A/N: On one of the tumblrs I run, Twinings and I offered ourselves up for one full week of filling fic prompts for our readers, varying in length from a hundred to a thousand-plus words. The project has been dubbed the Free For All Fic For All—or FFAFFA for short. This is one of those stories—and this is the boilerplate author's note you'll see on all of 'em.
Prompt: The Penguin and Gentleman Ghost share a drink at closing time.
Surrounded by a cloud of cigarette smoke, Oswald Cobblepot locked up the wall safe in the office above the Iceberg Lounge, content that the books had been throroughly cooked for the evening. He locked up the office itself and started down the stairs, headed for the lounge. It had been closed for more than two hours now, cleared out and cleaned up, so you can imagine his surprise at finding the Gentleman Ghost behind the bar, casually pouring himself a glass of scotch.
The quack of scandalized shock was out before Oswald knew what happened and his umbrella was at the ready in an instant, balanced as carefully as one would balance a sword, pointing directly at the intruder.
"You! You felonious phantom fink! What do you think you're doing?"
Presumably, the Gentleman Ghost looked up at the Penguin, though it was impossible to tell since he had no eyes. "My friend, name another place in town where a fellow can get his hands on a bottle of Glenfiddich 1937."
"That's twenty thousand dollar liquor, you thief."
The Gentleman Ghost tipped his hat. "I wouldn't dream of robbing you, Cobblepot."
The cigarette holder shifted from one side of Oswald's mouth to the other. "But you'll think about it plenty while awake, waugh."
The Gentleman Ghost brought the drink to what must have been his nose and inhaled deeply. "I imagine this is warm and earthy, with a pronounced smokey, peaty flavor."
"For what it costs, it better," Oswald said with disdain as he stalked toward the bar.
"A pity," the Ghost said, setting the glass down. He turned back to the Penguin and shrugged. "Alas, I have no viable taste buds."
With a courtly bow, the Gentleman Ghost vanished, moments before Oswald's umbrella slashed through the air where he has been standing.
He huffed irritably and snatched up the scotch, carefully tipping the contents of the glass back into the bottle, muttering, "Trouble maker."
The darkness responded tauntingly, "Miser."