Chapter Two: The Old Times Are Gone

Ten hours later, after Sylvia screamed her head off and the bones in Oswald's hand were nearly crushed, a startlingly loud cry was heard within the delivery room. A cry that would normally have set many mothers' hearts to a quiver, but in this moment, it was welcomed with a gleeful sigh from the midwife, and a loud 'Thank god it's over' from Sylvia, who lied back in the bed, exhausted from the strain.

It'd taken nearly eight hours, a shorter labor period than many women could boast about, but those eight hours had felt like days.

"There she is!" The elderly doctor cooed, grinning widely as the midwife swaddled the small squealing ball, and handed her to Sylvia, who held out her arms.

For a moment, she was so terrified. What if after all these months, Csilla did not like her? The fear was so crippling, Sylvia's hands trembled until the midwife placed the baby in her arms. 'Immediate contact', the doctor insisted. 'So that the child could imprint upon its mother'.

"I thought that was only for ducklings," Sylvia said weakly, but she let out a nervous laugh when Csilla's small hand reached for comfort. She drew the little one to her, a mat of raven-black hair on the head of a body that nestled just perfectly in Sylvia's arms. "Hey, sweet thing. Hello, my little lamb."

Oswald sat beside her, rubbing his hand only for a brief moment and thanking the midwife for when she had quickly brought an ice pack. There would be bruising to come, but for the moment, he couldn't remember what the ice pack was even for when he saw Sylvia's eyes light up with a happiness only Csilla could cause. The same happiness—the feeling of bringing something into being—it was something he'd never felt before.

"She has your hair," Sylvia uttered, smiling at Oswald, who returned it.

"A lot of it, it looks like."

Csilla moved, restlessly, until Sylvia guided her mouth to her breast and the little one latched on. Curious, at first, and then she followed her instincts.

"Guess she didn't want to be another ginger," Sylvia teased.

Oswald leaned over, and kissed Sylvia's cheek; her skin was flushed from the stress, and wet from both sweat and tears. While those tears had been from pain only moments ago, Sylvia now cried out of joy.

"We'll give you a moment," the doctor reassured. He reached out to Oswald, saying, "Congratulations, my dear boy. On your beautiful daughter, and the election. This is quite a day for you, Mr. Mayor!"

Oswald attentively shook his hand, grateful for his bedside manner and the congratulations. The nurses and the doctor quickly left, briefly closing the door, but leaving it only cracked so if something should happen (all precaution, they reminded), there could be an immediate response. Once alone, Oswald sat on the edge of Sylvia's bed.

"Do you want to hold her, Ozzie?"

"I think—"

"Stop thinking, sweetheart." Sylvia said quickly. She gingerly held Csilla out to him; as though Csilla was (and, let's be honest, she was) the most precious, fragile thing he'd ever held in the world, Oswald carefully took her from Sylvia and held her against his chest.

Csilla made a cooing sound, her tiny palms pressing and pawing at Oswald's suit, as though she was trying to figure out what material it was made of.

"She's quiet," He whispered.

"Well, maybe she's learned a few things." Sylvia returned, shrugging. "You're her father, and I'm her mother. Csilla's going to be a very smart woman when she grows up…not to mention stubborn. Jim and I were pretty stubborn when were kids. Don't think you could find anyone more hard-headed."

"I beg to differ," Oswald mused, grinning, looking down at their baby. "She has the Gordon blood in her; I think we may have found a new champion to contest that theory."

"Should we bother trying to pull Butch and Ed in here or…?"

"I say 'give them another minute or two'."

"I imagine they're still duking it out."

"Probably. It wouldn't surprise me." Oswald muttered. "We had a nice little reveal of who believes in whom shortly before. We still have matters to discuss."

Sylvia looked at him pointedly, saying, "You do realize that Butch was just looking after your interests. Don't you?"

Oswald handed Csilla over to her; she gently took her back, and allowed her to quietly suckle on her breast. Oswald was quiet until he was certain that their daughter was comfortable and unable to be further disturbed, before he said darkly, "Butch did not believe I could win the election on my own."

"So he didn't," Sylvia said, shrugging a shoulder. "We've always operated behind the scenes, sweetheart. We've always done things the dirty way. Even you were on board with paying the elected officials, too."

He frowned: "You don't think he was trying to undermine me?"

"He believes in you, Ozzie. He just believes in you in a different way."

"Do you think I'd have won the election regardless?"

"What I believe doesn't really matter at the moment, seeing as you have won. With or without the money."

"I still want to know." Oswald insisted, watching her intently.

"Then my answer is 'yes'. I think you'd have won the election, with or without having paid the elected officials. Frankly, I'm surprised you did—what with my public disturbance of admitting that Mrs. James meant little to anyone, including her husband, and my confession that I'd have killed her…well, if I had felt like it at the time."

Sylvia lightly massaged Csilla's head, watching the baby for a moment before returning her gaze to him. Oswald gazed at her as she did.

In the delivery room, there was no television to make any sound. The sounds in the room that could be heard were the low humming of the air conditioning unit that cooled the hospital, and suckling made by Csilla. Oswald sighed, and Sylvia looked at him curiously.

"I suppose," Oswald said calmly, "that with Csilla now here, our schedules are going to be up in the air for a time."

"Only until we get her on schedule," Sylvia assured. "She'll probably sleep odd hours in the night, but I don't think it's anything we can't handle. A few weeks or so, I think. Then again, I've never had a kid, so who knows what this one will be like. For all I know, she could be a total nightmare, but I'd rather not think that at the moment."

"She seems content enough, now."

"Quite."

There was another moment of silence, during which Oswald seemed lost in thought. Sylvia looked at him, noticing too.

"What's wrong, baby?" She asked.

"I can't help but think…" Oswald said hesitantly. "To wonder…"

"Think about what?"

"Mother would have loved to be here." He said finally, looking at her sadly. "Here. With us. With her." He gestured towards Csilla; his face, crestfallen.

"I'd have more trouble getting her out of the room than any of you," Sylvia uttered gently, smiling when Oswald couldn't hold back a small laugh of his own.

"Not even the meanest doctor could hold her back," He agreed.

"Or an army."

And another long silence followed.

Sylvia held out her hand. He looked at it curiously, then took it. She pulled him to her, smiling when he conformed, and sat in the bed with her. Without having to say a word, Sylvia reassured him, kissing him lightly on the lips as she cradled their daughter; Oswald wrapped an arm around her shoulder. And for what might have been minutes or hours, they stayed like that. Just treasuring each other and their new family member.

Following a two-day hospital stay to make sure nothing was wrong with Csilla or Sylvia, one troubling key aspect that both Oswald and Sylvia were having a time dealing with was the crying.

Babies cried. Go figure. Who knew, right.

But since crying was the only way that Csilla could communicate, she cried all. The. Time. After the third day, she and Oswald had fashioned out a plan: to care for the baby in shifts.

Sylvia took the mornings; Oswald took the evening; Olga, being the sweetheart of a housemaid and cook that she was, seemed content enough to help, and she took nights.

Unfortunately, the only person to quell the little one's appetite had to be Sylvia. If diaper changes, swaddling, singing, or being put to sleep didn't do it during their shift, either Oswald or Olga were going to her for a moment's last resort.

Sore from the labor, tired from everything in general, Sylvia was often times resentful after being woken up but a girl had to do what a mother had to do. And that was generally how things worked.

Between those moments, Oswald and Ed ventured out to be present for new school openings, park admissions, helping to feed the homeless and the wretched during the mornings while Sylvia had Csilla. Even in the afternoons, Sylvia still had Csilla but it was more or less as a precautionary tale since it was in the afternoons that Oswald wore his Underworld-Gotham's-Kingpin hat.

Meetings were conducted in the old Van Dahl mansion. Oswald was in the living room with the other Five Families, including the Duke. In the other room, Sylvia was standing in the kitchen with Olga; Csilla, in one arm, a telephone in the other as she put it to her ear.

"Hello?" Sylvia asked haggardly. Csilla was screaming in the other ear. "Who? Who?"

"Jim!" Jim shouted from the other line.

"Fuck, man, what do you want?"

"I've not heard from you—"

"Well, fun fact, I can't hear you—Csilla, please," Sylvia whispered, eyes rolling to the ceiling as Csilla screamed louder. "Please, sweetie, please, quiet down for Mommy, please?"

Csilla's screams became shrieks.

"Olga, please…!" Sylvia pleaded.

Olga, the Russian, stocky woman who insisted on wearing maid's outfits, nodded and said "Da!" She held out her hands for the baby, and quickly, Sylvia handed Csilla over to her. In her own tongue, Olga hushed her, said a few things to Sylvia, who didn't understand a word until Olga pointed to the baby's diaper.

"Oh, yes, sorry, um," Sylvia mumbled frantically. "They're in the bathroom, Olga. Thank you, thank you…" She put the phone back to her ear. "What, Jim."

"You had the baby?" Jim questioned incredulously.

"About a week ago, yes. Where the fuck were you."

Jim grumbled, "Getting my mind warped by Tetch."

"Why were you getting hypnotized? I could have done the same number on your head and it wouldn't have cost you a damn penny."

"It wasn't voluntary, trust me."

"Trust you? Trust you? You know, I tried calling you when I was going to the hospital, tried calling when I was in labor, for christ's sake, and I tried calling you when I got home and every time since then and today, and you're just returning my calls—"

"Tetch tried to get me to kill myself, Vee."

Sylvia felt her words stumble out of her mouth, blinking, staring at the phone until she could thoroughly process what her brother just said.

"Vee? Vee, are you still there?"

Sylvia put the phone back to her ear: "What the hell do you mean 'Tetch tried to kill you'?"

"Well, he didn't, but he did something to my mind."

"Like what?"

"He put the impulse in my mind, made me have thoughts."

"Thoughts? What kind of thoughts?"

"Suicidal thoughts," Jim whispered.

Sylvia frowned, saying, "You wouldn't have done it…I mean, right?"

"For a moment there…I think I could have."

"Well," she sighed. "That certainly puts things in perspective, doesn't it?"

"What does?"

"The fact that Gordons have a predilection for suicide. I mean, back when I thought you killed Oswald and shot him at the pier, I was about to kill myself. Mom killed herself. You seemed to think you might've done the same. I mean, for all we know, Dad would have—"

"Dad was killed in a car accident."

"So you say."

"It was in the police report."

"So they say," Sylvia said darkly, rubbing the bridge of her nose. She sighed sadly, saying, "Are you okay now? I mean, with everything. With your thoughts, now? I'm assuming Tetch isn't doing his thing anymore…"

"No, but he's around."

"Yeah, he performed at my club."

"How'd that go?"

"You read the newspapers?" Sylvia reminded. "Everyone knows how it went unless they've been hiding under a rock or something."

"Ah right, the confessions."

"Yeah, the confessions."

"Speaking of which," Jim recalled, "I read that you admitted to beating up Danielle before I came back from the Army. 'Beat her within an inch of her life' or something like that. Was that true?"

"The 'irrefutable' truth."

"Care to tell me why you didn't bother just sending me a letter, letting me know that way?"

"You were fighting for the country, Jim, and you wanted me to send you a letter about how your girlfriend was two-timing you with a fucking prick?" Sylvia said unhappily. "What kind of monster do you think I am, huh?"

"Well, if it's any consolation, thank you."

"You're not mad?"

"It happened some time ago…seems stupid to dwell on it now."

"I appreciate that," Sylvia said smiling in spite of herself. "So where's Tetch now?"

"I don't know."

"Is he looking for you?"

"Probably."

"Dare I ask why?"

"Well, I tried to find his sister," said Jim darkly. "I found her."

"And?"

"She didn't want to be found."

"Trying to escape the clutches of her evil brother?" Sylvia guessed. "I guess I could understand where she's coming from."

Jim scoffed, "You don't understand. He was doing things to her when they were kids, things no siblings should be doing."

"So nothing morally upstanding, or legal for that matter."

"Not at all."

"Did you beat him up for it?"

"No."

"Maybe you should have."

"You know I couldn't," Jim reminded unhappily.

"You'd easily kill yourself before you knocked off someone who was actually deserving of such a sentence, wouldn't you?" Sylvia said, leaning against the counter.

"Maybe. Maybe not."

"So he's after you because you tried to find his sister?"

"No, he paid me. About ten grand."

"So you did find her."

"I did find her," Jim confirmed. "But like I said: she didn't want to be found. Through some unfortunate circumstances, I was unable to save her."

"So Tetch killed her."

"Well, it depends on who you ask. If you ask him, I killed Alice. But I think Tetch killed her a long time ago without having to do the deed herself. She fell off a building, impaled herself on a pike."

"That's pretty dark, Jimmy."

"Well, when have you known my life to be full of joy?"

"Point taken," Sylvia said quietly. "So…should I be worried about you? If Tetch blames you for his sister's death, I hardly think he'd let it go anytime soon."

"He might come after me. He might not. I don't know how these psychotics think."

"Well, if someone killed you or if I felt someone was responsible for ending your life, I imagine I'd be hellbent on revenge. So if I were you, I'd keep two eyes open and another pair on the back of your head." Sylvia warned softly.

"How's that kid of yours?"

"Upset," Sylvia answered. "I like how you decided to change the topics on me. Don't you think I didn't notice, Slick."

"Pretend you didn't notice. For me?" Jim snickered on the other line. "How is she?"

"She's crying a lot," Sylvia said tiredly. "I mean, I expect her to, but Jimmy…she cries so much."

"Is Oswald helping?"

"What makes you think he wouldn't?"

"Well, he doesn't strike me as someone who enjoys children."

"It's different when it's your own kid," Sylvia pointed out. "He's been supportive, very helpful. Frankly, I think we're both nearing the end of our rope. Thank goodness for our housemaid."

"Who?"

"Olga."

"Who?"

"Olga," Sylvia repeated. "She's the cook, and the housemaid. Doesn't really speak a lick of English, but she understands it very well."

"If she doesn't speak English, how do you communicate?"

"With desperate looks and equally desperate crying."

"The baby's crying, you mean."

"No, the parents are bawling too," Sylvia said humorously. She smiled in spite of herself, saying, "In all seriousness, Jimmy. I'm glad you're okay."

"Yeah. Me too. I'm sorry I couldn't be there for the arrival."

"Well, I had Ed, Butch, and Demetri in the room with me. In the hospital room, not in the delivery room, mind you. I think having you there might've made the occasion a little too exciting." Sylvia muttered, smirking when she heard Jim laugh sarcastically.

"Ha-Ha. Ha." He said, almost too joyfully for it to be sarcasm.

"Still seeing that reporter?" Sylvia questioned.

"Wanting to make a critique about my love life?"

"Only if you're dating the reporter and not—you know—telling Lee how you feel."

"We've been over this."

"Yes, we have, but if I remember correctly, we never finished talking about it." Sylvia bothered to remind him. "So, have you?"

"Have I what?"

"Told Lee what you felt."

"I told you, it's too late."

"As according to whom?"

"Me."

"Well," Sylvia exhaled, "I guess there's no changing your mind. Is there?"

"Not likely. Like I said, I moved on."

"Oh really? Still trying to be a Private Investigator?"

"Yep," Jim returned shortly.

"Still living in that crummy apartment?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Still fucking Vale?"

"I wish I could say 'As we speak'."

"Yeah, a missed opportunity," Sylvia agreed. "So basically, you haven't moved up in the world. You're in the same rut as I left you."

"Basically."

"And you're happy?"

"I'm moderately content," Jim corrected. Sylvia could hear his grin.

"If you say so," She returned.

Olga returned with Csilla, the baby in her arms. She said a few words that Sylvia didn't understand and handed her over; Sylvia thanked her, smiling appreciatively, and held the baby against her chest so she could feel her, skin-on-skin. The low V-cut blouse provided that easy access, and it also made breast-feeding more convenient.

"Hey, I have to feed Csilla, so I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Have fun."

"Shut the fuck up."

"Love you, Vee."

"Love you too." Sylvia returned, and she hung up. She smiled at Olga, saying, "You're a godsend, you know that?"

Olga smiled, nodding, then she moved around the kitchen to prepare dinner for tonight.

It hadn't even been an hour since Csilla had been put to bed for a mid-afternoon nap before her cries could be heard in the baby monitors placed around the mansion. In the bathroom, in the living room, in the bedroom, and the kitchen: her cries were heard.

Oswald sighed patiently, although he was certain his own capacity for interruptions was nearing empty. He excused himself from the table where the Five Families had gathered, heading upstairs to console Csilla.

Her wide eyes were open, looking everywhere around her; their sky blues meeting Oswald's when he hovered over the crib, reaching in and picking her up as gingerly as he'd seen Sylvia do it.

"Shhh…" Oswald whispered. "It's okay, little one. Shh…"

In the baby's room, Butch had brought up a rocking chair; Olga, several blankets. He sat in the rocking chair, swaddling the milky flesh of Csilla's body, lightly wrapping her and pressing her against him, patting her back and keeping her close.

While he was annoyed beyond all measure that Csilla would start fussing loudly to the point of shrieking each time he and Sylvia changed shifts, there was a bittersweet feeling. A feeling that despite the frustration and all the interruptions Csilla could cause, and her demanding nature, made Oswald smile down at the baby who looked up at him. Not quite yet able to meet his eyes since Csilla was so young she couldn't fully see anything just yet…but in some fashion, Oswald felt like she could sense him.

She could sense that he was her father.

"You are a loud one, aren't you," Oswald said, smiling down at her. "So demanding, so stubborn. You're so sleepy, and yet, you're crying to stay awake." He sighed, pausing in the slow rocking back and forth in the chair, adding, "You're definitely your mother's daughter."

What Sylvia remembered and what Oswald seemed to temporarily forget was that even as he'd gone to console their daughter, the baby monitors were always still on.

Everything he said to her, everyone in the manor could hear him: Butch, who guarded the living room; Demetri, who was in his room, fiddling with a guitar he bought to gently strum; Ed, who had a room of his own, as he languidly perused the books that he'd purchased to stimulate his brain; Olga, who prepared the dinner, and smiled when she heard her Master's soft words.

To the heads of the Five Families who regularly saw Oswald's cruel, strict, Stalin-esque nature, it was almost a backlash. An insight that in their fearless, ruthless leader, a man who the gangs feared and the Gotham's people revered, there was a soft side to him that only Sylvia, Ed, and Csilla only had the privilege to see.

Sylvia stood in the living room, what essentially was their Meeting Room, momentarily taking over Oswald's duties as the primary ruler of the Underworld the moment he had to leave the room. After he'd left, the meeting continued:

"Sal Maroni had a great deal of the drug trade and controlled the ports," Ron Maroni, Head of the Maroni family, said calmly. "If we—us in general—no longer wanted to pay tariffs for those ports, would that cause a huge dispute, do you think?"

Sylvia smiled politely, asking, "You mean if you decided that you and the rest of your people no longer felt inclined to do your part to keep up with stabilizing the economy of Gotham, whether or not that would allow you to remain a part of the business trade?"

Ron Maroni smiled innocently: "Well, you know, when you put it like that…"

"You'd become an outcast," She answered with a hard smile. "Your turf would no longer be worth anything of value, and it'd be given to someone else—probably someone in this room—who would pay tariffs for the ports. Perhaps, they'd even keep the captains who provide this city with half its food and resources up to code, pay them better, and I wouldn't have to deal with petty bribery to keep the Water and Dane attorneys off our fucking backs."

Maroni stared at her, eyes wide. He stammered, "I guess I've caught you at a bad time."

Sylvia shrugged and said sarcastically, "It appears you have. Do you still want to be a team player, Mr. Maroni. Have you changed your mind on how you feel about paying the tariffs?"

"Without a doubt."

"Cool beans," she responded gleefully, smiling from ear-to-ear. "Now, we can continue further business."

"Do you think," Mr. Anderson of the Anderson Family finally spoke, "We could continue when the Penguin returns? Perhaps he'd offer a little more open-minded insight than what—"

Sylvia cleared her throat, saying, "If you want to talk open-mindedness, I doubt you'd find a better candidate than myself, Mr. Anderson. I can't help it that you still blame me for your son's death—"

"I blame you because you killed him."

"And I can see why you may feel that way, but it was your son who decided to go against me. And, remember, Mr. Anderson, you told me I could kill him. Must we have this argument every time we meet?" Sylvia questioned cynically. "I mean, it's every time you and I bump into each other. And we bump into each other quite frequently here. I thought we settled this matter a long time ago."

Mr. Anderson, as elderly as he was and as stubborn as he could be, frowned deeply: "You may be Queen of Gotham, or call yourself 'Lark'—"

"Wrong again. I don't call myself 'Lark'. Everyone else does. It's a name people have given me."

"And yet you don't care if people, including yourself, use it."

"Hey, if people want to call me what they call me, so be it. It's not rude or offensive, and I particularly don't mind it." Sylvia said, holding her hands up carelessly, shrugging too. "I've been called 'Mrs. Penguin', 'Gordon's kid sister', and 'Hey, you', so frankly, you can call me whatever you want. As long as it's not rude."

"What I would call you," Anderson said darkly, "is something I wouldn't dare call you in this house or in the House."

"The House of God, you mean."

"The same."

"Well, you may call me whatever in this house or in whatever other house you prefer," Sylvia said apathetically. "Call me a 'bitch', a 'cunt', or a fucking 'whore' even, but that doesn't change the nature of this conversation, nor the future conversations we will have between you, me, and everyone else here at this table. Frankly, I would have hoped that after all this time, you'd have forgiven your son's transgressions, and opened your heart to a new beginning."

"Time changes things, alright," Anderson said, nodding his head. He curled his lip, leaning forward, "But it doesn't change what you've done. And it doesn't heal old wounds. It just makes them bigger, infects them, until you feel nothing. What purpose, then, does Time serve us?"

A man of Russian and French descent, heir to the Belich fortune and Family's current Don, Jock Belich leaned forward as well, saying, "That's very existential thinking, old timer, but maybe we should continue with this conversation another time. I have a daughter of mine I don't like to keep waiting, so if we could…?"

"You talk," grumbled Anderson as he glared at everyone at the table, "about families, fortune, and prosperity, Lark. But you don't know the meaning of any of those. Prosperity? You think this" (he gestured around the table) "is a prosperous business. What prosperity, indeed. And fortune? Forget the money…Money and profits are meaningless. Don Falcone…he knew the meaning of family. The old times have certainly gone; in its place: mediocrity."

"Yes," Sylvia mused, "He hid his family—both his son and daughter—from all of this, decided to retire, and he's been living on a beach somewhere down South, in hiding, but happy. By all means, Anderson, if you want to follow him, you're more than welcome to leave. No one here would stop you. The old times are gone. New management, new rules."

"Falcone knew the meaning of family. Knew it. Knew it well. After how you've treated us…how you treated my son…he'd be so disappointed in you. Both in you, in your husband…"

Sylvia put her hands on her hips, then stared up at the ceiling where she was hoping a jug of patience might fall so she could acquire some. However, when nothing of the sort came from the heavens, she decided to move on.

"What do you want, Anderson? Hm?" Sylvia asked unhappily. "Falcone isn't here. He's not been in charge since Oswald took over, and you're still living in the past."

"You won't ever be Queen. Don't care who thinks it, who says it, or believes it. You think a woman can be in charge…"

"A woman is in charge, buddy," Sylvia snapped, "And if you want a fucking foot in your mouth, literally, I hope your next words are either an apology or silence."

Anderson frowned, still, but at least he said nothing else.

Oswald came back shortly after putting Csilla to sleep, his return making the head of the families either sigh in both exasperation or in relief. Either way, Oswald gently touched Sylvia's shoulder; she looked at him pointedly.

"Is everything all right?" He asked, glancing at all of them then to her once more.

"Your people are fussier than she is." Sylvia uttered in annoyance.

Oswald watched her leave the room, her heels clicking the tile so harshly that he winced upon her exit. He sighed deeply, turning to everyone with a pointed look, saying, "Do I want to know what any of that was about?"

"No sir," they all said almost unanimously.