The sky was overcast, had been for days on end. Soiled remnants of the last snowfall trailed the curbs or huddled together in piles to delay their inevitable fate. I had pulled the hood deep down over my head, it had felt oddly appropriate. No one had bothered to stop me, no one had expected me to flee, I had simply walked away from the crime scene.
Meanwhile a few hours had passed and they were certainly searching for me, going back to the flat was not an option. I browsed through my pockets (my wallet was still at the precinct), a desolate ten Dollar bill and some change was all I had. Just enough for a drink.

It was not until I entered the club that it occurred to me that somebody might come up with the idea of looking for me there. But I saw no uniforms, no one I knew from the precinct. Neither did I see Oswald. I did not know what I expected, I had virtually told him that I wished I had never met him and not seen him since (we had broken up, Harvey Bullock had joked), I would have been content with stealing a glance at him, seeing that mischievous smile again when he played games with everyone around him.
Victor Zsasz sat at a table together with his girls, other than that I only knew one of the bartenders.
"Long time no see," Joe greeted me, "what can I do for you?"
At least I still got served.
"Is Oswald around?" It felt strange to mention his first name, back at GCPD it was "the Penguin" or "Cobblepot". "Oswald" implied an intimacy that did not feel deserved.
Joe had not seen him since his shift started. However, a detective had been there, had told the staff to call him if I turned up. To my relief the number he had noted belonged to Detective Bullock.
"Call him, its all right. But first..." I fished out the bill, "give me whatever I can get for this."
"How about a Johnny Walker on the house?"
"I don't think your boss would-"
"Give us the bottle," somebody interrupted.
The hood limited my field of view and I had to turn to see him. Zsasz. Not someone I would drink with on any other day, he gave the impression of being permanently pissed off. On this day I came along. At least he did not make me sit down with his henchwomen. But claim his expenses he did. "Who knew the Penguin's righteous friend was a cold blooded sniper. If you fancy an occupational change, I have an open position." He knew.
"Haven't watched the news lately?" He had seen my surprise. "The heroic desk clerk who saved everybody's sweetheart Bruce Wayne." Four killed and they called it heroic.
"Were they your first?" Zsasz leaned across the table. "Tell me, what did you feel?"
I downed a double shot, stalled for time. "What did you feel?" I asked in return.
He told me the story of his first murder -a story. For all I knew, he could have made it up on the spot- of a man who tried to mug him just as he was about to commit suicide, who Zsasz then stabbed with the robber's own knife.
"But as soon as it was over," he concluded, "it felt like it had never happened. I needed a proof." He pulled back a sleeve. Cuts in groups of five were scattered on his arm, most were old scars, a few seemed more recent, the pattern was strangely mesmerising, I ran my fingers across the scars, felt the relief on his hot skin.
"Got a knife on you?"
He grinned. Of course he did.
I presented my palm to him, knowing I could not do it myself. Zsasz took my hand, held it tight, anticipating me to flinch. It hurt less than I imagined. For a split second it seemed like nothing happened, then, at once, the blood gushed out, warm, dripped onto the table.

"What the heck is this supposed to be?"
Harvey came up to our table, ready to yank Zsasz away from me.
"I got blood on my hands," I told him and suddenly found it hilarious, broke out into laughter.
"Would you excuse us," Harvey advised Zsasz, kind as ever, "and can we get a first aid kit over here?" he called over to the bar.
"Zsasz." I stopped him as he got up, "Nothing. Sorry." Graciously, he let me have the bottle anyway.

One hand bandaged, the other one holding on to my friend Johnnie (shouldn't the Detective have stopped me from drinking?), I walked out into the chilly air of a decaying winter after sunset. "Where did you… park." I meant to turn back to Harvey, but down the road I spotted a familiar figure. Oz, escorted by Ignatius and two men I did not know, was coming our way.
"C'mon," Harvey dragged me along into their direction, "car's around the block."
For a moment Oswald's and my eyes locked. None of us said a word. We went past each other and then the moment passed.
"Detective Bullock." The sound of Oz' voice. "Would you give us a moment?"
Courteous words that resonated with condescension.
Harvey and I exchanged a look. "I won't bolt."
He didn't like it, but gave in. "Five minutes. Break the curfew and I'll have my Lemon Chicken with a different kind of poultry today."

"So you're back," Oz noted once we were alone. "Dropped in for a drink, I see?"
A smile that masked taunt.
Pitch-black hair that veiled piercing eyes.
Off-beat neckwear.
All these petty things I had missed. I wished I could have simply locked him in my arms forever and let the rest of the world fall into oblivion.
"Are you... Are you crying?" Oz asked incredulously.
I had not noticed. A tear ran down my cheek. Hastily I wiped it off, then looked stupidly at my fingers, as if I had to check its authenticity.
"Thought I'd see a familiar face here," I finally replied to his rhetoric question. "But then I saw Zsasz..." I tried to banter. Another tear. I took a sip from my bottle. Pull yourself together.
Oz came closer. "What an uncommon display of feelings." He pushed the hood off my head, took hold of my cheek, his thumb wiped across the trail of a tear. "Could it be that you have missed me?" he asked complacently, to which I could only reply with a death stare. "It's okay," he assured me ridiculing, "tell you what..." Oz leaned in, brought his head side to side with mine, his hair brushed my flushing cheek. "...I missed you, too," he whispered, suddenly earnest.
I reached out for him, felt the fabric of his vest under my fingertips. Oz' hand moved from my cheek to the back of my head, fingers dug their way through my hair. His head pulled away, making me miss his closeness at once, only for Oz to give me a kiss on the cheek. Soft, warm lips. I slid my hand under his coat and jacket, both unbuttoned, reached around him and up his back, savouring every inch. In return, Oz put his free arm around me, pulled me closer. The bottle of Johnnie Walker was in the way now, for a split second I contemplated letting go of Oz to set it down, but instead I tossed it to the side. The sound of its shattering echoed in the otherwise silent surroundings.
I sneaked the other hand under Oz' jacket as well, completing our embrace, our heads touched and I thought I sensed him sniff at my hair. In silence we stood until I felt at peace again.

"I can't take back what I said," I finally found the strength to say. "It would have been the best for all if I had never approached you."
"How would that have been best for me?" he quietly inquired.
I broke off him. This was it. The minute that would determine if I would lose him for good.
"I only used you," I confessed, "I came to Gotham seeking thrill and you were my door in."
"Oh please," he rolled with his eyes, "Anyone who comes to Gotham is out for thrill in one way or another!"
I needed a moment to let that sink. I kept underestimating his insight.
"You knew all along."
He shrugged. "I scratch your back, you scratch my back. A snitch with access to all kinds of police records? I'll take that."
"I'd never do this."
"Yeah, now I know."
"See? Best for you. I'm of no use."
"I think we're beyond that point by now."
Are we?
A single snowflake spiralled down between us. I looked up into the once so oppressive sky. "It's snowing again," I rejoiced.
Oz on the other hand seemed rather confused. I reached out for his face, cold skin beneath my fingertips. I leaned in for a kiss.
But Oz stepped back, slipped from my fingers.
Before I could comprehend, I saw his stern look shift from me into the distance.
Harvey stood at the street corner and gestured what's-taking-so-long. I could not tell if Oz had seen him and therefore retreated, or if I had misinterpreted his insinuation.
I looked back at him. "See you around?"
"Yes," he nodded with a gloomy smile.

...

Bonus:

"Can I unbutton your vest, too?"

"Too cold."