11:45am, January 18; GCPD Central; Edward Nygma
He bit his lip to keep from making a sound that would carry too far as Flass shoved him into the lockers. He had the unfortunate luck to hit in just the right spot that two padlocks dug painfully into his back. Trying to push himself away was an exercise in futility because Flass followed up on the shove by grabbing him by the collar and holding him in place.
"The five of us are out a hundred each cause of you," he stated as a reminder, as if Ed would have any reason to think this encounter was about anything else. "So you're gonna get fifty to each of us by tomorrow night. And this time next week, you're gonna do the same. And just for the trouble of having to do this, you're gonna do it, again, the week after. You got that clear in your head?" Ed was pulled forward just far enough his head and shoulders could be slammed backwards into the metal, jarring him with the pain but causing no damage.
He shook his head vigorously, "Ye-yes. I got it. Loud and clear."
He didn't think it fair in the slightest, but trying to fight it would only get him hurt further. He'd contemplate getting them back some other way. After the threat of physical violence against him was over and done with.
Flass let him go and smiled as if there had never been a problem, "Good. I like you, Ed. Really, I do. You're fun. But you gotta handle your money better. Stuff like what happened last night has consequences for more than just you." Flass straightened his collar so it wasn't obvious he'd had it bunched up mere moments before. Talked down to him like his I.Q. wasn't at least five times higher. "Now, the boys and me, we're gonna go out again tonight. You're welcome to come, but since we're out of cash cause of you, and your card is shot, you're gonna have to find a way to cover your own part of the tab. We don't really like breaking it that way, but you're our friend, you know. So we'll let it fly this time."
"You- you think of me as a friend?" the revenge plots he'd been contemplating rushed from his mind, replaced with a surprised hope that started a fluttering sensation in his gut.
Flass spread his arms and nodded, "Yeah. Are you kidding? Course we do. Sure, Dougherty was the one that suggested we let you tag along that first night out, but we wouldn't have invited you the other times if we didn't like you. I mean, yeah, you're weird. And you got next to no sense for anything social, but that doesn't mean you aren't fun to have around."
He slapped his shoulder, "You pay us back and we'll be square. We'll be at the Tap Room. Seven, like usual. See you there, right?"
"Right," he answered with a hesitating smile, then with more confidence, "Right. Seven. See you there."
Flass left him to straighten up and even with the daunting prospect of having to pay the guys back three fold - that was almost half his monthly paycheck - he couldn't help the excitement that curled up his spine. They thought of him as a friend.
He had work friends.
Four years at GCPD Central and he finally had friends at work.
The money meant nothing next to that.
7:02pm, January 18; The Tap Room; Edward Nygma
He entered the bar and was immediately waved down by Dougherty. The crew had grabbed a booth in the back corner and the place was only just starting to get crowded so they could still easily see to the door. He headed straight there and slid into the seat at the end, the others scooting over to make room like it was natural. Like he belonged there.
"I know you said you wanted it tomorrow," he started right away, pulling the envelope the bank had given him with the two fifty tucked away in perfect, fresh fifties, "But I figured since we were already going to see each other tonight, I'd just get it to you now."
Flass eyed him with an expression Ed couldn't pin down before laughing and reaching over to take the money. He pulled it out and slid one crisp bill to each of the others while Dougherty slapped Ed on the back in a friendly way.
"Good man, Ed," Flass said, balling up the now-empty envelope and throwing it at him so it hit him in the chest without any force. "You're a good man." He looked to the rest of them, "See? What I'd tell you. Ed's not the sort to scrooge us."
Flass leaned forward as a round of drinks was delivered. Six beers. He slid one over to Ed, "We ordered for you. Kowalski thought you wouldn't show cause you'd be embarrassed about the whole credit card thing. But I told him you weren't the sort. You know you ain't gotta worry about that with us. Everyone has money problems some times. Nothing to be ashamed of."
"Yeah, sorry about that," Kolwalski didn't sound that sorry, but it was the same sort of giving-someone-shit-for-shits-sake that he did with the rest and they were all ripping into each other. "So I gotta know. How'd you get away from the Lounge without a limp? Thought the best case scenario for you was you'd be walking like the Penguin himself. Wak!"
The others laughed, and though Ed smiled, he didn't really feel comfortable with the joke. Laughing at the Penguin, with all he'd done despite everything he'd gone through... it felt wrong. So he smiled and waited for them to calm down and when they did, they actually looked like they were ready to pay attention to what he was saying. It was a new feeling, having the five of them waiting and seemingly eager to listen to him.
All the other times they only paid passing attention to him.
But tonight, they were really noticing him.
"Well, I'm not allowed to have a tab anymore," he started, leaning forward, really joining the group for the first time. "But I think I only got leniency because I'm not worth the trouble of dealing with Commissioner Leob over one of your friends, Mr. Flass."
"Arnold," Flass corrected. "We've been hanging out for what? Close to a month now and you're still with that whole mister shit. Flass is okay, too. Lord knows I don't know Kolwaski's first name."
"Fuck you," Kolwaski answered to another round of laughter and then shrugged, "And I hate my first name so don't fucking use it and we're good."
Ed joined in on the laughter, the conversation pealing away into other topics after that. He could only think that perhaps the shared experience of being threatened by the Penguin was the catalyst for the guys really accepting him. For the first time since going out with them, he felt like part of the group. Like he was one of the boys.
7:10pm, January 24; The Iceburg Lounge; Edward Nygma
He didn't manage to find the time to go out with the guys again until the next week. Flass had come in around noon to remind him about the second payment and he'd promised to have it by the end of the day. Flass mentioned they were going to hit up the Lounge again. They'd given it a week away and he figured that would be enough time to cool any heads over there in case there was still some lingering tension. But if Ed came, he'd have to cover the tab. At Ed's reminder that he wasn't allowed to open any tabs, Flass waved it off and said one of them would cover it as far as the Lounge was concerned and Ed could catch them up the next day.
He wanted to protest, but he'd learned the previous week that when they talked about the tab rotation, it was based generally on which day of the week it was. They were used to a five-person rotation and had established a policy that any new guy who was invited for a one- or two-off night out with them would have to get the check since the rest of them did it so regularly. Their crew had been running just fine as a five man work friends group for going on something like fifteen years. Since just after Dougherty graduated from bootcamp and got his first posting. Which actually made it closer to twelve years, but hyperbole was rampant among them and Ed had quickly figured out was just a quirk of how they talked as a whole.
Flass had explained that Ed had thrown the whole set up out of kilter because unlike previous invitees, they actually liked having him around. And since Ed didn't join them on any regular set day basis when at least three of them got together for after-work drinks five days a week (Tuesday through Saturday), it had made figuring out the whole who pays on what days thing get confusing. Five days out vs six people and all that.
The math was something Ed could have easily done and had started to offer to do only to have the guys interrupt him with groans and generally displeased noises and complaints of that being too much work. Flass said not to worry about it. He'd been the one to come up with the day of the week thing before and he'd figure something out that would be fair without getting into complicated scheduling that only a smartypants like Ed could understand.
The compliment had hit him right in the heart. They knew he was smarter than him and it, oddly, didn't seem to bother them. Sure they'd said it like an insult - smartypants was generally considered an insulting way of talking about someone - but half the time they were insulting each other back and forth without any of it sticking. It was a new way of communicating respect and a sense of shared camaraderie that he wasn't used to. But when he offered his own, tentative ribbing back at them the previous week, they'd taken it like it was a compliment.
And the difference in how he was treated at work, during working hours, in that short span of time was a staggering, drastic change. Instead of it being just Dougherty that waved to him in passing, it was Dougherty running after him to catch him up on the stupid shit he had to put up with while on patrol. It was Kowalksi putting his hand up for a high five when they greeted each other and asking him if he looked like he'd lost five pounds yet cause his doctor was pushing him to lose weight. It was Flass coming over and draping his arm across his shoulder when they were both in the records annex and he was in the middle of regaling Kristen with tales of the latest narcotics bust he'd been involved in. It was Jacobs and Choi offering to grab him a sandwich when they went to lunch, or pouring him a coffee if they saw him while they were getting their own.
And it was, unfortunately, him having to dip into his savings account to cover the bills for the month because of a bounced check and the seven fifty he had to pay them as well as whatever he'd end up needing to cover for tonight.
But he could deal with it.
They were his friends and a little bit of a rocky start to paying his fair share in the group hangouts could be smoothed over.
He was the first to arrive at the Lounge. Not surprising considering that his day had ended firmly at five and the others had more uncertain schedules since they were beat cops and detectives. He entered, uncertainty milling in his gut until he was past the door and into the main room where he was greeted warmly by one of the birds. She called him by name, even - Mr. Nygma - and asked if his friends would be joining him or if he was alone. He answered the former and was led to a spacious booth that would easily fit all of them.
Mere moments after he was seated, one of the bartenders brought over a grasshopper for him.
"It's good to see you again, Mr. Nygma," he said as he set the drink down in front of him. "We've missed you. You should come in more than once a week."
The greeting and the sentiment were unexpected. Particularly after his disastrous last visit. He was at a loss for words but managed a short, somewhat choked 'thank you.'
The bartender waited until he'd tried the drink and set it back down to continue, "We've been informed, of course, that you are not allowed to open a tab. But if you'd like to pre-purchase a set number of cocktails so you don't have to worry about paying every time we bring one over, that is acceptable."
"Oh! Yes," his face lit up. What a clever solution! He opened his wallet and counted out his total to the penny, "Thank you. This should be exactly enough for three of the mega-grasshoppers, this one, and the gratuity."
The bartender's mouth opened like he wanted to say something, a correction perhaps, as his eyes scanned the money. But instead his smile returned and he reached out to take it, "You're very good with math, Mr. Nygma. Thank you so much. I'll make sure Wren knows what to bring you when you run out."
He left Nygma, the crowds growing fast, to wait for his friends.
7:15pm, January 24; The Iceburg Lounge; Oswald Cobblepot
Before Nygma even entered the building, he'd been informed of his presence. He didn't interfere with him entering the building or the staff doing their job as they'd been told. But as he watched the man get seated and Mr. Wesker bring him his drink, he noticed how the bartender hesitated just a bit too long before accepting the payment.
Five minutes later, Wesker was standing across from him in the darkened Loft. The man's expression was difficult to see with the lights kept low the way he did when he wanted to observe the first floor without distractions. But his stiff posture made it clear he had done something that could get him in trouble and he was currently certain he was about to be fired for doing it.
"Was there a problem with Mr. Nygma's payment?" he asked, eyes not so much on the main floor as they were on the man in question. He was so odd. His reactions to him had been so curiously different than expected. It made him interesting.
"No, sir, Mr. Cobblepot," Wesker answered immediately. "His money was good. No counterfeits among the bills or coins."
"Then why did it take you so long to collect it?"
The man had taken a heartbeat too long, just enough to be noticeable by Oswald's keen eyes. Anywhere else it would probably have been overlooked. But with as focused as he was on Nygma, it wasn't going to fly. Especially when the bartender was betraying himself so thoroughly in his body language.
He took a moment to answer, a deep breath first, clearly preparing himself for the worst he could think of. At least he was going to be honest about his mistake.
"Mr. Nygma ordered three mega-grasshoppers. They're made strictly with top-shelf liquor, but he calculated the payment for them based on the mega-margarita which is top-shelf optional. I assume this is because the regular sizes are both top-shelf optional and cost the same when using the well liquor. The cost would be correct if the mega-grasshoppers were top-shelf optional."
"And you chose to let it slide and not tell him the actual cost," he stated the obvious as his eyes broke away from Nygma now that his group of friends - what he saw in them when he was so very different, Oswald didn't have enough information to guess at - had arrived and started sitting down with him. He, instead, considered the man in front of him. It wasn't something that would hurt business in any way. It was, however, the sort of call that was usually left to the lead bartender to make, not one of the hourlies.
With a sigh, he shrugged. This wasn't worth making an example of. "Make a note of it in the VIP comps record book. But don't do it for anyone else at that table."
"Yes, sir, Mr. Cobblepot," he acknowledged with a bob of his head and, recognizing his dismissal, turned to hurry away at a pace that couldn't be called a jog, but was far too fast for even the usual professional hustle the waitstaff had to employ. Like a fire had been lit under his ass.
Good. A healthy sense of fear would serve him well in his position.