After lunch at the Russian Tea Room, they went to the Gotham Museum of Art, which was showing a retrospective of lesser known Renaissance artists, including several female painters.

Jim glanced back at the two thugs trailing along at a discrete distance behind them.

"Kind of hoped we'd be more alone," Jim said under his breath.

"Alone? Here, on a Sunday?" Oswald said, quirking an eyebrow and gesturing at the other museum patrons milling around them.

Jim rubbed the back of his neck. The crowd setting murmurs to echoing in the vaulted ceiling didn't worry him quite so much as the bodyguards, who had accompanied them to the restaurant, but had sat quietly in back of the restaurant, barely in his line of sight and easily dismissed from his attention.

Somehow it was easier to forget about them at the restaurant. Here, every time he and Oswald moved forward to stand in front of a new piece of art, one or both bodyguards would sidle into view. Maybe they were having trouble keeping Oswald in sight among all the other people, and so were sticking closer. "Guess I didn't think about how crowded it gets on the weekend."

Oswald smiled congenially. "You'll get used to them."

Oswald walked at his side, his face relaxed and open and confident as the city's reigning kingpin, tapping his umbrella along, which he was using today in lieu of a cane. Whenever Jim caught his eye he would straighten up a little more as if swelling with happiness, as if he couldn't believe Jim were here walking beside him.

It produced a heady sensation inside Jim, one that made his hands twitch to seize Oswald then and there and kiss him silly.

But under the combined weight of the henchmens' stoic presence and that of the other museum patrons, he wasn't been brave enough.

Truth was, Jim was more than a little scared, of the captain finding out, of the inevitable sneers of his colleagues, most of whom detested him anyway. This budding relationship would bring more derision.

Here he was, courting an unashamed, unrepentant criminal, and yet he couldn't stop himself, though he knew he should.

But why play games? He kept trying to squeeze into the role of a man who wanted the dream of the white picket fence and loving wife, but that was a cover.

He wasn't entirely sure what he wanted, but that wasn't it. Given the hectic nature of his job since returning to Gotham, he didn't think it was even possible.

He could take a position in a police force in a smaller, quieter, less corrupt city and find a reasonably priced house in a good suburb where it was relatively safe to raise a family, but the thought made him squirm. He chafed at the notion, and the inevitable boredom.

God, was he really just an adrenaline junkie? He didn't think so.

Simply looking for physical thrills didn't do much for him. It wasn't the rush so much as his need for his actions to mean something, to count for something.

Not that he might not have found love with a woman, but Lee just wasn't the one. She represented the dream, the dream that he didn't want anyway. Not that there was anything wrong with wanting a safe, secure life, it just didn't fit him. He used to feel vaguely ashamed of that. Wasn't that the dream everyone wanted?

Quite frankly, Lee deserved better than to spend her life with a man who didn't really love her. When they broke up, Jim sensed that she was secretly relieved as well.

Acknowledging his bisexuality to Harvey had been harrowing enough, but Jim was done with hiding. Accepting his attraction to Oswald was both freeing and terrifying, bringing with it a whole new set of complications that had nothing to do with being in a relationship with a man and everything to do with that man's occupation as a career criminal. Hell, the top criminal kingpin of the city, no less.

Jim put his worries on the back burner along with his depression about losing Harvey's friendship, as he tended to do with problems and emotions that were too complex to be dealt with immediately, and let himself bask in the warm glow of being newly in love, and being in Oz's company.

Always a tactile person, his hands kept straying towards Oswald for little touches on his arm or lingering over his back, nothing too noticeable, or so he hoped. He wanted to be sensitive of Oswald's inexperience and of how Oswald might not appreciate getting pawed in public.

Subsequently Jim spent most of his time looking for quiet corners where he might steal a kiss, and quite a lot of his brain, which should have been better spent appreciating the work of the masters, was taken up with cataloguing Oswald's upswept hairstyle and the startling brightness of his eyes. Was that the eyeliner? Could different eyeliners produce different effects? Jim certainly would have liked to find out. The golden brocade against the dark purple on his waistcoat was beautiful, but it looked so stiff.

Jim wanted to caress it, to slip his hands under the rich material and find the warm skin he knew was underneath.

Shit. He should have suggested going to his apartment but he probably would've had to hose the place down, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd even cleaned the bathroom. Or changed the bedsheets.

The clean odor of Oswald's freshly-laundered sheets rose unbidden in his mind, along with the feel of Oswald's half-naked body against his own, and he forcibly pushed the vision away. If he kept torturing himself like this he wasn't going to be able to walk.

He'd wanted to show Oswald a good time and prove to both himself and Oswald he wasn't after only one thing, but their night together had left him yearning.

He tugged at his collar, feeling overheated. Oswald gave him a curious look as Jim took off his coat and folded it over his arm. "A little warm in here," he muttered.

"I was just thinking it was rather chilly," Oswald said. He tentatively reached out and took Jim's hand in his own.

For a moment Jim feared he'd lose his hard-won control, but after a little while, the gentle pressure of Oswald's cool fingers served as an anchor to reality, to the fact that they were in a public setting rather than in a lust-fuelled fantasy in Jim's mind.

Holding hands was good. It was nice. Fairly innocuous.

Impulsively, Jim lifted their joined hands and planted a quick kiss on the back of Oswald's, startling a little gasp out of him.

Okay, maybe not entirely innocuous, but it was enough to be able to touch Oswald without going overboard.

Nonetheless he found himself scanning for quiet corners where he might steal a kiss. It was a busy day for the museum, however, with patrons trailing about all over the place, and shadowy, secluded corners were very unobligingly absent. He'd have to drag Oswald down a service corridor for them to get any real private time, which Oswald probably would not appreciate, so he refocussed his efforts to actually pay attention to the art.

At least he already knew a few pertinent facts about some of these painters.

"I'm not a completely uncultured swine, you know," he said cocky and feeling good.

"Yes, I can see that," Oswald said. "Barbara used to own an art gallery, didn't she?"

Jim shrugged. He wouldn't have brought it up himself as he wasn't so crass as to blather on about his exes on a date. "Yeah. But she dealt mainly with modern art pieces. This is just what I remember from class field trips."

They paused before a painting titled Judith Slaying Holofernes by Artemisia Gentileschi, which depicted a graphic beheading.

"I like this one," Oswald said after a few moments. "Look at the angle of Judith's arms, the position of her body. You can tell she's really putting her back into it."

Oswald's profile, bright with fierce attention, was more alluring than ever. Was it wrong that he found the dark gleam in Oswald's eye so captivating? Probably.

"Personal experience?" he said, and he found his arm snaking around Oswald's back.

"Ancient Hebrew heroine, taking bold, decisive action to defeat her enemy, what's not to like?" Oswald smiled cheekily. "If I didn't know better I'd say you were fishing for intel, detective."

Jim grinned. "Who, me?" His hand lingered on Oswald's back as they moved down the wall of paintings.

After touring the main exhibit, they went outside.

Just to the side of the great sweep of granite steps, a food truck was selling mini donuts. It'd been a long time since lunch and Jim asked him if he wanted some, but Oswald declined.

Jim noticed the slight wrinkle to his nose. "Don't like donuts?"

"It's not the donuts so much as the venue," Oswald said, looking askance at the food truck. "Not terribly sanitary. My mother always says..."

He stopped himself, sucking in his lips for a moment. "Well, I feel like I'm maybe talking about my mother too much," he said with a self-deprecating chuckle. "Never had anything from a food truck."

"You're putting me on." Jim could hardly believe his ears. "You're telling me you've lived your entire life in Gotham and never ate from a food truck."

Oswald shook his head with a mischievous grin and held up his hand. "Scout's honor."

Jim clucked his tongue. "That's not the salute."

"Oh? Well, you would know." Oswald's grin widened.

"I got all the way to Eagle scout, I'll have you know," Jim said, sounding prim even to his own ears while Oswald giggled. "And I happen to be very proud of that fact."

He took Oswald's hand and guided his fingers into the correct shape. "Three fingers together, touch it to the forehead. There. Toot."

"Toot?" Oswald was openly laughing now.

Jim felt a flush pass over his cheeks. Old habit, he should have known better. "It's just what you were supposed to say after the salute," he said, feeling sheepish.

"But what in the world does it mean, Jim? Was it a declaration to toot one's own horn?"

Jim scratched the back of his head, a smile tugging at his own mouth despite his chagrin. Oswald looked so damn rascally it was impossible to stay serious. "You know, I never really found out, actually."

"So, first the salute, then toot. I believe I have it." Oswald delivered the salute again, sharp and concise, almost serious but for the merriment in his eyes.

Jim huffed out a breath through his nose. "What the hell were we talking about, anyway?"

"I believe you were about to tout...or perhaps I should say toot... the merits of these mainstays of Gotham street life," Oswald said, nodding at the food truck.

"Yeah. And you've never eaten anything from one of them. I got to say, that's almost a crime." Jim rubbed the side of his face. Talk about the perfect opening.

"Then it'll be one of the least significant of my illustrious career," Oswald said cheerfully, taking full advantage. "Very well, if you insist, I'll try some." He patted Jim's arm.

Jim offerd a wan smile in return. God, how the hell did he manage to put his foot in his mouth twice in five minutes?

Oswald took a seat on one of the stone benches lining the walk, and Jim soon returned with the mini donuts, the hot grease threatening to burn through the bottom of the bag, the tantalizing smell making his mouth water.

Jim sat next to him and held up the bag. Oswald stared at it.

Jim gave it a little shake. "They're donuts, not bombs."

"Ha ha." Oswald shot him a sour look.

"Me and Harvey get stuff from food trucks all the time. Never got sick once," he said cajolingly.

Oswald's eyes darted around as if he was worried his mother might come around the corner and scold him.

Jim shrugged. "More for me, then," he said, withdrawing it.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, give me one." Oswald reached in and plucked one out with his fingertips. "They do smell good," he murmured.

Jim almost said something about how sugar and grease were two of the main food groups, but that was another one of Harvey's favorite sayings, and he purposefully pushed Harvey from his thoughts.

Fortunately Oswald didn't notice his brief lapse into melancholy, but was concentrating on the squishy little morsel in his hand. He blew on it, then raised it to his lips. "Looks like a barely cooked ball of dough," he muttered, then, visibly steeling himself, he nibbled at it.

Jim witnessed the moment of truth as Oswald's eyes went wide. "Oh my God," he whispered.

Jim grinned as he fished another donut out of the bag. "See? I told you they were..."

"Oh my GOD," Oswald exclaimed, and popped the rest of the donut into his mouth with a groan.

Jim stopped in mid-chew.

Maybe it was the groan so breathily exhaled, or because it was combined with the absolute ecstasy on Oswald's face. Like he was having a religious experience.

Oswald chewed industriously, eyes closed. Swallowing, he quickly reached out again. "I need another."

The process was repeated, Oswald's eyes fluttering closed again as he hummed his appreciation. "Light, fluffy, excellent mouth-feel. Just the right amount of crunchy sugar combined with the soft crumb. Honestly, I thought they'd be like those horrible prepackaged mini-things you get in the snack aisle at the grocery."

He quickly licked his fingers clean, while Jim watched those lips nimbly working on those delicate fingertips, transfixed, his own donut forgotten in his hand.

Oswald giggled. "My goodness, I never would've...what's the matter?" He blinked at Jim, smile vanishing. "Is there something on my nose?" He lifted a hand to his face, quickly checking for errant crumbs.

Jim coughed. "Uh, no. No," he said in a strangled voice. "You want...want another?"

"Okay," Oswald said, giving Jim a cautious look as he reached out to the bag.

Face burning, Jim kept his attention fixed on the traffic and pedestrians going by. Oswald was a good deal quieter, although an occasional little hum of enjoyment floated out. They finished the rest of the donuts, and Jim occasionally felt Oswald glance at him.

Oswald was a very vocal person and Jim should have been prepared for his own reaction. It occurred to him he'd never seen Oswald eat before. He usually controlled himself better than that, and he chastised himself for slipping up, for staring at Oswald and making him uncomfortable.

This did nothing to alleviate the amazingly powerful urge to gather Oswald into his arms then and there, however, to run his hands under that fine jacket and kiss him silly.

Okay, he couldn't start groping him here on the street, damn it. Jim took a calming breath, then another.

He shifted on the hard bench. He needed to do something. Maybe go for a walk or something. When he turned to Oswald to suggest they go to the nearby park, he was stopped short by the calculating expression in Oswald's eyes. The other man regarded him steadily with chin raised and eyebrow cocked, and Jim felt pinned.

Oswald looked down with a little smile, wiping his fingers and mouth on a napkin. "You know, I think it looks like rain."

Jim turned a skeptical eye upwards at the fluffy white clouds floating by in the strip of blue sky overhead while Oswald opened his umbrella with a brisk shake. "Really? I dunno, Oz, I..."

Oswald angled the umbrella to put the both of them in its shade, shielding from the street.

"...oh," Jim said.

The slight tremble in Oswald's hand betrayed his nervousness, but he met Jim's gaze boldly.

Jim cupped his jaw and leaned into him, pressing their lips together.

For several moments there was nothing but the soft movement of Oswald's lips against his own, until Jim couldn't stand it any longer. He slipped his arm under Oz's coat, suit jacket, and waistcoat, all those layers, to run his hand around Oswald's waist and pull him against his own side, though it trapped Oz's other arm between them.

Oswald's breath hitched and he parted his lips, and Jim was quick to take advantage, deepening the kiss, licking into Oz's willing mouth. There was a faint lingering taste of cinnaon. Jim stopped from any further incursions, but was satisfied with stroking Oswald's warm side.

Oswald's hand gripped the umbrella handle tight but his other hand trailed along Jim's thigh, tentative fingertips exploring, and Jim wished they were alone. At his place.

When they came up for air, Jim rasped, "Want to come over tonight? You busy?"

Oswald, deliciously flushed, took a moment to catch his breath. "I'm afraid that won't be possible. I'm in the middle of a labor dispute which must be resolved at the earliest opportunity." He smiled apologetically. "Another time?"

"Oh," Jim said eloquently. Not only was he disappointed, but the sudden weight of secrets he shouldn't know and of questions he shouldn't ask fell on him with a thump.

The skin around Oswald's eyes tightened ever so slightly although his smile remained intact. "So you see, it's best if we get together again later." He pulled his hand back into his own lap.

"After your...labor dispute gets resolved." Jim smiled, trying to make light of it, but his smile felt forced.

A number of emotions flickered across Oswald's face, too quick to read, then Oswald said in a flat voice little more than a whisper, as if he had to force the words out, "If this is a problem, perhaps it would be better..."

"No." Jim's response was quick, and direct. "It's not a problem." He put his hand behind Oswald's neck and leaned their foreheads together.

"It's not a problem," he repeated quietly.

Oswald's eyes moved back and forth, searchingly, then his gaze softened and he rewarded Jim with a little smile and a nod.

Jim withdrew his wandering hands and leaned forward onto his elbows while Oswald folded up the umbrella and tapped out a text to his driver. He delivered a curt nod in the direction of his henchmen and they quickly moved closer, though they remained at a discrete distance, ready to depart once the car arrived.

Scratching the back of his neck Jim asked, "You sure this couldn't somehow be better handled by the GCPD?"

Now Oswald's eyebrows shot up in surprise. He burst out laughing, and the tension that had built up between them dissipated.

Jim felt more than a little foolish, but a grin tugged at one corner of his mouth anyway.

Oswald patted Jim's forearm, fondly. "I can reasonably assure you the GCPD won't need to be bothered one bit."

As if there weren't a couple of different ways for that little statement to be interpreted.

A town car drew up to the curb and Jim escorted Oswald to it, placing a hand in the small of his back. One of the bodyguards was coming up from behind to get the door, but Jim beat him to it, and opened it for Oswald himself.

He touched Oswald's elbow, stopping him before he could get in. Oswald looked up, wary, but with a hint of coolness that warned Jim he'd need to choose his words carefully. Admonitions or a plea to Oswald to...not do whatever it was he was planning to do, would not go over well.

There was only one thing that mattered, in that moment.

"Be careful," he said.

Oswald smiled at him, but there was a fierceness there, too, and Jim suspected Oswald was already thinking ahead to the conflict that needed his attention. "We'll get together soon, Jim. I promise."

Jim pulled him into a kiss. He kept it short, mindful of the presence of Oswald's goons, who were no doubt eager to get busy breaking kneecaps.

A brief pressing of their lips, his hands squeezing Oswald's arms, before he released him. He said in a low voice, "I mean it, Oz. Be careful."

Oswald blinked at him, flustered, giving Jim some underhanded ideas about how to possibly dissuade Oswald from certain courses of action in the future.

"Of course I will. Have no concern," Oswald said, recovering his composure, a sly smile stretching out his lips, a smile that hid the machinations of the clever mind within, and made Jim want him more than ever.

After the car pulled away, Jim wondered at his own contradictions, part of him wanting to persuade Oswald to pursue another path in life while the rest of him wanted to delight in that uncompromising darkness and revel in it.

The next day, Oswald struggled to focus on the accounting books, having to continually redirect the thoughts which kept straying to Jim and their unspoken, almost-quarrel yesterday. It had been a power struggle, although Jim hadn't seemed to recognize it as such, which Oswald won.

It did not give him any sort of exultation, merely a grim, depressing sense of foreboding. Certain boundaries needed to be maintained, that was all there was to it, but the look on Jim's face had made Oswald's chest squeeze painfully tight.

Navigating these tricky waters was putting him to new tests.

He was relieved Jim hadn't made any ultimatums, but it was clear that Jim was exercising great restraint in not issuing any commentary on Oswald's business.

Hadn't Jim himself stated they needed to keep their respective jobs out of their relationship? Oswald hadn't attempted to finagle information out of Jim about any top-secret operations of the GCPD, now, had he? And yet, the disapproval Jim felt about Oswald's methods was writ large in his manner.

Oswald would be lying to himself if he said he didn't care, but what the hell did Jim expect? Oswald was doing his best to shield Jim from anything that might compromise his integrity, Jim ought to appreciate the effort.

Anxiety and irritation warred within him in equal measure as he chewed his thumbnail and the numbers in the ledger blurred together into an incoherent mass.

Well, Jim was making an effort, he ought to remember that. The man's hesitant suggestion about the GCPD stepping in to help was so cute. He felt himself soften at the memory. Jim's great faith in the power of the law was one of his most endearing qualities, which Oswald had admired from the start.

The balance between the forces of light and darkness was critical to the proper running of Gotham, and Oswald wasn't averse to letting the law have its way now and again, but last night's dispute at the pier was one of those times when Oswald's methods were more effective...not to mention quicker... than the hesitant bumbling of Gotham's convoluted legal system.

Jim's complete sincerity in his admonition to be careful was real, and Oswald genuinely appreciated it.

He'd been a bit too clever with that comment about a labor dispute, which had naturally set the gears whirring in Jim's mind, reminding him of what Oswald's 'disputes' usually consisted of. Oswald should have been more considerate of Jim's sensibilities, he thought, remembering the pained look on Jim's face. He should have simply said he was busy and made a date for another night.

Would calling Jim now make him sound desperate? Or should he wait for him to call?

Oswald sighed and bent over the ledger again, concentrating on the columns. This was certainly one of the less entertaining aspects of running his empire but as necessary as handling those stubborn pier workers last night, who seemed to be having trouble realizing that Falcone wasn't coming back. Jim would have been pleased to hear the altercation had only resulted in a broken arm for one antagonist and a minor gunshot wound for another. No deaths were necessary.

Oswald, naturally, had no intention of telling Jim anything, but he felt satisfied with the results nonetheless.

Butch brought him out of his musings by dropping a manila envelope on the desk in front of him.

"What's this?" Oswald asked, picking up a letter opener and inserting it into the corner.

"Messenger brought it," Butch said. "From Don Peretti, with his compliments."

Oswald raised his eyebrows at the contents. "Tickets to the opera? Ugh. Send them back." He put them back into the envelope and pushed it across the table.

"Season tickets," Butch pushed the envelope back. "Keep 'em."

"Oh, I don't think so," Oswald said with an incredulous chuckle, sliding it right back at him.

"Believe me, you want to keep these, Penguin," Butch said firmly, shoving the envelope back again.

"Mind explaining your reasoning?" Oswald said acidly.

"The Perettis have been around a long time, since before the Falcones, even."

"Yes, and?" Honestly, as if he needed a history lesson. There wasn't anything Butch could tell him about the old families that Oswald didn't already know.

"There's been a lotta changes, this shows you got respect for tradition. Top don always goes."

"Well, I'm not a don." He could have insisted on being called such, but in truth he didn't particularly care one way or the other about the title, so long as he was afforded the proper fear and respect. 'The Penguin' or 'Mr. Cobblepot' suited him well enough.

Butch was looking rather aggrieved. "You're at the top. Guy at the top goes to the opera, 'specially opening night," he said stubbornly.

"I eliminate the competition, and this is the make or break deal? Oh, please."

"That's just, like, natural progression. Strongest beats out the other guys, and no other outsider ever made it as far as you. Look, you know how important these things are. You send these tickets back, it'll be an insult."

Respect and face-saving, slights and insults, knowing the ins and outs of the tangled web of intrigue among the old families and upstart street gangs was what Oswald excelled at, and he knew perfectly well what the prickly honor of the minor dons would tolerate.

Oswald crossed his arms. "They're not going to go to war because I refused some damn opera tickets, no matter how expensive."

Mopping his forehead with a handkerchief, Butch settled gingerly into one of the chairs. "No, they won't. But they'll remember. It'll be one of the first things that'll come up when some shit-heel with a grudge tries to stir 'em up. 'The Penguin don't have no respect for tradition.' You know it. Just go to the fucking opera. Two, three times a year. No problem."

Oswald huffed a sigh and shook his head, scowling. Butch was rarely so adamant. Maybe he had a point.

Sometimes one had to make these small allowances to keep the peace, though Oswald loathed the thought of wasting several hours of his life sitting in a balcony listening to the most ostentatious music in existence.

He picked up the envelope to check the date and seating on the tickets. Huh. Box seats, the very ones that used to be occupied by Falcone himself. It would let Oswald see and be seen as he looked down upon the lesser dons and their various thugs and escorts in the main audience.

That did have a certain appeal. "I suppose I could stand to attend a performance or two."

"Just one other thing."

Oswald narrowed his eyes. "What?"

Butch shifted in his seat and dragged the handkerchief over his forehead again. "Now don't blow your top. And remember, it's just for the look of the thing."

"Out with it."

"Go with a woman."

Oswald chuckled, incredulous. "You can't be serious." He had in fact been thinking about how his mother might like to go since she enjoyed dressing up and going out. The opera would make a nice change from the club.

His hackles rose up, certain he knew what Butch's objection was.

"Ask an escort. Got the agency's number right here." Butch dug a card out of his pocket and held it out to him.

"No thanks." Oswald crossed his arms.

Butch leaned forward and tossed it on the desk. "What's the big deal? Send her home in a cab after."

"Well, that seems rather rude," Oswald said, blinking innocently. "Packing her off in a cab."

"So drop her off yourself."

"No dinner or anything?" Oswald said sarcastically.

"It's not a real date!" Butch shouted, getting red in the face. "Quit fuckin' with me. You're missin' the point!"

"I know very well what the point is, Butch, and it's stupid. So they'd all be more comfortable if they can pretend they don't know my sexual orientation? I can go with Jim if I want to. Everyone in the whole damn underworld knows we spent the night together, don't act like they don't! Honestly, Butch, I don't care." He frowned as Butch began listing sideways. "What's the matter with you, anyway? You're sweatier than usual."

Butch sagged back into the chair. "I dunno," he groaned. "Somethin' I ate. Didn't agree with me." His face went blank and he clutched his stomach. "Oh no." Lurching to his feet he staggered out of the office.

Oswald tsked. Go to the opera with some strange woman, ha! As if! All to appease the outdated propriety of a passel of old farts who apparently would have heart attacks at the sight of him sitting next to a man.

He shook his head. He didn't even want to go to the damn thing. Opera! Fish Mooney used to have to attend, because Don Falcone expected it of all his lieutenants, and she made sure to take along Butch, Oswald, and a few more of her closest underlings to endure the misery with her.

People thought being in charge meant you got to do whatever you wanted, but Oswald had learned under Fish's tutelage that there were countless niceties and courtesies of which to keep track, and he was reluctantly forced to accept that opera appeared to be one of those traditions that refused to die.

No matter. He'd fulfill these tiresome little obligations, and do it better than any of his predecessors.

Truthfully, after the fuss he'd made to Jim about hating opera, it would be a little embarrassing to turn around and ask Jim to attend a performance with him. He chuckled. Jim would probably find it amusing, and tease him about it.

The warm glow in Oswald's chest faded as anxiety bloomed again. If Jim ever got around to calling, that is. Maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he was reconsidering this whole relationship, maybe he...

Oswald growled at himself, putting a stop to this useless spiral of thought.

Stupid to wait and try to second guess what Jim was thinking, to worry about sounding too desperate. Enough of these games. He wanted to talk to Jim, he should just do it.

As a compromise, remembering Jim was at work, he sent a quick text to ask when would be a good time to call.

Going upstairs, he collected his overcoat and checked himself over in the mirror, preparing to go out.

He could easily have sent someone else to the store to collect the toothpaste and the other things he needed, and he usually did, now, as he was often too busy to run these errands.

Except a couple of the items on his list were of a very personal nature, and he was loathe to leave it in a lackey's hands. A man ought to buy his own condoms and lubricant, he thought.

Though he was completely alone there in his rooms, a blush started somewhere around chest level and worked its way up.

God, he was really going to go through with it. Invite Jim over for a private dinner, and...and see what happened.

Oh, who was he kidding? He was planning on getting laid.

He unknotted his tie out of sheer nerves and began to redo it. Well, why wait? Jim was sending out signals all over the place that he was ready to take it to the next level, and Oswald didn't see any reason to delay any longer. What the hell was Oswald waiting for, a marriage proposal?

Feeling a little giddy, he sat on the edge of one of the easy chairs, reworking the tie into its elaborate knot.

If Jim was still willing, then he was, too.

But what if Jim changed his mind? What if he...

Oswald tsked. No, he wouldn't entertain such thoughts. It would be an insult to Jim's upright character for Oswald to even think that Jim might get cold feet and back out over the whole thing over the small road-bump they'd hit yesterday. Stubborness and loyalty were also hallmarks of the man.

Oswald would be bold, and confident, and seize the happiness offered him without dithering or working himself up into a frantic state of anxiety.

He cocked his head at the sound of sirens blaring in the distance, getting louder and louder. Fire trucks?

Quickly he made his way down the stairs again.

"What's happening?" he asked a bartender coming through the entrance.

"There's a building on fire a couple blocks that way, boss. They're blocking off the end of the street, by Southey."

Oswald clucked his tongue. "Well, how bad is it? Go see if they have it contained." Damn it, this would delay his schedule. He slid into a booth to wait while his lackey disappeared outside again to make another assessment.

Butch shuffled out of the restroom, moving carefully as if the floor was about to break.

"If you're that sick, go home," Oswald said.

Butch shook his head. "Naw. Be okay in a sec. 'Sides, Gabe went home, he puked. I don't know, must've somethin' in the damn salad. The one time I try to eat healthy." He closed his eyes and wrapped his arm over his stomach again.

Oswald frowned. Gabe was sick too? Odd.

The bartender came back in. "The other end of the street's clear," he announced, waving his arm in the direction of the occasional blat of a horn. "It don't look that bad, boss. Lot of smoke from the second story but I didn't see no flames."

Oswald pursed his lips, wondering if he should postpone his trip to the store, reluctant to leave his club until he knew for sure if it would be threatened or not.

Fires could be tricky. It might not look like much from the outside, but it could be wreaking havoc within a structure, bursting out in unexpected places. However, the firefighters were already here, and if there weren't any visible flames then perhaps it would be safe enough to run a quick errand as he'd planned. Two blocks away was probably a safe enough buffer for his club.

"I'm going to run an errand," Oswald said, slipping on his gloves.

"I'll come with," Butch said, making an attempt to straighten up.

"Go home, I said. It's a trip to the store, not a war meeting," Oswald snapped. "You're no good to me this way."

Ignoring the feeble protests, Oswald strode out.

He walked out to where the car was parked on a side street, so it could turn around more easily, away from the barricade being erected by the firefighters and police officers responding to the fire.

Pedestrians hurried by, some of them rushing toward the fire, but most of the rest continuing on about their business, craning their necks to get a glimpse of the commotion down the street.

Two of his men were standing close together by his car, their hands cutting at the air as they held a muted argument.

Oswald's pace slowed and his eyes shifted from side to side. Something was not right.

Food poisoning laying out two of his top goons, and he didn't see his usual driver.

Just these two low-level bozos, only recently hired.

In fact, Chester wasn't on the schedule until later tonight.

The prickle of unease returned, intensified.

His mind flashed through what he knew of these two. Joey and Chester, from the Narrows, joined the Penguin's ranks recently because their old gang fractured in the upheaval.

The next moment both of them looked up, and his hand tightened on the cane.

Joey's face was alight with panic, while Chester radiated anger and bravado, his body tense.

Joey stepped in front of Chester. "Mr. Cobblepot," he said, nervously baring his teeth in a grimace meant to be a smile, "Wouldya mind waiting inside for a..."

Chester tried to shove Joey out of the way, and suddenly they were fighting over a gun.

Chester cursed and shouted to an unseen accomplice somewhere behind Oswald, "Get 'im!"