A figure in black and white waddled up to their table, not their food arriving but the owner himself.
"I had to see it to believe it." Oswald Cobblepot grumbled. "You have the nerve to come in here, bills unpaid, demand yet again of my hospitality after the last time–"
"I'll pay you, you pudgy little antichrist!" The Riddler said a little louder than he meant to. "I'll square up my tab, wash dishes if I have to, but could I expect the courtesy of not having my dinner interrupted by a bill collection when my companion and I haven't' even received our food?!"
The Penguin squared up against him, looking somewhat bizarre because of their height difference.
"What companion may I ask?" The Riddler pointed stonily across the table to Karen, who was looking rather shell-shocked considering. The proprietor immediately calmed down and switched on the old Cobblepot charm. He ordered their food brought, a light claret besides, and the fiddler was called away from a miserable group of businessmen to serenade the couple.
His dinner date was enchanted. The Riddler rolled his eyes.
After making a petit bow of apology, Oswald put a fatherly arm around his shoulders (forcing him to stoop slightly), and ushered him to a quiet corner to have a quiet word.
"My, Edward." He murmured gently, mopping his brow. "A hostage, here? I just finished replacing the carpet in the foyer after the last time–"
"She's not my hostage." He answered wearily.
"Rising villainess?"
"No."
"Extortion target?"
"No."
"Cousin, paid escort, mind control victim?"
"No, no, and eeeeugh. She's my date Oswald, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't further drive home my status as a third rate villain…if that's even possible."
"Of course, of course." He screwed a monocle into his eye. "Really, you, a girl…
"It's not that amazing." He snapped, stomping back to the table before he could see the Penguin's smug look of interest. Karen sat back, hands folded elegantly in her lap. The bisque steamed, the Cajun chicken looked crisp.
"Looks good." He said, and she smiled as an answer. He drew his chair back and went to sit down but at that very moment the large sweaty man from three tables down was returning from his lengthy stay in the men's room and grazed the table with a massive thigh, jarring the glasses and sloshing a fair amount of bisque onto his date's lap. She stared at the mess, eyes widening, and then up at him. He opened his mouth and prepared to lose the argument.
"It wasn't me."
Her gaze was cold, appraising. He squirmed, feeling as if hot creamed soup had just spilled on his lap instead.
"It wasn't."
"I don't care if it was you or the man with telekinesis sitting all the way across the room. This dress was new a month ago."
"Well if it was new a month ago technically it's no longer new, so it shouldn't be…" His babbling trailed off, her gaze frying the rest of his sentence. If one could physically glare daggers, she would have chucked scimitars directly into his chest. He tried again.
"Look, why didn't you have your napkin in your lap? It's proper manners to–"
"Take me home." She said quietly. That was it. Quiet. Insistent. The date was over.
He clumsily offered to help her clean up, vouching for the dry-cleaning service the Penguin employed downstairs, but she would not be turned. Miserably, he signaled for the check, which she insisted going Dutch on. He fished out crumpled bills from his suit pockets, she pulled crisp twenties from her clutch purse.
He calculated the bill, never trusting anyone's math but his own, and finding it correct he looked up to comment but found only a chair and a twisted linen napkin. The lady had evidently fled.
He spent the remainder of the night at the bar.
After a while, the Penguin joined him.
He stirred his scotch and soda aimlessly with a swizzle stick, breath reeking of alcohol and bar peanuts. The Penguin ordered Dom Pérignon and hopped into the stool next to his. Neither of them spoke while waiting on the drinks.
"Oswald, what's wrong with me?" The Riddler finally said, slurring slightly. The Penguin sighed and straightened his monocle.
"Is that a real question?"
"Why can't I form intrapersonal relationships with women?"
"Don't you think if I knew that, I wouldn't be talking to you? I'd be on the Riviera, a blonde on each arm, entertaining the elite with my latest sexual escapades."
"You have a considerable amount of personal wealth, I really don't see how you can complain about not regaling the tanned and dumb about the last unfortunate soul to touch your body."
"At least you've never had to pay for sex."
"At least you've never had to beg for it."
Glum silence descended.
"When you've done something stupid, really stupid, what's the best way to make it up?"
"Well, seeing as you were foolish enough to argue with her instead of just admitting your error–"
"It wasn't me, it was the fat man in the aisle!"
"–Your error being that you allowed anything to come in contact with her thrifty haute couture, what I recommend is a spectacular apology, something ridiculously out of proportion with the situation. Flowers are nice. Chocolate, acceptable."
Edward Nygma tapped the counter with two fingers. "I've been an ass, haven't I?"
"Who isn't, around the fairer sex?"
In the DivisiComp building Karen was returning from lunch with Carol and Ellen from accounting when she ran into the back of a lanky delivery man. He had a large, irregularly shaped package on his hand truck and he was looking around for something, cap tilted over his face. They both jumped after colliding, the man stammering an apology. Carol smiled reassuringly and asked him what he was looking for.
"Do you know where Karen Helms's desk is?"
Karen felt herself go cold. "I'm Karen Helms. It's this way."
They threaded their way through the cubicle labyrinth, collecting gawkers like a snowball rolling downhill. Finally they stopped at her desk, where Karen was forced to sign for the obscenely large package. Her cheeks were now a flaming scarlet, she wanted to excuse herself to the bathroom and cry, but the crowd was so thick around her desk she couldn't budge an inch.
"What's in it?" Ellen cried excitedly. Traitor, Karen thought. Numbly she grasped the edge of the wrapping and pulled. The brown paper tore with a satisfying sound, and she took courage. Someone handed her scissors and she carefully cut the thick strings securing the wrapping. The paper fell stiffly away, revealing heart-shaped wreath of mums and asters.
Through her nearly fatal embarrassment, Karen wondered how her admirer knew her favourite flowers. Then she saw the vivid green card with a thick, stylized question mark on it. Mortified, she tried desperately to snatch it off but Carol's fingers were faster and she plucked it from the cast-off skin of the package.
"Oh my gawd." She crowed, and Karen died a little inside. Everyone crowded around to examine the card.
"A question mark?"
"Oohh, d' you think it's the Riddler?"
"Who else would it be, Killer Croc?"
"What's it say?"
"Nothing, just the question mark."
"Ooooh, Karen, what did you do?"
The focus shifted to her and she felt intensely uncomfortable.
"We, um, went out last night."
Screams and squeals of mock-terror and jealousy filled the air.
"How was it?"
"Not great." She admitted. This inspired guffaws and catcalls. She saw Diane seething in the corner and stood up a little straighter. "In fact, he was not a gentleman. I'm assuming this is his form of apology."
Meri squealed. "Will you tell him you accept?"
She looked around at the eager faces.
"Maybe." She answered loftily. Giggles and cheers sounded off around her, the noise was almost deafening. She basked in the warmth of this strange praise for a moment before something tugged insistently at her elbow. She turned to find the delivery man staring at his shuffling feet.
"Yes?"
"Ma'am, could you show me out? Some lady punched in the code to let me in and I don't–"
"Oh, of course!" She turned back. " Carol, watch my desk for a minute, will you? I'll be right back, I swear."
As they wound their way to the elevators, the din died down until it was unearthly quiet. They stepped into the elevator and she pushed the lobby button. It was silent in the elevator until she spoke.
"Ma'am?"
"Would you prefer I called you lady?"
"Miss would have done just fine."
He tilted his cap up, revealing straggly bits of red hair and a high, intelligent forehead. She glanced at his reflection in the elevator doors and smiled a little.
"Okay. I'll admit the flowers are a step in the right direction."
"Good, because they cost an arm and a leg."
Since she was in a good mood, she found his tactlessness endearing instead of infuriating.
"Look, I…I know I don't deserve another chance after how I behaved–"
"Oh, stop groveling." She found herself grinning. "I overreacted. I think the fact that we're still talking is proof that we still have a chance."
A smile slowly turned up the corners of his mouth. "So…can I pick you up tonight?"
"No. I'm busy."
He swallowed. "Of course. How presumptuous."
She softened a little. "Maybe Tuesday."
He perked up a little. "Say around six?"
"Sure." She sighed. "Let's go somewhere small this time. Less…"
"Uptight?"
"Conspicuous."
"Okay then." He relaxed a little. "Let's try this again."
She smiled at his reflection until it returned hers.
Author's Note: this may be the last chapter for a while, I'm getting busy with holiday preparations and enjoying my new status as a beta, thanks to all one of you who plucked up the courage. Fujiko Kuwabara's fic "Warriors and Thieves" is great and has been beta'd by yours truly. Click on over there if you feel like more romance, and I know you do, baby.