They applauded me. I had killed four men in cold blood and they applauded me. I faked my thanks and rushed to the desk, only to find a bunch of notes regarding missed calls from the press. Everyone wanted an interview with the civilian that had saved the town's golden boy.
"Good to see you back at the desk," Harvey patted me on the back. "You doin' alright?"
"I'm the media's pet," I said, holding up the post-its, "How could I possibly feel bad?"
"Hey, if you get to meet that Vicky Vale, get me her number, will ya?"
"Sure, Harv."
He gave me a disappointed look as I dropped the notes into the waste basket.

I was on my way back up from the archive when I noticed him. He was standing by Harvey's and Gordon's desks, a wide smile on his face, a bouquet of pink roses in his hands. I could practically hear Harvey tell him that no, Gordon would not be his Valentine.
Oz spotted me and his smile grew even wider. Excusing himself from Gordon, he hurried down the stairs. The two detectives' eyes were not the only ones in the bullpen that followed him on his way to me.
"I was beginning to fear I might have missed you," Oz greeted.
"I was just..." I kept staring at the flowers, hoping they were not meant for me. "What are you doing here?" I asked cautiously.
"I came to... I wanted..." He laughed anxiously. "This is... unusual," he observed his own loss of eloquence. Harvey and Gordon watched the scene uneasily, while some of the other colleagues started to make fun of Oz.
"Are these for me?" I asked then, holding out both my hands.
"Oh! Yes, yes," he said.
Hidden from the sight of our surroundings, our fingers touched when I reached for the flowers and neither of us made a move to correct this - we froze, both holding on to the bouquet.
"Did- did you know that light pink roses symbolise admiration?" Oz asked rhetorically. "And hope for... for..." He blushed.
Guessing his meaning, I felt hot blood rush to my own cheeks. In my ears my heart thumped.
"Thank you," I said, in utter loss for words.
"They come with an invitation," Oz continued nervously.
"And I have to return them if I decline?" I joked.
He suddenly looked scared.
"Yes," I hurried to say, "I mean, 'Yes' to... I mean I... I won't decline." I moved one hand away from the bouquet and covered my eyes. I was making a fool of myself.
"At eight then?" Oz asked.
I nodded. "Okay."
"I'll pick you up."
"Okay."

"The hell was this about?" Gordon came over to ask as soon as Oz had walked out.
I could not think of a clever retort. Nothing that would disperse his suspicion.
"You're blushed to the ears," he pointed out.
My enduring silence only appeared to confirm what Gordon had assumed from the start. He grabbed my arm and pulled me along to the locker room.
"I had told you to stay away from him!" Gordon hissed at me.
"Why? You jealous?"
He snatched the roses out of my hand and tossed them into the trash bin. "Cobblepot is dangerous! If he hasn't got his hands around your throat yet, you can be damn sure he will."
"Maybe I wouldn't mind that."
"This is serious," Gordon continued his rant. "I know this guy, I know what he's capable of. All he ever does is manipulating, using people for his own goals. Do you really think he cares for you? He cares for no one but himself."
He had a point. None that hadn't been hiding in the back of my head anyway, but still, it dragged me down from my high.
"What if I just don't care?" I asked and pushed past Gordon to fish the damaged flowers out of the garbage.

Relax. Relax, I kept telling myself, looking into the mirror, checking my looks for the dozenth time. My heart was racing. Why was I nervous? It wasn't the first time I went out with Oz. Okay, it was our first official date, but- Hold on. Was this a date? He never said 'date'. All he did say was 'invitation' – which could have meant anything. Why had I assumed it was a date? I ran out of the bathroom - I was overdressed for something that was not a date. Wait. The make-up. The make-up was over the top as well. The very second I turned back towards the bathroom the door bell rang. Too late.
As always, Oz was wearing a suit and it was impossible to tell if he had dressed up for a date or not.
"I uh... I was unsure what the dating conventions were," Oz said, "a second bouquet seemed unfit, but I couldn't bring myself to show up empty-handedly." He held up a single white bloom.
I let out a nervous laughter and let my head lean onto his shoulder. Oz was nervous, too. It was a date and he was nervous, too. And he had brought me another flower.
"Are you unwell?" he asked.
Idiopathic tachycardia, I almost said, but bit my tongue.
"Is it a corsage," I asked, raising my head again, "shall I wear it?"
"Would you?"
"Might draw level with your outfit for once," I taunted.
Calmly, Oz proceeded to attach the flower to my dress. He let my remark pass, did not throw a fit, did not command to refrain from mocking him, nothing.
"Are you unwell?" I asked. "Since when do you not mind people teasing you?"
"I have come to realise that your teasing me is not an insult," he said, eyes locked on his work at hand, "but rather... Affectionate."
Heat flushed over my cheeks again. Perhaps something was wrong with me after all.

My worries about being potentially overdressed had been less than uncalled for. Oz took me to a restaurant that had to be one of the fanciest places in town. Revenge for that cheap sushi bar I had dragged him to once, I supposed.
Some of the guests recognised Oz, nodded their heads at him. Some of the guests I recognised. The deputy mayor; Harvey So-and-So – a lawyer I had seen around the precinct; the medic that had had some quarrel with the Wayne company; multiple faces that I recognised from police files.
"I have no idea what half of this stuff is," I said reading the menu.
"You can always order a bottle of Johnny Walker."
"Look who's sassy today," I laughed.
"I am... very pleased about this... About us doing this," Oz switched back to sincerity. "I have been looking forward to this for a long time."
"Since, like, 5PM?"
"I mean it," he said, "I've been wanting to do this for some time. It was just that there were certain things that held me back. Things that needed my attention." Oz' tone grew blue. "It's in the past now," he nodded to himself, "It's in the past and yet I feel compelled to-"
Our waiter arrived and Oz fell silent.
"Would you order for me, too?" I asked him. "Something other than Johnny Walker."
"That's not-"
"Sorry for disturbing you," the man standing next to me said, who, as I looked up, I realised, was not our waiter, "but aren't you the desk sergeant that saved the Wayne kid?"
I told him "No". And it wasn't even lie – I was not the desk sergeant.
"Come on, I saw the picture in the Gazette," the man insisted and I started to wonder if he had had a little too much of the overpriced champagne. "That was very impressive, you know? Taking these thugs out – I shoot for sports myself and those hits were-"
"Excuse me," an elder woman from the next table interrupted, "I couldn't help overhearing. Is this true, are you the one that saved Bruce Wayne?"
"Did you hear that?" someone else asked. "...the Wayne sniper?" "...but this is..." "...saved Bruce Wayne 's life..." "...four bullets..." People started to gather around our table, trying to congratulate, to shake hands with me. "...drink on me..." "...mobster..." "...through the windows..." "...poor boy..."
"'Poor boy'?!" I raised my voice. "'Poor boy'?!" The crowd silenced. "If that bored billionaire brat of yours hadn't poked his nose into police work, none of this would have happened." I turned to Oz. "Can we leave, please?"