Chapter Text
Being a tailor wasn't everyone's cup of tea. Honestly, it wasn't really anyone's first choice when it came to choosing a career. It wasn't yours either. It wasn't the most lucrative job out there, it remained under the "Customer Service" umbrella which obviously made it fucking horrible, and you never worked regular shifts. Sometimes, you closed up early due to a lack of customers and/or assignments. Sometimes, you stayed late into the hours of the night slaving over customs, measuring, cutting, seaming, tweeding, pouring your damn blood and sweat into your work. Really, it wasn't the best job out there, when it came to the environment, the type of labor in general, and the pay that often didn't even come close to the amount of work put into earning it.
But you were hellbent on keeping the business, and you were hellbent on creating a trademark for your shop and your shop only. It was a miracle in itself that you found a place cheap enough and with a pretty good localisation to continue your work without having to worry about going bankrupt after a few months.
And so, those months slowly, very slowly turned into years. You've come to make a name for yourself, at least you thought so. Your clientele varied, you've had people of every age group and social status coming in either for adjustments on already owned garments or to have things custom tailored according to their needs. You've had middle class customers wanting to either take in some old clothes to make them fit or fix up rips or any other damage done to a favourite dress or so. You've had lower class customers coming in for repairs in clothes that were almost falling apart in your hands, to the point you've just started doing charity every other Tuesday for people in need without charge. And then, finally, you've had the higher class customers that truly kept your business up and running, be it with custom tailored suits for public events, controversial and fashion-esque dresses for different kinds of award galas, customized clothes for overly spoiled children. And, of course, the mafia.
Yes, you'd be nothing if not for Gotham's criminal underworld. The amount of customized suits you were producing would exceed what some tailor did during their whole career. Most of the time, they weren't really anything special. Sleek, black, expensive materials, sometimes some artsy details, like patterns on the lining. Maybe some gold accents. Occassionally, you'd get an order for a white suit, or grey once in a while. Despite being relatively easy to make, it took a lot of work and had to be well thought out to look plain but let the details scream "expensive!". Most gangsters liked to be subtle with their wealth when it came to clothing. Except for one.
At least you assumed he was a gangster. He never really came in himself, despite usually ordering customs that you had to sew from scratch. Which, obviously, required a good few fitting sessions, and it was impossible to truly tailor it to his needs if you couldn't even measure him yourself. You had no clue what that guy looked like, even though he did sent you his measurements, or as close to them as he got at least. But you could piece together what kind of man he was purely from working for him.
Firstly, he always sent the same two men to place his orders and pick up the finished products. They always had the exact amount of cash, though sometimes you earned yourself a tip if you did a particularly good job. His orders were fun, that was true, and he was obviously a classy man. Or at least he wanted to be seen as such. The shirts you've made for him could belong in the 50s, but their vintage look and - not that you were boasting, of course - the meticulousness with which they were created made them timeless. Yeah, that guy had some style, you had to admit.
You also knew he couldn't've been an utter dickhead, like some of the people from similar crowds. You still vividly remember Alberto Falcone's visits, that man was nasty, shallow and utterly despicable if someone were to ask you. But he paid well and at least he was an easy client, despite sometimes ordering the most atrocious designs you've seen. But your mystery customer? Well, he wasn't much of a mystery, you did know his last name, but that still didn't help you much, despite it being characteristic as all shit. But yes, your mystery client, Mr Cobblepot, couldn't've been an asshole. One time, he sent back a coat, barely a week after you've finished it, with terrible rips on the seams and a very sincerely written apology note. He didn't blame you for making "shit-quality products" and instead admitted to having worn it under unfortunate circumstances, causing it to get damaged. He paid you double for the repair.
But there was one thing that you found the most outstanding about him. And it was that into every piece he ordered, there had to be some shade of purple incorporated into the design. He favoured a dark plum shade as of late.
You always knew "purple people" were intense, but you never assumed it'd reach that point. You wondered if his home had as much purple accents as his wardrobe.
And sure, maybe that didn't prove he was a gangster but honestly? He always sent two armed men to get his things, so if he wasn't a gangster, he must've been the fucking president. And speaking of those absolute units that had to protect Mr Cobblepot's clothes at all costs, you could not understand how a man with taste so refined could, in good conscience, allow his men to wear oversized, ugly and cheaply made suits.
It drove you up the wall to see Mick, or at least that's how he introduced himself to you, unironically wearing that abomination of a suit. Was he blind? Or underpaid? You had no clue, but you knew you had to do something about it before you clawed your own eyes out the next time you looked at him.
And so, last week, you sent the boys back to their boss, with a clear message that if he didn't show up for fitting this time, you'd track him down and take the measurements by force. It wasn't just about Mick's disgusting suit, of course. It was, mostly, about the fact that Mr Cobblepot ordered a three piece suit with a tuxedo belt and expected you to magically make it fit him like he was born in it. But you sure as hell were going to argue about properly dressing up his workers. You'd pull the "I'll do it for free if your budget is this tight" card if you had to, and you knew how rich people hated feeling exposed like that.
However, you didn't expect Mick to show up alone this time.
– And where, pray tell, is your boyfriend? – you asked as nonchalantly as you could, despite internally raging about possibly losing one of your best clients. Maybe you overstepped with your previous message about the necessity of this fitting? Mr Cobblepot was, after all, very adamant on never coming in person.
– Not my boyfriend. – you snorted at Mick's curt response despite hearing the smile in his voice without even turning around to confirm it – And he's getting the boss here.
Oh. Oh shit, it was happening. It was happening and you looked like a mess after a whole night of slaving away at the fabric the boss chose for his next piece.
Did it matter though? He was going to be here for your work, not for you. Your appearance had nothing to do with your skill. At least that's what you told yourself as you tried to mat your hair down at least a little bit, in order not to look like you've just been struck by lightning.
– That's great. – it was a miracle your voice didn't betray your nerves – We have time for your fitting, then.
You could see Mick's eyes going wide as saucers, but before he could protest you butted in:
– I am not going to look at this abomination you're wearing any day longer. And I've looked at it enough to know exactly how to fix it.
***
You didn't know how much time has passed before you heard the bell on the front door ring, signalising that your mystery customer finally arrived. But you were sure it was longer than it felt.
Especially since you were mostly done with taking in Mick's jacket. Thankfully, you didn't have to pull all of it apart.
With a deep breath to steady yourself, you patted yourself down one more time before rounding up the corner from the workshop slash fitting room to face the client head on.
And he was nothing like you expected.
– Fucking Christ, not only do you let your men walk around in ugly suits, yours are oversized too?! – it might've not been the best choice of greeting, if the man's shocked face was anything to go by, but you were positively seething now. To the point where you probably have lost your senses, since you squared up to him like you had any power in this situation.
– I told you they're crazy, boss. – you heard the second henchman, Dom, murmur but you were going to address that later.
– You've been rounding up your measurements the whole time! – you pointed an accussatory finger at Mr Cobblepot's chest – If I knew, I'd have dragged you here myself a long time ago!
You could see he didn't quite know how to react, whether to lower his gaze in shame or shoot you on the spot. You didn't quite know what the fuck you were doing, either, but you knew that at least he heard what he deserved to hear. You would never let a man leave your shop looking like that!
You watched him lick his lips and raise his hands a little, making a motion obviously meant to calm you down.
– First off, good mornin'. – holy shit, his voice was gruff. It was absolutely befitting of his looks and stature, but it still took you off guard. It didn't ease the fact that he was literally getting cheeky with you though. – Let's maybe start with that, huh? And then you can go 'n' tell me I look like shit.
It was your turn to be taken aback for a moment. It wasn't a long moment, though.
– First off, don't insult my work. – you snapped, but it was more lighthearted than it felt as your accussatory finger stayed up and pointed right at him – And second, you've been rounding up your measurements.
This was going to be a very eventful day, it seemed.
***
After considerably calming down a little, you had to kick Mick out of the fitting room, with his jacket still on the workbench. The least you could do is scream more at the man in private, where no one could see. Even if it made it easier for him to literally kill you for talking like that to him.
– And what's his suit under the machine for? That wasn't on my list.
You were pretty sure your gaze held so much heat he'd disintegrate if you looked at him too long.
– Well, it should've been. He looked like a dickhead.
You couldn't believe your ears when you heard the man snort.
– Tough day? Or tough life? 'Cause you sure are actin' feisty for someone I'm paying to do their job.
You couldn't believe his cheek. Sure, his anger and frustration at you was absolutely understandable, but you weren't here to understand, you were here to do your job, as he put it.
– Well, then at least make me worth your money. – you could see he didn't expect that answer at all – You've been rounding up your measurements.
You didn't know how many times you've repeated that to him in the span of the last fifteen minutes, but it sure as hell must've been a lot if the way he furrowed his brows at you in anger said anything.
– I fuckin' heard you the first time. – he snapped, shaking his head a little as he looked at you. It was a very peculiar observation, but the frown on his face really accentuated his eyes. They were a dark shade of... something you couldn't quite pinpoint, but they were intense and almost alluring if you dared to say so.
Anger definitely suited him. You could see him ordering people around, barking orders, doing whatever it was that gangsters did. You could see him holding you at gunpoint and not hesitating for even a second before pulling the trigger.
You had no clue how something like that could make a man so appealing.
– Mr Cobblepot, – you walked up to where he was standing, unceremoniously grabbing his shoulders to prompt him to turn around to the floor-length mirror – This isn't just about how you represent my shop, my work. This isn't just about what reputation you're building for me, although it isn't great right now.
You could see he didn't like your little unnecessary comment, but you pushed forward:
– This is about how you represent yourself. – that seemed to catch his attention and you could see him forcing himself to look into that mirror, watch as your hands reached to the small pillow on your wrist to pull out a few needles. You started pinning his jacket up in all the places it fit too loosely for a garment as serious and classy as this.
– This is about your reputation. Who would seriously respect guy that looks like he bought his suit on Amazon? – you snatched the fabric tight enough to accentuate his broad shoulders but loose enough not to be too taut on his front, rolling up his sleeves a little to let his golden watch peek out from beneath.
– The clothes you have me tailor for you scream power. Don't you want to look like you have that power?
You could see your words were affecting him. His scarred face might've stayed neutral, if a little scrunched up, but his eyes told a whole different story. He looked at himself, looked at the jacket roughly pinned around his frame, and then finally, at you.
Was it weird to feel hypnotized by someone's gaze?
– You're butterin' me up to get the cash flowin', aren't you? – he didn't want to give in to your words so easily, even if you could see they sparked something up within him.
However, milking him of his money wasn't your current priority anymore.
– I'm asking you to let me make you look regal.
***
He really liked the word you used, it seemed. You've even gotten him into a more cooperative mood! And it was a relief, because not only was he one of your best paying customers, his pieces provided you with a challenge. Not everything can look good in purple, and yet you had to make it happen. Not all materials went well together, same with different pieces.
You discussed with him how, if he wanted to wear a tuxedo belt, the waistcoat was a huge 'no'. You offered to make it anyway, you've ordered the fabric already and it would be a pity to waste it - it was a very dark purple, black almost, with a barely distinguishable pattern you could only see from up close, but it gave the whole piece a nice shine. You could see he wanted to argue about this, he did argue about this.
– Come on, look. – you came up behind him, material for the belt in hand, and wrapped your arms around his front to simulate the look. You tightened it a little in the back, it was supposed to be just that little bit tight to feel it but not let it be unfomcortable, and secured it with a safety pin. When you were fixing it up to your liking, to make it even on both sides of his waist, you could feel him stiffen a little.
You dared to say it was cute. And unfortunately for him, fitting would involve a lot of touching.
And then, you draped the material for the waistcoat over one of his shoulders, pulling it down to the correct height. It covered the belt, and not in a nice, stylish way, but in a "I can't put an outfit together" way, despite adding a nice, toned pop of color to the whole suit.
– It'd look like shit. – it was him who said it, not you, surprisingly. But you did agree with a smile.
– It would. But I'll have some extra of this material after putting together the waistcoat, so what do you say to lining your jacket with it? It'll add a little spark.
You could see the gears in his head turning, his eyes fixated on where you held the material to his shoulder.
You didn't want to admit how much you liked the smirk he gave you when he agreed. How could a man be so ruggedly handsome? It was outrageous.
***
Working with Oz, as he'd asked you call him, was surprisingly pleasant once you two have established some sort of flow. He could be, however, distressingly distracting at times. And disgustingly observant, which made it even worse, because he caught on every time you traced your hands on his shoulders simply to indulge yourself, and not for work-related reasons.
– Stop chuckling before I stab you with those needles. – you grunted, trying to mark the most important seam spots and make sure that jacket hugged his shoulders even better than your hands could.
– Just so y'know, you gave me an ideal opening for a stabbing joke, and sparing you was a conscious choice.
God, what a prick. Time to show him you could be worse.
– Stabbing with what? – you mused and harshly grabbed at the tuxedo belt, making him stumble slightly into your chest. Sure, the belt reached higher up than you maybe had in mind, but he seemed to get the message loud and clear.
It was adorable how he tried to cover his bashfulness with a cough.
– Or impaling, maybe? – you purred like a fucking slut but the opportunity was too good to pass up. And it was all worth it as you watched him fumble, patting down his hair just so he'd have something to do with his hands.
You wouldn't mind if he grabbed at you like you saw he initially wanted. But you couldn't deny the cuteness of his hesitance.
– You are foul.
You couldn't help the laugh that escaped you. You let go of the belt, letting him fall back into his previous position as you pulled the measuring tape from around your neck to get the length of the sleeves.
You've made it your point to take measurements as much as you could, even twice in some spots, so he knew you were still grieving over the fact that he walked around in oversized clothes.
– I don't know what you're thinking, but it doesn't sound appropriate for business environment. – you poked a little fun at him before finally turning around to let him gather his bearings. You had a job to do, after all. And this time, you'd make sure he looked like a million fucking dollars with legs.
Ah, speaking of legs, you pulled out a spare chair for him, seeing as he was starting to strain a little from standing stiff for so long. And despite not wanting to admit he even needed the support in the first place, he was clearly thankful. Or, at least, his leg was.
– I can see why you're a fan favourite. – you heard him grunt behind you as he adjusted himself on the chair, watching you intently from afar. He's been watching you the whole time, and you weren't sure if it was simply because of curiosity at your work anymore.
– Yeah? And what about you? – you decided to indulge yourself a little. What harm was there in it? – Am I your favourite?
He didn't answer right away, instead letting his eyes linger on you a little longer. You didn't want to admit that you liked the way it felt to have his full attention on you. It didn't make you feel nervous, quite the contrary - you felt empowered, happy to give him a little show of just how many things you could do with your hands.
It wasn't normal, whatever this man was doing to you by simply being here, but you were never the one to pass up a good opportunity.
You looked at him over your shoulder, taking in his face once again for just a second, before you settled on looking right into his eyes.
– Because you're certainly mine.
It was fucking shocking how quickly he blurted out his response.
– Then why are you tryin' to kill me here, doll?
Oh. Oh. You liked how the nickname sounded slipping from his lips. You couldn't help the sly smirk forming on your own.
– What's with the accussations, Oz? – you murmured, fegning indifference despite your stomach fluttering at his crude words – My only intention is to please you.
You turned around just in time to miss the way he looked at you. It was for the best, because who knew if you'd be able to hold yourself back if you were aware of the effect you were having on him.
***
It was easy to keep your confidence when you were in charge. It was stupid of you to feel in power, considering who you were serving, but he made it so effortless. He made it so easy to tease him and continue with your 'all bark no bite' attitude. He made it so easy to rile him up and take advantage of the fact that your job required a very 'hands on' approach.
Until he started reciprocating the treatment you were giving him tenfold.
– Do you see why fittings are so important? – you asked, circling him as you adjusted the tuxedo belt to your liking. It hugged his frame deliciously, to the point where you could feel jealous it wasn't your hands around his middle instead. The blazer was turning out perfect as well, the sleeves just that important bit shorter than people usually thought they should to let his shirt peek out from underneath.
You decided to go that extra mile for him and kneeled, unwilling to admit that your hand trailing down the side of his hip and thigh was more for your pleasure than his, before you wrapped your measuring tape around his legs to take proper measurements for his pants.
You could get lost in the expression on his face as he looked down at you. Despite this not being a flattering angle for anyone, you swore he looked the best from your position down there.
– Your posture should be accentuated, not hidden. – it was hard to tear your eyes away from him, hard to focus on tightening the tape around his thigh, hard to ignore the way his breathing changed – A man of your status needs a certain look about him. You're not here to chase after anyone, after all, so show it.
It took all of your strength not to look at his crotch, search for a sign your words and actions were getting to him in more ways than one. Not just because of simple decency, but because you couldn't bear the thought of being horny for a man who thought nothing of it.
And then, suddenly, you felt him breach the unspoken barrier between the two of you as he grabbed your chin with his enormous hand, feeling the cool of his ring against your skin when he forced you to look up at his face.
– So you're sayin' you'd come willingly? – his golden teeth peeked out a little when he flashed a shit-eating grin at you with no remorse.
You would never admit to feeling your ears warming as you quickly, to quickly to be passed off as unbothered, looked right back down to the task at hand, your throat too tight to give him a response right away. His hand fell away from your face with no resistance, his grip was light to begin with, but it was still a miracle you found the power to break away from his gaze to save your dignity.
– Well, I... – Jesus, that man was making you stutter. You had to get your shit together. – It would be a pity to cut the excitement of that chase short, don't you think?
You were contradicting your previous words, and you knew he could clearly see how much he made you fumble. His demeanor betrayed his enjoyment at it.
Fuck that man, fuck his cheek and fuck his stupid charming personality, and most of all, fuck the dumb little smirk on his handsome face.
You didn't know how you found it in yourself to look him in the eyes as you stood up unceremoniously. You also didn't know why you stayed rooted to your spot instead of retreating into the safety of your workbench where his charm wouldn't affect you.
– What if I don't like to wait?
The tension was so high it was palpable. You felt like you could run your hands through it.
– Don't you know patience is a virtue? – you mumbled with the most alluring voice you could muster up at the moment and ran like a coward to your workbench, to put at least a little distance between the two of you.
– Only if it's worth it, doll.
You had to get your shit together, for God's sake, before all of this got out of hand.
One question though - did offering to re-tailor his previous orders for free, despite his indignance, and then accepting the offer to go out to dinner as a form of payment meant things were getting out of hand?