🍸🔪

This sort of thing was, in the grand scheme of things, not that surprising in Gotham. Even so, it had been a rude awakening, a startling development, and a mild panic that sent Ed scurrying to try to find his associate. A city-wide epidemic with an unclear cause and even more unclear solution… but if he wanted anything to be done about it, he’d need help…

The window had been left open, which explained the horrific, transformative gas wafting into the club, but also allowed something large to slip inside, hopefully unnoticed. A scurrying noise, in short spurts, could be heard overhead of the poor baffled bar tender before an annoyed voice finally couldn’t help himself, “If you don’t want that to get worse, I’d advise closing that window and getting some rags under the door…”

At the sound of scurrying--followed momentarily by a familiar voice, Polar glanced upwards and sighed. Edward Nygma, clinging to the ceiling of the Iceberg Lounge wasn’t exactly the sight he’d expected to see today...but hey.  That was Gotham. 

“Mister Nygma.”

Worse. What could possibly be worse than this? Nose crinkled and Polar stepped over the mess he’d made behind the bar--gathering up a handful of the cleaning rags and dropping them near the entrance. The pointed toe of his dress shoes nudging it into place to seal the small gap before moving to the window and swiping at the ledge of it with his new mitts. 

@polarprotector    CONT.

“Actually, you’re not. I…kinda might’ve talked to Oswald.” Leaving a message counted as talking, right? Right? “I told him I’d be kidnapping you for the foreseeable future, or at least for one night.”

              One night, to try and get rid of the pain he saw in those blue eyes. Ian didn’t know the full details of Polar’s life, but he knew mentions of Father’s Day had been setting the man even more on edge than usual. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that something had happened to make the Grumpy Bear hate the day, and Ian wasn’t about to push that particular button. No, tonight was for trying to unwind the man in front of him, to help him relax. “C’mon, Polar. The Lounge is dead tonight,” easy to see from the lack of cars in the parking spots, “and I’ve got a bottle or two of Gentlemen Jack whisky waiting on you. Please?”

“What?” It’s hard to believe the bird would take a call today; not while his attention was claimed by his adopted ward. Which meant Ian had likely just...called and left a voicemail, despite Oswald’s insistence that the rookie NOT contact him. 

Fingers curl a touch tighter around his cigarette, flicking the ashes aside before they could succumb to gravity and dirty his work clothes. 

It’s annoying enough that Ian has that inkling of understanding. Not enough to grasp why the day had truly come to bother the Bear. But enough to know it bothered him in the first place. Which was too much. Despite the attempts to bury his past and never look back...it always ended up getting dredged up. 

He doesn’t have many options; denying Ian means the man is just going to hang around the Lounge and pester. Going with him means he’s going to end up drowning his sorrows in that whiskey--which is tempting enough on his own. 

“...Fine.” He drops the cigarette, grounding it out with the heel of a polished dress shoe before turning back to the Lounge, catching the door and shouldering it open. “Give me ten minutes.” 

He needs to change into his casual clothes and explain closing tasks to the remaining staff. Make sure Oswald’s office is properly locked. Snag his owed tips for the evening from the hiding spot beneath the bar. 

“Ian.” His tone is measured, carefully constructed with a bite of warning as he meets the other man’s eyes. Just as menacing as the rattle of the snake, threateningly shaking its namesake in caution. 

He’d stepped outside for a cigarette, hoping the nicotine and smoke might be grounding enough to dispell his thoughts concerning the current holiday. Fucking Father’s Day. Work was meant to distract. He’d hoped to get lost in the rhythm of pouring drinks and dishing out cocktails but the Iceberg Longe was hardly the hopping place of Gotham for the evening. More time had been spent sorting bottles (that had already been sorted) and making the milling coworker’s requested drinks. One could only offer tight smiles and mumbled gratitude for so long before it grew old. Before memories dug too deep and carelessly pulled at the heartstrings. 

He could have taken the day off. Oswald wasn’t near the Lounge, opting instead to spend the day mourning his own father and doting over Martin in the Manor. Polar had been offered a spot at the table and plans–after all the little bird was fond of him. He’d declined for his own personal reasons, of which the Kingpin had nodded in understanding and left him alone.

Polar, shaking his head as he keeps driving: What an idiot.

Ian: *Keeps talking to the villain*

Polar:

Polar: W a i t a s e c o n d.

Fury is obvious in the usually stoic man; the twitch and narrow of thick brows; nostrils flaring in such a fashion that would put any dragon to shame. The audible sound of teeth being sucked in contemplation. 

If looks could kill…the stranger delivering such a message would be just as dead as the subject of it, masquerading as a punchline. 

@polarprotector​ Liked the Thing for a thing.( @kxngofgotham​ )

This was a bad idea, of course it was a bad idea, what other sort of ideas would he be having these days? Ed pulled down the brim of his… borrowed… hat and overcoat, what he felt was a more discrete trench coat and fedora affair to disguise his rumpled green suit, peering intently at the club across the street. 

“Now remember,” He leaned back to instruct Grundy firmly, “You wait here until I blow the whistle, alright?” He gave the metal thing hanging from his neck a couple short toots to remind the behemoth, “Then you come in to save the day, not letting anyone stop you, got it?”

Grundy nodded, he liked this game. They’d played it a few times, and sometimes he got to beat people to twitching pulps, but lately he’d be called less and less.  “Friend Ed squeal, Grundy fight?”

“It’s not- It’s louder than my voice can carry, ok? Right. Wait for the signal.”

He shouldn’t have brought Grundy, he wanted to be discrete. There was a nice sense of security in knowing he had some sort of back-up plan ready, at least. He had a solid plan. What could go wrong? 

That self-affirmed, Ed stalked his way into the Iceberg Lounge.

The Iceberg Lounge was in its usual hustle and bustle of a busy night; the self-determined elite of Gotham nosing their way through the themed club, gossip flowing just as quickly as drinks could be served. 

Which was all fine and dandy for Polar, keeping himself busy as he crafted platters worth of orders, passing them off to the other tuxedo adorned waiters or serving those who wanted to sit at the pristine barstools on his own. Which, thus far had consisted of an accountant from a recently bankrupt business--spending his remaining cash on enough booze to drown his sorrows twice over; and a retired delegate from city hall who’d left shortly after being informed that the Penguin wasn’t in for the evening. 

A mental note had been made of the man from City Hall, memorization of his build and his voice, should he present any trouble for the bird in the immediate future. 

Another glass was placed before the broken accountant, gaining a mumble of thanks, before an icy gaze glanced up to find a suspicious figure looking around the Lounge in search of something. Or someone, more likely.  An eyebrow was arched and Polar shot a glance to the door, wondering just why the man on duty would let some oaf with a fedora pulled half over his face into the establishment. Just because Oswald wasn’t in for the evening didn’t mean the bird's standards were meant to be ignored. 

Hmph.

He hadn’t even known what message to put upon it; so far removed from the notion of caring about other people. Had he ever even bought a birthday cake before--? No? No. Benny hadn’t liked cake. Too much sugar. They’d always had something smaller. 

“Fuck.” The words were puffed out and Polar moved forward, setting the box on the counter of the apartment before raising his hands and backing away, lest he have the better sense to surge back and chuck it into the trash. 

Whenever Ian returned home he’d find it. A small sheet cake decorated with a multitude of blue and black icing--the words ‘Happy Birthday Howell’ written in delicate cursive alongside a swirl that ran beneath the length of the message. It’s chocolate and vanilla; marbled together inside because, after a debate over flavors, a certain bird had suggested getting both.

Alongside the cake there’s an envelope; the word Ian written on the front. Inside there’s a very concise card, with a cheesy looking German Shepard wearing a party hat. Because you know--Police. Dogs. It had made sense at the time. 

‘Ian,

You’ve made it another year in this cesspool of a City. Happy Birthday. 

--Polar

Beneath that, came another message in a different type of handwriting; the letters spaced entirely different, like that of a child’s writing. 

‘AND MARTIN. c: ‘  

‘Martin picked out the flavor. So if it makes you sick you can blame the kid.’ 

Polar visits as much as he can; establishing a fake identity and disguise so the guards don’t raise too many eyebrows. Pays off those who actually put two and two together. He does what he can to keep the Bird updated on the recent events of the City and follows any orders that Oswald can bark. Slowly amassing contacts over the years for the moment Oswald does actually get himself released. 

In the threads with @ianhowellgcpd ; He’s learning how to navigate having someone live with him and trying to work through his old baggage concerning relationships while Ian’s staying him. 

There was a stone-like weight in Ian’s chest that started up the moment he’d placed those handcuffs on Polar’s wrists, a deep feeling of guilt and disappointment he knew he wouldn’t just be able to shake off. The young cop placed a hand on the shorter man’s shoulder as he started to lead him forward, past the dead or unconscious bodies and out of the warehouse where Ian’s car waited. Since he hadn’t been officially on the clock, the car was his own Roush Mustang instead of a GCPD squad car, and for a moment he considers the irony: he’d planned to show Polar this car one day, had even thought about asking him to take a spin in it with him. Well, they were certainly about to do that, weren’t they? 

            The thought made a bitter smile cross his face as he opened the door to the back seat, carefully helping Polar inside before shutting the door. He didn’t have to worry about the man managing to escape. Even if by some miracle he did manage to get his cuffed hands toward the door handle, Ian had the child locks engaged - a force of habit he’d acquired since his brother and sister couldn’t ride around in a cop car with him. Sure it wasn’t as good as having the actual cage of a squad car, but it held well enough as Ian walked around the car to the driver’s side, popping open the door and settling himself inside. He didn’t look back at the passenger (prisoner), his gaze passing over the rearview mirror, his hand falling  down toward the cell phone in his cupholder. He should tell Jim about this, he thought to himself, already opening the phone and hitting contacts. Obviously this was something Oswald had done, and that meant Jim would want to know about it. He’d want to know the where, the what, the when, the why….and the who. The thought of that, of telling Jim that Polar had done this, made the stone-feeling in his chest even more pronounced. God, he didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to have to take Polar to the station, didn’t want to have to be part of his booking process. Why couldn’t he have just stayed away? Why couldn’t he have just not seen Polar at all?

That thought pulled him up short for a moment as a realization crashed into him: what if he hadn’t seen Polar at all? After all, unknown criminals committed crimes every day in Gotham, didn’t they? And Ian wasn’t even officially supposed to be arresting people at this time. He could drive Polar back to the Iceberg Lounge and come back here and report the crime itself. It’d be so easy. And then nothing would have to change. Everything could stay exactly the same. ….but it wouldn’t, really, would it? Because Ian would still know. He would know what Polar had done, he would still feel this odd sense of betrayal and disappointment, and nothing would change that. So with a heavy sigh he hit Jim’s contact number, putting the phone to his ear as he stared out of the windshield. “Captain Gordon? Yeah, yeah, I know what time it is. Listen, I’m at the Dockstreet Warehouses with a suspect in custody….” He kept the explanation brief, requesting one ambulance and the coroner, hanging up the very minute Jim let him go. And only then did he meet Polar’s eyes in the rearview, bright green narrowed in the reflection. “You picked the worst night to do something illegal.”

As he was led forward, past the array of broken bodies and out of the warehouse, he kept the steady pace Ian demanded. Ducked his head when called for, slipping into the backseat of the car and maneuvering his long legs uncomfortable in the small space. 

Shoulders were rolled against the strain of his arms pulled behind his back and he settled his gaze out the front of the vehicle, avoiding the Officer’s disappointed expression as the uncomfortable silence settled between them. He could speak--silver tongue slipping suggestion towards his companion, doubting that the man would actually use any of his words against him, rights or not. 

But there was no guarantee of that; a fact that was confirmed when a heavy sigh and the dull tone of a phone dialing filled the front of the car. The Captain of the GCPD informed of the location and the crime. Assistance called for the men that had been injured and body bags for those who had perished at his hand. There would be no ignorance. No brushing aside the crime; the incident left to be chalked up to the wolves of Gotham. Polar’s icy glance finally meets Ian’s in the reflection the mirror provides--the action accented with another angry flair of his nostrils before his head tilts and met the back of his seat. 

He’d been doing his job; given a task and executing it as instructed. His job had always come before anything else--and it always would. If Oswald should ask him to jump, his only answer would be to question just how high before carrying forward. He would endure any amount of danger, so long as the Kingpin remained safe and he remained in the man’s good graces.  

That’s what loyalty was.  No amount of disappointed puppy eyes from the other man would change it. No matter how close they might grow; his duty to the Penguin would always take precedent.  

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Tagged By: @ianhowellgcpd Tagging: Whomever wants to!!