Time was so precious when a person possessed so little of it, making them value it that much more when it became free.

Oswald rarely had a night to devote his attention onto his wife, so when the opportunity arose, he was quick to push everything else aside for the evening.

Naturally, a reservation to the most prestigious of restaurants was made, with a view so sought after that many would pay for it alone. Overlooking the city, 'The Loft' was home to a menu that only the elite could access; caviar, lobster bisque, the freshest salmon money could buy, and imported wagyu beef for the most refined of palettes.

For the people of Gotham and even beyond, it was a dream to dine there.

With such a prestigious location, Oswald had to dress to impress, not only for the pleasure of his wife, but to fit the brief of the all too strict dress code of the restaurant. What was better than a tuxedo?

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"I'll pick you up at 7, dress up for me." Oz sent the text with a slight grin, unable to help himself from feeling giddy with almost boyish excitement. However, he had to twist his features into neutrality as the tailor came back to make the final little adjustments to make the suit perfect.

He stood still, taking up space with his shoulders poised and his back straight as his eyes critically watched the tailor at his work, searching for any kind of mistake. Thankfully, none was found.

The tuxedo itself could be described as a work of art, consisting of a black, double-breasted jacket, a gold waistcoat that exuded elegance and a bow-tie that had been carefully knotted around his neck.

A glint of gold peeked through his smile as he smoothed down the jacket, admiring the reflection of class that stared back at him. "Earned your money today, pal." Oz muttered to the tailor as he delivered a firm pat to his shoulder, unable to stop the spark that entered his eye at the sight of the tuxedo.

He was the sight of success, a man made, and tonight, he had a wife to woo and sweep off her feet.

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Perfectly on time, a sleek plum car pulled up on the curb outside of a towering building that made home to their penthouse.

For once, Oswald was the one left waiting for you to arrive, appearing almost anxious as he stood beside the car with a bouquet clenched in his fist. "C'mon, sweetheart, can't be late." He rumbled to himself, taking the occasional peek at his watch to check the time.

Any thoughts of you not showing up quickly dissipated as soon as you walked out the door, appearing like something out of his dreams. Everything about you was perfect in his eyes; the way you had managed to compliment his tuxedo without even knowing, the way your hair was styled and how the makeup you wore tied it all together.

"There she is." Oz said with a grin, gently pushing the bouquet of roses into your arms. Was it a little cliché? Absolutely. But most importantly, it was romantic in the traditional kind of way. It was something sweet to make feel special, and that's what mattered most.

You accepted the roses with a bright smile, hand naturally falling to grasp Oswald's arm in order to get closer to him. "Ain't you a romantic?" You chuckled, giving him a little nudge to his side with your elbow.

"And you scrub up pretty well too." It was difficult to ignore how polished Oz looked, his hair neatly slicked back to compliment the sleek tuxedo he wore. Each aspect of his appearance proudly displayed the effort he had put in to look presentable, impressive even.

Oswald let himself soften, allowing a huff of laughter to leave his scarred lips as his arms reached for you, one hand anchoring itself on your waist. "Glad you noticed, baby. How's about we get to the car now, huh?" A slight edge of impatience entered his tone, as though he could hardly wait another moment to get to the restaurant.

"Sure, let's go, handsome." You allowed him to guide you to the parked car, watching with a giddy smile as he opened the door for you to slip inside, placing the flowers into the backseat.The interior of the car matched its sleek exterior, with plush leather seats that you could sink back into with ease.

As Oz slid into the driver's seat, he turned the key in the ignition until the engine roared to life, purring beneath his foot as he applied pressure to the accelerator. The radio was next to spark to life, the volume soft and low as it let out the gentle crooning of a Frank Sinatra song, setting the tone for the evening ahead; utterly indulgent romance.

It was silly to think that such a revered man could become so soft around the edges, his eyes constantly darting over to check over you, his hand unconsciously planting itself on your thigh as his fingers splayed over the fabric of your dress. "You're beautiful." He whispered, no less certain about the fact despite his quiet tone as he was simply struck by you.

One thing about Oz, he was a smooth talker with a tongue so silver that he could charm his way out of anything. When it came to you, that was only amplified, though strangely in a far more mellow manner. His eyes were less calculated and filled with a shine at the sight of you, and his compliments fell off his tongue lightly rather than boisterously.

You let your head lull to the side, looking at Oz as your hand fell atop his own, cradling it in a gentle hold as your thumb swept over his skin. "You never let me forget it."

That coaxed a somewhat cocky smile from him as his fingers crept up your thigh, quickly disappearing beneath a slit in your dress to roam over your bare skin. "God damn right."

You raised a brow, feigning annoyance as you watched his hand worm its way under your dress. "I'm not looking to take this off yet, big guy. You gotta romance me first." Your fingers wrapped around his wrist and gave it a gentle tug just before he could go any further.

"Ain't this my usual way of romancing ya?" Oswald questioned, reluctantly allowing you to move his hand, though it was quick to settle atop your thigh again.

Shooting him a little glance, you playfully rolled your eyes and gave a click of your tongue. "Behave." So he did, or at least, tried his best to for the meantime.

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"Right this way, please." The Maître D' was eager yet polite as he escorted you and Oz to the table he had reserved. Everyone had been truthful in their gushing about the view, as from your seat, the entire skyline of the city was visible, appearing so small from your position despite the bustle of life.

Both you and Oz had your chairs pulled out for you, allowing you to sit down facing one another, with the beautiful view to your side. "Might I get you anything to drink?" The question was quick to come, laced with expectancy as you barely had a moment to mull over your options.

Oz was quick to cut in, shooting the waiter a sharp glare at his all too eager expectance. "Give us a minute here, pal." His voice was harsh, leaving no chance of rebuttal from the waiter as he was forced to scurry off for the moment.

"Aw, c'mon, poor kid probably gets fired if he don't ask." You were a little more sympathetic towards the young man, offering him a slight smile as an apology for the brash way Oz had herded him off.

Oz let out a mutter beneath his breath and sighed, attempting to cool off from the small moment of confrontation. "You haven't even looked at the menu yet, baby, ain't right to just spring it on you." His concern came from a softer place in his heart, the part that was just begging for the night to be as perfect as it could be.

It had to be perfect.

Your hand reached across the table to grasp his, gently threading your fingers together as you gave a light squeeze. "Real sweet of you to stick up for me, honey." Though you could barely hide the hint of humour that entered your voice, amused by the sight of Oz trying so hard to make everything right.

The drinks' menu laid between you in the centre of the table, home to a list of expensive wines and spirits that you had never heard of. Truth be told, the extravagance of the restaurant had you out of your depth.

Looking over the long list that seemed to go on forever, a wrinkle formed in your brow as you looked to Oz. "Any recommendations?" Surely, you thought, in his years of schmoozing and dining with the upper class he had came across a good drink.

His eyes scanned over the menu, clearly becoming agitated as nothing appeared to be to either of your tastes. "How about we get a bottle of champagne? Celebrate the night together." Another romantic and slightly cliché notion, but thoughtful nonetheless.

It took only a few minutes between deciding and ordering a choice of drink along with your entrees before they were placed upon the table, the bottle of champagne submerged in a bucket of ice to cool it to the right temperature. And your entree? Oysters, served raw on the half shell, accompanied by a lemon wedge in the centre of the plate and a mignonette sauce.

"You ever had oysters before?" Oswald asked, earnest in his curiosity as he leaned forward to inspect your face, watching how it lit up at the sight of luxury.

You nodded, "Sure I have, just none as good as these." Oysters were a staple in many restaurants, but nothing was ever going to match the quality of those served in 'The Loft'.

Oz hummed, plucking the chilled bottle of champagne to pop the cork and pour the sparkling liquid into two flutes, one for you and one for him. "Bottom's up." He rumbled, clinking his glass against your own before he took a hearty sip of champagne, feeling the bubbles fizzle on his tongue.

You picked up the wedge of lemon, squeezing it until the juice had been evenly spread over the oyster to enhance the flavour. With a smooth motion, you brought the oyster to the curve of your lips and tipped your head back, allowing the morsel to slip down your throat.

"It's good, right?" The question came with a lilt of laughter from Oswald, having devoured his own oyster in his chase for its briny flavour, enhanced by the dash of lemon.

Unsurprisingly, you gave a satisfied nod as a grin spread over your face. "Good? It's fucking great." That drew another hearty laugh from him, clearly amused at the way you happily indulged in the oyster.

With an entree so impressive, you could only expect further greatness from The Loft in the form of a main course.

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"Where's the rest of it?" That was the last thing you expected to hear in the most prestigious restaurant in Gotham, but at the sight of the food on your plate, the sentiment quickly became shared.

You stared at the little serving of beef before you, unable to comprehend how this could possibly be a main course. "You're sure you didn't order the tasting menu?" As much as you hated to express doubt in Oz, what other explanation could there be?

At your question, Oz bristled with a shake of his head and a tetchy sigh. "Baby, c'mon, I ordered the wagyu beef for two." Yet the courses you had received consisted of a small cut of beef each, surrounded by an assortment of roasted vegetables.

You sank your fork into the tender meat, holding it steady as your knife easily sliced through and cut a piece off. The rich flavour of the wagyu slid along your tongue like butter, eliciting a pleasurable sigh to pass your lips. Delicious? Yes. Filling? No.

"Look, doll, I can get ya something else if it ain't cutting it." Oswald murmured with an apologetic expression, unable to stop himself from being disappointed in the meal presented to you. All he wanted was for you to be happy, and most importantly, content with your meal. It had to be perfect.

Despite your desire to reassure him that everything was fine, you had to admit that the meal was a little sad. But an idea sprang to mind and brought a twinkle to your eye that Oz immediately noticed. "What's that, huh?"

You grinned, leaning over the table to whisper giddily in his ear. "Why don't we just ditch this place? I know a good burger joint." It was a tempting offer, but you added just one more thing to sweeten the deal. "I'll make sure you get extra pickles."

If he hadn't been convinced before, he certainly was now. In a decisive motion, he stood from his seat and threw a handful of bills onto the table, offering you his arm in a gentlemanly manner. "Let's get outta here."

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The roads through the city were oddly quiet, traffic still steady enough but not busy enough to be irritating. Besides, it gave you and Oz time to talk about the diner you were going to.

"Best burger you've ever had? I call bullshit."

"I'm serious! Look, it's been around forever, the man knows how to make a good burger."

"Whatever you say, sweetheart, but I ain't convinced yet."

"Give it a chance, Oz." Even as much as he begrudged the possibility of another disappointing meal tonight, he was willing to try it for you.

'Eddie's Diner' was the polar opposite of 'The Loft' in every way imaginable; it was small and intimate rather than grandiose, the menus were sticky and its patronage featured every kind of Gotham citizen, not just the elite.

You and Oz found yourselves seated in a booth facing one another, the leather of the plush seats worn down from continuous use over the years, but they were comfortable nonetheless. The atmosphere was far less stuffy, instead offering a genuine welcome and familiarity.

Any kind of burger you could imagine found home on the menu at Eddie's, each one fitted with a pun in its name to add a little bit of comedic value to the place.

'MENU:

'The Brrrrger (Double Beef patty with Iceberg Lettuce, tomatoes, onions, cheese, and mustard)'

'The Got-Ham (Pulled Pork Burger with pickles, crispy onions, cheese, and BBQ sauce)

'The Motherclucker (Chicken patty with lettuce, tomatoes, cheese, and garlic mayo)

'Pickle Me Pink ( Double Beef patty with pickles, lettuce, tomatoes, ketchup, and mayo)'

'Baby got Bacon' (Beef patty with bacon, lettuce, tomatoes, cheese, and bourbon sauce)

"You gotta be kidding me.." Oz grumbled beneath his breath after he had scanned the menu, rolling his eyes at the list of names that he found less amusing the more he read of them.

You just laughed and gave a faux pout as though you were hurt by his apparent distaste for the puns. "Hey, some kid probably worked hard on those! I think it adds to the charm." Sure, it was a little over the top, but it was fun.

Unlike The Loft with its long list of confusing drinks, Eddie's was wonderfully familiar with its taste of nostalgia in the form of milkshakes and soda-floats. "Whaddya want? I think I'm going for chocolate."

Oswald hummed, letting his gaze flick over the list of drinks in contemplation. "Think I'll get the chocolate too, doll." It seemed that his initial reservations had been pushed aside in favour of enjoying the night to its fullest potential, having caved to the idea of a sweet milkshake within minutes.

The server approached with a sheepish smile to take your order, eyes wide at the sight of how dressed up the two of you were. To anyone else, you must have looked crazy, but you were happy, so what did it matter?

"Can we get a Got-Ham and a Pickle Me Pink? Extra pickles on that one, and two chocolate shakes. Thanks a lot." You could see how Oz still playfully rolled his eyes at the names of the burgers, likely happy that you had taken it upon yourself to order for you both.

Silently, you prayed that your second dinner of the night would beat all expectations and leave you full unlike the first.

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Who else could manage to knock it out of the park other than the man himself? Eddie. The man really knew how to make a burger, and on top of that, a killer milkshake.

Both milkshakes were thick and smooth, freezing cold from the little time they spent blending, allowing the ice-cream to essentially cool the liquid down to perfection. How could anything get better than that?

The burgers, that's how.

No miniscule portions were seen inside Eddie's Diner as the burgers were huge, penetrated by toothpicks so they would stay together in order for you to take a bite.

"Jesus." You moaned mid-bite, feeling the supple texture of the pork mix with the slight crunch of the onions, complimented by a generous amount of barbecue sauce. This was real food, not that fancy stuff they served at The Loft.

Oswald laughed at your satisfied face, wiping a smudge of sauce away from your lips with the pad of his thumb. "You were right, baby, this is up there." Approval came with another greedy bite to his own burger, which was arguably more pickle than anything.

"I'm sorry things didn't go to plan tonight." A sudden vulnerability came from Oswald as he reached across the table to grasp your hand, giving an apologetic squeeze. "Could've been perfect."

You could only smile back at him, still basking in the joy that came from good food. "Oz, baby, I don't care where we are, I'm happy I'm with you." Now, you sounded like the terribly cliché one, but it was true. "Besides, it turned out alright, didn't it?" You added, a joyful glint shining in your eyes.

Hair and makeup done, you stand in front of your closet, fingering through your dresses. Although you didn't know where he was taking you, most of them are too short for a nice dinner, saying I'm going out for a night at the Iceberg Lounge instead of I'm going out for a nice dinner with a guy I'm developing major feelings for. Your heart thuds, and your brain skips. Major feelings. Yikes. You hum, pulling a wine colored evening gown off the hanger. You step to the side, in front of your mirror, and hold it up to your nearly naked body. This will do. You hurriedly put on the dress, pulling up the side zip.

Hooking your fingers around the straps of a pair of nude heels at the bottom of your closet, you grab your purse and pad carefully down the plush carpeted stairs. Your father sits on the sofa, looking at his phone. He has some papers on his lap, but you aren't sure what they are. You don't care to ask.

You muster up all the confidence you can, hoping your voice doesn't waver. "I'm going to dinner with Oz, daddy. He'll be here soon."

He turns, and all the words die on his tongue as soon as he sees you. You look beautiful, elegant even, and he has nothing that can hold you. You can see him recoil slightly, like you've just slapped him, but what transpired before keeps him in line. Instead of saying everything he wants to say, he just nods, and returns his attention to the phone. You want to say something reassuring, but words fail you. You slip your feet into your heels one by one.

When you open the door, Oz is outside, leaning against the passenger's side door. He's wearing a suit, and your heart squeezes at the visual — you're in too deep at this point. He's got his phone in his hand, but quickly pockets it when he hears the front door open.

"Was just texting you."

You flash a bright smile, and lift your dress as you walk down the three steps. Oz holds his hand out for support, and you take it. It's warm and big and you feel every inch of your body heat up.

The drive is quiet. Sinatra plays on the stereo, and Oz's fingers twitch like he wants to touch you, but doesn't. You keep your hands in your lap, wanting desperately to touch him. When he finally pulls the car up to the curb, you look through the window and furrow your brow.

"You said you were going to take me to dinner."

"Yeah," he grunts. Holds his hand out again.

"This is your apartment building."

"Yeah," he says again, ushering out of the car with a jerk of his head. You run your tongue along the front of your bottom teeth, fighting off a smile. You pivot in the seat, and reach up, using his hand as leverage to pull yourself up off the seat. On the way up, Oz holds every door for you.

There's a familiarity in the way you step inside, and you're happy to settle back in. Your eyes dart to the bedroom as he moves into it, taking off his suit jacket. Fondly, you remember how you rode his face and how he fucked you. A smile curves around your glossy lips as your eyes dart back to the main room. Just before the kitchen, you spot a small dining room table. It's set for two people, with candles that aren't lit yet.

As you set your bag down on one of the armchairs, Oz walks past you to the table, rolling up his sleeves to the elbows. He pours you a glass of wine and returns it, pushing into your hands.

Flippantly, you ask: "What, you ordered pizza or something?"

"You think I ordered takeout for a gal like you? C'mon. I cooked," he says plainly, like it's the most normal thing in the world. In some ways, it is. This is what people do when they're dating, isn't it?

Still, your brows fly up on your forehead, your red lips tightening into a smile. "A home cooked meal, huh? Should I call my dad and tell him you're gonna propose next?"

"Ahh." He waves away your comment, but the sentiment isn't lost on you as he continues speaking. "I uh, know you've been to all the fancy restaurants here in Gotham. Ain't nothing special to you."

You nod once, swirling the wine around in your glass. "And?"

"And… I wanted to do somethin' different."

You're stunned. Butterflies are fluttering around in your ribcage, so you take a long sip of the wine. It's all you can do to contain them and avoid them changing your facial expression to something too sappy. It's different now, the dynamic, and your heart feels heavy, laden with adoration for the guy.

As Oz makes his way back to the kitchen, you pull out one of the chairs and perch on the edge of it, crossing your legs. The silken fabric slides down your thigh, exposing it to the cool air of his apartment. You hear him open the oven and pull out a heavy dish, setting it on the stove top.

"What did you make?"

"Baked ziti. Used to make it for my ma when I was kid. Her recipe."

Your stomach pangs with hunger at the mention — you were a sucker for a good Italian dish. It came with the territory. Oz returns with two loaded plates and with an unexpected gentility, sets them down on the table in their respective spots. After lighting the candles, he takes his seat across from you, and watches you closely. You know he wants to see you take the first bite, and enjoy it. The pressure builds in your core.

"Can't keep your eyes off me, huh?" Your usual snark is ever present, but there's something tainting it now, something softer. "You've got it bad, baby."

"And you don't?"

You answer with your eyes before lifting your fork, and pierce some of the noodles. Strings of melted mozzarella and ricotta stretch up as you bring it to your lips. As soon as it hits your tongue, you let out a pleased hum that goes straight to Oz's chest. He relaxes in the chair, and lets the corner of his mouth lift in a satisfied grin before taking a forkful of his creation.

As you two eat, any tension that was there melts away. Oz laughs at your jokes, and you laugh at his stories. He compliments your eyes, says they're prettier than any jewels he's seen — and he's seen some. You two work your way through the bottle of wine and half of the dish, and before long, you're feeling wonderfully comfortable. Full of food and alcohol, you lean back in your chair.

"This was nice."

"Was? What, you wanna go back to daddy already?" His tone is teasing, but underneath there's a pleading that he probably hopes you don't hear.

Your eyes flash with something dangerous. "The only place I wanna be is your sofa. Or your bed. Again."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Oz stands up and walks to your side of the table, extending his hand again. He's a real schmoozer, a gentleman, but you appreciate it. Most guys your age wouldn't dream of acting this way, they don't have a suave bone in their stupid little hormonal bodies, and it's got heat pooling between your legs.

He guides you to the sofa, and you both sit, close to each other. You drape your legs over his lap, and finish off the remainder of your wine. You set the empty glass on the side table with a tink! and return your attention to him.

"Listen, doll."

Oh no.

"I know I said this wasn't a thing…"

Oh, but it was.

You smirk and lean back against his couch with a laugh. "You want it to be a thing, Ozzy? Huh?"

"What if I said I did?"

As you stare at Oz's ceiling for a moment, you consider that question, mulling over it like a mouthful of wine. You sit up, and sweep your legs underneath themselves, crawling over to him. You straddle him, and again, the familiarity burns in your core. He feels so comfortable, so warm…

You lean down and kiss him. Really kiss him. The other kisses may have been fueled by lust and alcohol, but this is softer, like you're just kissing him for the sake of feeling his warm, scarred lips against your own. You're kissing him because it's what lovers do.

Lovers.

Your hand trails down his broad body — god, you love it — and makes quick work of his slacks, unbuttoning them and sliding the zip down. His cock is hardening under your weight, and you shift slightly, allowing yourself some room.

"So you wanna ask me out, Ozzy? You wanna go steady?"

Oz's breath hitches in his throat. You feel his dick throb, move against you as it hardens further. He's really getting off on this kinda talk…

"What will my daddy say?"

"I gotta be honest with you sweetheart, I don't really give a fuck what he has to say…"

You liked that. Your fingers delve into his underwear and wrap around his cock, giving it a few slow strokes. It twitches against your palm and Oz bucks his hips unconsciously.

"Tell me, Oz… Say it."

You drag your fist up and down, stroking him in a passionate, controlled way. Oz's breathing goes from steady to shallow, and he swallows, shifting his neck slightly. Twitching.

"I want you to be my girl."

The words are heavy…. so heavy. You want him all over again. You long for the feeling of his cock inside you.

"You want what all this means, huh? You want me to be your controversially young girlfriend? Oz Cobb dating the daughter of one of Gotham's councilmen? Think about the headlines, baby…"

Oz groans underneath you, and you tighten your grip on his dick, urging more precum from the slit. You smear your thumb over it and down the length of his shaft and Oz mutters something about how good it feels.

"Yeah, you remember how good it felt, don't you? Haven't got that outta your head, have you, baby?"

He shakes his head.

Your speed increases, pumping his thick cock in and out of your fist and Oz tightens beneath you, his hands finding your hips and pulling you against his body. Without another word, he comes in your hand, spilling out over your fingers in white, hot spurts.

Disappointment flashes in your eyes, but disappears with the thought that you're going to fuck him all night long. You weren't going home tonight.

You let go of his throbbing cock, and raise your palm. The cum drips from your knuckles, and you bring it closer to your mouth. Your tongue darts out, and licks one of the fingers clean. You swallow down his heady taste, and nod lazily.

"Okay," you whisper, dizzy with lust.

"Okay?"

"I'll be your baby, Oz. I'll be your baby, if you take good care of me."

A sheen of sweat coats his forehead, and he looks flushed. He reaches up and cups the side of your face. "You'll want for nothin' with me, doll."

You lean down to kiss him again.