Jim thinks back to the first time he ever laid eyes on Oswald Cobblepot, crammed into the trunk of a car with a busted leg and a bloody nose and the whinging, pathetic voice begging for mercy.

He had no idea what he was getting into, at the time. He'd done the right thing. Hadn't he?

Sometimes he wonders about that, then feels slimy and guilty for it, but Oswald brought fire and death to Gotham when he came back, and maybe that could have been avoided.

And now they're saying he's dead. Which, yeah, probably, because Nygma's actually broken up about it, but…Jim has to wonder. A little. The man is a stubborn little shit, after all, and Jim has trouble believing that he'd let something so common as a gunshot wound take him down.

That's not wishful thinking. It's not. It's the byproduct of seeing Oswald pop up time and time again, even after he should have been fish food or roadkill or whatever. Jim sometimes wonders if he's an actual zombie. Maybe he only says he has a ruined knee, to hide the shambling zombie-gait.

Okay, that might be the booze throwing out conspiracy theories, but still. The past couple of years have made Jim a lot more open-minded than he used to be.

He's sitting in his apartment, listening to an ambulance speed by and watching the rain pound against the windows, when he's struck by the ridiculous urge to go to the club. He's not sure it's even there, anymore, but he wants to go…see. Just see.

No. No, it's pouring rain, it's late, he doesn't want to go.

…

God dammit.

He drags himself up and hunts up shoes. This is ridiculous, he doesn't want to go, he doesn't need to go, Oswald is dead and the club's probably closed up or in new hands or whatever, why is he going?

Who knows. But he's dressed now, and halfway out the door.

God. Dammit.

The club is still there. Jim's surprised, a little. What with the mayor business and all…who knows. It's busy, even, and he's tempted to just turn around and go home. He doesn't know why he came here. He needs nothing. Oswald's not here. If Nygma's to be believed (and Jim's never known him to lie), he's at the bottom of the river.

Never mind that a drag didn't turn him up.

Never mind that he didn't wash up, either.

He's not here.

But Jim goes in anyway, feeling decidedly out of place and hoping nobody notices him.

He's not so lucky.

That woman Oswald hired, the blonde one that Jim saw once or twice on a streetcorner before she started appearing at her boss's shoulder, spots him almost immediately. She waves, slips out from behind the bar, and saunters over to him.

"Gordon!" She grins and Jim's half-expecting her to say, boss's upstairs, lemme go tell him you're here. But she doesn't. "Haven't see you around in a while."

"Miss Marquis." He forces a smile, knows it's a failure. "How's things?"

"Busy." She gestures to the room at large. "You look…well."

That's a lie, but a nice one all the same.

"Thanks. You too."

She does look well, though how much of that is 'I'm at work, gotta look perfect' is up for debate.

"Come on in, I'll getcha a drink. Y'know, for old times?"

"No, I really don't-"

"Just one? On the house?"

For a second he hears another voice, tinged with hope, saying, Oh, go on, Jim, you're not on duty. Just a drink with an old friend?

Dammit. Even dead, the little bastard's still got persuasion down to a science.

"Just one." he says firmly, ignores the easy smile he gets in return.

"C'mon, you get the good seat."

'The good seat' turns out to be one a little ways out of the main crowd, with a decent view of the room. It hasn't changed since the last time he'd been in here, in the middle of the day-flattering lighting, fabric that looks, at least, like it costs more than his apartment, the grand piano seated up on stage. No one's playing now, but he's seen Dove play before. Oswald, too, but him only the once.

He's a little surprised Nygma's not here, either just because or to blow the place sky-high. Not that he's complaining-they haven't seen him for weeks. Oh, they've seen his handiwork, and poor Lucius is beginning to tire, but of the man himself, there's nothing. Not even security footage.

Jim almost longs for the garden-variety serial killer, the kind that grabs people off the street because they look like an ex-girlfriend or whatever. Even a cannibal wouldn't be that bad.

He's sipping at his whiskey. S'good stuff-Oswald would have had a heart attack if his employees had ordered anything less. Or killed the one responsible. He might even rise from his grave (wherever that is) to do it.

Really, the image of a ghostly Penguin prowling around his club, bitching at his staff, is hilarious. And not entirely out of the realm of possibility.

"Enjoying yourself?"

Jim is not so proud to deny choking on his drink.

"You're dead!" he hisses, attempting to dislodge bitter drops of alcohol from his throat as he twists around to look at the man sitting next to him.

Oswald looks incredibly unamused. He also looks fairly unharmed-a little thinner than Jim had seen him last, but that's all.

"Really, Jim, I expected better from you. I have been sitting here for five minutes already."

Jim counts to ten-it's his only defense. Strangling the stubborn little bastard will result in his either being stabbed or beaten to a bloody pulp by security. But it's tempting, it's really, really tempting.

"How." he finally spits out. "You are supposed to be at the bottom of Gotham bay."

"Sorry to disappoint." comes the snide response, and Jim counts to ten again. "That option was disagreeable to me."

And there it is. The magical explanation for everything Oswald-related.

"Really."

"I had unfinished business." Oswald's smile is as sharp and brittle as broken glass, and Jim wonders what exactly happened between him and Nygma. Maybe he doesn't want to know. "But never mind me. You look terrible."

At least Dove was nice enough to lie. That was appreciated.

"Been busy."

"The Riddler giving you trouble?"

"A bit." If he punches him in the face, can he say he thought he'd had too much to drink and was hallucinating? Will that fly? "What are you doing here?"

"Business." comes the flippant reply, and Jim really doesn't want to know. "I figured, I'm dead, I may as well get some work done."

"You are the mayor, you need to-"

"Boss?" Dove sidles up and dammit, she's the one who ratted him out, isn't she? "We got a blip."

Oswald's smile turns decidedly feral and he slides off the bar stool, cane in hand.

"Excellent. Well, it was nice to see you, old friend. Don't be a stranger!"

"Wait. Wait a minute-"

But he's vanished in the crowd and Jim's left with a half-empty glass and no idea whether he was here at all.

THE END