A/N: This was inspired by an interview in which Cory Michael Smith expressed interest in using his piano skills on Gotham.

He wasn't the sort of person that people invited for drinks. Edward also wasn't the sort of person that people would slap on the back because of a job well done, call him a "good 'ol boy" and then invite to watch The Team win their biggest game of the season.

That was why he was still surprised to find himself sitting in the Brick and Mortar, a bar that the GCPD's finest frequented. A cop—whose name he didn't know—had invited him to get drinks with the team he had worked closely with on a case they had recently cracked.

At first, he was excited. Someone had invited him into their inner circle, believing that he was worthy to spend non-working hours with them. And most of all, they had invited him because someone had finally recognized the work he was doing while he was secreted away in the alternate reality called the analysis lab.

And when he had entered the bar, he was still hopeful. It was the sort of place where anything could happen. Its atmosphere and architecture were as if someone had plucked a bar out of 1940's New York and plopped it in the middle of Gotham. It was a place made for sultry gazes, tilted fedoras and drawling words spoken between teeth clenching a cigarette. It was, We'll always have Paris.

But when he wandered over to the GCPD, the man who had invited him waved, and went back to telling rude jokes with Harvey Bullock. There was nowhere in the booth for him to sit.

That was all right. They probably hadn't left a seat unavailable intentionally. So Edward ordered a drink and sat in the booth behind them that was only occupied by a watery eyed man sitting opposite of Edward, staring into his drink as if contained the secrets of the universe.

Edward wrapped his fingers around the glass, swirling the alcohol. His eyes wandered the slowly drifting smoke that hung over them like a blanket of smog. The man in front of him coughed, and knocked back a swallow of his drink.

Behind him, laughter erupted from the GCPD. Edward took a sip of his drink. Someone's phone vibrated on a table a few feet away. His eyes continued to wander the room until it landed on a hazy form at the back of the bar. Edward sat up a bit straighter.

The thing he had seen was a piano, ancient and tired, leaning its back against the far wall, no one coming near it. Edward had dabbled in piano for a few years, always wanting to find something new and challenging that would push his mind. Piano had been enjoyable, but hadn't been that hard, so he had passed it by in favor of other pursuits.

But in this moment, he felt that old love of feeling his hands gliding over smooth piano keys coming back to him. He took a glance at his wordless companion, and left his drink on the table. He strode across the room to the piano, and settled down on the bench that was pressed against the instrument's belly.

Edward didn't touch it for a moment; he just settled his hands over the keys. They were faded and chipped, but all were still intact, like jutting teeth still stubbornly hanging on even as their owner faded into old age. There was no sheet music sitting on it, so he closed his eyes and wandered through his mind, searching for favorite old melodies.

No, that one was too modern. Too harsh. It would clash and drive out the ageless spirit of this place. And that one was too happy, too golden. But ah, that one was right.

So he began to play, old notes running in front of his eyes as he rattled out a jazz tune, something that would have been fitting in a flickering, black and white movie as Bogart made eyes at Lauren Bacall. Edward's eyes narrowed in concentration as he played, losing himself in another world. He hadn't forgotten how to play—that was impossible, like forgetting how to ride a bike, like forgetting how to ask a question—but rust had accumulated on those high school memories.

When the first song ended, he slipped into another one. Less jaunty, more slow and smooth, like running your fingers across velvet. And once he had completed that one, he started another. This time it was nostalgic, something gentle to dance to when the lights were low and night had come, and only residue lay at the bottom of drinking glasses.

And then he stopped, dropping his hands to his lap. Edward twitched his fingers and let out a breath, suddenly aware of tires screaming across the street and a car horn blaring. Someone shouted beyond the walls of the bar, and something shattered. And then silence.

Edward stood up from the bench and started his journey back to his solitary booth, but his walk wasn't unnoticed this time. He felt eyes searing into him. But it wasn't unpleasant. They were looking, they had seen what he had done, and they found it enjoyable.

As he had almost reached his booth and sat down, Jim Gordon caught his eye and nodded at him. "You did you good," he said.

And with a smile, Edward said, "Thank you."