Chapter Nine: Date Night

A/N: This chapter is a lot lighter compared to the last one. :)


I stood in the bathroom, staring at the mirror. In the casting reflection, I could see Oswald gingerly peeling off my blood-soaked clothes but I couldn't feel his touch. He spoke in a soothing voice, telling me to step out when my skirt puddled around my ankles and to raise my arms so he could pull the shirt up and over my head; I followed each request, numbly doing as he asked. As he ran the bath, he encouraged me to sit on the side of the bath tub. He soaked a wash cloth and wiped the blood off my face, my neck and shoulders.

He said 'you're okay, pigeon', and he meant every word. The sincerity of his words echoed in the back of my mind, telling me that I was safe. I let him talk. I let him speak, for now, while I burrowed deeper into my mind.

I wanted to repeat the event in my head, to see how I might have reacted differently. I could piece together the terrible parts where the man's fingers had shoved themselves into my pussy and I could remember his naked cock touching me—but everything else, the beginning and the end were a goddamn blur. It was like I had woken up from a vivid nightmare and most of it had been forgotten, all but the worst parts….it figures.

Oswald touched my face again with the damp cloth; I took it gingerly out of his hands.

He looked at me curiously. I didn't offer an explanation. Instead, I stood, stripped my body of all my clothes, then slowly eased myself into the bathtub. I watched Mack's dried blood on my legs and stomach slowly flake off and float to the surface. Oswald's eyebrows furrowed at my actions.

"Sylvia…."

"Please." I said hoarsely. "Don't talk anymore. Just…."

Just what though….?

I didn't know what I wanted. Did I want him to stay? Or did I want to be alone? I wanted to shower but at the same time, I wanted to stay in this bath full of the dead fucker's blood as a reminder that I had, in the end, bested him. I looked into Oswald's pleading eyes and I could see how desperate he wanted to make me feel better.

But I didn't know what he could do to make it so.

After some time, I stood and stepped out of the bath. I looked behind me and saw bloody bits just latching together on the surface of the water, like algae on a dead-still pond. I wordlessly pulled the drain and then wrapped a towel around my body. Oswald sat on the edge of the tub, watching me, perplexed.

"Did you make the dinner reservations?" I asked softly, referring to the plans we had made earlier this morning.

"I can cancel them," Oswald offered, standing.

"Don't."

"Sylvia, you've—"

"I don't want to face what happened," I said immediately, stopping him. "I will but I don't want to face it right now. I want to keep the dinner reservations. We made plans this morning...I don't want to change them."

Oswald looked reluctant to agree.

"Fine," said Oswald gently, "If that's truly what you want."

"It is," I murmured. "I'll get dressed."

I moved to the other room and observed myself in the wall length mirror in the bedroom, looking at my nude body.

Was I still pretty?

Was I fat?

Was I too skinny?

Did I look better in jeans or should I wear a skirt?

Remember the last time you wore a skirt….

I grimaced.

"It would have happened regardless of what I'd have worn," I muttered, knowing the inevitability.

Mack was a pig. He had planned from the start that he would take away my dignity before taking my life. I looked at the mirror, observing my right side.

Compared to what happened, the scar on my neck was nothing but a scratch. I was shot in the neck and survived. But how did one survive something like a sexual assault? Does anyone get over anything like that, truly?

No. You can't get over something like that. No matter how many people say that you can.

How many times had Jim told me stories of women who were raped and failed to show up in court to testify against their attacker? They never went to trial because they feared someone would shame them into thinking that the attack—on the whole—was their fault.

You can't blame yourself—you were unarmed.

True.

You should blame yourself—you weren't armed.

Maybe true?

I stepped closer to the mirror, having the internal debate run its course.

I may deserve the ambush, but I didn't deserve the sexual assault. I may deserve a punch in the face for being a bitch, but just because I wear a skirt doesn't mean it was my fault. Right?

Huh…. was that a breakthrough?

I looked at my neck, my cheeks. I attempted a smile, and the dimples revealed themselves like a passing 'hello'. I caressed my collar bones, and my breasts, down to my stomach, and then my thighs. The fucker had sat on my knees; he'd kept me from moving and wriggling out of his grip.

You should have struggled harder.

Maybe, but the guy was three times my weight. Not even Jim could have gotten out of that scrape.

Thank goodness for Falcone's intervention.

Thank goodness, indeed…. not for Falcone, but for Oswald.

There was a knock on the door.

Speak of the devil.

"Come in."

Oswald opened the door, dressed in a different suit. He looked snazzy, wearing a white long-sleeve shirt under an azure-colored vest, his raven hair doing the disco vampire thing. His dress coat was no doubt hanging on the coat rack near the front door. I observed his reflection as he glanced at my naked figure.

For the umpteenth time, he asked if I was okay.

"No," I finally admitted, my voice shaking with the confession. "I'm not okay." I crossed my hands over my chest, looking at him.

"You're right, I apologize…. Stupid question," said Oswald, clearing his throat.

He stood beside me, looking at his reflection as well. He glanced uneasily at me, probably wondering why I was standing naked in front of the mirror, staring at myself. I glanced down and wiggled my toes on the carpet, aware that they were moving, aware that the carpet below was supposed to be soft but not able to realize that it was I who moved my own toes. It was a detaching feeling, like something out of a sci-fi flick.

Oswald said softly, "If you're having second doubts about the dinner, you can tell me."

"Thank you. But I still want to go."

Oswald sat on the edge of the bed, watching me. After a moment, I felt embarrassed so I covered my chest, turning to him.

"What are you thinking?" I inquired.

"You don't want to know," Oswald reassured with a small smile.

"I do want to know."

Oswald sighed, unwilling. But he saw my consistent gaze.

"I'm thinking that you…." he began, hesitating as I walked towards him.

He continued: "You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. I'm thinking that—for the time being—you don't see that yourself. But…." (He paused when I stood before him, and continued when I had no objections.) "…. But with you standing in front of me as you are, I want nothing more than to have you underneath me while I make love to you in every way, shape, or form that I can possibly think of."

He waited for my response.

"Then why don't you." I told him quietly.

"Sylvia, after everything that has happened—"

"Don't treat me like I'm some injured animal!" I lashed out.

He looked up at me in surprise, and he emitted a gasp when I pushed him on his back, and straddled his waist.

"You asked me how you can make me feel better," I said boldly. "If you want to make me feel better, make love to me right now. Show me…. show me I am still yours!"

Oswald stared up at me.

I felt my eyes sting with fresh tears.

"Please, baby," I pleaded. "Please make me yours again. I still feel him touching me, I feel it. And I don't want to feel this way anymore!"

Oswald sat up cautiously, and he guided me off him, brushing the tears from my face.

"Sylvia, look at me." He said gently.

I couldn't.

"Pigeon, look at me," Oswald said more firmly.

My face burned with mortification—I literally threw myself at him not a minute ago and now I wanted nothing more than to roll myself into a ball and hide in a closet.

He said gently, "You are still mine. You always have been, always will be. What happened in the restaurant was not your fault. If anyone says otherwise, I will make it my highest priority to shoot them myself."

I felt more tears fall from my eyelashes, rolling down my cheeks and they were like razor blades cutting further into my pride. He cradled my face in his hands, his thumbs wiped them away and he kissed my forehead.

And I smiled.

I placed my hands on his shoulders, looking at his vest and smiled in spite of myself.

"You look good in blue," I mumbled.

He placed his hands over mine, saying, "Thank you. Did you still want to go to the dinner?"

I nodded.

"Then you might want to get dressed, Pigeon. Otherwise, they'll give our table away."

I stood. He walked to the closet and laid out a black dress on the bed.

Remember the last time you wore the skirt? What will happen, you think, if you wear the dress?

I nervously bit my lip and considered those options. Oswald seemed to somehow follow the same thought process. He took my hand and pulled me to him; I languidly followed.

"You won't be wearing it for them," Oswald reassured.

"I'll be wearing it for me," I stated, smiling.

"That's my girl," He said proudly. He gestured behind him, saying, "I'll be in the living room."

"Okay…." I whispered.

He closed the door with a click on his way out of the bedroom. I glanced at the door before looking uncertainly at the dress.

I pulled my hair into bun, staring into the mirror as I had done before. The dress covered one shoulder, leaving the other bare. There was a slit in the dress that rode up to my right knee, and I gave it a double-doubter thought. I took a deep breath in and a shaky breath out.

Be proud, I thought. You bit the bastard's pecker off—you shot him in the balls…. you're a bad-ass. And you don't go down easy, do you?

I smiled at the mirror, and a redhead with ruby lipstick smiled right back at me.

Due to the fact of my wearing a dress, I forced to compromise: I had to carry a handbag. But I wasn't left entirely dependent on it. While inside it was a handgun, I kept a knife strapped to my left outer thigh in any case things got a little physical. I'd always been the paranoid one (thanks to growing up with a Gotham City District Attorney and lawful brother), but now I felt hyper-vigilant.

That would probably destroy someone who wasn't used to the eccentricity that was Gotham City, but since I had plenty of practice, I figured 'fuck it all, why not you know. Let's add a little more paranoia into the mix'.

Stepping out of the bedroom was almost a living dream. When Oswald turned, hearing me close the bedroom door, the look on his face made me bloom. He appeared mesmerized, even though he had seen me in this dress a million times before.

"Stunning as always," Oswald commented, making me blush.

"Oh, shush," I said, smiling at him.

He held my hand and we walked to the elevator doors, stepping inside with two other gentlemen. I glanced between the two men. Oswald withdrew his hand from mine and placed it on my lower back. The gesture, however simple, made me feel safer, more protected.

If Oswald had never been overprotective before, he certainly was now.

When the elevator doors opened, he insisted that the two gentlemen go before us. He and I walked outside where, like always, Gabe was waiting for us. He smiled kindly at me, and I returned it politely. Like before, Oswald crawled into the back seat with me.

"Hi, Gabe," I greeted as I always did.

"Good evening, Miss G. Where's this place again?" Gabe asked, glancing in the rear-view mirror at Oswald.

"Three stoplights ahead, turn right, and it'll be on your left," Oswald replied.

His arm went around my shoulders, pulling me to him. I smiled inwardly, warmed by his embrace. I nuzzled the crook of his neck.

"I'll make sure nothing like that ever happens to you, Pigeon," Oswald spoke evenly.

I glanced up at him, and saw that Oswald was staring angrily out the window. Such a contrast to the soft, gentle tone that had come out of him just a second ago. I reckoned on some level, he blamed himself—I knew he did. I may have stopped him from apologizing, but I was certain he still felt remorseful for what happened with Mack…. maybe even before that.

"You can't promise something like that," I told him gently.

"I can certainly try," Oswald reassured coolly. "From now on, you'll have a guard with you."

"Tomas is nice," I suggested.

"Who?"

Gabe chimed in: "Tomas—Frankie Carbone's guy."

"You were Frankie Carbone's guy," I said to Gabe. "Which makes me wonder, why are you here? I mean, weren't you technically Maroni's guy?"

"Well," said Gabe, smiling, "Penguin pays more, and I don't mind your company, Miss G. Tomas was the other-other guy."

The car came to a slow halt at the stop light.

I nuzzled Oswald's chest, breathing in his cologne. I poked the gold and cobalt blue pocket square, whispering, "Boop!" He looked down when he felt the gentle prod of my finger.

"Your mother should be proud; you have to be the most gentlemanly gentleman ever," I told him quietly. "You know, I was serious when I was asking you to fuck me in the bedroom. I wasn't just in the middle of an emotional crisis."

"You've experienced something unforgivable, Sylvia." (Gabe glanced at us in the rear-view mirror inquisitively) "I refuse to take advantage of your vulnerability," said Oswald sternly. He added, "Especially if I wasn't the one who caused it."

"By that logic, if you did cause me to feel vulnerable, you would take advantage of it."

"Oh, absolutely," Oswald agreed.

I giggled, burrowing my face into his jacket. His fingers laced through my hair, massaging my scalp with soft presses of his fingertips.

"Stop lights are taking forever," Gabe muttered, shaking his head slowly in disappointment.

Oswald's massaging fingertips slowly left my head and braced along my neck, rubbing my nape with just enough pressure that I was certain if he continued, I would fall asleep. His other hand held my own, his thumb stroking concentric circles over my knuckles. I glanced up to see that he was looking out the window still, lost in thought.

"How's your mom?" I asked, hoping to bring Oswald back to reality.

He was startled by the question as his mind was plunged back into the car with me.

"What?"

"Your mom," I repeated. "How is she?"

"She's fine," Oswald answered calmly. "She's knitting again."

"She knows how to knit?"

He chuckled, "Since I can remember."

"That's nice. I feel like it's an old woman characteristic," I said softly. "It's like once they hit a certain age, elderly women just know how to do it. Or maybe they've done everything else that they just take it on as another challenge."

"The last describes my mother," Oswald decided.

"It certainly sounds like her," I agreed.

"She's not a bad dancer," Gabe chimed in.

"She taught me to waltz," I recalled, grinning at the thought.

Oswald rubbed the back of my neck with his thumb, index and middle finger, massaging my neck and squeezing gently.

"Ozzie, if you keep doing that, you're going to put me to sleep." I murmured.

"MOVE!" Gabe shouted (Oswald and I jumped), honking his horn. "The light is green! Go!"

I giggled—having never heard the man yell before in my entire life. As though the cars ahead heard him, they all started moving, and resumed normal traffic flow. In a few more minutes, he stopped once more. I expected the same response, but instead….

"We're here," Gabe announced, more in relief than as a statement.

Oswald and I shifted and Gabe opened the door. Like before, Oswald kept his hand on the small of my back. And we walked into the restaurant. This was not as lavish as the French-themed one we'd been to before, but for me, it became an instant favorite.

It had an older-time feel to it. Gingerbread-colored top and bottom borders framed the canary walls; all the pictures were black and white or of grainy value, set behind glass within onyx frames. Stained glass images of cattle, angels, and waterfalls imprinted on lamps hung from the ceiling above every two tables. The ceiling itself seemed to reach high as the sky meeting a triangular peak.

Oswald led me to a table, specifically. Circular-seated chairs with almond-shaped backings were placed on opposing ends; the centerpiece was a vase full of fresh, white lilies. Silverware folded in napkins were placed on opposing ends, adjacent to the other.

I sat in one, and Oswald sat across from me. In front of the centerpiece was a label titled 'Cobblepot'.

"Waiter…." I caught a male who was dressed in red and gold, and he stopped by with a smile.

"Yes, Ma'am?"

"Do you happen to have a pen that I can borrow for like a minute?" I asked.

Oswald watched in amusement as the waiter dug into this black apron and pulled out a dull pencil, handing it to me. I thanked him sweetly, and he went on his way.

"What are you….?"

"Sh-sh," I said, smirking. "I just had an idea."

I took the label reading his name and started drawing underneath the letters. After a moment passed, the same waiter from whom I had borrowed the pencil stopped by and I gave it back to him, thanking him once more.

"What was that all about?" Oswald asked, glancing at the staff member before turning to look at me.

"Look." I giggled.

He took the label and squinted to see what I had drawn—it was a doodle of a penguin. He chuckled.

"It looks more like a chicken," Oswald admitted.

"How so?"

"The feathers on penguins don't extend outward," Oswald pointed out. "If anything, it looks more like a pigeon."

"So, what, you're an expert on birds?"

Oswald smiled at me: a nonverbal answer of 'yes'.

"Mmm," I sighed. "Perhaps you have a point. I've never seen a penguin with a hand-shaped butt before, that's for sure. Waiter!"

I caught a different one this time. This male looked less than amused that I caught him rather than the former who appeared grateful that I had even noticed him.

"Do you have a pen?" I asked.

"Yeah, why?"

"Could I borrow it?" I said sweetly, smiling.

"Why?"

"I'd like to draw something," I explained.

He joked, "It'll cost you a pretty penny."

"Please?" I even made puppy dog eyes.

"Fine…." He muttered. Like the last one, he dug into his apron and pulled out an actual pen. He handed it to me.

"Thanks!" I chirped.

Oswald placed his chin in the center of his palm, watching me.

"If you don't get this drawing right, are you going to flag down another one?" Oswald asked, half-seriously.

"Maybe."

"That sounds really cumbersome."

"Cumbersome," I repeated. "But necessary. What about now?"

I placed the label in front of him.

Oswald looked at it again.

"Now the pigeon looks like a swan," He noted. In reference to the new doodle, he asked, "And…. what is that supposed to be?"

"A penguin."

"That doesn't even look remotely like a bird," Oswald criticized, but he was laughing.

"What do you think it looks like?"

"An angry raccoon," Oswald guessed, shrugging. "Or something along the lines of it. What was this supposed to be again?"

I took the label from him saying with a suppressed grin, "A penguin."

"Well, I have to admit, Pidge….it looks nothing like it, but I commend your effort."

"Fine. You draw a penguin, and let's see how great it looks."

"No."

"Why not?" I teased. "Afraid I'll make fun?"

Oswald sighed, recognizing a challenge when he heard one. So, without further ado, he took the pen and label, turned it over, and doodled on the other side. In a few minutes, he slid it to me along with the pen. I gave it a look.

"That's…. that's a spot, Ozzie. That's—you literally drew a spot."

"That's a penguin. It's just standing very, veryfar away," Oswald pointed out. "And you cannot tell me otherwise."

I tried to stifle it but the laugh came out regardless of my effort. And he laughed shortly after.

Then the same waiter from who I had borrowed the pen came by.

"May I have it back?" He asked politely.

"Sure," I said, handing it to him.

He thanked me and walked away.

"I'm glad to see you smiling again," Oswald pointed out.

I shrugged, "It's not hard to do when I'm around you."

Oswald smiled shyly in response and I grinned.

Another waiter came by. He was dressed in the same red and gold with the black apron. He was—in all rights by comparison—a lot older, at least by ten years than the last two. He was well-built with broad shoulders, large hands, and when he placed a menu in front of us, he kept a perfect posture. His beard was well-trimmed and when he spoke, it sounded like he was well-educated.

"Everything served in the kitchen is on the menu, but if I could give a recommendation?" He articulated professionally.

"Sure?" I guessed, glancing curiously at Oswald, who shrugged in response.

The waiter threw out a few suggestions regarding a roasted buffalo and a dessert that had a unique description all on its own.

"What's the name of that dessert again?" I asked.

"It's called…." the waiter cleared his throat in humiliation before repeating reluctantly, "The Orgy."

I stifled a laugh, saying shakily, "What—what does that have in it?"

"Double chocolate chip ice cream, three scoops of candy per the customer's choice, and all of this is spooned into a bowl with a slice of strawberry short-cake and….and a banana," the waiter informed.

His face blushed a shade of pink when he said the word 'banana'.

"Why do you recommend this?" I asked curiously. "Have you had an orgy before?"

"The Orgy," the waiter continued, "is a customer's favorite."

"No, no, no. You misunderstand," I said, leaning towards him. "Have you ever had one?"

"I…. yes, I've eaten the ice cream," said the waiter uncomfortably. "It's phenomenal."

"Good to know," I said, turning back to Oswald.

Oswald shook his head disapprovingly, but suppressed a sly smile of his own.

"Do you need a moment to decide?" The waiter asked.

"On the dinner, yes," I said, smirking at Oswald. "Who needs to think twice about an orgy, though?"

"I'll be back," the waiter said quickly. "My name is William, and I will be server tonight. Please alert me when you are ready."

"Sure thing," I replied, smirking after him.

When he was gone, Oswald and I cracked up.

I giggled. "He's like a beet! Oh my god!" I leaned back in my chair. "Oh, I'm about to fucking piss myself! I needed that. Now, let's see what's on the menu…. did he mention roasted buffalo?"

"Next page," Oswald said without looking up from his menu.

I flipped the page of my menu, and sure as shit—there it was.

"'Bison' and 'Buffalo' are used interchangeably," I noted. "I thought they were different."

"They are." Oswald confirmed. "It's a common mistake."

I sighed saying, "Like when people mistake pigeons for doves and vice versa."

"Exactly."

"They have potato soup," I commented. "If that's not the laziest dish, I don't know what is."

"How do you mean?" Oswald asked, glancing up at me.

"I'll put a bowl of potatoes in front of you, add some broth, butter, and melted cheese, and you'll know what I mean," I returned, smiling widely at him.

"I do not think that is how it's made," Oswald pointed out.

"Then you do not want me to make you potato soup," I responded smartly. "There's a broccoli soup."

"Your formula works accurately for that one," Oswald stated.

"Not exactly. I don't like broccoli. I'm not going to make something that I don't like."

"What if I liked it?" Oswald asked.

"But you don't."

He persisted: "For argument's sake, let's say I did."

"I still wouldn't make it," I reasoned. "Unless, maybe, if it was your birthday."

"That's coming up."

"No, it's not," I corrected. "Don't you try that shit again."

Oswald chuckled, lowering his eyes back to his menu.

The waiter by the name of William came by and he stood to our side, awaiting an answer. I lowered my menu and smiled at him. He was about the same age as Oswald and myself, maybe a little older, but there was a youthful look about him in the eyes.

"Do you have a girlfriend, William?" I asked curiously.

Oswald reprimanded, "That's a little personal, don't you think?"

"If it is, he can decline to answer." I offered, smiling kindly at the waiter. "Do you have one?"

"No," he admitted. "I don't."

"Why not?"

"Sylvia."

"What?" I questioned coolly. "If he's feeling uncomfortable, he will let me know…. Won't you, William?"

"I don't know why I am single," William replied, glancing at Oswald then to me. "Why do you ask?"

I shrugged saying, "Just curious."

"Have you decided what to order?" William asked.

"Not just yet," I said, smiling mischievously. "Is William your real name?"

"Yes." He answered then he said quickly, "Should I come back or…."

"Sure, but I have one more question."

"Okay…."

I said softly, "Do you like boys or girls?"

"I'm uncomfortable," William muttered.

"Okay." I said, smiling. "You don't have to answer that one. We'll flag you down when we're ready."

He nodded dutifully and quickly hurried off. I watched him go behind a counter to greet another young couple. When I turned back in my seat, Oswald was staring at me.

"What?" I asked innocently.

"What has gotten into you?" Oswald questioned.

"What has gotten into me when?"

"You're acting different."

"Should I be acting the same?" I replied coolly.

"I don't expect you to act as you've always been but I think you may have crossed the boundary lines with the help."

I chuckled, "I crossed the 'boundary lines'? I'm having fun, Oswald. You know how much I like playing with people."

"You don't think you went a little overboard?" Oswald responded.

"You want to know why I'm acting this way…." I said, smirking at him. "Fine."

I placed the label in front of him. I pointed to the spot that he described as a penguin standing very far away.

"You see a penguin," I said calmly. "I see a spot. What it really is, my lover, is a dot. And that's where the line is."

Oswald looked at me pointedly saying, "I don't understand."

"The thing is, the line is so far away, that it's a dot." I uttered darkly. "That's what happened just now—with the waiter. I drew the line, then I stepped over it. That's what Maroni did when he tried to kill you, and that's what Maroni's men tried to do when Mack tried to rape me. They made the line a dot."

Oswald narrowed his eyes slightly at me. He leaned forward.

"I understand that you're angry, Sylvia, but—"

"Oh yeah, I'm angry. Hell yes, I am furious," I snapped in hushed tones. "I'm trying to continue—to move on—and make sure my life goes on despite the fucker putting his fingers up my box." I smiled dangerously saying, "How I am currently dealing with it is making people feel embarrassed just as I felt and, baby, it feels great."

"I understand that," Oswald reassured. "What I do not understand is why you're doing it here. You could go out with Victor and have a killing spree and be just as free to do whatever you liked to whomever Falcone wants dead. Why you prefer to embarrass the staff is beyond my understanding."

I leaned back in my seat.

I said honestly, "You know. That never occurred to me. I'm surprised it hasn't yet."

Oswald smiled and said happily, "Options!"

I grinned as well.

"You're right," I said enthusiastically. "I might take you up on that offer. Thank you!"

"You're welcome."

"I'll flag down William. I'm about ready to order. You?"

"Flag him down," Oswald said, holding his hand out to me.

William hesitantly stood at our side.

"I'm sorry for embarrassing you," I said sincerely. "I'm just going through a phase."

"No offense taken," William said kindly. "What can I get you?"

We gave him the orders and then he collected our menus, leaving the table.

I placed my chin on the back of my clasped hands, smirking at Oswald who looked back at me expectantly.

"So…." I sighed. "What did Maroni do to you?"

"Tried to do," Oswald corrected. "There's a difference."

"Mm. Enlighten me," I said sweetly. "You said you and Don Maroni were going to talk about whatever at the restaurant. Before I know it, you and him were gone. So, where'd you go?"

"To a cabin in the woods," Oswald replied stoically.

"That sounds like the beginning of a horror movie."

"You have no idea," Oswald muttered.

William walked by and placed our beverages in front of us: Oswald ordered tea; I asked for a coke. He said our dinner would be on the table in about fifteen minutes. We weren't in any hurry, we told him. Relieved that we were relaxed, William said he'd be back for any requests in a few minutes. I turned to Oswald and gestured for him to continue.

"He made a game of it, naturally," Oswald said, rolling his eyes.

"What game?"

"Telling secrets. A game of quid pro quo, so to speak," Oswald explained.

"Like I would tell you a secret, then you'd have to tell me one in return."

Oswald said humorously, "I see you've played before."

I giggled at the joke.

Oswald continued: "He mentioned that he had spoken to Fish on the phone; bitch told him everything. He believed her. Maroni then proceeded to punch me into unconsciousness. Afterwards, he locked me in his trunk and later, he tried to crush me alive in a sedan."

I stared at him, my mouth open.

He took a drink of his tea.

"That's a lot to happen in one night," I noted. "So how did you end up with Falcone in all of this?"

"I escaped," Oswald explained. "I found a bus full of Christians who have an affinity for singing the entire journey back to Gotham." He added sarcastically, "It certainly brought back several memories of my childhood."

He drank another sip of his tea and continued: "Shortly after I returned to Gotham, I spoke with Don Falcone at Mooney's old club."

"Why were you there?"

"Time and circumstance."

"What will happen to Mooney's club?"

Oswald smiled secretively. I noticed it.

"That is actually why I was calling you in the first place," Oswald stated. "He told me I can have the club."

I blinked.

"You're kidding!" I gasped.

"I'm fairly certain I'm not," Oswald returned seriously.

"That's amazing!" I gushed. I held his hand in mine, squeezing it. "Congratulations, Ozzie!"

"Thank you," Oswald said modestly, grinning widely. "I was just as shocked as you are."

"Are you going to redecorate?" I asked excitedly.

"That's the plan," Oswald said, nodding. "Falcone definitely is on board with the remodeling. He doesn't want it to resemble anything like Mooney's."

"Well, tell me your ideas—I know you have plenty!" I implored.

Oswald began to tell me before a noise started going off. I bit back an irritating sigh, recognizing the ringtone. He could recognize it by now as well. I looked at him apologetically.

"Answer it," Oswald encouraged.

I took out my phone from my handbag and answered it.

"Jim." I greeted the caller.

"Are you okay—I heard Cobblepot went public with Falcone."

"Just peachy—like usual," I sighed, leaning back in my chair. "Why would I not be okay?"

"You sound like you're lying."

"Maybe I am," I said smoothly.

"Sylvia, are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm not okay, James. But I will be," I said calmly, looking at Oswald who smiled at me. "I've got that Gordon DNA, you know, Jim? That good ole blood that keeps the fire from going out."

Jim was quiet on the other line before he spoke once more: "You don't sound like yourself."

"Funny, I feel like myself." I returned sweetly. "More than ever, actually. How've you been?"

"Fine…. Vee, if something happened, you'd let me know, right?"

"I'll let you know something right now, but you might want to have a seat."

I heard a clutter and recognized it as a chair being scooted across a wooden floor. Jim was literally taking my advice to sit down.

"Tell me."

"Two of Maroni's men ambushed me," I said stoically. "They barricaded the door and one of them sexually assaulted me." (Oswald's smile faltered as I spoke aloud). "He hiked up my skirt, put his fingers inside me, and then tried to rape me. Falcone's men intervened."

"Vee—"

"I'm not finished talking, Jimmy. You wanted to know—so here it is." I responded harshly. "When Falcone arrived, he offered me retribution for what happened to me. I made the guy hard as a rock, put my mouth on his dick, and I bit it off. I shoved it down his throat, shot him in the testicles, and I watched the fucker bleed to death. Falcone patted me on the back, I went home, and now I am having dinner at a lovely restaurant with my wonderful fiancé—a dinner that you are interrupting. Questions?"

Oswald looked at me with both surprise and admiration as I waited for Jim's response.

"Have you told the police about this?"

I chuckled darkly, "What are the police going to do, James? I shot the guy that tried to rape me. If that's not justice, I don't want to know what it is. Now, I would love to chat, but I'm a bit preoccupied. Love you!"

I hung up and placed the phone in my handbag. I looked up at Oswald.

"You're certainly making a quick recovery," He noted.

"Is that what it is?" I uttered smoothly. "I don't know what it is, but I feel like I just ooze confidence...and maybe a little eccentricity."

Oswald's face turned a bright shade of pink. I couldn't tell if he was embarrassed by my lackadaisical behavior or turned on by it. Either way, I placed my purse at my feet and unrolled my napkin.

I started conversationally, "This game of Maroni's intrigues me. Oswald, tell me something about yourself that I don't already know."

He looked at me blankly.

"Anything," I encouraged.

"All right," Oswald said slowly. "Um. When I was five years old, I once tried to eat all the marshmallows in my Lucky Charms cereal box while avoiding the grain alphabet."

I snorted, "That's an interesting start."

Oswald held his hand out to me.

My turn.

"When Jim and I were teenagers—before he went to war—we used to play wrestle in his room," I narrated. "With most brothers or sisters, the brother would always let the sister win due to differences in strength, that sort of thing. But Jim was different."

"How so?" Oswald asked.

"He would do everything he could not to let me win. I mean, these playful wrestling matches would end in blood shed—he'd kick me, I'd bite him—it was a catastrophe!" I laughed. "Every afternoon, when my father was finished with court, he would come home, and he'd see Jim and me locked in each other's grip and shouting at each other to say 'UNCLE'! And then he would break us up."

"How would one determine the victor then," Oswald said curiously, "if your father separated the two of you?"

I said pointedly, "Not every fight happened when Dad was home."

"Who would win?" He asked eagerly.

"Normally it was me," I said proudly, smirking. "He has the strength, the agility, but me—I have the pain tolerance." I took a sip of my coke and added, "But he'll never admit it. He never admitted it before and he won't admit it now."

Oswald said smoothly, "And I thought I knew everything about you, Pidge."

"Not nearly everything," I said, winking. "Your turn."

"I have something, but you might not like it." Oswald admitted, but he was smiling.

"Is it creepy?" I asked.

"In some fashion."

I crossed my arms on the table and leaned forward: "Tell me."

Oswald cleared his throat before speaking and in a shy way, he said, "The first time I saw you wasn't when we were working at Fish Mooney's."

"Really, now?" I said mischievously. "When did we first meet?"

"Not when we first 'met'," Oswald specified. "When I first saw you." (His right hand fiddled with the napkin, unraveling it slowly.) "You were in the Gotham Public Library, studying a book at a table. It was about a year before we officially met."

"Really? Where were you?" I asked.

"Behind a book shelf," said Oswald shyly, smiling as such. "You wore a black shirt, jeans, boots…."

His eyes looked past the silverware, the table, like he was going right back to the same moment.

He continued softly, "When you read, you had a habit of twisting your hair around your finger and you noticed no one."

"Well, not no one," I muttered.

Oswald said with the same shy smile, "The book you read fully enveloped you, so much that the loud children reading together in the next cubicle didn't draw your attention. I watched you for only a moment; you stood and left, leaving your book open. I had to know what kept a woman's undivided attention."

I tilted my head to the side.

My god, what a memory.

"What was I reading about?" I asked incredulously. "I don't even remember."

"Birds." Oswald blurted. He looked up at me. "An animal encyclopedia. You were reading about penguins."

I blinked and felt a warm pool of adulation wrap itself around my body, like a comforting, electric blanket. Oswald's eyes were bright, and his eyelashes flickered like he, too, was surprised that he had remembered the detail.

"From that moment on," Oswald said quietly. "I'd hoped our paths would cross yet again."

"A year later," I said with a smile, "You and I end up working for the same woman. If that's not a sign, I don't know what is."

"That was my sentiment exactly," Oswald agreed.

"I do like the animal...Penguins, I mean," I said, smiling. "The little babies are so fluffy."

The depth of his love shined from that memory. I leaned forward and kissed him. When he returned it, I reinforced it passionately, and broke it naturally as I sat back in my seat.

The waiter, William, came back.

"The chef notified me that your meal will be ready in ten minutes," William reported.

"Sounds like a plan, Chief," I remarked.

He nodded, then left to get us a refill.

Oswald gestured to me: "Your turn."

"Ah, yes." I mused. "Well…. I do have something, but it's a little...risqué."

"Lay it on me," Oswald implored.

I smiled shyly. A look that he rarely saw on my face. Seeing it now, Oswald smirked.

With great consideration, I took a deep breath and I said "I have something of a reoccurring sexual fantasy. About you."

"Really?" Oswald said, sharing my smile. "Tell me."

"I will," I promised. "But I won't make it easy for you."

"Do you believe I will think badly of you once I hear it?" Oswald asked.

"Honestly? Maybe," I confessed. "You would not be the first person I've had this fantasy about, and if I tell you what it is, you might respond negatively; it wouldn't be the first for that to happen to me."

"I won't judge." Oswald promised. He held out his hand encouragingly. "Please."

"Fine." I said, exhaling completely before I spoke: "My fantasy is that I come home and it's dark. And you come up from behind me, you rip off my clothes, tear them off of me. I start screaming, but you shove my face down into the bed, put a knife against my neck, and you call me your whore…."

I trailed off, and cleared my throat.

"It was a lot easier to say this in my head than actually say it aloud," I muttered.

William came by and placed our entrees down in front of us. I thanked him kindly and he left. I glanced at Oswald who was watching me—not only without judgment, but with intrigue.

"Tell me more," He encouraged.

"It only gets worse," I responded timidly.

We unraveled our forks and knives completely and we started eating. Oswald gestured for me to continue, and I did it now just to get it all out in the open. Why stop there after all…. As I spoke, I was aware that while my face was getting hotter, my panties were getting wet from just talking about it.

"When you fuck me, the knife is against my throat. I'm telling you to stop, but it only spurs you on." I said—now I just avoided his gaze and became preoccupied with rolling the tomato around my plate with my fork. "Your hand covers my mouth; I try to escape, but I can't. I'm pinned between the mattress and underneath the weight of your body."

William stopped by again, and I felt my entire face become beet red—just as his was a few moments ago. I chanced a glimpse at Oswald, a small little sly smile on his face that I couldn't help but notice. William asked if we wanted to order any alcoholic beverages. Oswald declined, and I did as well.

Maybe later to drown my humiliation.

Oswald smiled at me when the waiter left once more.

"Keep going," He said.

I continued: "We go on like that for hours….and when I come, I come like I haven't before. It's so intense, my body convulses, I lose control."

I looked at him. My entire body was lit on fire with embarrassment.

Then seeing him...His lips were parted, his eyes narrowed slightly like he was just imagining the entire scenario clear as day in his head. I cleared my throat, downed my full glass of coke, and patted my lips with my shriveled napkin which I'd been inadvertently unraveling and shredded with my other hand as I revealed my fantasy.

"Wow." Oswald sighed deeply. "That…. that is very…."

I waited for the rejection, the statement that I was odd or something like that. But it never came.

"That's very uncanny," Oswald said finally.

I stared at him.

"What?" I breathed.

Oswald licked his lips and said, "It is uncanny that you would have this idea since the same thought has occurred to me as well. Almost entirely as you described."

"Well, I..." I began but stopped myself. And I smiled: "What do you mean 'almost'?"

Oswald smirked: "Yes, Pigeon. 'Almost'. The only difference between yours and mine is that you are on your stomach, not your back. It has a certain element of surprise that your fantasy lacks."

"Such a critic," I teased, leaning back in my chair. "How many times have you thought about it?"

"Any time you come home late," Oswald confessed. "You?"

"Same," I sighed, smirking.

Oswald's smile sobered and he asked with a little concern, "Have the recent events changed it any?"

I shrugged saying, "Not really. What happened in the office was out of my control—every aspect of it was. But this fantasy I have with you, the one we're talking about…. it's all within a certain amount of control. If we did this, I know without a doubt that you would not truly hurt me whereas Mack was a fucking pig and his every intention was bent on physical harm."

Oswald tilted his head slightly at my objective response.

"You have an interesting insight," He noted.

I said smoothly, "When you've had a DA for a father and a detective for a brother, you kind of learn to see everything objectively."

"Does it make it any easier to deal with what happened?" Oswald asked.

"On some levels," I said calmly. "I suppose that I still feel guilty that it all happened the way it did. I know it isn't my fault" (Oswald was about to say it wasn't) "but that doesn't make me feel any less helpless or angry about what happened."

I placed my hand on his.

"Talking to you about it has made me feel a little better about the ordeal," I confided. "It may not seem like it, but you still make me feel safe. Protected. That is a lot more than what anyone else has ever done for me."

"Even Jim Gordon?" Oswald suggested.

"Especially Jim Gordon," I agreed strongly. "But…. I have to give credit where credit is due; I never thought the pizza codes would come in handy."

Oswald smiled saying, "I thought it was brilliant."

"All Jim," I said, raising my hands in surrender. "He taught me that."

"I am glad he did," He said sincerely.

There was a natural silent pause in our conversation during which we ate some of the dinner, glancing up at each other to smile and then continue eating. It wasn't that awkward silence one would experience with their parents or their two-month-running girlfriend. It was such a comfortable silence that I didn't have to feel like I had to speak about anything to make it tolerable.

Oswald drank the rest of his tea and placed the cup down with a finality.

"I have an idea for the club that might interest you," He said smoothly.

"Color me intrigued."

"In the process of me getting together a list of entertainment, I figured you would be interested in being a part of it," Oswald said lightly. "If you wanted to sing on stage, I would be happy to grant you the opportunity."

I said politely, "I'm flattered, but I don't want to sing."

Oswald looked taken aback saying, "I thought you'd like to."

"I don't. I sing well," I said confidently. "I've been told that by several people, you included. I know I sing well, but singing in front of people gives me the heebie jeebies."

"You sing beautifully."

"I know. But not everyone who sings well wants to be a singer. Just like every person who is good at math doesn't want to become an accountant or a mathematician."

"Then what do you want?"

"A job," I said simply. "The same one, if possible. Working in the restaurant is a no-go now that the cat is out of the bag; Maroni will find someone else to work the restaurant now that you and I have been officially fired."

Oswald chuckled, "Pigeon, you don't have to work for me."

"I like working for you," I insisted. "I like having you as a boss. Makes me feel needed, wanted…. Not to mention it's fucking sexy as hell."

"I thought you hated the reputation."

"It grew on me," I said, shrugging. "When you really look at it, you're my fiancé who just happens to be my boss. Someone from the inside doesn't see it as an insult like someone from the outside would. And I don't mind the perks."

"Such as?"

"I get to sleep with you in your office," I said slyly, winking at him.

"Is that a perk?"

"I'd call it one."

William dropped by again. I welcomed him and said, "Are you still offering alcoholic beverages?"

He nodded.

"I'll take a glass of vodka. Is the ice cream still available—what's it called again?"

"The Orgy."

I burst out laughing and the waiter glanced helplessly at Oswald.

William cleared his throat uncomfortably saying, "I'll be back with your order, ma'am."

"I'll manage your staff," I said, gathering my giggles under control, "So you can worry about everything else: the entertainment, the finances, blah, blah, blah…."

"What of your adventures with Victor Zsasz?" Oswald questioned. "I'm assuming you are still aspiring to be a contracted killer?"

I sighed, "Don't know. We'll see."

"Don't you still have a deal with him?" Oswald recalled.

"I do, but he said I could back out anytime," I returned calmly. "We've had one 'adventure' together and that's when he shot Bob in the head, and he calls me his 'student'. If I go on three more, he'll refer to me as his daughter." I added as an afterthought, "It wouldn't be a bad thought if he was the one sending me off during the wedding; it'd be a lovely ceremony, actually."

William came back with my ice cream and the glass of vodka I asked for.

Seeing this legendary orgasmic dairy dessert was something to be put on one's bucket list. It filled an entire bowl and underneath the chocolate ice cream was, indeed, a slice of strawberry shortcake and one long-ass banana. I took a spoonful and tried to get everything on it and took a bite.

I smiled widely.

"My god!" I exclaimed. "It's like the ice cream and cheesecake fucked all night and had themselves a banana chocolate child and named it 'Hosanna'." I took another spoonful and held it over the bowl to Oswald.

"Taste it," I said.

"I would rather not."

"Do it." I urged, and I poked the spoon against his nose.

"Sylvia…."

"Do it, do it, do it, do it, do it—"

"Alright!" Oswald said loudly. He took my spoon and put it in his mouth. Then a look of genuine surprise and satisfaction replaced the slighted annoyed expression on his face.

"Good, yeah?" I said, smirking.

"It certainly deserves its name," Oswald uttered.

"Its true name? No," I mused, "Now if there were five bowls on the table, that would be an orgy."

"That's going overboard, I think."

"Don't think, Ozzie. Just eat. Grab a spoon."

"Sylvia—"

I took several swigs of vodka, choked it down, and ate three spoons of the ice cream for the chaser. I slammed the cup down, and offered another bite to Oswald.

"Sylvia, no."

"SAY YES TO LIFE!" I screamed.

Everyone in the diner glanced around at us.

"Alright, I believe it is time to go." Oswald said gently. He gingerly took the spoon away from me. "Come on, Sylvia."

A man in the back said, "Woo! YOLO!"

"FUCK YOU!" I shouted. "It's not fucking 'YOLO'. That makes no sense—you only die once, you live every day." I said to Oswald, "Unless one believes in reincarnation, but that's a whole different philosophical bend that adolescent concepts don't apply."

"Point proven, Pidge, keep moving."

I was dimly aware of being led out of the diner and taken home.