CRANE 001

By the time the dinner party drags slowly on into its third hour – it's third long and excruciating hour – you are well acquainted with regret. It's an odd feeling. Regret and you are not close by any means; you rarely doubt your own decisions enough to debate their outcome with anything beyond a clinical appraisal. Regret is another and all-together foreign matter entirely.

But you think you understand it now. Three hours is a long time to suffer anything, let alone the droning conversation of fools. You purposefully scrape your spoon along the bottom of your ramekin, the sound sharp and discordant. It's as much to salvage one last bite of crème brûlée as it is to drown out the chatter of Falcone with one of his – as far as you can tell – favored underlings.

The underling, one Marcel Gaillard, keeps a fine house and prepares an even finer diner. You aren't so bitter as to deny that you like the rich atmosphere of his classic décor or that he is a better conversationalist than the abhorrent man who signs his blood-money checks, but this means nothing in the grand scheme of things. Your deal with Falcone has been ironed out to the last explicit detail and every avenue of filler conversation has been exhausted - and all within the first forty minutes of this ultimately pointless charade.

Your name is Jonathan Crane. You are not a mobster, and you have no inclinations towards that kind of life. You have a PHD in psychology; you are an ex-professor; you are the administrator at Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane. Their stories do not amuse you. They do not afford you even a fleeting sense of morbid curiosity.

Yet you suffer your boredom well regardless of your true opinion, quiet beyond your polite disinterest. This is necessary, you remind yourself, setting your spoon down on the table before stealthily checking your watch. These men are incapable of doing anything without a gratuitous show of power and a lot of long winded verbal bravado. You comfort yourself with the knowledge that it will – hopefully – be over soon.

A slight rap at the archway that leads from the dining to the parlor jars the attention of all at the table, yourself included. You expect another pompous looking man in a suit, but find only a tall and gangly boy there, slimmed further by the sharp lines of a pristine school uniform. Shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other, he looks vaguely uncomfortable at being the sudden center of attention.

"What is it, boy?" You recognize the voice of your host by the slight flair of his distant French accent. The words, you think, would sound flippant without the tone of his voice. There's an odd note of kindness in Gaillard's tone.

A smile curls at the corners of the boy's mouth now, softening a bit of that obvious worry even as he still shuffles from foot to foot "She got the part." His voice is quiet, but there's an undercurrent of excitement to the words, to the brightness of his eyes.

From the edges of your vision you catch the smile mirrored in Marcel's own face, and you realize with a sudden clarity that this boy in the archway must be you host's son. They have the same neat shock of blonde hair, the same deep blue eyes, the same crooked nose. "Fantastic," Gaillard says, and there's no bluff or show to him now. The honesty of his excitement is surreal in the wake of his earlier conversation regarding the torture of an errant member of Falcone's family. "Where is she?"

"Putting up her coat," the boy answers, crossing his arms over his bird chest as he leans against the frame of the archway.

Gaillard stands from his chair, murmuring some words of excuse to Falcone who allows him leave with a begrudging nod of his head. You watch the tall Frenchman make his way to the archway with more interest than you find in the conversation that warms to life again in his absence, idly resting your chin in your palm.

The man pauses in the archway to address his son with words you can't hope to hear. His hands move animatedly as he speaks, and without the focus of the crowd, the boy softens, the tenseness of his posture slipping to something more casual. The two laugh, shoulders shaking, and you find yourself surprised at their easy camaraderie.

"It isn't very common, that sort of closeness in our line of work," the man to your right remarks, as if reading your mind. You turn your head to meet his gaze.

"Excuse me?"

He nods first at you, and then at your host and his son. "They say the mob's all about family, but that isn't really the case a lot of the time. It's about money first and loyalties second. Breaks more bonds than it builds."

"It's difficult to maintain a family with any job that demands heavy time investment," you point out, tone thick with disinterest.

"Do you have a family, Dr. Crane?" He asks, genuine curiosity evident in his voice. You realize that you don't know his name.

The answer you give him is noncommittal. "My job demands heavy time investment."

There's a sudden sound of clapping, and you look up to see Gaillard with his back to the dining room, arms outstretched towards a girl who approaches through the parlor.

She's slight, a stick-figure of a girl in a uniform that matches what you guess to be her elder brother's own. A mess of sweeping red-gold curls is pinned haphazardly behind her head, and even from this distance you can make out a smattering of freckles across the pale bridge of her nose.

But more than any of that, you notice the hesitance with which she approaches her father. There's a furrowing to her brow, a pursing of her lips. She is distinctly uncomfortable. At first you think she might be nervous – like her brother, perhaps. But as she draws closer, you realize it is something else:

Distaste.

Her father takes her by her shoulders and bends to press a kiss to her forehead. She goes rigid beneath the grasp of his hands, shoulders squared. At her sides, her fingers ball into tight little fists, knuckles bone-white.

She's very pretty, you think, this little girl with her tip-tilted button nose and tight-pressed lips; pretty in that awkward early-spring way that teenage girls often are.

"Who's that?" You ask, tone practiced nonchalance.

"My sister."

You turn to address the man beside you seriously for the first time. He's not the spitting image of his father like his younger brother is, but you can see quite a bit of Marcel Gaillard in him now that you're looking for it.

"I wasn't aware you were related." You pause, and then clarify: "To Mr. Gaillard."

The man beside you shifts in his seat, running a hand through his light-brown hair. If you had to guess, you'd place him as a few years younger than yourself at most – probably in his late twenties. "Shit," he says, offering you an apologetic smile. "Skipped out on that whole introduction thing, I guess. Name's Marc; Gaillard's my father, and I'm his eldest. James and Léa are my siblings."

You study the pair of Gaillard's younger children for a moment. James – he can't be more than seventeen, you think – pulls his younger sister into a hug, and you watch a bit of that tension bleed from the girl's face. "They are," you remark, "Considerably younger than you."

"Half-siblings," Marc corrects himself, maintaining the same sheepish smile. "By a different mother. James is a junior in high school; he'll be seventeen in the spring. Léa will be fifteen in two weeks."

"And you?" You cast him a sidelong glance from the corner of your eye.

"Twenty-nine," Marc says. Four years younger than yourself, you note internally, pleased with your earlier guess.

"Your place at this table suggests that you share the same occupation as your father." You adjust your glasses, turning your head to address him properly. "What specifics does that entail, exactly?"

Marc fiddles with his tie absently, eyebrows raised at the directness of your question. "My father started work as a hit-man for Falcone, but the two became an odd pair of..." He pauses, as if struggling for the right word. "Friends," he says, finally, but you have the feeling he's settled for lack of a better term. "He worked his way through the list and eventually became Falcone's consigliere when I was in my early twenties. From a child, he'd trained me as his replacement."

"A hitman, then?" You ask, though there's no real curiosity to the question.

"And a better shot than my father," he adds, oblivious to your apathy. There's a note of pride to his voice.

Marc does not fit the typical profile of a hitman. He's slender, his build similar to your own, face handsome in a boyish sort of way. His speak-easy cavalier nature runs counter-current to the typical surly attitude of hired muscle. He is, you think, almost cheerful.

"And your siblings?"

Some of that good humor leaves Marc's face at the casual inquiry, his brows furrowing. "No," he says quickly, "They're both too young, and beyond that my father has little desire to involve them when they do come of age."

"You seem displeased," you remark drly. His sudden change of demeanor has been the only real thing of interest this entire evening. "Do you think he should involve them? Are you jealous that he's hesitant to?"

Marc blinks once – twice – as he considers you, surprise etched deep into his features. "What?" He says, and then he shakes his head, blinking rapidly. "No, no – no it isn't anything like that. My mother was someone involved with the Falcone family; I was – I was expected to follow in my father's foot steps from a young age and I was eager to do so. I have no doubt that my father would have let me do something else if I'd pursued it, but I didn't."

He turns from you to look back at his siblings, and you follow his gaze. James has stolen the clip that held Léa's hair in place, holding it easily just beyond her reach. She looks agitated, cheeks flushed pink. Their father is distracted, ear pressed to his phone.

"My mother died when I was young – well." From the corner of your eye, you catch him frowning. "She was murdered by a rival of my father, actually, when I was seven. Dad expected it to ruin me for the job, but it only solidified my resolve."

He takes a sip from his wine glass, turning back to you as if to assess your interest. You meet his gaze with a quirked eyebrow, chin still in hand. It's all he needs. "When I was eleven, dad got involved with someone else. It was a woman he met at a restaurant by chance – a teacher. She didn't know who he was, and he didn't tell her. She was a good woman," he says, frown deepening. "Not mob family material. Dad kept his shit on the down low, and when I was twelve he'd gotten her knocked up with James."

"She still didn't know?" You prompt him, fascinated now despite yourself.

"No," he shakes his head. "Dad had her rightly pegged as the sort who couldn't handle that kind of thing, and at the time he was just a hitguy without any real name for himself, so it was easy to pretend to be something he wasn't. He kept her plied with some fake story about working for the government as some undercover guy sworn to secrecy. It explained his long absences and fancy suits well enough, and she bought it because she had no reason not to."

When he goes to take another drink, you let your gaze drift back to Marcel Gaillard. His salt and pepper hair is elegantly styled, his suit a perfect fit. Even now – even in his fifties – he cuts a flattering figure. It's easy to see where he might have charmed an otherwise intellligent woman into an elaborate web of lies.

"Dad kept her and James seperate from me, from the life. I didn't even know about them for some time, actually – not till I was around James' age, anyway. Two years later, Léa comes along too, and by that point he'd married their mother."

"Still unaware?"

Marc smiles, but there's no real humor to it. "Yeah, she still didn't know. And she didn't, not till Léa was two and dad was asked to become Falcone's consigliere. It was then that dad decided to come clean with everyone. With me – and with her."

"I suspect that went poorly." It's a struggle to keep the amusement from your voice as you eye the young Léa, imagining her motherr – in your mind, a spitting image of her lovely daughter – wringing her hands in betrayed fury at the revelation.

"You can't even imagine," Marc breathes, shaking his head. "The fallout was terrible. Their mother demanded a night to think, and when my father returned to their shared apartment the next morning, she'd taken the children and fled."

You allow yourself a smile. "But not for long."

"No." Marc pinches the bridge of his nose. "No, of course not. She was a teacher with two small children, unable to access much of the fortune my father had amassed. My father was a soon-to-be consigliere. To her credit, she did make it out of Gotham, but it took only days to find her again."

"Did he have her killed?"

Marc's expression twists into something like disgust, but you're unsure if it's at your question or at the idea behind it. "No, no – my father was in love with her, and she was the mother of his children. He brought her back and made a deal – that she allow him to pay for her life and the lives of his children under the promise that he would remove himself from their life entirely."

"Love seems an unlikely and dangerous thing in your line of work," you comment, eyebrows raised.

"Perhaps," he shrugs, playing at apathy, but there's nothing nonchalant about it. Rather, you can see a tenseness in the line of his shoulders. His voice when he continues his story is significantly quieter. "She accepted the deal and for two years knew nothing of want – though it wasn't without some heavy convincing. She was a morally upright woman and the idea of taking blood money for her children was disgusting to her, but my father didn't really give her a choice. I'm sure there was coercion involved, plenty of 'if you don't do this, we will make you do it anyway' sort of shit. My father didn't really talk about it."

"Let me guess," you say, watching as James skitters off through the parlor with his sister in tow. "This saintly woman is not with us today."

Marc grimaces. "When James was four, and Léa two, Valerie – their mother – was carjacked by some petty criminal. The circumstances aren't really known, but she was shot, the car abandoned with James and Léa in the back seat. It was in a fairly well-to-do neighborhood, so they weren't there for long before some passerby noticed the car and the screaming hysterics of children inside."

"How unfortunate." You murmur softly, voice devoid of any real sympathy. If Marc notices, he doesn't let on. His cheeks are warm now, and you wonder how much wine he's had, wonder if the looseness of his tongue has any root in its copious consumption.

"Yeah, well.. yeah." His fingers work at the rim of his wine glass idly, eyes unfocused. His father still lurks in the archway, preoccupied with his phone. You study the posture of the man and wonder if he still misses his estranged-now-dead wife.

"Anyway," Marc says, folding his napkin atop his picked-clean plate. "Dad took in James and Léa because Valerie didn't have any proper family to speak of. They were both too young to really know her or remember her, but he decided to try and keep as true to her memory as he could by keeping them out of the business."

"Do they know about it?"

"Of course they do." The brown-haired man sighs through his nose. "He's a consigliere; he's infamous. His name is mentioned in the same circles as Falcone, so he saw no good in keeping secrets."

"And why does this displease you?"

Marc looks momentarily confused. "What?"

You take your glasses from your face and polish them with your napkin. "Earlier," you remind him, "You seemed perturbed by the idea of their involvement. I'd pegged it as jealousy. If it isn't jealousy, then...?"

"Oh," he says, understanding drawning on him finally as his earlier smile flickers to life again. "Oh – no, no, no it isn't jealousy. It isn't that at all. It's more that – well, the problem's two fold, really. James has been showing interest in joining the business, which wouldn't be bad per se, but he isn't really cut out for it. It's one of those things you can pick out at a young age, and he's – too soft?" Marc's newly-refound smile falters again. "Maybe not soft but – it just isn't something that'd suit him, and besides that, Dad – and me, too – we just don't want to see him involved in the business. He's a good kid, too good for this life. Smart. He could do something proper, make good money doing something beyond death and drugs and whores."

You try your luck. "And your sister?"

Marc runs his fingers along his mouth, the corners of it pulling further downward. "Léa is – well, she's her mother in minature. Kind-hearted, stubborn. An idealist. This life is terrible for her, and she only grows more sullen and agitated the older she gets. Dad loves her fiercely; she probably reminds him a lot of Valerie and the life he could have had if he'd not made the choices he did as a kid. But even as he tries to hold onto her, she pushes him away. I think she resents him. Loves him," he adds quickly, "But resents him. It doesn't help that she's a kid, that she's going through that stage where most kids hate their parents, but their morality is so... different?"

"But she gets on well enough with James," you say, more of a statement than a question. You'd managed to discern that much. "What about with you?"

There's that hint of a smile again. "We get along fine. I'm closer to her than to James, and she's closer to me than to Dad."

"But you follow eagerly in the footsteps of your father. Why are you exempt from her displeasure?"

Marc leans forward, propping his elbows on the table, eyes closing. "I think she thinks that I was pushed into the work as a kid. Brainwashed, or something. She seems more willing to excuse it. Dad was – he wasn't – he wasn't born to a life of crime. Not like me."

"Is there truth to that?" You fix him with a pointed stare. "Were you pushed into it?"

"No," he admits. "I said earlier I've always been taken with the work. I was excited at the prospect, even as a kid."

"And have you told her that?"

He shifts in his seat, distinctly uncomfortable. "She knows that I enjoy my job, but still thinks it's the result of manipulation."

"She's lying to herself," you say, "To protect her image of you." You suspect this is something he already knows. You suspect this is something she knows, herself.

Marc doesn't say anything, and the guilt evident in his posture intrigues you. It's rare to meet a career killer with any sort of remorse – especially when it's tied to something so vague as a faint familial link to a child.

"It isn't something I can change," he says, finally, and you nod.

"No," you agree. "It isn't."

You think he takes your words as a comfort given the way he seems to relax, though you don't mean them that way. You don't actually mean them in any way beyond the raw honesty of them. He can't change. They never do. Sentimentality is not enough to still the monster in him; it is only enough to blur the lines some.

You fold your own napkin and set it beside your plate, fixing him with a faint, polite smile that holds no real warmth as you return your glasses to your face. "Well, then, Mr. Gaillard," you address him by name for the first time as you glance down at your watch. "I did enjoy our conversation; it was, surprisingly, the highlight of the evening." It's not a lie; not really. That isn't to say that there aren't things you would rather have been doing, of course, but as far as the dinner is concerned, Marc Gaillard has proven to be a welcome distraction, a tiny slice of anomaly in Gotham's vicious if predictable mob drama.

Marc stands as you do, offering you his hand. You take it, continuously taken aback by his show of good manners. His handshake is strong, firm, his skin warm. You suspect that, like you, he is more powerful than his build suggests. "Likewise," he says, and then, almost apologetically: "Sorry about – just – you know. Talking forever." A pause. "For dominating the conversation."

The smile you give him is full of teeth. "I am a psychiatrist, Mr. Gaillard. It's my job to give you the illusion that you have." He blinks at you, and you drop his hand. "Please give my regards to your father and Mr. Falcone. I will be in touch regarding any further specifics of our deal."

Without another word, you take your leave of the dinner table. You half-expect Falcone to call after you, but Marcel Gaillard has reclaimed his position beside the crime boss and seems to be doing a fine job with a distraction. Neither of them notice your retreat.

The thick oriental rug in the parlor muffles the sound of your foot steps until you reach the foyer. There, they click sharply on the tile, the sound echoing off the wide, high ceilings as you make your way towards the side closet to retrieve your coat.

It is November, the temperature outside a frigid nineteen degrees some three hours ago. You have no illusions that it will be any warmer, and you reach into your deep pockets to search for your gloves.

"Here," comes a quiet voice behind you as your hands fail to find your gloves. "They fell out when you were putting on your jacket."

You turn – and then look down – into the upturned face of Léa Gaillard. She holds out your gloves to you in one hand, a trio of multi-colored scarves tucked over her spare arm. Her expression is tightly maintained and carefully unreadable, and her eyes burn into yours.

You smile, and her eyes narrow almost imperceptibly in response. "Thank you, Miss Gaillard," you say, voice mock-pleasant, and her eyes narrow further. She's perceptive for a child, her pink lips thinning as she purses them.

You can tell she aches to say something cutting, caught between indignation and reservation. She pulls the scarves closer to herself as you pluck your gloves from her loose fingers, eyes darting from your own eyes to your fingers as you tug them on. Léa Gaillard, you think, will be stunning when she is older.

It takes her until you've finished with your gloves to settle on something. "You're welcome," she says, finally, lips moving oddly around the words as if she regrets the politeness of them already.

Your own smile grows wider with her apparent self-loathing. "Consider sticking to your guns next time, Miss Gaillard," you suggest, and pat her cheek patronizingly. She ducks almost violently away from your hand, a flurry of strawberry blonde curls and silk scarves.

"Don't touch me." She hisses like a trodden snake, and you smirk at her.

"You lack your brother's charm," you observe, idly, turning instead toward the door. She says nothing, does nothing as you open it. A cold winter wind rushes in to greet you, and you turn your head to meet her equally cold gaze. "But it suits you. Don't lose your fire, girl."

Her expression wavers from steely-eyed agitation to confusion, but you only smile, disappearing into the welcome chill of the night.