Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot was the former umbrella-man of Fish Mooney, one-time underling of Salvatore Maroni and spy for Carmine Falcone, until Fish exposed him to Maroni. Following that, he ran this particular nightclub as part of the Falcone Crime Family and acted as Falcone's right-hand man.
However, he soon betrayed Falcone, almost killing him.
After a gang conflict, he took over Falcone's organization and after Fish and Maroni were out of the way he had become an influential and powerful gangster.
Cobblepot was a rather skinny young man of average height, pale skin and noticeably bright icy blue eyes. His nose was slightly crooked and pointed, while usually seen wearing his signature grin.
Black hair was always messily scattered across his forehead, with some spiky ends pointing erratically at the top.
His attire consisted mainly of a white shirt with a black, Continental Cross tie with its ends tucked inside a silk, purple checkered vest and a black coat with dark green lapels, black pants and matching shoes.
Due the torture he suffered for betraying Fish Mooney, one of his knees was permanently damaged or never healed right, forcing him to walk almost waddling "like a penguin".
At first glance Cobblepot appeared to be milquetoast, subservient, and somewhat of a sycophant.
In reality he was quite the ambitious and cunning sociopath who was always willing to do whatever it took to obtain power.
Despite this hunger, Cobblepot was extremely patient and used his higher intellect to concoct plans in order to reach his goals.
Virtually every move he made was premeditated to a certain degree. Even when things didn’t go exactly as planned, Cobblepot was highly adept at playing whichever type of hand he was dealt for the best.
Among the more darker parts of Cobblepot's personality was his tendency for violence.
He was far more than willing to kill someone whenever it felt necessary and does so without pity or remorse.
He often spoke with a constant smile, talking fast and shaky, with variant levels of flattery to whom he was speaking to, usually sarcastic.
His facial expressions declared that, like the spoiled only child he seemed to be on the outside, Oswald was always picked on by others and the universe, rather than ever being at fault himself.
At first, calling him Penguin made him very infuriated, to the point of murderous intents, but later, he decided to accept and adopt the epithet.
—
For lack of a better term, Oswald Cobblepot sat boredly at the bar of his restaurant.
Skinny fingers drummed against the red oak as a glass of Gotham City’s finest red wine occupied his other hand.
It was 10:00 P.M. on the dot when his Galaxy Nexus lit up with Detective Gordon’s contact number.
Oh?
A sly smile crept across his pale features as he poked the button, accepting the detective’s call and putting it on speaker.
“Good evening, Jim! What a pleasant surprise! How may I be of assistance?”
“Penguin, it's Harvey.”
A look of confusion twisted Oswald’s face when hearing Detective Harvey Bullock’s on the other end of the receiver.
“Jim is, well, he's been better. I think he's fucking delirious—”
“What happened!?” Abruptly standing, Oswald took the phone off speaker and held it to his ear.
“It was a shootout. Bullet wound in the shoulder and—”
“Take him to the hospital for Christ’s sake!”
“If ya’d ever let me finish.” Harvey hissed through gritted teeth. “He refuses. Saying bogus bullshit and asking for you. Saying ya know a doc that'd keep shit off record. Apparently he doesn't want Lee or the force involved and—”
“Where are you?” Oswald demanded as he covered the speaker on his phone with slender fingers, calling for Victor and Butch.
“His place and—”
“I'll be there in a jiffy.” Hanging up the phone just as one stoic Victor and curious Butch reply to their summons.
“Gentlemen, it seem as if our friend Jim Gordon is requesting my company.”
Victor Zsasz couldn't resist rolling his eyes, “I'll ready the car, boss.”
—
Without fail, Oswald showed at Jim Gordon’s doorstep shortly after ending the call with Harvey.
Also, as promised, a personal doctor came along and tended to Jim’s wounds with ease.
“He should recover quickly.” The blond doctor stated with optimism, casting a glance down at Jim who lay asleep on the sofa.
“Medicated for pain as needed.” Nodded the doctor, placing a small orange prescription bottle on the glass coffee table.
Detective Bullock’s phone interrupted what was about to be an awkward silence.
“Yep. Gotcha.” Flipping his old cellphone closed, Harvey scooped his hat from arm of the couch and adjusted it atop his head.
“They need me back at the station.” The detective cast a weary look in Jim’s direction before turning and heading out the door.
However, right as he was beginning to make his leave, he turned and pointed a finger at Oswald.
“You're staying here.” And then he was gone just when Oswald was about to protest.
“Oh, great. I see how it is. It's not like I have any plans tonight.” The younger man spat with butter sarcasm.
Icy blue eyes met every face in the room. “You may leave.” He dismissed them with a wave of his hand. “But you're all on call tonight. My apologies, gentlemen.”
Oswald bade the three men farewell and once they were gone, he limped his way toward the recliner and plopped himself down.
—
It was midnight when Oswald found himself engulfed in the third episode of Breaking Bad’s season one.
Struggling to stay awake, he stifled a yawn.
About an hour ago he had located a blanket for Jim and poured himself a glass of Scotch. It wasn't particularly his drink of choice, but all that he could find.
Thirty minutes into episode four and he was passed out, curled up on the recliner with his head rested on it's arm.
Fully dressed in his usual formal attire having even forgotten to kick his shoes off. Skinny arms wrapped loosely around his torso, Oswald was a silent sleeper although almost anything could wake him.
Years of paranoia had forced him into being a dreadfully light sleeper.
On the other hand, Detective Jim Gordon stirred and lifted a hand to rub sleep from his eyes.
“Fuck... “ Hissed the brunette as he struggled to sit straight.
Eyeing the glass of water and orange pill bottle on the glass coffee table in front of him, hazel hues squinted when the light from the television flickered.
Delicately massaging his wounded shoulder, those eyes fell upon an unexpected figure curled up on the recliner across the room.
“Cobblepot?" Jim called out in confusion as his mind began recollecting images from earlier in the day.
“Hey, Penguin.” The detective called out again, pushing the blanket from him.
Why is he here? Jim, eyes narrowing, slowly began to stand and walk over to Oswald.
An empty glass of scotch sat on the hardwood floor beside the recliner.
“Wake up.” He demanded in a tone more stern this time and watched as Penguin gently jerked from his slumber.
“O-Oh, Jim!” Oswald murmured sleepily, wincing as he uncurled his bad leg and sat up.
“Did you take your medicine?”
“What are you doing here?” Jim asked, raising an eyebrow as he noticed Penguin’s sleep mangled hair.
Oswald explained how he'd received a call from Detective Bullock stating that Jim had been in an accident and was asking specifically for him.
“I didn't ask do you.” Jim grumbled as the pain in his shoulder shot through his arm like a lightning bolt.
Icy blue eyes widened as he saw blood beginning to pool outward from beneath the bandages wrapped snuggly around Jim’s injury.
“You're bleeding, sit down so I can change that." Standing, ignoring the pain in his leg causes the awkward position he had been sleeping in, Oswald grabbed the bandages from the end table beside the sofa.
Jim’s eyes narrowed as he gingerly sat back down, Oswald now kneeling before him with all of the supplies on the floor next to him.
“Here.. Just… let me..” The dark haired man began to remove the bandages as slowly and delicately as he possibly could.
“Ow! Be more careful!” Jim Gordon hissed through clenched teeth as Cobblepot frantically looked up at him.
“What did I do!?” The little man gathered the dirty bandages and places them on the floor.
“Just be more steady-handed.” Groaned the detective as he avoided making eye contact.
Oswald, as carefully as he possibly could, began to rewrap Jim’s shoulder.
Perhaps he hadn't noticed before, but as Jim Gordon sat there with his signature look of frustration, bright blue eyes traced the outline of his chiseled chest and shoulders.
Jim was warm beneath his cold, feathery fingers.
I'd never seen Jim without his suit and tie… Oswald bit at the inside of his cheek.
A shirtless Jim was certainly quite the sight.
As he finished wrapping the injury, he couldn't help but to think of how lucky Barbara was.. And how Lee is.
Thoughts swirled and butterflies fluttered in his stomach as he waited for a nauseous feeling to roll over him.
It never came.
Quickly, Oswald began to stand only to lose balance and falter. Sleeping curled on the recliner earlier cramped and sent aches through his deformed leg.
“Shit.” Growled Penguin as he unknowingly gripped at Jim’s knee in order to right his stature.
“Are you alright?" Inquired Jim as a look of concern appeared across features that were carved from angels themselves.
Alarmed blue eyes met that of strict browns.
“Y-Yes, I'm fine. My apologies…” Oswald finally regained his posture and silently limped away, wondering why Jim didn't scold him for the touch.
Once in the kitchen, the dark haired man grabbed a clean glass and poured himself another heavy drink.
“Yeah, make yourself at home.” Mumbles the detective now leaning against the door frame to the kitchen with his good arm.
“Sarcasm.” Oswald snapped quietly, bringing the glass to meet his pale lips.
“I should really get going.” He added, fingering the glass before knocking the remainder it's contents back.
Jim’s eyebrows arched as he watched Penguin take a long sip from his glass.
“It's late. Just take my bed, I'll stay on the couch. “
Grinning, Oswald glanced away and sat his glass onto the granite countertop.
“I.. You should get some rest, detective.”
“I insist.” Jim added before turning and retreating to his bedroom, leaving Oswald standing there.
With narrowed eyes, Penguin finished his drink and placed the empty glass in the sink.
“Here.” Came the detective's stone voice again as he threw Oswald a pair of clothes in which he barely caught in time.
Nose scrunching at Jim’s choice in clothes for him, Oswald was shown to the bedroom where he was left alone to change.
A large sweatshirt and pair baggy sweatpants later, he found himself neatly folding his formal attire when a quiet knock on the door nearly startled him.
“Yes?” Oswald called just as Jim opened the door.
“What are you staring at?”
A handsome smirk faintly displayed across the detective’s lips brought a heat to Oswald’s face again.
“You look..” Jim started, pausing in search for the right description.
“Ridiculous.” Muttered Penguin as he broke eye contact and sat on the edge of the bed.
All Oswald received in return was short chuckle and a muttered 'goodnight’ before he was alone.
Sighing, Oswald ran a hand across the fabric beneath him. Perhaps it was indeed time to get some sleep.
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