Chapter Fifty-Eight: One Busy Day

Author's Note: Hello, my Lovelies :) Happy Holidays! Thank you for all your beautiful reviews. My heart grows three sizes too big when I see I have one. This chapter itself is pretty emotional and it took a bit of time to write but I hope you love it XD

Benson, a gray-eyed, clean-cut brute of a man, stood with his arms crossed over his chest. He stood as he always did directly beside Paddock, serving up his statements whenever Isaac requested an update on debt collections and the like. This was the fifth meeting in the last month where Sylvia was pulled from her clerical duties as the First Lady of Gotham, and hostess of her bar, as well as a few scheduled date nights between her and Oswald; sacrifices all of which were made in the best interest of the Paddock Crime Family.

Once again in Isaac's humble two-story abode, Sylvia sat on Isaac's right at the dining table, which could only seat ten people. This number included the occasional financial accountant (whenever Benson felt like the chair was worthy of his hard, rounded tush), a few of Isaac's more loyal subjects, and a well-rounded (both literally and figuratively) stout of a man, who voluntarily went by 'Pog'.

Pog was a beady-eyed, suit-wearing, handle-bar mustached guy. He said as much as the rest of Isaac's crew (which was barely anything at all). 'Pog' was an alias; and he was only there for one reason only, and that reason was taking place tonight.

When Pog stated his reason for his presence, Sylvia's eyebrows lifted to the ceiling as she turned to Isaac incredulously.

"You're rewriting your will?" She asked.

Isaac smiled, nodding: 'Tonight is the night that you will officially be announced as my successor in front of the Family, my dear. Didn't Benson tell you?'

Benson side-glanced him before Sylvia nodded.

"Yes, he did. But there wasn't any discussion about a lawyer being present."

"I'm not a lawyer," Pog said nasally. With chubby fingers, he held out a binder with laminated documentation. Carefully, he placed them in front of Sylvia, who eyed him curiously before turning her attention back to Isaac.

Isaac signed, 'Pog is in charge of my estate.'

"That's all good," Sylvia returned, "but I don't see why I'm here for that."

Benson sighed in exasperation; the natural baritone of his voice had a usual 'skeptical' sense to it. However, his affect insisted that he was genuinely attentive to Isaac's needs as he said lowly, "Don Paddock is entrusting everything to you, Lark. The Crime Family, the oversight of his businesses, including his finances."

Sylvia let out a nervous laugh. Isaac might've not been able to hear it, but the growing anxiety in her facial features was made too clear in his eyes.

"I'll take care of your businesses and the Family," She said, her tone was light-hearted. "But…" (She licked her lips quickly) "Your living will, and Power of Attorney…That can't go to me."

'Why can't it go to you?'

"Isaac, I'm honored. Believe me. But…I don't know if you know this about me but I have trouble letting things go…People, included. If you were put on a ventilator, I couldn't in all good conscience say you deserve to live or die. I'm not capable of that much responsibility, of that much…"

Isaac shook his head, his own way of telling her to quiet down. Unknown to him, Sylvia's heart was beating frantically, and she kept her hands clasped together on her lap to forbid the others to see just how badly they were shaking.

Isaac gave the nonverbal order for everyone to leave them alone in the living room. Candidly, all of them, including Benson and Pog, left as he requested. Once they were out of earshot, Isaac glanced down at Sylvia's lap, noticing her hands—perhaps he'd known all along and didn't want her future subordinates to sense her weakness.

'You have trouble letting people go?' Isaac signed.

"Yes."

'Tell me.'

Sylvia laughed embarrassingly: "That would take a couple of hours."

He encouraged her to tell him a few instances.

'But please,' Isaac added. 'Use your hands.'

Steadily, Sylvia told him about Henry, Tiffany, Josh, Marci, and Freda. Her 'kiddos', and how she'd nearly begged for them to stay behind. However, they'd gone in Oswald's stead to become decoys for the GCPD so that Oswald could get revenge on Theodore Galavan. In the end, they'd all been gunned down.

Another incident, Sylvia explained dishearteningly, was when Mr. Bell had left. Her first trainer, a former member of the CIA who was an expert in hand-to-hand combat, and her ingrained butler, had left after receiving news of his impending death due to a cancerous tumor in his spine. He was the only person to come close to being her father figure.

Sylvia smiled sadly, wiping her cheek quickly before Isaac could see her tears. Finally, Sylvia told Isaac about her mother's disappearance from her life and the discovery of her suicide, and her own father's passing. Prior to their deaths, neither of them had accepted her.

"Needless to say," Sylvia spoke, her hands forgotten. "I have abandonment issues. I'm afraid to lose people. And if I can't protect the people I care about, it hurts me. More than what people realize. Maybe, even more than I realize."

Isaac looked on her in sympathy and shared her pain. At the first hint of vulnerability, Isaac changed from a predecessor to an old man who listened to a young woman's trials. Her tribulations, he'd known of and the pain she'd endured, but these events that she described…Isaac knew he'd barely just scratched the surface. Like his talks with Charleen.

Sylvia rubbed her cheek. The wetness from the tears were itchy, and she chalked it up to her hair being in her face rather than a break in her cool, humorous façade.

'It's devastating,' Isaac signed, nodding his head slowly. 'Being unable to protect the people we love. It's a helpless feeling.'

"For some."

Isaac peered at her curiously. He added, 'Helplessness comes to many in different forms. Fear. Sadness…'

"Rage."

Isaac's eyes widened at how almost demonic Sylvia's voice attuned. Her eyes brightened at the familiarity of such a feeling, but there was nothing abnormal about her response. He expected her to say 'anger'. 'Rage', on the other hand, was a different type of emotion altogether.

'You can control rage,' Isaac signed sensibly. 'Or it will control you.'

Sylvia smiled and she let out a hysterical giggle: "If only people knew how often I wish it would. I'd probably feel less angry with myself than with other people."

'Why would you feel angry at yourself?'

Sylvia frowned, looking at her hands, which trembled at the knowledge and the answer to such a question. She responded in the softest way, "Because when others hurt the people closest to me, when they come for my family or my friends, it makes me feel helpless. It shouldn't happen though…I'm a weapon. I can fight. I can shoot. I'm stronger than five able-bodied men combined. So, when someone hurts the people I care about, I don't hate them."

"Then who?"

Sylvia bit her lower lip in silent regret when she spoke.

"I hate myself."

Isaac's eyebrows furrowed in a stronger pool of pity. The finer lines of his face deepened, and he looked upon Sylvia with a renewed sense of respect, but also one of knowing. And in his old age and years of wisdom, Isaac knew this was a side of Sylvia that not even Penguin or her brother were aware of. As she spoke, tears slowly rolled down her cheeks, and dripped down her face.

"When people hurt me, I don't care." Sylvia admitted with a sad smile; her eyes crinkled so the tears on her lashes dropped to her lap. "I've not cared for my own personal welfare in years. If it meant saving Oswald, or Jim…Ed, or any one of my men, I'd hand over my heart on a silver platter. But I've had my moments, you know…When I thought someone close to me had died…When I thought he was gone forever…"

Isaac knew what she was talking about. He signed, 'You were thinking what the rest of us thought: Detective Gordon killed Penguin on Falcone's orders.'

"Jim found me on the rooftop of my apartment. To keep me from jumping, he told me the truth. Honestly, I wouldn't have killed myself. I wouldn't have jumped. I couldn't…Oswald wouldn't have wanted me to end my life over him. He'd have wanted me to live. I mean…He does want me to live. He's alive right now, I don't know why I'm talking about him like he isn't." She gave a light chuckle after that.

Isaac shifted in his seat at the table, and he signed, 'So, you won't hurt yourself. You won't kill yourself. So, when a perpetrator comes after someone close to you, the only way to feel better is to make that person hate their life to reflect the grandiosity of the injustice. Rage is a powerful thing, but it's cannibalistic.'

"You don't understand. It's not just 'rage'," Sylvia tried to explain. "It's violence. It's…It's like something dark inside is trying to get out, and the moral part of me, that part of me that grew up with Jim by my side, is there to stop it. To tone it down. To tell me 'hey, this is the wrong way to act, calm the fuck down now'. And the smallest things used to do it. Whether someone called Oswald a 'freak' or would threaten him violence. It's a nagging feeling, a constant urge to rip people's heads off their bodies whenever I feel like an injustice has been done to the people I care for."

'That sounds frightening.'

"You'd think so," Sylvia muttered. She twirled a piece of her hair around a finger, adding, "Sometimes, I wish I could just give into it, you know? Just let go. I've had so much happen to me—criminal violence, sexual assault…I've had people leave me as a kid and leave me as an adult…I've had close friends die because of my misdirection, and one of my closest allies and confidantes took my only daughter away from me."

Isaac patted her thigh, saying, 'It's no wonder to me why you're angry. You're carrying a lot of pain. You've carried it alone for so long.'

"Well, not alone, per se. I've had Jim." Sylvia reminded defensively. "I had Jim when I was younger. And I have Oswald."

'And me.' Isaac reminded.

"Yes, and you."

They laughed quietly, but then a lightning bolt struck Sylvia (figuratively speaking). She looked at Isaac with the realization; the latter returned her expression with one of curiosity and interest.

'What is it?' Isaac asked.

"Something has just occurred to me," Sylvia gasped.

Isaac gestured her to quickly say it.

"Charleen is just like me when I was her age." She said quietly.

'Is she, really?'

"Down to the same bitter, cynical, pop-me-in-the-mouth attitude."

'Identical, then.'

"With one exception."

'And that is?'

Sylvia glanced at the table, murmuring, "Charleen would have been me if I didn't have a moral compass when I was a kid."

'And who was your moral compass?'

"Isn't it obvious?" She questioned with a small smile. "It was Jim."

"When are you coming home?"

Sylvia heard the irritation in Oswald's voice as though he was directly beside her, and not on the phone. She'd taken the phone call the moment she returned to her club to check on things; Alex Beals, Dagger, and Chilly were playing a game of poker at one of the booths, while Victor Zsasz, who sat at the bar, made light conversation with the newest bartender. Nearest to the door, Jack and Joel were at a booth, testing each other's pain tolerance as they thumbed a knife between their fingers, waiting for the other to stab their own hand accidentally.

Isaac Paddock's meeting had been around seven-thirty this morning; between the rewriting of his will, the plans for their change-of-command, which was taking place later in the day, and her popping in for her usual check-ins with her staff at Lean On Vee's, Sylvia had been blowing off Oswald's insistent phone calls for the last couple of hours.

Finally, after the sixth call, Sylvia answered and was greeted with his agitation immediately.

"I'm not going to be home for several hours," She responded calmly. "I have a few errands to run at the club, and—"

"—How long is that going to take?"

"A few hours."

"Wonderful," Oswald scoffed.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Sylvia demanded. Her own irritation rose to the surface a little too quickly for her wares, but she couldn't stand his overbearing tone sometimes. Especially now, when she had more than a few balls to juggle in the air.

"Oh, nothing," Oswald retorted. "Just the feeling of being stretched in all directions and slowly being buried six feet under the ground is all. Ed is in bed, depressed, and I'm barely keeping my head above these proverbial waters."

"What do you want me to do about that?"

"You can help me tame the media vultures, for one."

Sylvia rolled her eyes. Yes, she understood he was under a lot of pressure. Being the Mayor of a treacherous town, and the Kingpin of a god-forbidden Underworld had its own wounds to be stitched. Add the 'Ed-is-depressed-because-of-what-they-did-to-Isabella' matter into the mix, and, now, Oswald was being pressed so hard, he'd become a diamond by tomorrow.

"Just postpone the interviews until next week."

"That's not good PR."

"I don't give a damn about PR."

"Well, one of us has to," Oswald said sharply. "It's our reputation on the line, after all."

"Yours, mostly. You're the Mayor."

"Precisely my point. I have a meeting with the Commissioner in an hour, and a tour at a middle school an hour after that. Do you see how busy I am currently?"

Sylvia muttered under her breath: "Doesn't sound any busier than your normal routine."

"Passive-aggressive comments spoken in low undertones aren't necessary." He chided.

"I'm just saying, you're not the only one with a full plate."

"Oh, really? Tell me, then. What's going on with you?"

Sylvia rolled her eyes. Oswald could be really self-centered when it came to his own agenda, and while she could temper through those obnoxious moments, she was having a harder time than usual doing it this time around. However, she bit her tongue, and said with a forced calm, "Just the usual routine."

"HEY!" One of the Regulars shouted at the comic on the platform. "STOP TELLING THE SAME JOKES!" A beer bottle shattered on the stage.

"I've gotta go, Oswald," Sylvia said briskly. "Crowd control."

"Fine. But we need to talk later."

"Fine."

"Love you."

"I love you too," Sylvia said quickly. She and Oswald hung up at the same time.

Alex glanced in her direction. She made a gesture for him to handle the unruly Regular; at the ready, he stood and made a beeline for the guest, and propped for him to leave the bar. When he didn't, Alex pulled out his Glock, cocked the gun, and placed it against the Regular's face. In a matter of seconds, the man suddenly had his ducks all in a nice little row.

Sylvia chuckled when the Regular sat back down and quietly drank his beer. When he calmed down, Alex put his weapon back in the holster clipped to his belt and casually draped his jacket over it. Sylvia sat down at the bar, smirking when Victor winked at the bartender, who placed a shot of Jack Daniels in front of him. Victor motioned to take out his wallet, but Marcus shyly waved it away, telling him it was on the House.

Sylvia snickered as Victor tossed back the shot.

"Wow," She drawled as the barkeep sauntered his little body over to take the orders of new arrivals.

"What?" Victor asked after he finished scrunching his face. He let out a low whistle: "Goddamn…That was strong."

"You got an 'on the house' drink from Marcus."

The hitman glanced at her curiously: "Is that his name?"

"Yep. Marcus." Sylvia said smoothly.

"Is that your new hire?"

"He's been here a few weeks."

"Why am I just noticing him?"

"Because I wasn't standing in front of you, maybe." Sylvia returned with a sly smile. "He's Latino, you know."

Victor eyed the bartender with a suave appeal. She noticed that Victor's eyes lowered to the Latino's round butt before they raised back to admire the chiseled jaw and deep brown eyes. The bartender's cheeks were so sharp, they'd cut glass.

"He's single." Sylvia offered freely.

Victor grinned shamelessly: "You know you're the only one for me."

"Maybe. But we have an open relationship, Precious."

"Not interested in love at the moment."

"Who said it had to be love?" Sylvia said airily, leaning her back against the counter. "Everyone can do for a little frisking."

"He's not a cop, Liv."

"You don't have to be a cop to frisk someone."

"Legally, you do."

"Isn't it always better if you don't have permission?"

Victor smirked at her response. Platonic as their relationship was and would forever be, there were times when Sylvia's remarks could titillate the less professional side of his brain. She loved knives, and didn't mind the dirty part of her job—the torture, interrogation, ripping fingernails off those who wouldn't answer their questions—a woman after his own heart. And she had a few scars that made him green with envy. None of which she had easily won, however.

"How's your real marriage?" Victor asked seriously.

"Hanging by a thread," Sylvia joked.

"Judging from your dulcet tones…"

"Oswald is just irritated."

"You're not home enough," Victor guessed.

"Something like that."

"Well, you have been hanging with Paddock enough to rouse a little jealousy."

Sylvia rolled her eyes for the umpteenth time today saying pointedly, "I'm not fucking old men."

"No one said you were, Kiddo."

"So, what is there to be jealous about?"

"Penguin's used to you giving him all your attention, remember?" Victor stated. He pointed to her phone in her hand, adding, "Blowing him off hasn't helped his mood either. Earlier, he asked me to hunt down one of his last people that haven't completely paid their dues—the ones that still owed Falcone when he took over."

"Oswald has his own little ways of venting, I guess. So, when are you doing that?"

"Tonight."

"Take Alex with you," Sylvia said, motioning her head in Alex's direction. "He seems bored."

"I'm no baby sitter, Liv."

"No one is asking you to babysit anyone."

Victor sighed deeply: "He's boring. I'd prefer it if you came with me instead."

"I'm needed here."

"We can do it later tonight."

"I have a prior engagement," Sylvia excused, smiling attentively. "Isaac is knighting me as his successor."

"So, it's true."

Sylvia, Victor, Alex, Dagger, the Kabuki twins, and Chilly turned towards the voice that entered the vicinity, unfamiliar at first until they recognized its owner. Jim Gordon strode inside, minding the tougher characters cautiously before briskly passing Dagger and Chilly. When he approached Sylvia, Victor and Alex stiffened simultaneously; Victor's hand touched Sylvia's upper back as an instinctive protective extension.

"It's fine, guys," Sylvia soothed. She gestured for Victor and Alex to leave.

"Come on, Rooster," Victor chuckled. "The Gordons gotta talk."

"Good seeing you again, Jimbo," Alex said good-naturedly, patting Jim on the back.

Jim glared daggers at him but he said nothing in return. Once the two hitmen had left, Sylvia nodded for Jim to talk.

"So, it's true," Jim said unhappily. "You're going to be working for Penguin. As a Don."

"Donna." Sylvia corrected, touching his nose with a light, playful boop. "It's the female derivative of a Don."

"Does it matter?"

"In my case, it will."

Jim hooked his thumbs through his belt loops. Disappointment was more than prominent on his face; the lines of his face darkened with a shadow of impending doom.

"You look so sullen about that," Sylvia said as she pulled her hair into a ponytail. "But…" She allowed some hairs to lie on her face in abandon, smoothing them behind her ear a second after. "I'm guessing it's not for the reason I would originally imagine."

"Well, there are a couple reasons, actually."

"Other than the one, which would make me a gangster." Sylvia offered.

"That's one of them," Jim agreed, nodding reluctantly.

"And the other?"

"Personally, I liked it more when you were standing alongside Penguin."

"Oh?"

"You had a little more control over what he did."

"Or maybe it was vice versa." Sylvia reminded, gesturing to herself. "I don't really stop him from doing anything."

"You just coerce him into not doing something he might later regret."

"Precisely."

Jim exhaled a scathing noise at her sudden agreement, knowing she was fully aware. It also annoyed him how easily she was ready to enable him. But every now and then, Sylvia could talk Oswald out of doing something that would permit the GCPD to come after him. Oswald had a legitimate prowess to sway Sylvia either way, but every now and then…She had her moments. And she picked her battles carefully. Now that she was no longer sitting at the head of the table on Oswald's level, it would prove to be more of a challenge since he no longer had someone working the ins and outs for him.

"So, you've come to, what? Talk me out of taking my place as Paddock's heir?"

"You're not my whole reason for being here."

"Am I ever?"

Jim quirked an eyebrow at her passive-aggressive response, but he chalked it up to her stress. She had a lot going on. Didn't they all, though?

Sylvia motioned to him: "Why are you here, then, if not for me?"

"I came to ask you about Barnes."

"Captain Barnes?"

"Who else?"

"Ooh, snippy," Sylvia whispered with a smirk.

"Vee."

"Fine. What about him?"

"Have you seen him recently?"

"No."

"Have you spoken to him since the engagement party?"

"Not at all."

"Have you—"

"Am I being interrogated?" Sylvia inquired.

"No…"

"Then stop using that tone."

"I'm not using—"

"—Yes, you are." Sylvia scolded. She poked him in the chest, adding, "You know how I hate being interrogated like a common criminal. If you're going to do that, at least arrest me."

"Why would I arrest you?"

"I'm just saying."

"Fine. I'll change my tone."

"Good."

Jim smiled tightly, and asked with a forced polite tone: "When was the last time you saw Barnes?"

"See," Sylvia sighed, gesturing for Marcus to bring a coke. She looked at Jim: "It still sounds like you're interrogating me."

Jim dropped his façade and said disparagingly, "I can't turn it off."

"You're right about that." Sylvia giggled. "Thank you, honey." She smiled kindly at Marcus, who glanced at Jim with a modest grin before retrieving a second glass on Sylvia's request.

After a moment, Marcus placed the glass down and poured Jim a coke.

"I'm not staying long," Jim said politely to Marcus.

"I insist." The young bartender offered, gesturing to the glass. "It's fresh."

When Marcus spoke, his voice was light and fair. With his sharp cheek bones, strong jaw, and dark brown eyes, Marcus could have any person he wanted—be it a tough, dangerous man like Jim Gordon or someone who was swarthy and mysterious as Victor Zsasz. Marcus had a tendency to attract the dangerous types—but he liked it that way, evidently. Jim raised an eyebrow when Marcus winked at him and the detective glanced at Sylvia inquisitively after he did.

"He's my new bartender," Sylvia explained, waving a hand to him.

"How old is he?"

"Twenty-five," She answered. "He's single."

Jim stared at her and said quietly, "Why in the world are you telling me that?"

"Just in general," Sylvia said with a teasing grin. "The boy needs an outlet. He's a Sub, in any case you know anyone looking for a man who's easy on the eyes."

"How do you know that?" Jim questioned disbelievingly.

Sylvia shrugged casually: "He told me."

"Alright then." Jim mulled that one over uncomfortably, before he continued onto his questionnaire: "So you haven't seen Barnes."

"No. But here's a question in return. He's your captain."

"That's not a question."

"No, but it was a segue to my question," Sylvia specified with a smile. "He's your captain. So, shouldn't you know where he is?"

"I'm not looking for him."

"Then why are you asking if I've seen him?"

"I'm investigating something."

"Naturally. That is your profession."

"And his location is essential to it."

Sylvia cocked her head to the side, "I'm guessing this has something to do with Symon's body being thrown out of a window?"

Jim raised his eyebrows, startled.

"Eyes and ears around Gotham," Sylvia informed as she twirled a finger in the air. "People tell me things. Word is that Symon didn't just fall out of a window. He was pushed. By whom, I must wonder. You've got a lot of suspects at that party. Several of which are Falcone's people."

"Yeah. Symon had enemies."

"He also had friends, from what I gather. But if you're investigating Falcone, you're out of your lane."

"Because he used to be a Don?"

"No. Symon has no enemies with Falcone. Most of his captains just know him because he did minor surgery for their daughters. Facials, shit like that," Sylvia explained, waving her hand dismissively.

"You would know that, wouldn't you?"

"Yep."

Jim chewed on the inside of his cheek: "I'm not looking into Falcone or his people."

Sylvia's eyes narrowed when she realized it: "Jim…"

"I can't talk about it, Vee."

"You think Barnes—"

"Vee."

"His record is clearer than anyone's in Gotham, including yours," Sylvia said skeptically.

"I know."

"And he was a Marine!"

"I know!"

"But you think—"

"—I can't talk about it."

"Why though?"

"Because it's an investigation. And ongoing."

"No. I know that. I just want to know why you think it's him."

Jim gritted his teeth and said dismissively, "Call it 'instinct'. I'll see you later."

"It was great catching up."

"Yeah, yeah. Congratulations on your demotion."

"Suck my dick, Jimmy!" Sylvia called, smirking when he waved back at her as he left the club.

Marcus returned to her side of the bar counter, looking at the untouched glass.

"Did Gordon not like it?" Marcus asked.

"He was in a hurry, Hun."

"That's sad."

"Don't worry. He's still hung up on a doctor," Sylvia comforted, patting his arm. "If you like, I have a very tightly wound, irritated husband back home who's sexually frustrated. So, if no one takes your bait tonight, you've got my blessing to wiggle your worm in front of him and see if he'll bite."

Marcus blushed a deep shade of pink at her sexual implication.

The ceremony itself was short and simple. There was a small passing of a torch between Isaac to Sylvia, who knelt down on the carpet in front of an open fireplace; Isaac kissed her forehead, a physical way of passing his blessing onward for her to take his place. After she stood, he bowed at the waist; his followers, including Benson, took a knee.

Isaac gestured for Benson to come forth.

Isaac stepped to the wayside so Benson stood in front of Sylvia, who could only meet his eyes by craning her head back. He was at least a foot taller than she. He held out his hand; she placed hers in his palm.

After he kissed the back of it, Benson said in his low baritone voice: "Welcome to the Head of the Family, Donna Gordon."

Sylvia sent Isaac a startled glance.

"Apologies," Benson said gently. "We have to use your maiden name to distinguish your place as the Head of the Family. Using Penguin's last name would be—"

"Weird and redundant. I got it." Sylvia agreed. "It just sounded weirder than what I was expecting. Does that mean you're all a Gordon Crime Family, instead of a Paddock Crime Family?"

"That's the tradition, yes", said Benson coolly.

"Alrighty then. I'm sure that won't be confusing later when people refer to Jim and me when we're not in the same room," She said humorously.

"It's tradition."

"Oh, no…I get it…But for pleasantries, you all can call me 'Lark'. Leave that 'Donna Gordon' business just in this room, 'kay?"

"That's not tradition." Benson stated stoically.

"Well, it's now my tradition. Tradition of casual-ness and informality. That's how this boulder rolls. 'Kay?" Sylvia said with a crooked grin. "Is that cool with you, Benson?"

"Sure." He grunted.

"Fantastic."

Isaac beamed: 'Let's get ready for dinner.'

Dinner was served at eight o'clock at night. It took a total of two hours for the ceremony, the dinner, and the after-dinner conversation and party, and when the rest of the crew had finally dispersed, Isaac requested that Sylvia remain. When she did, he handed her a box no larger than the palm of her hand.

It was a white box, dressed in maroon, sheer ribbon.

"What's this?" She asked.

He signed, 'a gift.'

She peered at it for only a moment before she untied the ribbon, allowing it to fall to the floor. Tilting open the top, she smiled when she saw what was inside. It was only a piece of paper, but the words inscribed on it were handwritten, notably in Isaac's own penmanship.

A Japanese proverb:

'Fall seven times,

Stand up eight'

Reading the words, Sylvia felt her heart pang but with an ache that made her feel affection for Isaac in such a way she'd not felt for someone else except for Mr. Bell.

"This is beautiful, Isaac." She whispered.

Isaac beamed; the wrinkles creased so much that his eyes almost closed. He held out his arms and hugged her. The embrace was warm, and secure. Sylvia wrapped her arms around him, smiling when she felt his fragile hands pat between her shoulder blades.

They broke apart, and she held her fingers to her lips and motioned to him as a 'thank you'. He did the same for 'you're welcome'.

'I appreciate you telling me what you told me. It can't have been easy. And I know it took a lot of strength to do it. This is my token of appreciation. You are a strong woman. Stronger than anyone, including your husband or your brother, will ever know. But,' Isaac signed understandably. 'There is a rage inside of you, the likes of which this world has never seen nor has ever known. And it'll be up to you, to never give into that darkness. No matter how freeing it would be.'

Sylvia smiled, knowing he meant well. He rubbed the back of his head.

'Now forgive me, but I should be heading to bed.' He signed with a humor. 'This old man is tired.'

He took his leave, kissing her forehead. She smiled sweetly at him when he did, and he headed upstairs.

Sylvia was about to leave, getting to her feet. That was until she glanced at the window, having that feeling of being watched. And she was right. Staring through the window was Charleen; her auburn curls fell to her shoulders in more than tangled wisps. Grime and dirt covered the teenager's knees and face.

Sylvia steadily walked towards the sliding, peer-through door. Her eyes never leaving Charleen's. Meanwhile, the teenager stared back at her, almost as though she was begging her not to leave her outside. Her blue eye matched the green one in pain.

Slowly, Sylvia held the door handle, sliding it open.

"Charleen." Sylvia said softly.

"Hi."

The girl's tone had been no politer than the last time they had spoken. Granted, the last time they'd spoken was the same time that Charleen had screamed at her, and had slapped her across the face without even thinking of her own personal welfare.

How like me, indeed, thought Sylvia.

"Is Isaac here?" Charleen questioned; she shoved Sylvia's hip so she could make her way inside.

"He just headed up to bed."

"Well, I wanna talk to him."

"He's sleeping."

"Then wake him up," Charleen ordered.

Sylvia stared at her, placing the box on the countertop: "I'm not going to do that."

"Then I'll do it."

With that said, Charleen headed towards the stairs. Sylvia grabbed her arm and pulled her back. Feeling someone grab onto her forearm, Charleen wielded back her fist to knock her lights out, but Sylvia caught her hand in her own palm.

"GET OFF ME!" Charleen shrieked. "GET OFF!"

"When you start to calm down, I will." Sylvia said patiently.

In spite of Sylvia's own strength, she found it a little discombobulating trying to disarm a teenager whose own strength had been acquired through street fights and barbarism. Charleen pushed Sylvia away and when she did, Sylvia didn't try to come for her. The teenager simply glared daggers back at her, furious for having been touched at all.

"What the fuck is your problem!" Charleen snapped. "I ain't done nothing to you!"

"You're barging inside, unannounced, and you're trying to wake up an old man who needs his sleep." Sylvia said curtly.

At her tone, Charleen cringed, crossing her arms grumpily.

Still, Sylvia softened her voice, observing her: "What happened to you?"

"Nothing!"

"Your knees are dirty."

"So? It's the streets. It's the Flea. Shit's always dirty there."

"What happened there?" Sylvia asked, pointing to the smudge on Charleen's face.

At her inquiry, Charleen quickly brushed the dirt off her face, trying to hide whatever it was that had been there. Sylvia grabbed her wrist, pushing her hand away.

"You've been hit." Sylvia said incredulously.

"Stop fucking touching me!" Charleen snapped, pushing her away. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you touch everyone that comes near you, huh?"

"Who hit you?"

"No one."

"It's still fresh. That was recent."

"So what!" Charleen snarled. "This ain't nothing. All of us street kids get slapped around like we're nothing. What does it matter to you if we do! It doesn't matter to anyone else."

"Except it matters to Isaac. Is that why you came to him tonight? To tell him what happened?"

"No. I came to tell him that…"

Charleen had begun to say it, but then she realized she was talking more to Sylvia than she was to Isaac. It was as though Sylvia had put her under a spell. Realizing this, Charleen frowned deeply, and spat at her feet.

"I'm done talking to you! I wanna talk to Isaac."

"Isaac is—"

"FINE!" Charleen shouted. She kicked the kitchen counter, then the glass door, leaving a smudge of a footprint there. "Whatever! He's sleeping. Fine…Fuck…I didn't want to talk to him anyway!" She started walking away, but then she turned on her heel. "You know what, 'Lark'. 'Sylvia'. 'Donna Gordon'. Whatever they call you. You may think you're gonna replace Isaac, but there ain't replacing someone like him."

"I know that," Sylvia said lightly.

"And if you think you can, then you don't know shit about him."

"Are you angry because I'm replacing him, or are you angry because you think he'll abandon you like the rest of the world has?"

Charleen looked murderous. And in a quick second, she reached down into the pocket of her jeans, pulled out a switch blade, and lunged for her. Immediately, Sylvia caught her hand that held the knife, then grabbed Charleen, pushing her down on her stomach. Her hands were snatched and pinned behind her back; Charleen cried loudly when Sylvia yanked the switchblade out of her hands, throwing it a few feet away from her.

Sylvia did not scream at her. She didn't command for her to calm down. Instead, she let Charleen try to fight her, scream at her, and struggle. When Charleen realized she could not get out of Sylvia's vice-like grip, she started whimpering and her forehead thudded against the carpet in defeat.

"I am not your enemy, Charleen." Sylvia said breathlessly. "But if you come at me with a knife again, I will be. And you do not want me as your enemy. And neither do I."

"But you arrrrrre!" Charleen cried. "You're taking Isaac away from me!"

"I'm not doing anything like that."

"You're replacing him!"

"I'm not doing anything he did not already want me to do."

Charleen shrieked, "GET OFF OF ME! GET OFFFFF!"

"I am going to let you go," Sylvia said firmly. "But if you try to lunge at me, I will put you in this exact position again. Do you hear me?"

"WHATEVER! JUST GET OFF ME!"

There was a shuffle of footsteps and Sylvia saw Benson in her peripheral vision. He was dressed down in a pair of sweat pants, and nothing else. The muscles on that man…and those muscles held a gun in between his palms.

Sylvia shook her head and he faded back into the shadows. After he did, she stood up and Charleen scrambled to her feet, glaring at her.

"You can hate me all you want," Sylvia said calmly. "You can wish me dead. But you know I am not the one responsible for Isaac's decisions. His decisions are his alone. And I know you think I'm your enemy, since I'm the one who's taking his place."

"You don't know anything about me."

"I do know. I was like you at your age. Angry. Bitter…violent. Still am."

"You're not violent. You haven't killed anyone in a while. You don't think what I think. You cannot see what I see! You don't feel what I feel. No one does!" Charleen cried furiously. "NO ONE DOES! And no one understands me!"

"That's where you're wrong. We are more alike than you know."

"We are nothing alike, you stupid bitch. The things I've done to survive…No one cares about that."

"Some do."

"What, people like you?"

"No. Not people like me. Just me." Sylvia insisted. She held out her hand. "You can talk to me. Trust me. You can't shoulder your struggles alone."

"I'm not alone. Isaac helps me. And I'd talk to him, if you weren't trying to stop me! He's the only one that cares about me."

"I care."

Charleen shook her head: "How can you care for someone you've only just met? That doesn't make any fucking sense. You're a fucking liar."

She grabbed her switchblade from the floor and placed it in her jeans.

"I don't care who you are or what you think you know. But you're stupid for being here. And no matter what you think of yourself or how much you think of yourself, you're nothing. It doesn't matter what anyone else here thinks."

In a single whip of her hair, Charleen sprinted out of the house.

Ed was depressed. That is what Oswald said on the phone earlier. And she could believe it.

Sylvia watched Ed sleep in his room only for a moment before she crept inside, picking up the bottle of whiskey and the glass beside it. He'd gone through a fifth of the bottle; the result: Edward Nygma snoring under the covers, his glasses still on his face, set askew.

She gingerly took and folded his spectacles, placing them on the end table where the whiskey had originally been. Steadily, Sylvia sat on the edge of the bed, folding one leg underneath herself so she could ever so lightly tuck the blankets more comfortably around him.

"You and Oswald," Sylvia muttered, placing the whiskey bottle on the ground. "Something happens to a woman and the both of you are two finger-lengths from drowning in alcohol."

Her fingers brushed his bangs off his face then ghosted over his cheeks with butterfly-softness. It was only at that moment where Ed stirred from his alcohol-induced deep sleep, opening his eyes to squint as he tried to assemble the visage amidst the blackness in the room. With the moonlight all but shrouded by the gray dark clouds, he couldn't quite make her out.

"Liv…?"

"It's me, Riddles." Sylvia cooed softly.

He held her hand that still remained on his face, his thumb stroked the back of it. Half-asleep, Ed wasn't much for conversation at the moment. Even in this state of disrepair, he was still grateful to see a friendly face. Sylvia leaned forward, kissing his forehead. He mumbled a quiet content 'mm'; still, she heard the underlying tone of pain just beneath the surface.

"How're you doing?" Sylvia whispered.

Ed groaned, rubbing his forehead: "I've felt better."

"I bet."

"Liv…"

"Hmm?"

He opened his mouth to say something, but his words faltered for whatever reason. He looked her up and down briefly and said instead, "Are you wearing a dress?"

"Had another meeting with Paddock," Sylvia explained away.

"How'd that go?"

"It was and—at the same time—wasn't pointless drivel."

Ed smiled at her casual way of putting the political side of the Underworld bluntly, but the small crack of humor was then iced in dullness. Not without his gratitude. Sylvia was trying to cheer him up, put some pep in his step—no doubt Oswald had conveyed to her the dreariness of his current attitude.

Oswald had tried to be more understanding of his plight; he'd even permitted the artist to put a rendering of himself in Oswald's painting. However, the news coming to light that Isabella had been murdered created a void in his heart that needed to be filled with vengeance.

"Isabella was murdered," Ed croaked. He felt that he needed to tell her personally.

"That's what Oz said."

"It was Butch."

"Butch?"

"Yes. Butch."

"Why do you think that?"

"I exposed him as the Red Hood's gang leader," Ed said groggily, rubbing his face. "It's clear he wants revenge for his exile. Tabitha is clearly in on it." He started to sit up. "I want—"

"Shhh…." Sylvia hushed, encouraging him to lay back down.

Ed's eyebrows quirked upwards, not in so much surprise as he was intrigued. This was the soft side Oswald normally had the privy to see. Her motherly nature, such gentleness. Appeasing her and also because he was really tired, Ed lied down, looking at Sylvia from his back. She remained sitting on the edge of the bed, although he detected the unspoken order to remain rested by the firmness of her hand on his chest.

"I want to get them back for what they did," Ed declared. "It's the least I can do."

"The least you can do, Riddles, is sleep."

"You can't stop me."

"I'm not trying to stop you," Sylvia reassured. "But if I know you as well as I think I do, you're a lightweight and you've had enough." She indicated the bottle on the ground. "So, for now, revenge will have to wait. And you, Mr. Nygma, are going to sleep it off."

She started to leave, but Ed quickly grabbed her wrist. At his sudden retraction, Sylvia turned expectantly to him. When he tugged a little, she approached and sat back down beside him. He looked at her with the biggest, puppy dog eyes. Even in the dark bedroom, Sylvia could see their chocolate brown irises beckoning.

"Did you like her?" He asked.

"Who?"

"Isabella."

Sylvia bit the inside of her cheek, and finally she said, "No. Not really."

"How could you not have liked her?"

"She wasn't my type."

Ed cracked a grin at her humor. This seemed to satisfy whatever it was that he urgently needed answering as he relaxed into the bed. Sylvia leaned forward, kissing his cheek. Once he felt her mouth on his face, Ed turned his head so her lips fell on his. It surprised her at first, especially when his head lifted up to deepen the kiss. To his benefit and pleasant shock, she returned it.

"You taste like grapes." Ed mumbled with a small smile.

"You taste like whiskey." Sylvia chortled. "And you smell like it too. Go to sleep, Ed."

"Wait, wait, wait."

She looked at him readily.

"There's something I want to say to you."

"What is it?"

Ed furrowed his eyebrows as though he was trying to filter out the words and weeds in his mind. As though he feared his hesitation might dull her expectation, he quickly sat up and took her forearm, urging her to remain seated as he tried to explain what he wanted to articulate. After a moment, he groaned in frustration.

"Take your time." Sylvia soothed.

Ed sighed, rubbing his eyes. Finally, he said, "There's something I wanted to say. Earlier. About what happened between us…all three of us."

"Oh?"

"That night when we were together…I mean, do you feel any different?"

"'Different'?"

Ed nodded.

Sylvia shrugged, "I don't mind being in the same room with the both of you if you're asking about my comfort."

"I just can't get that night out of my mind."

"Well, I'm not exactly forgettable in the sack." Sylvia teased.

Ed grinned handsomely at her, knowing that was true.

He'd never truly forget how Isabella had made him feel, but Sylvia had made him feel other things—the forbidden parts of himself that were too dangerous for the librarian had been revealed to Sylvia and she had completely accepted him, begged for it, even. That, and how Oswald seemed more than willing to…

Ed slowly lied back down. His head throbbed, and further reminisce gave the sensation of a tentacle tightly wrapping itself around his skull. As he did, Sylvia leaned forward and kissed his forehead.

"It all seems like a dream," He whispered. Thinking of the past couple of events, he added darkly, "And a nightmare. How can it be both?"

Sylvia brushed her fingers over his cheeks, then placed her index and middle finger over his mouth so he'd stop talking. Ed sleepily smiled at her gesture; his eyelids became heavier and heavier as he listened to her softly hum a lullaby unknown to him. Once he was snoring, Sylvia grinned widely, tucking him in and then grabbed the whiskey bottle and glass on her way out.

She wasn't surprised to see Oswald lingering in the hallway, just outside of Ed's bedroom door. He'd been in the kitchen prior to Sylvia returning home; instead of greeting him as she'd done naturally, Sylvia had receded up the stairs to check on Ed. As she closed the door to Ed's bedroom, Sylvia inclined her head to the side, a nonverbal hint for Oswald to follow.

Downstairs, in the kitchen, Sylvia placed the emptied glass in the sink and the whiskey bottle on the counter top.

"You're home late." Oswald noted.

She glanced at his overall disposition. His arms were crossed; the muscles in his jaw and neck torqued with an obvious irritation; his eyes alone could convey his annoyance with her tardiness. Calmly, Sylvia rinsed the empty glass, and poured a drink of her own; he followed her into the Meeting Room.

"I had another meeting." She explained it away just as she did with Ed, although her humor was lacking in embellishment.

"And how many more late meetings are we due for?"

Sylvia tossed back the Irish whiskey, feeling it sting the back of her throat as well as her sinuses.

Oswald stood behind a chair, his hands caressing the back of it with a taut grip.

She placed the bottle and glass on the table, pouring another shot: "You're awfully passive-aggressive tonight. Ed's the one going through a tragedy; what's your excuse?"

Oswald frowned, scooting out the chair.

Pointing to it, he commanded gruffly: "Have a seat."

Sylvia rolled her eyes to the ceiling. He pulled out another chair for himself; she sat opposite of him.

"You've had five meetings with Isaac Paddock," Oswald stated crisply. "In the last month."

"Well, taking over a Crime Family does take time and communication."

"Be that as it may—"

"—Oswald, your Chief-of-Staff is going through something terrible. So, I know you're swamped at the office currently, but it's just something you're going to have to deal with until Ed is able to get over Isabella." Sylvia said dismissively.

"Yes, you're right. I am extremely busy without Ed taking on his obligations, but you're the First Lady of Gotham. Everything that he does, you can do too."

"Point taken, but Isaac Paddock is—"

"Dying, but not dead. Not yet." Oswald reminded coldly. Irritably, he gestured to the door indicating Isaac. "That means he is more than capable of tending to his own beat until he is sitting on Death's door."

"When you're dying, I'll be sure to remind you of this conversation when you want to take a down day."

"He's taken several down days," Oswald said with a tight smile. "It's been a 'down fortnight', even, and he's had more than enough meetings to introduce you to the Family—by the way, they already know who you are so, really, there's not even a necessity to occupy as much of your time as he already has."

"What do you want from him?" Sylvia questioned curtly. "He's just trying to make sure his loose ends are all tied."

"I don't care what he's trying to do. I need you here." Oswald retorted irately. "Between Ed taking his time to go after Butch and Tabitha—"

"—He's not even found them yet—"

"—He will. And when he does, he's going to take time off from the office to get his affairs in order. So that's why I need you here. I have conferences, meetings, tours—"

"—Yes, all of which you've been managing to attend on your own."

Oswald frowned deeply, his eyes brightening with his swelling temper: "The reason I've been able to keep up with everything on my very tight schedule is because Ed takes the time to actually plan everything. Now he's going to be preoccupied doing whatever it is that he'll need to do—"

"—You mean, 'getting closure'—"

"Like I said: 'Whatever'. That means you'll be taking over in his stead. That's not an order, by the way. That's me just asking for a little compromise on your part. I don't think I'm asking for a lot."

Sylvia licked her lips after she put back another shot, and looked at him with a steady gaze. She shrugged, saying, "No, you're right. You're not asking for much."

"Thank you!" Oswald scoffed. "It's so nice to be validated from time-to-time!"

Sylvia stood, giving the table a once over before she crossed Oswald's path. He watched her disdainfully bend forward so she looked at him on the same eye-level.

"After all this is said and done, maybe you need to take a down day," Sylvia stated, glancing him up and down. "You're getting a little high-strung yourself."

"Well, someone has to be in control." Oswald hissed. "If that's not going to be you…"

Sylvia shrugged her shoulders carelessly. She carried her glass into the other room. He followed her, watching her sit on the couch, throwing her feet up.

He stood behind the armchair, his hands on the back of it.

"Or maybe you're more than happy not ruling Gotham anymore," Oswald stated.

"Whatever gave you that idea," Sylvia returned sarcastically. She sipped from the glass, placing it on the coffee table, adding, "From the very beginning, I told you I never wanted to rule Gotham. At the same time, I can't not rule anything. Isaac brought that to my attention, actually."

"Well, at least he's doing something productive."

"He's stepping down out of the best interest of his Family."

"Noted."

"Why the hell are you are being so snippy with me?" said Sylvia indignantly. "I told you I wouldn't be home for hours."

"Again. 'Noted'."

"So, what do you want from me?"

"I want you to take a little accountability for the role of which you are still irrevocably in charge!" Oswald said venomously. "The moment you started the process of being Paddock's successor, you've become lackadaisical in other facets of your life."

"No," Sylvia corrected fiercely. "I've become more involved in those personal factions of my life, some of which—and I know this might surprise you—don't revolve around you." She pointed to him heatedly, adding, "Don't you understand? I'm still a club owner—I have to make sure everything runs accordingly."

"You're—"

"—I'm still the First Lady of Gotham—I'm representing you and the mayoral office to the best of my ability. And I'm now taking on Isaac's role too!"

"And where am I exactly in this innocuous agenda of yours!" Oswald demanded.

Sylvia rubbed her eyes, exhaling irritably. Her head was pounding, and ultimately, she was ready to go to bed. But undoubtedly, he'd follow her there too so as to complete the circle of arguing in every room. But at this point…

"Fuck it." Sylvia hissed. "I'm going to bed."

She stood up, drinking the rest of the whiskey.

"We aren't finished talking." Oswald reminded.

"Then you can keep talking. To yourself. I'm going to bed." She said blatantly.

Just as she passed him, he took her arm. She pulled it out of his grip. Whatever inkling that Oswald possessed was beyond logical when he grabbed her forearm again. She didn't want to hurt him, but at the same time, she no longer wanted to talk.

Sylvia squeezed between the couch and him. He pushed her against it, to keep her there.

"Sylvia—"

"I'm done arguing with you tonight," Sylvia quipped. "Not everything revolves around you, Oswald. And if you think it does, you can go fuck yourself tonight. How's that?"

Oswald rolled his eyes when she started to push past him. He pulled her to him; out of her own willpower, Sylvia forced herself to remain calm, only permitting him because of this. Her back brushed against the couch; one hand held her wrist; the other pressed against her collar bone.

"What did you just say to me?"

Sylvia's ears perked at his tone. Low, quiet…and dangerous.

"Oh, I know you heard me."

"I hope you don't mean that."

She leaned forward ever so slightly.

"And what if I do?" Sylvia challenged.

She searched his eyes, waiting to see something she'd never seen before. And she did. There was indignation from being insulted. There was anger for the way she talked to him and his feelings surrounding her obligations that divided her attention away from him. But mostly, there was that familiar desire to command something or someone that didn't fully respect his authority. And the latter shone brighter than the rest of the other desires in his aquamarine eyes.

The hand on her collar bone slowly lifted to her neck, his thumb stroking up the side of her throat.

He wouldn't harm her in this life or the next. Not in such a way that she would consider it to be abuse. Not intentionally, at least. Sylvia meant too much to him to allow his anger to objectify him so physically, no matter how great the injustice.

"What would you do to me if I meant what I said?" Sylvia dared. Her free hand lifted to the one nearest to her neck, making another attempt to move him aside.

However, Oswald stayed right where he was.

"You're incorrigible." He breathed. "No one in Gotham is allowed to address me like—"

A derisive laugh escaped her: "I'm not 'no one in Gotham'. You tend to forget that frequently these days." She leaned forward just a little so that her lips brushed tauntingly against his own. "Maybe you should rethink how you should be addressing me."

She stepped away from the couch, striding through the hall towards the stairs that led to the bedroom. Oswald's eyes flashed dangerously, but her challenge flipped a switch in him. That baiting familiarity, like a bad habit whispering into his ear, swirling around in his belly. He could barely defy the impulse to follow her there, and stop her from entreating to her destination, grabbing a handful of her hair so he pushed her back against the wall.

He breathed quickly, heavily. His hand that held her hair slackened its grip, wondering if he'd already breached his own gentleman's code.

Her fire, that ferocity. Even in the face of her insolence, he had to admire it. Sylvia was never an easy person to handle, but that was one of the reasons Oswald was attracted to her. If he had trouble domesticating her, so would any other man or woman. And, on her better days, she only ever really listened to one person, and that didn't include her own kin. He felt remorse for his brutish impulses until he heard her condescend to him.

"What, is that it? Is this your idea of a Friday Night fight?"

Oswald growled, pulling down the same handful of her hair so she let out a gasp; the instant sensation of pain weakened her knees and it was perfect amount of leverage so Oswald roughly turned her around and shoved her face-forward to the wall.

She weakly laughed, but an instant shiver crept down her spine in tingling anticipation when his voice breathed against her ear, "You're trying to contest me, aren't you, Pigeon?"

"No contest here," Sylvia groaned. "But…" She tilted her head so she could meet his eyes. "You forget you're not the only one with power in this city."

He didn't move for a moment, almost as though he was just realizing this as well. Then Sylvia smiled when she felt the grasp on her hair tighten, pulling her head back just a little so he could kiss the soft skin between her jaw and ear. He gazed at her in contemplation, but Sylvia could see how quickly his breathing patterns had changed; how his eyes briefly wandered to her lips and her neck.

"Honestly," Sylvia uttered, "Where it concerns me, I feel like you need to be taken down a peg or two."

"Is that a fact."

"Not a fact." She murmured. "A suggestion."

Oswald released her hair and she let out a quiet sigh of relief. He kept her pinned against the wall, her back to him. His hands mirrored each other, settling on her hips. Slowly, they rubbed down her legs until he caught the hem of her dress, lifting it so her thighs and curves were exposed. As though he tested her temper and her boundaries tonight.

Sylvia started to move, to resist him.

"Stay still." Oswald said sharply. "And put your hands on the wall."

She clicked her tongue insolently but did as he commanded. Just as she obeyed, she felt one of Oswald's hands slip between her legs from behind, his fingers ever so softly rubbing the material of her panties against her petals, and over her clit.

She wasn't sure what he was planning, but Sylvia wasn't too proud to resist trying to enjoy it.

He teased and rubbed her clit through her panties. The cotton material ghosting and slipping between the lips of her sex too easily; in her growing desire, they felt rough. The tip of his middle finger rubbed her clit in slow circles. Her heat radiated from her panties as her clit slowly became swollen. Her shameless moans slowly escaped her as he increased the speed at which he manipulated her lust. Then he suddenly stopped, turning her around. Weak in the knees, Sylvia managed to do so.

"Oswald…?"

Sylvia was perplexed, a faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth when she felt his hard-on slightly nudge against her thigh, notably on purpose. He kissed her briefly; Sylvia eagerly returned it. But just as she moved forward, Oswald retracted.

"What…?"

Oswald sighed in satisfaction: "Well, this was fun. But now I'm going to do what you suggested earlier."

"And that is?" Sylvia questioned.

"I'm going to go 'fuck myself'. Good night, Pigeon." He sent her a cheeky smile.

Sylvia watched him turn and head up the stairs, although a little humorously since he had an extra leg to work with as he ascended. Her own sexual frustration amplified by ten as he left her wanting.