Chapter Twenty-Seven: A Change of Jobs

"You have to move a certain way when you're on the damn stage," Sylvia told the dancers for the fifth time as she pressed 'pause' on the stereo system. "If you don't, people lose interest."

The dancers…or what she was forced to call them…were amateurs. That could be said already even before she'd started rehearsing with them. Sloppy footwork, messy handiwork, and don't even get her started on the random hip thrusts.

There were four altogether. Two men, two women.

Salt and Pepper were the girls—a soft, milky blonde and her friend, a chocolate brown-skinned brunette, respectively. They called themselves Salt and Pepper, their real names were not relevant nor necessary to know in Sylvia's mind.

Jack and Joel were the male dancers, brothers, both sturdy footed and while they were both very muscular in the best way possible, they couldn't shimmy their hips in the slightest way.

All four 'dancers' had found themselves in the application process to become a Regular in Sylvia's performances (ideally every other night if the money was good), and while they'd been accepted, neither of them knew just how high Sylvia's standards were.

Because they were new to the scene, they knew Sylvia only by her stage name, the same one that the media as well as the police had coined her.

"We've rehearsed this a hundred times, Lark," complained Pepper, crossing her arms. "We've been practicing this routine so many times already."

"Obviously not enough," Sylvia told her crossly. "How old are you?"

"I'm twenty."

"And you?" Sylvia addressed the rest of them.

"Twenty."

"Twenty-one."

"Twenty."

Sylvia nodded, hearing their responses and said bluntly, "I am in my early damn thirties, pregnant, and I'm dancing marathons around you, guys."

"Lark, it's not that we don't care," explained Jack, "we're tired."

"It's only been two fucking hours!" Sylvia snapped.

"It's been four, actually," Jack's brother chimed in respectfully.

"Save it." She ordered. "If you want to take a break, by all means. Take one. But who suffers if you all can't get your act together by Friday night, huh?"

"You…?" All four voiced simultaneously.

"No. You. Because I know how to sing and dance. I will be fine. You four will be out on the fucking streets," Sylvia minded irately. "So, go. Take a fucking break. Twenty minutes. But if you come back with less enthusiasm, we're going to have some words."

They nodded and quickly left for a drink, a drive-thru meal, what-have-you. Sylvia rolled her eyes, sitting on a pew at her bar as she rubbed the lower lumbar of her back, feeling it ache more than anything. It didn't 'hurt' per se, but it wasn't the most comfortable feeling in the world.

"They're learning."

Sylvia recognized the voice, saying callously, "They're learning, all right, Demetri. But if they learn any slower, I'll be fifty."

Demetri came up from behind her, offering a glass of water. She took it, sipping through a straw.

"Do you need an Ibuprofen?" He offered.

"No. I'm fine."

"Tylenol, then."

"I'm fine, Demetri."

He nodded, crossing his arms and standing next to her mindfully. Sylvia looked at him curiously before she said softly, "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"What do you mean?"

"Your job is to guard the club. Not to wait on me, hand and foot."

"Someone has to," Demetri said with a careful glance to her. "It's not like anyone else is."

"Meaning?"

"I figured it's the least I can do."

"The least you can do is your job."

"What if I wanted a different job?"

"We're not haggling." Sylvia said tiredly. "I'm in no mood to negotiate nor will I ever be."

"I'm not talking about a pay raise."

"You're talking about being some type of umbrella boy."

"Maybe? I hear it's a nice job."

"It really depends on who you ask," Sylvia said calmly. "I don't want one."

"You may not want one, but you need one."

"I'm fairly certain I don't."

"With all due respect, Miss Sylvia, I have to disagree."

Sylvia blinked, glancing at Demetri, taken aback. Calmly, but dangerously, she said, "Excuse me?"

Demetri took a step back when he heard the hostile edge to her tone; in fact, he took a few paces away from her.

"You're hiding it pretty well," Demetri told her quietly. "You're hurting though."

"It's a backache. I have them a lot—it's a monthly inconvenience for women."

"And you're impatient."

"Because people like you don't listen very well."

"And," Demetri continued as though she wasn't interrupting him, "I think you deserve one. You're on your feet all day, and you deal with..." (He scoffed when he watched the dancers argue amongst each other, trying to decide who was to blame for Sylvia's temper.) "…The rabble."

"Well, you're not wrong there."

"I think you'd deserve someone to wait on you, hand and foot." Demetri explained. "And you've done so much for me already, more than enough. It's the least I can do in order to pay back all that you've done."

Sylvia looked at him for a moment, a long time, actually. She stood, and said quietly, "How do I know that for certain?"

"What do you mean?"

"You say you want to be there for me, to wait on me, to give back after all I've done for you. But how do I know that's the truth?" Sylvia questioned. "Maybe you want to get close to me, wait until I let my guard down, then betray me when I least expect it?"

Demetri gulped, "That's not what I want at all."

"I'd tell you to prove it to me, but we both know what you're willing to do in order to show you're loyal, don't we?"

"I'd do it a thousand times over."

"Please, don't." Sylvia said quickly, before he could take anything to break or use as a slicer.

"I know you don't trust me yet—"

"—You're very perceptive—"

"—But you said so yourself! How can you trust me if you don't give me a chance to prove that you can?" Demetri asked, holding his hands out in gesticulation.

"Well, that's a fairly good point. But the last umbrella boy I had died for me," Sylvia said quietly. "You're sweet, Demetri, but…I don't need an umbrella boy."

"So a body guard?"

"I have several who can do the job and have been doing that job a lot longer than you, before you were born."

Demetri sighed, "Is there anything I can do?"

"Your job. Please, go do it." Sylvia ordered, gesturing to the door.

Like a dog being told he couldn't go for a walk, Demetri lowered his head and walked to the door where Dagger and Chilly were standing in as bouncers. Sylvia watched him go, and she raised her eyes to the ceiling, hoping that someone would either convince her that this boy was good enough to be in her inner circle, or just throw him a bone.

The dancers came back—all four of them looking more or less happy, or trying to look it anyway.

"From the top," Sylvia said. "And if I have to get on stage and show you how to do it again, I'm calling it a day. Got it?"

They agreed.

And they messed up a few more times.

Sylvia turned the music off, and said, "Get the hell out of my club. We'll try again tomorrow."

The 'dancers' left.

Frustrated, Sylvia sat at the bar, contemplating whether or not she wanted to take the risk of drinking herself under the table. Forget that she was pregnant…

"Demetri."

The man heard his name and quickly came to her, standing as such.

"Do me a favor, would you?"

"Sure. Anything!"

"Go to the nearest McDonald's, and get me a whopper." Sylvia said, smiling at him sincerely.

"Extra pickles?"

"Yes, please."

"Yes, Ma'am." Demetri said, nodding vigorously before he left the club. As he did, Oswald came inside, noting the man's existence before walking up to Sylvia, who smiled at him lovingly.

"Where is he heading off to?" He asked suspiciously.

"McDonalds," Sylvia answered.

Oswald raised his eyebrows curiously at her.

She explained, "I'm hungry."

"Angry-hungry or bored-hungry?"

"A little bit of both."

Oswald chuckled, "I guess he's useful after all."

"No doubt." Sylvia returned, grinning broadly at him.

It wasn't until later that day before Oswald was able to have a quiet evening with his beloved. Dinner had passed, and it was well past eight o'clock. He and Sylvia had dressed down to their pajamas—him in his black top and bottoms; Sylvia, in her baby blue silk night slip and matching robe.

There was silence in the living room, aside from the crackling fireplace, the low hum of the ceiling fan above, and the soft classical music playing on the radio.

Sylvia lied on the couch, her head in Oswald's lap, her face buried in his stomach as she rested her eyes. Oswald laced his fingers through her tangles of ginger hair, the contrast of it to his pale hands was somewhat hypnotizing. The other hand gently traced unremarkable designs on her shoulder.

"I went to the school," Sylvia said hoarsely, "to see if I can become a part of the staff."

Oswald turned his gaze from the locks of her hair to her eyes, and said lightly, "And how did that go?"

"Not well." She returned, looking up at him. "The staff and principal reacted just as I thought they would. 'No positions available', or so they say, and the idea of holding a dance class outside of their proper educational regime was non-negotiable. According to Principal Donner, the children have an 'efficient-enough' dance coach, namely Mrs. Bunapart, and he doesn't see why any extracurricular activity such as that would be worth the fuss."

"You tried," Oswald said supportively. "It's their loss."

"Not their loss. The children's. The kids who want to be a part of something but were turned away because they weren't the cheerleading-type."

"I imagine you've already gone to the Board of Education…?"

"Yes, I have."

"And?"

"No one wants to replace Mrs. Bunapart." Sylvia returned, rolling her eyes. "The woman is almost sixty, maybe older. The best she can do is the 'sprinkler' move, and apparently, that's the only thing the school feels is necessary to win any dance competitions."

"Maybe it's for the best."

Sylvia looked up at him curiously, lying on her back: "What's for the best?"

"The school turning you down." Oswald answered. "You do enough as it is. You run your club; you have a dance ensemble of your own—"

"—You mean the four people who call themselves 'dancers', but can't figure out a four-step cadence? Yeah…that's an ensemble." Sylvia scoffed, smirking up at him.

"They'll improve."

"You have more faith in them than I do, then."

"Not to mention you're doing more with the Paddock Family…"

"Mr. Paddock is deaf and almost blind," Sylvia said defensively. "You said you didn't mind if I got more involved with the Family."

"You're basically taking over."

"So what if I am?" She said smoothly, sitting up. "Mr. Paddock is practically dying. He doesn't have a son or daughter to take over the family, no blood relatives of any kind. Who does he trust to run the Family? Me. Who does he have left if not me?"

Oswald said coolly, "Of course you realize that once you become a Don, you will be unable to operate as my second-in-command?"

"Because my affiliation with the Paddock Family would somehow corrupt my objective point of view?" Sylvia presumed smoothly, smirking at him. "I'm nothing if not objective."

"Before you take his place as the Don, I'd seriously sleep on it."

"If you prefer that I not be affiliated with the Paddock Family, I won't opt for it."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that," Sylvia submitted softly.

She lied back down so her head was on his lap, looking up at him beautifully, saying, "Being the leader of the Paddock Family is less than important to me if being one will make you unhappy. They're a bunch of old farts, anyway, looking to make an extra buck. But who knows who will take Isaac's place once he is no longer able to operate as their Don."

"If they attempt to go behind your back, I imagine they'll meet the same end as young Anderson." Oswald mused, smirking down at her when Sylvia's doting expression changed to one of guilt.

She pointed up at him with a remark, "Don't poke fun, Oz—he deserved to die."

"I know he did, I just love watching you become so defensive when he's mentioned." Oswald said shamelessly. "It's kind of fun, actually."

She rolled her eyes and closed them, living in the moment as Oswald continued to slowly comb his fingers through her hair; from her head to the arm of the couch where the ends of her ginger locks cascaded and dangled over the edge.

"How's your brother?" Oswald asked conversationally.

"He's fucking a reporter," Sylvia answered nonchalantly without opening her eyes.

Oswald's eyes widened at her indifference to the fact, seemingly stumped as to what to say next. At that point, Sylvia opened her eyes, a crooked smile ghosting its way over her pink lips.

"I'd hope he'd have kept his high standards after Lee but apparently, they've just sunk lower than the Titanic." Sylvia stated.

"He's your brother."

"And he's your brother-in-law," Sylvia said, poking the brim of his nose with the same teasing tone. "You married into the family, so that makes him your brother too, you know."

"I don't claim him."

"Unfortunately, I do."

"That makes you responsible for him."

"Undoubtedly," Sylvia returned, smirking still. "He's not the 'friends with benefits' type though. He thinks he is, but he'll become attached, if he hasn't already. I don't know Vale enough but I trust her as far as I can throw her."

"And how far is that?"

"Not far at all."

Oswald smiled with their light banter, and he started massaging the back of her neck. Soft pressure around the nape, in small concentric circles.

Sylvia said lightly, "Lee's back."

"Dr. Thompkins, you mean."

"Mm-hm. Bullock called me the other day to tell me the 'good news'."

"Compared to the other Medical Examiners, I think it could be classified as a 'good news'," Oswald said politely. "I've only spoken to her a few number of times, but in those moments, I think she's fairly professional. Seems like a good candidate for the job."

"She's too nice for Gotham." Sylvia said, closing her eyes again. "The city will ruin her. I wished she'd left and never came back. And not because seeing her will make Jim feel terrible. She's a good egg—better to drop out of the race before the other players run her over, you know?"

"Why did Harvey call you?" asked Oswald curiously.

"He keeps me in the know. Tells me things that might be important for you and me to know in the long run," said Sylvia carelessly.

"And—dare I ask—what is the exchange for that?"

"He tells me things. I tell him things."

"Like what for example?"

Sylvia opened her eyes when she heard his paranoia. She saw it in the green hue of his blue eyes, the way the suspicion was slowly creeping in. Having heard that tone a number of times, Sylvia slowly sat up, stood on her knees, then straddled Oswald with a sense of accomplishment once having done so. Oswald watched her, perplexed, but curious.

"Whether Barnes likes it or not, Harvey and I have something of a sibling bond…almost a hate-and-love relationship," said Sylvia gently. "Harvey knows that I know pretty much every skell that runs around the sewers, and for the information he extracts from me, I like to know pertinent information. Some of it seems irrelevant, almost useless. Really, I like information. Much like you. Sometimes, I tell him a few things of our operations; in return, he tells me where to look for traitors, trying to sneak in through security. Sometimes, it's so I know just who has returned to Gotham and whether or not they'll be making trouble for me and the rest of my family."

Oswald looked at her, clearly disgruntled that she was making deals under the table with one of the detectives, but then again—who was he to chastise her about making deals with the GCPD.

"Namely Dr. Leslie Thompkins," said Sylvia. "She was the light in my brother's life, and when he was carted off to Black Gate, she left the city. Allegedly, to never return. But here we are."

"And you suspect she is up to something?"

"I suspect nothing." She admitted. "It's not that I don't trust her to do something bad to my brother. Or that I think she's looking into joining a cult or something. But Jim's record of 'exes gone bad' isn't long, but it's fairly extensive. I mean, look at Barbara Kean."

"Noted." Oswald returned, looking up at Sylvia as she stood on her knees to reposition and almost loomed over him for a second until she sat back down, wriggling a little.

"And here's another tidbit of information," Sylvia said mischievously. "Barbara and Tabitha have a new source of entertainment. A hypnotist, by the name of Jervis Tetch."

"A hypnotist?" Oswald said, unimpressed.

"Illusionists are moneymakers, Oz. Just because you don't like magic doesn't mean the rest of us are opposed to it." Sylvia teased.

"Have you seen his act?"

"No."

"Have you even met him?"

"Nope."

"How do you know he's good then?" Oswald asked.

"I don't know. I'm going off from what Barbara told me. He thrilled the audience, got a few people under his hypnotic spell; they pretended to be chickens, cows, birds, and dogs. He snapped his fingers, and everyone zapped back to their normality…never knowing they'd been hypnotized in the beginning. It's like a superpower, don't you think?"

"I'll believe it when I see it," scoffed Oswald.

"Maybe you will."

"Meaning?"

"I'm booking him," Sylvia said with an impish lift at the corner of her mouth. "I'm thinking 'Friday night'."

"You sing on Fridays." Oswald reminded.

"Every Friday night, yes, but I want to mix it up a little."

Oswald looked at her sadly, with big, puppy dog eyes. And Sylvia smiled in spite of herself.

"You don't think it's a good idea?" She guessed.

"On a contrary, you have me all wrong," He said apologetically. "I think it's a swell idea."

"But?" Sylvia encouraged, gesturing to him to do so.

"Personally…selfishly…I like to hear you sing." Oswald explained, smiling despite his own fault. "It's the highlight of my week."

"You've not missed one performance," She noted, grinning widely. "So fine, I'll book Tetch on a Thursday and keep my normal Friday routine. Acceptable?"

"More than." Oswald returned happily, cracking a grin.

With the compromise settled, they kissed on it. Lips lingered, and Oswald initiated a deeper kiss; Sylvia reciprocated.

Oswald moved his hands inside her robe, his fingers briefly lifting the hem of her slip so he could fully grasp her legs. His thumbs massaged the innermost side of her thighs; her calm moan vibrating inside his mouth, letting him know she was enjoying it.

"There's a conference being held tomorrow," Sylvia told him in between kisses, after which she softly giggled when Oswald moved their positions so he was lying on top of her.

"By whom exactly?"

"Who do you think?" Sylvia returned smartly but a soft moan escaped her after Oswald opened her robe, the sash falling to the wayside as he moved between her legs, and pressed his lower half against her. "Aubrey James…he's announcing the candidacy of a new mayor."

Oswald sprinkled kisses from her collar bone, to her throat, and then to her ear, at which point, she shuddered. He murmured, "He's a hack."

"Obviously." Sylvia returned, smirking at him.

She felt his hard-on slowly humping against her panties. Through their stimulating conversation, Oswald had been thinking of other things to do whilst sitting in the living room, Sylvia's head so close to his lap and another viable part of him. Sensing his desire, feeling it too, Sylvia wrapped her legs around his waist so as to grant him more open access.

She said, "Do you want to keep talking about this or pause the conversation for another time?"

"What do you think?" Oswald returned cockily.

"I think you want to keep talking about it."

Oswald looked at her pointedly before Sylvia laughed, shortly after pulling him into a kiss that made his yearning for her intensify. At that point, there was no further use for a 'quiet' evening.

Author's Note: I'd like to thank Lasernarwal and Fangirl500 for their reviews recently. Much appreciated, and much love! Muah!