'd better head back," Oswald said aloud. "See if I have any more comedians to deal with." At Jim's questioning look he explained. "That last one took me at my word and came back with three other hopefuls. And five more showed up today, wanting auditions. I had no idea they were such a plague." His lip curled. "Apparently I paid the highest rate any of these idiots have ever seen."

Jim chuckled.

"Yes, it's all very amusing," Oswald said. "I'll have to beat them off with a stick."

Jim stopped laughing.

"I was kidding, Jim dear." He patted his arm. "Mostly," he added under his breath.

During the conversation, Bullock had been conspicuously absent, but now he had wandered back to his desk, engrossed in a file.

"Good afternoon, Detective," Oswald said.

Bullock's face was impassive when he looked up. "Afternoon, Mr. Cobblepot." He inclined his head, a stiff nod that looked as if it caused him pain.

Oswald couldn't resist. "Lovely weather we're having."

"Yeah, ain't it, though?" Bullock's hands closed into fists on his paperwork.

Oswald smiled. This was fun. Like poking a chained bear. To show that there weren't any hard feelings, he really ought to inquire about Bullock's health. He took a deep breath.

Jim coughed. "Shouldn't you be going, Oswald? Because you're so incredibly busy?"

Oswald exhaled with a little chuckle. "Why, you're absolutely right, Jim."

Jim straightened up from where he'd been leaning against the desk, and Oswald could tell from the determination on his face that he was going to plant a kiss on him, protocol be damned, but Oswald held up his hand to forestall him. "It's okay," he murmured. Thereby letting him off the hook for any good-bye kisses or hugs or any other displays that might make Jim uncomfortable. "But you owe me one later."

He nodded at Bullock. "Good day to you, then."

As he left he heard Bullock mutter, "Maybe James dear can help me with this case now."

"That's Jim dear," Jim said. "Geez, Harve, get it right."