Chapter Text
‘Stop! Stop. That’s quite enough of that’.
The male stripper halted immediately, his arms half hanging out of the tuxedo jacket he had been gradually removing.
‘Huh?’
Oswald’s eyes narrowed at the dull reply. He steepled his fingers and regarded the prospective employee icily. Just another dolt with more muscle than brains. He ignored Butch’s heavy sigh from beside him as he put the remote that controlled the music down.
Butch felt sorry for the unfortunate stripper. He’d been on the receiving end of Oswald’s displeasure and knew how isolating and intimidating it could be fully clothed. Never mind standing up on a stage in your underwear and a dinner jacket that was too small for you.
The act had started well. The stripper had come out onto the stage obscured by a large silk curtain allowing them to only see his silhouette. As the music had started up his form had been good but he had begun to falter when Butch had deliberately sped up, slowed down and stopped the music for a brief period. When the set time limit had expired, Oswald had signalled for the curtain to be dropped and evidently was unimpressed with what he had witnessed.
Butch glanced down at the list of people they had shortlisted for interview and pursed his lips. It did not make promising reading. Oswald’s high standards had pruned the list so much that there was only one more dancer to see. If the next poor SOB (through some miracle) got hired, they would only have three male strippers on the payroll. Butch had started with a list of thirty.
Oswald deliberately said nothing for a few moments, keeping his stare locked on the hapless man standing on stage. It was only when the man began to self-consciously replace his jacket that Oswald spoke.
‘Why do you want to work here?’
Oswald gritted his teeth when he saw the stripper look around as if hoping someone would give him an answer.
Butch exhaled slowly: that had not been a smart move.
It was an easy question: Oswald had asked every interviewee the same thing. He just wanted them to say something nice about the Iceberg Lounge. To explain why it was a more desirable destination for them than any other strip joint in Gotham.
There were plenty of reasons: the staff were better paid, the club lacked the sleaziness commonly associated with such establishments and catered to a better class of clientele. Oswald’s strict hiring policy and standards meant it couldn’t even be referred to as a ‘strip club’ by any employee.
But so far, only two interviewees had given satisfactory (and suitably flattering) answers.
The reply the stripper on stage gave was not one of them.
‘Huh?’ he repeated, jaw slack and thick brow furrowed in confusion.
Oswald asked the question again, this time slowly punctuating each word for emphasis.
‘’Cause I saw the poster’, the stripper said, sweat visibly beading on his forehead.
Oswald and Butch both knew the sweat was nothing to do with the heat of the stage lights.
‘There are plenty of other places looking for male strippers’, Oswald said, fingers tapping on the table, ‘Why pick this one?’
‘’Cause you’re paying more?’
‘For quality, yes. Not for lacklustre goods such as yourself’.
Oswald poured himself another glass of wine and swirled it before downing it in one gulp. He looked up to see the stripper still there, standing dumbly.
‘Get out!’ Oswald shouted, angered that the stripper had not picked up on the dismissal in his tone.
This time the stripper understood and practically fled the stage, dropping the dinner jacket in his haste to get out of Oswald’s presence.
‘And another one bites the dust’, Butch commented, scratching out the latest prospect’s name, ‘One more to go and we’re done’.
‘Thank God’, Oswald groused.
‘What was wrong with him?’
‘I’ve seen houseplants with more brain cells’.
‘Not really what people are paying to see’, Butch said gently, ‘He had real impressive credentials’.
Oswald sneered, unimpressed by the implications of the word ‘credentials’. It took more than a gym membership to be considered attractive. The man he had just dismissed may have had more meat on him than a butcher’s shop window but butcher’s shop windows were hardly known for their eroticism.
‘When I opened this place I set out to elevate the standard of this industry’, Oswald said as he watched the floor staff re-set the stage for the next prospect, ‘Not to wallow in mediocrity’.
‘That’s real admirable’, Butch said honestly, ‘But, Penguin, at the end of the day we’re a strip joint and-‘
‘A burlesque club Butch’.
‘Well whatever we are, we gotta cater to the entire audience and that means male strippers’.
‘I agree but I don’t care how many interviews I have to do, how many people I need to get thrown out of this establishment or how many resumes I need to read. People come here expecting the best and the best they shall have. If you recall I did the exact same thing with the female strippers’.
Butch did remember: their interview process had been more akin to a ‘Miss World’ pageant than anything else. To Penguin’s credit though, the process had paid off with the girls that were hired capable of multiple additional talent acts beyond just dancing and taking their clothes off. As a result of the variety acts, the Iceberg Lounge could take advantage of the ‘family friendly’ demographic on selected days before the more adult entertainment started at night.
The magician act was especially popular and Butch was always impressed by the explicit version of her multiple handkerchiefs trick. He still hadn’t figured out how she could hide them all up her-
‘Butch, focus please’.
Butch blinked as Oswald clicked his fingers just beneath his nose.
‘Huh?’
‘Don’t tell me he was contagious’, Oswald said, rubbing his eyes wearily, ‘I asked you, ‘Who’s next?’’
Ed took a deep breath and licked his lips nervously.
‘I can do this’, he whispered, glancing at his reflection in the ready room mirror.
Not for the first time that night he cursed his earlier indecision at whether to apply for the job or not. When he had finally decided doing it was better than not doing it after a week of deliberations and practicing his routine (just in case), he had arrived late and had been forced to accept the last slot of the night.
As a result he had watched all the other acts already leave the room. Every one had seemed much more experienced and confident than he was and it boded ill that only three had voiced their success when they returned to get dressed and collect their things.
He had just witnessed the departure of a massive man whose facial expression had been akin to that of a shellshocked child after a severe dressing down.
Ed had asked him politely how things had gone. The man had only managed to shake his head in response before leaving without getting dressed again.
He had heard the other men discussing the interview panel's high standards and his brain whirled as he wondered if his planned routine would be enough to impress them.
‘You don’t really believe that do you?’
‘I’m here aren’t I?’ Ed said sternly, ignoring the sinking feeling in his stomach when he noticed his reflection was not copying him.
He tutted and tried to fix his bowtie without looking at the mirror. Every interviewee had been provided with the same outfit, a black tuxedo. Save for the length of the legs, Ed’s fit him quite nicely. He hoped the interviewer wouldn’t compare his slim frame to the more muscular specimens that had come before. Perhaps the tuxedos were deliberately small to accentuate the muscles beneath? If that was the case, Ed had little to show off.
‘Despite your better judgment and quaking in your boots’.
‘Nervousness is natural before going on stage’.
‘And before taking your clothes off in front of complete strangers? Have you considered that your therapist may have meant something else when she said you needed to empower yourself?’
‘This way we…I get paid for it’.
‘Don’t pretend this is about money. Your job at the GCPD pays the bills perfectly well. Is that why you decided to do this? Because if you screw up, it doesn’t matter? Or is it to spite Dad for all those times he said you'd end up in a place just like this?’
‘If it’s not about money then what is it about?’
‘Your desperate, pathetic need for positive validation and attention? Admit it Eddie, you like it when someone’s watching. That’s why you look in the mirror when you mast-’
Ed closed his eyes to block out his sneering reflection and took deep, calming breaths just as his therapist told him to. He chided himself internally for replying out loud to his hallucination.
He wasn’t real. He had never been real. He was just an overenthusiastic projection of Ed’s subconscious created as a coping mechanism for childhood abuse. But he wasn’t being abused anymore and he didn’t need the coping mechanism.
‘I am in control’, he whispered, ‘I am in control’.
‘Edward Nygma’.
Ed nearly jumped out of his skin until he realised he was being summoned on stage over the PA system.
He inhaled shakily, psyching himself up as he removed his glasses, folding them carefully on top of the clothes he had arrived to the 'interview' in.
Ignoring his doppleganger’s laughter as he passed the mirror, he gripped the rails tightly and strode up the stairs to the backstage area.
He emerged onto the stage and thought at first that the stage curtains were closed. As he approached centre stage, he realised it was a large, translucent silk curtain. A pole set into a heavy, circular base was sitting on stage.
Ed could see his shadow looming dark and tall ahead of him on the curtain and realised the interview panel would have a perfect view of his outline.
Though the curtain blocked his view (not that he would have been able to see much without his glasses anyway) he could make out two figures sitting at a table near the stage: one large, broad shouldered man and a smaller figure. Ed couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman.
‘I’m sorry I only signed up today’, Ed said, feeling the interviewers watching him through the curtain, ‘I hope I didn’t inconvenience you’.
Butch noted Oswald’s surprised blink.
An apology to start with: that was promising.
‘Don’t worry about it’, Butch said when Oswald did not reply, ‘Show us what you got’.
He clicked the newcomer’s chosen song on and was surprised to hear a sultry sounding jazz beat instead of the pulsing beats and rave music they had been listening to for most of the night.
Ed breathed a sigh of relief as he counted down the intro to his song.
So, it was all being done behind a curtain? He guessed it made sense: what better way to help interviewees settle in gradually? It was probably to help them build up their confidence before exposing them to a crowd.
Reassured by the consideration of his boundaries, Ed walked forward as the song began to pick up.
‘Kinda skinny’, Butch observed quietly as they watched Nygma’s outline walk to the pole.
‘Makes a change’, Oswald replied, watching Nygma as he began his routine, ‘Interesting stage name he’s chosen’.
‘It’s not a stage name’.
‘Really?’ Oswald asked, intrigued.
He made a mental checklist of what he observed behind the curtain: slender, long limbs, confident shoulders back as he began to grind languidly on the pole, the slight hesitance in Nygma’s soft, cultured voice…
‘Speaking of change’, Oswald said and waved his hand, trying to keep his mind on the task at hand.
Butch began to mess with the music as Oswald leant forward, watching Nygma’s every move critically.
Ed smiled as he heard the music slow down then speed up again.
Relishing that there was to be an element of challenge after all, he adjusted his speed to match the music effortlessly. He knew the song so well he could anticipate every beat and even took advantage of the altered pace to throw in some extra moves.
‘He’s good’, Butch said, nodding in approval.
Oswald gave a ‘hmm’ in response.
Butch’s statement had in fact been an understatement.
Oswald’s mother enjoyed ballet and had fostered a healthy love for the art and dance in general in her son. Nygma’s dance on the surface was just like any other ‘bump and grind’ routine but there was an artistry there, a subconscious message of some kind.
Oswald didn’t know why but the dance was sucking him in. Nygma’s movements were strong but controlled with just enough flare to entice the eye. It was more akin to a mating display than a lowbrow strip tease.
When he saw Nygma tear open his jacket and fling it away, arms spread wide, Oswald was struck by the easy pride in the gesture. The strength in the pose was akin to a bronzed Roman statue.
Oswald was so taken by the eroticism and dominance of Nygma’s pose that he clicked his fingers before he knew what he was doing.
He just knew he had to see him!
Ed froze as the curtain suddenly fell away, the cool breeze hitting his bare chest.
He thought at first that something had gone wrong. Had he tripped on a wire or something?
But then, as he looked about uncertainly, he met the eyes of the smaller man he had glimpsed through the curtain.
‘Oh dear’, he whispered, sweat beading on his forehead as he recognised the figure as The Penguin. King of Gotham’s underworld.
Oswald’s eyes widened at the figure on stage.
Edward Nygma was totally unlike the seemingly endless parade of amateur body builders, dance school drop outs and steroid enthusiasts he had been forced to endure previously.
Ed was tall and lithe with lean muscle beneath pale skin. Dark liquid eyes looked into Oswald’s own above two pink cheeks. Oswald was intrigued how self-conscious Edward looked now he was exposed. It was so at odds with how he had been dancing.
It was as if Edward was hiding something inside him.
Like a chrysalis.
Once he had counted to one hundred Mississippi and the two men still hadn’t stopped staring at each other Butch cleared his throat pointedly.
Oswald shot him an annoyed look even though he knew Butch’s intervention had been totally justified before returning his attention to Edward.
‘Are you alright Mr Nygma?’ Oswald asked, fixing his jacket.
'Please call me Ed!' Ed nodded enthusiastically even as his brain whirled at the revelation.
He knew The Penguin owned The Lounge. Everybody did.
But he hadn’t expected to be performing in front of him.
Taking his clothes off in front of him!
‘And yes!’ Ed cried before returning his voice to a more conversational tone, ‘Yeah I'm alright, the uh-the lights just…’
He trailed off under the steady stare from those glass green eyes and gave a nervous laugh as he slowly retrieved his jacket from the floor.
‘Why do you want to work here?’ Oswald asked.
Ed replied without missing a beat, identifying this as the ‘Q and A’ portion of the interview. He had memorised hundreds of potential questions as well as numerous responses for each. The answers were almost robotic, his mouth moving of its own accord as Ed’s nerves buzzed around his brain.
‘First of all, I like the name. It’s called the ‘Iceberg Lounge’ and it’s all about ‘exposure’. Did you come up with it?’
Oswald blinked. He hadn’t expected a question in return. Never mind a witty observation. It was a pleasant surprise.
‘The name yes. The double entendre no. I wish I had now though. Is that the only reason?’
‘Well, my grandmother was a burlesque dancer (when she wasn’t my grandmother obviously!)’
Ed gave a rather high pitched laugh and continued talking even as he mentally kicked himself for his rambling.
‘And-and I remember she showed me some old photos of her on stage. She said she never felt happier or more free than when she was up there’.
‘And I’m trying to explore a dark side of myself in a controlled environment’, he thought internally, ‘It needs an outlet and nobody in the audience knows my name. On this stage I can be whoever I want’.
‘Is that so?’ Oswald said thoughtfully, 'Im flattered that you consider this a 'controlled environment''.
Ed swallowed hard and babbled an incoherent response: he hadn't realised he had spoken aloud. He would have to watch that. If he didn’t watch his step he might blurt out he was a GCPD employee. He wasn’t sure how Penguin would take that.
Oswald was too lost in his own thoughts to notice Ed’s discomfort.
Such an honest answer made up his mind for him.
‘You’re hired’, he said simply.
Ed just about managed to blurt out ‘thank you’ several times before practically fleeing the stage, wondering what on Earth he had gotten himself in to even as he swelled with success.
‘You sure about this?’ Butch asked, placing a hesitant tick beside Nygma’s name, ‘That kid looked like a deer in headlights’.
‘He didn’t run though’, Oswald said, still looking where Edward had standing.
‘He was good until we got rid of the curtain’, Butch said diplomatically, ‘And there ain’t gonna be a curtain when he’s doin’ it for real’.
‘This is a learning experience for all of us Butch’, Oswald replied, retaking his seat, ‘Besides, he’s the only one who gave me a straight answer’.
‘A really weird answer’, Butch commented, genuinely surprised at Oswald’s forgiving attitude.
What was so different about this guy? Usually Oswald leapt on hesitation with all the ferocity of a shark scenting blood in the water. And what had been with that weird stare? The jazz music had made the whole scene kinda….
‘He interests me’, Oswald said, heedless of Butch’s confusion, ‘He's like clay ready to be remade. I have an interest in building things Butch. And I’ve never tried it with a person before’.