call it what you want || nygmobblepot x oc ✅

Dress

POV Five Jackson

The next night at the gala is... eventful to say the least. Nygma doesn't go (still mourning over Isabella, and he claims to not be feeling well), which makes it a little awkward. Though I can't think why. When we finally get there (it takes forever, and I'm at least 90% sure the driver got lost at one point), I take consolation in that at least I can look at the dresses people are wearing. Yes, I'm totally gay. Dresses have always had my heart, and I enjoy critiquing fashion design in my head.

Speaking of fashion, the suit, the tuxedo I'm wearing is tight fitting, accentuating what are probably my best physical features, my slight shoulders and slim waist. Maybe my ass. But it's simple, because my job is to blend in and take down anybody who wants to hurt my boss.

My boss. That's right. And I'm going to try to refer to Oswald, both out loud and in my head as either Penguin, boss or sir, because I can't distance myself from him if I'm calling him Oswald.

He gives me a lapel pin, too. It's a simple, plain silver umbrella, and it's his mark on me. I like the idea of that more than I should.

We mingle, oh god I hate that word, mingle, with other psychos and criminals, talking business. I hear the occasional old rich fat guy say something about the women in the room, and I take it upon myself to glare my ass off in hopes I'd unnerve some of these sickos. Jesus H. There are a few pretty women in dresses that give me the eyes but I ignore them.

"So, Cobblepot, you finally got yourself a bodyguard, huh?" a man asks, a cigarette in his mouth. He's young, got slicked back black hair and a generally sleazy way about him. I don't like him.

"Yes," Os- Penguin says, glancing over at me. I put on my best fuck-with-my-boss-and-I'll-end-your-life face and square my shoulders.

The guy smirks at me, looking me up and down. I resist the urge to squirm. God, no. This is not supposed to be about me, and now that it suddenly is I don't know how to shift the attention back to Penguin where it belongs.

"At least he looks good," and the way this guy talks about me like I'm not here gets on my last nerves. I clench my jaw and try not to snap. "I mean, darling. These shoulders?" he shoots Penguin a look dark with intent, shifts forward, and that's when I see the knife in his hand. Shit. I was never the objective. He was never trying to get to me.

And he lunges. I dart forward, putting myself between Penguin and the blade and ow! The knife grazes my left shoulder as I take him to the floor, but he puts up a good fight, lashing out with his other hand over my shoulder and hitting Oswald in the mouth. I growl, clenching my teeth in pain as I finally pin him to the floor. He thrashes underneath me, cursing. He jams the butt of the knife into my jaw, and I feel a sharp spike of pain spread through my mouth and blood burst on my tongue. I pin both of his hands, tossing the knife across the floor, and refuse to let my gasp of pain out of my mouth as he squirms.

A crowd is forming around us. Someone steps forward to take him away and Penguin pulls me back. I slap a hand over the wound in my shoulder. The blood is seeping through the suit and I cannot bring myself to care. I open my mouth- mistake. Blood drips down onto my sleeve and Penguin- fuck it, Oswald gasps, yelling for the driver and dragging me towards the exit. I can't even really see, head full of flashbacks and mistakes- how could I have played this better?

"This, this right here, is why we can't have nice things," he mutters nervously, shouting at someone in the way of us. I wholeheartedly agree, silently.

As soon as we're outside I turn around and, with a grunt of effort, hold Oswald still while I make sure that bastard didn't do any lasting damage. If I find a bruise, I'm going back in there and that sleazy son of a bitch is going to die. That look of dark intent- he was never aiming for me, that was a warning to Oswald, a distraction, and he didn't fucking didn't pick up on it.