The first thing Bessie thought of when she woke up was Jerome, and for the barest, skinniest, fleeting second she wasn't sure why.

And the crushing thought finally occurred to her.

Jerome was now an orphan.

Salty residue, courtesy of last night's tears, left her eyelashes tacky and clumped as she blearily opened her eyes. She possessed no motivation, however, to cast aside the bedsheet cocoon she'd twisted for herself during the night. A cover was like a refuge; could have been a bedsheet, could have been a coat, it didn't matter, the containment provided one more barrier protecting her from the unforgiving outside. She continued to lie there, wondering if she'd ever build up the courage to leave her caravan ever again.

The concept of death was always a fact in her mind. She wasn't that naïve. Remembering it's origin or how she grew to understand it over the course of her life was difficult to pinpoint. Seemingly, the knowledge was just always there.

What was different this time was that never before had she ever had to personally deal with not just death, but the concept of murder. Not death after old age, but life stopped short—violently taken. Books, movies, and popular media were her only exposure. Now, it was all happening in front of her, and the fallout spanned an even greater radius than she could have imagined. Everybody at Haly's was going to be affected in some way. Every last one. Murder never acted alone; it brought with it pain, sadness, confusion, betrayal, panic, and terror.

Mrs. Struna was stirring something in a pot on the stove just a few feet away. Checking on her daughter, she noticed Bessie's open, listless eyes. Leaving the wooden spoon to rest on the handle, Mrs. Struna came over. The bed sank as she sat down on the mattress and smoothed Bessie's hair. "Ljubica, did you sleep?"

Bessie stared at the cabinet wall panel beside her bed. She shook her head.

Mrs. Struna tutted sympathetically, tucking Bessie's bed-fluffed hair behind her ear. "Come. I made soup for us."

Bessie's appetite had been curbed after last night, but after wrestling inwardly over the idea, she came to the conclusion that she needed a distraction. Her movements were heavy and sluggish as she eventually rolled and untwisted her cloth haven. Leaving the warmth of her bed behind, she crossed her arms and sat down at the table.

While her mother stirred the pot and ladled soup into a bowl, Bessie shrank a little further when a new thought occurred. Maybe this didn't just stop at Ms. Valeska. Was everyone accounted for in the morning? To find another victim this morning would have plunged Bessie into a state of paranoia to which she was certain she'd never recover. Ms. Valeska's death had been horrid enough, but to lose another would bring about signs of an epidemic in the making.

A stark white sheet of paper layed on their kitchen table. The black type was so large that Bessie was sure she could read it if it were posted at the farthest end of her trailer. She spun the paper to read correctly. Though the letters may have been large, the message was brief.

ATTENTION:

Last night's tragic passing of our own Lila Valeska has reached Gotham. Various media outlets have been spotted on the premises. Do not engage and do not answer their questions. Redirect all queries and contact to me. If I am not available in my office, offer my mobile phone number.

Funeral service times to be posted forthcoming.

Keep vigilant. Keep safe.

C.C. Haly

The notice concluded, punctuated by his sharp and short signature.

The note seemed brash and dismissive to Ms. Valeska's death, but Bessie knew Mr. Haly better than that. He was keeping them all safe from the outside frenzy this must have been causing, and from innocent words becoming unforgivingly twisted in the news. He had a lot of damage control on his hands, while simultaneously having to balance the mental well-being of his employees. The note was short and abrupt, but Mr Haly was not an insensitive man. He would take his proper grieving period later, like he always did, so that everyone else could have theirs first.

The steaming bowl of vegetable soup seemed to just magically appear out of thin air right in front of her, for Bessie was so absorbed. Clutching her spoon, she ate mechanically, distracted by so much mental distance that she was barely aware of any sense of flavor in her mouth. She could have been pouring dishwater down her throat and it was unlikely she would have noticed.

Mrs. Struna sat across from her daughter, propping her head in one hand, looking out the window contemplatively. Last night's news had evidently drained her as well.

"Where's daddy?" asked Bessie. He was clearly not in the caravan, he would have made his presence known by now, and he wasn't in bed because he never slept in past 8:00.

"At the police station."

Bessie stopped, hovering her spoon halfway to her mouth.

Her mother tore her eyes away from the window. "No, no, do not be scared, ljubica," she soothed. "Daddy is not in trouble. The police need to ask some questions and if he saw anything. They took lots of people downtown this morning. Lots. They are going to find who did this, do not be scared. Okay?"

But fear was a rebellious thing. No matter how much Bessie wanted to tell herself the same, fear was making itself well-known within her. Notorious, even, bent on taking over her mind. There was so much to be scared of. The place she'd always thought of as the one safe place in this world was now compromised. It wasn't as though she could just move away until the frenzy was all over. Haly's was the only place she could go. It was her beginning and her end.

"Am...am I going to be questioned?" she asked. She couldn't handle interrogative processes.

"Of course not," assured Mrs. Struna, reaching over to smooth Bessie's hair. "You have no connections to anything, you had nothing to do with none of this. Nothing will happen to you, you're safe."

Bessie quieted, ruminating over her mother's words, hoping that they were right. She just had to be content with the knowledge that she wasn't part of the Lloyd/Grayson fight that erupted last night, nor was she directly connected to Lila in order to be considered a suspect or even a holder of valuable information.

Another minute of silence passed where Mrs. Struna gave the window her attention again. Bessie's soup bowl was nothing but a shallow pool with just another two spoonfuls and a mushy carrot left to drain. She hadn't forgotten the most important person in all of this. "Where's Jerome?" she asked, apprehensive over the answer.

"He went downtown early in the morning, too. They should all be back in a few hours." Mrs. Struna rubbed a finger under her chin and tutted in great pity. "Poor, sweet boy. I wish there was something I could do."

Mrs. Struna spoke for the both of them. Bessie was almost afraid of confronting him when the time came. This event was so monumentous that it would become a measurement in all their lifetimes: pre-Lila and post-Lila. Likewise with her son. There were so many wrong things to say, and none to make things right. The thought of several people already giving their condolences kept her on her seat. Maybe he'd already heard everything by this point, and she almost felt relief at having an excuse not to confront a dreadful reality.

Then the guilt poured right in. She was just thinking of herself. Whatever she felt in that moment didn't matter, wasn't supposed to matter. The only person who mattered right now was him. She had to go see Jerome whether or not she had anything insightful to say. He needed to know that she didn't run away when he needed a safety net the most.

Job commitments seemed like they should have been a scratch today, given the circumstances, but no cancellations were posted. Pros and cons fought hard on that decision like a tug of war. On the one hand, a murdered member of Haly Circus' extended family was a somber occasion, and the pursuit of money in its wake felt classless, disrespectful, and inhuman. On the other, there was that oft-repeated phrase, notorious in the entertainment industry: "the show must go on."

Duty seemed to be a force that drove Bessie's legs to walk, reluctant as she was. Throwing herself into her work would cloud her mind and would allow her just a few stolen moments of peace. Keeping her routine on track was the only way she could cope. Complete derailment would just throw her into disorganization and confusion. At least just one thing needed to keep time just as it always had so that she could keep enough of herself together to mourn Ms. Valeska properly.

Mrs. Struna was reluctant when Bessie told her of her plans. "Don't leave the fairground. Stay in groups," Mrs. Struna warned. She was standing at the sink, washing dishes, glaring out the kitchen window. "Mr. Haly should have cancelled today," she added in a grumble.

Dressing herself and carrying out her morning routine just as mechanically as she ate, Bessie let the front door clack shut behind her as she descended the stairs. Sunlight was dimmed behind some clouds, but otherwise the sky was mostly clear, and deceptively cheery. The air wasn't terribly cold, but Bessie put her hands in her vest jacket pockets anyway. Her feet knew the path and didn't need one hundred percent of her focus to do the job.

In all this time, even though less than twenty-four hours passed since, Bessie had yet to cry over Ms. Valeska. Shock worked like a cork. Everything stayed inside, fizzing and building and waiting. Acceptance was the key to release, but how horrid that release felt. Ms. Valeska would never greet Bessie again. She'd never coo over how she wanted Bessie to fit into her music box. She would never dance with her snake again. Bessie's cheeks warmed and her nose dripped, but finally, her nerves couldn't take it anymore. A small sob, going unheard by anyone, slipped from her mouth and her eyes clouded.

The ground were emptier than normal. A couple crew members were dotted about the place, doing their daily maintenance, but not as many as there normally would have been. Maybe circus commitments were voluntary today, Bessie wasn't sure. Whether she wanted it or not, she had enough privacy to cry as freely as she wanted.

A rumble of human voices—many by the sound of it—seemed to float on the air. Bessie didn't slow, but she did perk up her head, wiping her nose on her long sleeve. The rumble sounded excitable. A fork in the caravan maze stopped her, and she looked down to her right. The long half-dirt half-grass strip led to a gate at the far end, where a frothing black mass flashed a couple times. Bessie sank her hands further into her pockets and huddled to mind her own business. News reporters.

The media didn't feel welcome here. Under normal circumstances they popped around occasionally with sincere tidings, doing their job to report on the show. Most were polite and fair in their inquiries, and even well-mannered despite an upcoming less-than-stellar experience review in the papers.

Now they appeared as a cluster of vicious sharks, clamouring over eachother to get the story first. The tragedy of Ms. Valeska was the chum, and all the circus members left to tell the tale were the fishermen trapped in their boat. Surrounded. On Haly's side of the gate stood one lone employee, mostly likely telling them to leave given his hand gestures. Maybe even telling them to direct their questions to Mr. Haly as they were all instructed to do. Bessie turned away and headed left.

She thought hard about keeping to her regular path, the one she trekked nearly everyday since she was twelve. Though distance and twists and turns changed in every new city, the destination was always the same: the practice tent.

But not today.

She headed in the direction of the river. Some things in life were just more important to nurture.

Jerome's caravan came up sooner than she was ready for it. Even his home looked isolated in its own solitude. Taking the stairs in a cumbersome manner like she was a hundred pounds heavier, she stepped right up at the door, hesitating. Taking one more drag of her sleeve under her nose and sniffing to pull herself together, she knocked as unintrusively as she could.

Maybe he hadn't come home yet, she thought. The lack of an answer seemed to confirm it. Nevertheless, Bessie had to make sure. If Jerome was there, she preferred this be done sooner rather than later. She knocked a second time, this time adding announcement to her arrival. "Jerome?" she called. "It's me, Bessie. Are you there? Can I talk to you?"

Silence greeted her back. Still, she waited the necessary amount.

"Just a second," said a feeble voice within.

Bessie's heart skipped. There was no going back from this point. Her countenance was brittle, but she fortified her spine.

The door clicked from the inside. Slowly, it opened to darkness inside. The curtains were drawn and all the lights were off, save for a bit of illumination coming from Sheba's indoor tank, unseen from Bessie's angle. Jerome emerged from behind, as sullen and downtrodden as Bessie expected to be. And it broke her heart to see him in that state. She forgot any inhibition she'd ever felt in coming here. His kind, warm eyes, looking into her own, were ringed in red, though it seemed he'd already cried out all the tears he could a while ago.

"Oh, Jerome..." Bessie said in dismay, taking him in. He was much too tall for her, but infinitely small details such as that were too minor to matter. Stepping into the threshold and rising on the tips of her toes, she encased her arms over his shoulders, holding as bolsteringly as she possibly could. The hug from the other night, when he was the one to comfort her, felt so distant. In another lifetime. Things had changed now.

Jerome didn't react right away. Soon enough, though, he relaxed in her hold and did the same, burying his face in her shoulder. "Thanks for coming, Bess," he said quietly.

Bessie patted and rubbed his back in response. "Everybody will take care of you," she promised. Everything coming out of her mouth at that point acted as though she'd actually known they were going to happen. "They would never turn you away, you'll be taken care of, you'll always be home." She felt that she was the wrong person to try and bring some sort of comfort to him, she had no powerful sway in the circus, and maybe it wasn't her place to speak for them, but they wouldn't cast him out. No way. She knew that for certain. These people could no sooner turn away one of their own than set fire to Big Top. Mr. Haly would never kick him out.

Jerome exhaled languidly through his nose, as if in relief. "Thank you, Bess." He patted her back. "I appreciate that."

Just like the other night, she allowed Jerome to be the first to choose when to let go, because this time she knew for sure that he really was the one who needed it more than her. Delaying only a few seconds longer, Jerome finally relinquished in his unique, gentle way, and Bessie obliged. He scarcely made eye-contact, choosing to concentrate on the floor for the most part, but she took no offence.

"My mom told me about you having to go down to the station," Bessie said, keeping her voice even softer than it was normally, which made her virtually inaudible to anyone within a five step range.

"Yeah," said Jerome. He smiled for her sake, but it was weighted from his grief. It didn't come as naturally as it used to. "They needed to know a little more about her, to try and figure out what happened. They were nice, though."

"That's good."

Jerome nodded. "Hey," he said as if he'd suddenly realized something, "you need a drink of water or something?" Even in the face of grief he didn't forget his manners and that he was technically still a host.

"No, no," said Bessie quickly, waving the offer away, "I'm fine, I don't need anything." Even if she was thirsty she would have declined. To take anything from him, even his time and energy, felt greedy.

Turning away from her, Jerome walked the length of the trailer to the kitchen sink. "Well, more tap water for me, then," he said with some forced mirth. Maybe to keep things as they were before the dark cloud descended. Bessie watched him pull a clean mug from the drying side of the sink, his back to her. In his hands, his fingers tapped and stroked the mug, but he wasn't turning on the tap. His movements were slowing.

Suddenly, he hung his head and his shoulders quaked. He fell to his knees, shielding his eyes as his body was wracked by quiet, private sobbing. Bessie's heart kickstarted. She ran as much as one could run across a cramped caravan. "Jerome?!" She lowered on one knee behind him, hands hovering but not touching him, unsure of what they could possibly do.

Jerome gestured dismissively over his shoulder. "It's okay," he said through his thickened voice. "It's okay, don't worry." He exhaled bracingly to calm himself down, forcing his tears back. "I'm okay."

It couldn't have been healthy to hold back such strong emotion and sorrow, but Bessie didn't say a word against him. People mourned differently.

Eventually, Jerome recovered. His calming, calculated breaths, as though he'd simply gone for a short run, seemed to echo in the caravan, though there was no capacity to.

Bessie looked at him sympathetically when the worst of it was over. "If you need anything, don't be scared to ask me."

Jerome turned over, sitting on the floor, staring at the cabinet ahead of him. It was one of the rare times where he and Bessie could be eye-level. "Yeah," he said, understanding. "I just gotta learn to laugh again, I guess."

"One day," Bessie assured, rubbing his shoulder. "Only when you're ready. One day."


A/N: WHEW, now that the busiest time of the year is now over, let's get this thing started again, shall we? I see I got some new Followers. Hello, hello! Welcome.

I really want to build what's coming next over the course of a couple in-story days. You know, to really help readers savour and breathe and absorb upcoming events. But unfortunately my hands are tied, the episode I'm referencing only spans two days, and we've already passed one of them. So while I'd like to stretch this story out much more, I need to follow canon. So I apologize if everything leading up to the ending seems rushed, it's not my fault, I'm just following the time span of the episode!

Jeromeisminelol: D'ohhh, you're so sweet ^_^
I will admit that lack of reviews take the wind out of my sails a little bit, because I really do look forward to what people have to say, what they think, their perspective on certain events that could open my mind to something even I didn't notice, all sorts of things! When there's crickets I worry whether maybe I'm not being entertaining enough and readers are getting bored. It's always hard to tell. But this is my promise: I'll never hold a story hostage, like, "im not gonna rite more until I get eleventy hundred revews!1!1!". This is still going to be completed, no matter what. I certainly wouldn't mind more reviews, I won't lie. But you gotta take what you can get, reviews come by so fleetingly on this website. I grab onto whatever ones I get and hold on for dear life! I am SO grateful whenever I see that notification, I flip for joy!
Reviews are my author food, and when they get scarce, I have the potential to starve creatively. Alas, I cannot make readers do anything they don't want to do, so it is out of my hands.
For the meantime, this site will be the only place I upload, but thanks for the heads up.
Thanks a bunch for your continued support of this story! I'm thrilled that you are enjoying yourself!
And also my continued gratitude to those who have reviewed and/or those who are reading this now!