A/N: I want to thank everyone who has kept up with this story so far, especially my reviewers. It's probably not that thrilling right now but I assure you, it will be (I hope it has some hold on you right now). Read and review. Jazzie
P.S. Sorry for the length
Disclaimer: DC characters and such, is owned by DC, original plot and OCs are mine.
"Mr. White, this has become quite an arduous session, perhaps you should return to your cell," Shirley noted, pushing some stray curls back. When she'd been summarizing her last interview with one of her other patients, earlier in the day, her hair-tie had snapped. For the rest of the day her curls had been getting in the way. When she'd mentioned that she had wanted to cut her hair to her parents, her father asked her if she'd leave it. So here it was.
"I think not, you just happen to not be asking the right questions," White smugly replied. He pushed himself out of his chair and approached Shirley. She rolled her eyes and dropped her pen in her lap. For the last fifty or so minutes, this was how he had talked to her. Just dodged and weaved nearly every bloody question! He'd just been sitting there, looking, gazing at her. To say it was annoying was putting it lightly. Sometimes she wondered if maybe she should just apply to get him assigned to another doctor. Then she would see his face in her head, laughing. "Besides Shirley, they are boring."
"Dr. Gibbs and whether or not they are boring, doesn't matter," she said darkly, nearly growling out her name.
"Well I can assume that you don't want to hear my secret after all," he said. Another thing was that was getting mildly frustrating was the childlike attitude he'd had this interview. Looking at her watch she saw that regardless, the interview was ending in a few minutes. She put down her note pad and pen and also stood up. White smirked at this and walked closer to her, around the table.
"Here's a little secret," he started slowly, "you have the lushest and sexiest blonde curls I've ever seen." Well. That was one way to end an interview. Or just leave Shirley in a state of speechlessness or mental blankness. White was about to follow up on his compliment when Dickens burst in the room, looking quite flushed and angry. He grabbed White roughly and cuffed him, leaving without a word. She just stood, in a state of disbelief. What the hell had just happened?
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
She kept telling herself that White's compliment didn't affect her on a personal level, but she was lying. It did, immensely. Within the last few weeks of dating Lewis, he hadn't come near saying anything like that. Only the other night had he managed to kiss her on the lips when he had dropped her home. She reminded herself that she was driving next time, there was no way she was sitting in his freezing car again, at least not soon. White, though, had been so bold. He just came out and said it. And his mood and tone, gone was the childlike attitude. She was almost wishing to have it back.
To make matters worse, she had had another few interviews after his and hadn't focused probably in any of them. One of the guards that brought in her patients had noticed to and asked if she was alright. She had coldly replied, leaving the guard asking himself why he had even bothered to ask. There was a reputation that she was beginning to gain around Arkham, and she liked it. Truthfully, it had taken longer then she had expected. At university it had taken about two weeks and then people left her alone. Now at Arkham the staff only talked to her if they had to. The only people that really talked to her were Dr. Westler and Dickens. Nothing seemed to faze the man.
She also didn't know if it was the compliment or the fact that White had actually said it that got to her the most. Remembering the interview, she reached up and touched a stray curl, then dropped it. This was ridiculous. She was a psychologist at Arkham Asylum. These inmates were here for a reason. Pushing the interview out of her mind she started typing furiously on the computer, summarizing the interviews of the day and so forth. When it was ten past five in the afternoon she realized that she might as well stay behind for another hour and finish everything else off; she wouldn't have to worry about the extra work for a few days then. Stretching back in her chair she felt the itch to go for a walk. The sun was setting but there was still some light outside. Grabbing her mobile phone and white coat, she left her office with a turn of her keys.
She trailed out to the east part Arkham, near the Arkham Mansion. She took a seat in the little courtyard next to the mansion and took a deep breath of air. There was one advantage to working at Arkham and it was the air outside. It was significantly more breathable then the air in the city. Then she felt something on her shoulder and jumped, sliding down the wooden seat considerably. Looking up she, she wanted to seriously hurt something.
"Wow, Shirley, you okay?" Dickens asked concerned. He was about to place a gloved hand on her shoulder put she slid further down the chair.
"Yeah, fine."
"Do you mind if I take a seat next to you?" He asked but had already sat down, next to her.
"Aren't you meant to be working?"
"Break time," he replied, smiling. He played with his fingers and looked down at them.
"Dickens-"
"Greg."
"Why are you always on a break when I am?" She couldn't help it. He was always, to her knowledge, on break when she was.
"Guess we have a lucky roster then?"
"It's quite confusing, though." She paused, thinking very carefully about how to say it, "Isn't your roster meant to rotate every three weeks?"
"No, that's only for the category nine guards," he reassured, sliding closer to her, "besides, isn't it nice? Friends being able to talk on breaks?" Friends? Greg really did need a life outside of work.
"Greg, I work with you. I'm not your friend," she snapped and got up. This was uncomfortable to say the least. He got up with her and followed her as she began to walk away. Before she knew what was happening, he grabbed her by her right upper arm and slammed her on to one of the wooden seats with an unexpected strength.
"Just listen, okay?" He smiled sweetly, contradicting his last action. Shirley fidgeted in her spot, not sure how to respond. Greg had never seemed like a strong guy, she had often secretly questioned how he managed to be a guard here. Now though, she was having second thoughts. "Shirley, you okay?"
"Fine."
"You know, it's great that you are getting out and about."
"Wh-at?" She looked up at him, slowly. She didn't want to understand what he had just said.
"I was meaning to ask you, how's Lewis?"
"How do you know about him?"
"We were talking, ta-lking about him the other day – weren't we?" He stumbled, his shoulders slumping forward. Right now he was blocking her, closing her on to the wooden seat. Her eyes frantically searched behind him, trying to catch someone's attention. The nearest guard was over at one of the large gates, talking to another guard.
"No," she said softly, backing away. It was obvious to her that he was struggling to keep up the sweet façade; underneath it he looked scared and desperate. She wanted to make a run, back to her office, or maybe to her car. Stuff the extra work, she had her phone and keys, he was scaring her. He rubbed his face then moved his eyes back to her.
"You know, you know what?" He started, bending down closer to her. She didn't know what he wanted to do or was planning to do but he was stupid if he was going to pull anything here, there were guards everywhere.
"What?"
"There's someone better for you," he answered, smiling again.
"Yeah, who?" She spat back. It didn't seem to throw him off though, so she tried to coldly glare him down.
"Can't say," he responded softly as if realizing a mistake in his actions. He drew back and paused, appearing to be in deep thought with his head down. There was no better opportunity then now; she made a dash for it. Avoiding him, she ran past him as fast as she could. Not being the fittest person, her lungs began to burn as she made her way past the large gates and into the car park. She thanked some divine force for the adrenaline. Not once did she look back, only when she buckled herself in to her car did she quickly glance in her rear view mirror. Something though, that she did not realize, was that Greg—Dickens—had stopped chasing her long before she got to the car park.
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Something seemed off, aside the fact she was in Arkham. Everyone seemed quiet today, just going about his or her work and sticking to it. Really, Shirley didn't mind, well, she kind of did. People just didn't act like this unless something has happened. Even some of her patients had been quiet, well just not as loud as they normally were. It was uncomfortable. She was the one who was cold and quiet, but that was the norm. This wasn't. With the looks she was getting to, she had a suspecting feeling that it might be linked to her. Nothing though, could have prepared her for when Dr. Westler came by.
"Dr. Gibbs?" Shirley heard the familiar, monotone accented voice. Turning from her computer, she saw Dr. Westler in the doorframe. "May I come in?"
"Sure," she responded, turning her chair to face her. She liked Dr. Westler, not as a friend but not less. Westler was perhaps the best acquaintance one could have at work. You could talk to her on professional level and not worry that they would ask prying personal questions. The doctor motioned for Shirley to join her at the small setting area, where she interviewed her patients. It was slightly ironic that the woman was sitting in the seat that she always sat in when interviewing. It now felt like she was the one that was going to be questioned.
"Dr. Gibbs, can I ask where you were last night?" Odd, not the kind of question she was expecting.
"Ah, at my apartment. Why?" With all the strange behaviours people were displaying today, she just couldn't help herself. Westler sighed and rested her head in her hand, her arm resting on the arm of the chair.
"And, when was the last time you saw Gregory Dickens?" Westler asked, raising her head back up. The blood in her face dropped and she began to feel nervous. Really she hadn't done anything wrong but she couldn't help but feel that maybe she had.
"Outside Arkham Mansion, around five thirty in the afternoon."
"Are you sure? You did not see him at all after that time?" Westler now appeared anxious, still though in her detached manner. This whole conversation was leading up to something, something important. Something that Westler was holding back from her.
"Certain."
"Then Dr. Gibbs, there is no easy way to say the following."
"What?"
"Dr. Gibbs, Gregory Dickens was found dead in his apartment."
What?
Shirley didn't feel any attachment to the man, but she didn't hate him. The knowledge that someone she had been talking to just yesterday was now dead disturbed her. It was a selfish thought but she couldn't help it. She could barely process anything in her head so all she could manage was:
"What?"
"I can assume that it may be of some shock to you Dr. Gibbs," Westler replied flatly, fixing her glasses. Shirley wanted to think that really this shouldn't affect her, because, it just shouldn't. That was what she wanted, what she would really like to be going through her head. It wasn't the case though. In fact she was sitting there trying to just form sentences and that was difficult enough. Giving herself a mental slap and straightening her back she replied as calmly as she could:
"That is unfortunate to hear, I," she paused, noticing Westler quirking an eyebrow. It had never been her forte to be sympathetic to others in a situation like this. She continued, "I wish his family well in such a time."
"I must elucidate something Dr. Gibbs, that I did not say before," her tone began to reveal a horrible idea that was now rapidly growing in Shirley's mind, like one of Poison Ivy's wretched plants. In her lap, her hands that were now clasped together began to squeeze each other tightly. She was attempting to alleviate some of the nervousness and tension she was feeling; she had no such luck. Westler took in Shirley's poor attempt to hide her uneasiness and silence, as a response to continue. "Dr. Gibbs, Mr. Dickens did not die of natural causes."
"Was he shot? He lives in the Narrows doesn't he?" She recalled him mentioning it sometime, not too happily.
"Please Dr. Gibbs, let me finish," Westler raised her hand, which elicited the response she wanted. Shirley had stopped herself from asking any further questions. Her fingers were beginning to go white. Why the hell was she so bloody nervous? She felt like she knew what Westler was about to tell her, it was sitting right on top of her brain. The thought however did not reveal exactly what had happened. Was she some kind of psychic? She hoped not, that would forever blemish her career.
"Mr. Dickens was found early this morning and by want police can gather, murdered."
Working in the place that Shirley did, should have, even slightly, desensitized her a bit to an event like this. If anything, it made her feel even more uncomfortable. Suddenly she just wanted to be alone in her bedroom with her blankets and quilt cocooning her. Just by herself. The walls of her office felt damp, the whole room did. The thought that been lying over brain now oozed in to every brain cell, making her sole focus on Dickens. He had been talking to her yesterday! Yesterday! Now he was a corpse, no doubt lying on a cold metal table, being examined. They were probably excessively looking for all the bullets. Like a slap, Westler brought her back to reality.
"Dr. Gibbs there is a request that the police have made of you," Westler continued, still sitting there. She was annoyed with herself. Never in her life had something bothered her this much. This situation though was probably the most traumatic thing that had happened to her. Well it was happening to her, it just felt like that. Dickens had been someone she had seen on regular basis, aside from the fact that she disliked him and he was dead. Dead.
"What have they requested?" She replied, sounding a lot firmer and 'in-control' then she felt.
"Though they had myself come in at about at 3:30 A.M., they need someone else to ID him."
"ID him? Wouldn't his family do that? And besides if he was shot, I am sure it wouldn't be that hard to identify him," Shirley said more frantically. Just when her hands had loosened up a bit, they were now again tightly squeezing each other.
"Mr. Dickens has no family, not according to any of his records. And Dr. Gibbs, I never said he was shot. Even if he was, there would be a chance he would still need to be identified," Westler continued looking at Shirley. Why couldn't someone else go to the police station? Dickens surely must have talked to other people here at Arkham.
"Well isn't there someone else at Arkham that he would have conversed with? On a more frequent basis then I?"
"I had assumed that as well, but it is not the case. You were also one of the last people to converse with him and see him," Westler elaborated. She got the feeling that it wasn't really a request, more like a command. Then something hit her, if he hadn't been shot, what had happened?
"Dr. Westler, why is it so urgent for me to identify him?"
"Aside from the fact that the police would need more than one person to identify him there is another reason." It was not in Dr. Westler's character to dance around something, like she was. It was getting frustrating; Shirley just wanted her to say it. Then again, she didn't. Once it was said, she knew she wouldn't be able to forget it.
"Dr. Gibbs, Mr. Dickens was tortured before he died. Whilst the forensic examiners are not sure what exactly was done to him, they know that in the process of being tortured he was mutilated. They assume from the extensiveness of the mutilation and wounds that he died from blood loss, though they are still uncertain," Westler said slowly, as if talking about the upcoming weather for the day. Fuck, she didn't want to see this. It was one thing to read about it in a book, even see a corpse in real life but even then the person had died from natural causes. When at university, there had been the odd time when her class had joined some of the medical students to visit hospitals. It had been a good experience, at the time Shirley had still been debating what kind of psychology she wanted to pursue further.
Once they had visited some of the patients around the hospitals, they went to the morgues. There she saw what morgues held: corpses. It was a little unsettling at first; one person had died in a car accident and that was a little messy. The point was though, all these people had died from what they had been told was an accident, natural causes or an illness and in some cases, bullet wounds. None though, had been murdered in such a malicious way as Dickens. Perhaps they didn't want to show some of the other corpses. Gotham's infamous villains were always running around causing havoc, no matter how hard Batman tried to stop them. Maybe, maybe they hadn't shown them the others in fear that the students would drop the course or move to another city? There was always a shortage of doctors in Gotham.
Now though, the headlines were all too real. Trying her best to compose herself, Shirley replied:
"And when would the police department require me?"
"As soon as possible."
"But I have an interview soon, what-" Shirley began, she didn't want to miss her interview.
"Dr. Gibbs do you really think that in the circumstances an interview is important?" Dr. Westler rose from the chair and waved for Shirley to follow her out the door. She followed. After going to the morgue, she would be asked a few questions. Shirley only hoped it wouldn't take too long. And as for the interview all Westler had to say was:
"Remember Dr. Gibbs, Mr. White is a patient."
Momentarily, Shirley forgot about Dickens because she was enveloped by pure rage. How could she say that? To her! Why was no one noticing Harley? Harley was obsessed with Joker and was not meeting the requirements expected of her. It was just so infuriating how that woman could get away with what she had been doing! She was no idiot to what Harley had done. Aside from the fact that she had not even analysed the Joker in a correct manner, she had been sleeping with him! Shirley sometimes felt like breaking in to her office and getting the notes or lack of notes and taking them straight to Warden Sharp. She wouldn't feel guilty; in fact she would feel justified! It wasn't for the attention she would get if she did it, no, it was just the knowledge that Harley would get what she deserved. He was the Joker! Shirley imagined that maybe if the patient hadn't been so manically insane and perilous, then maybe she could let it go. It was the magnitude of the patient and the extent in which Harley had gone with him, not to mention all the liberties she had taken.
But she wasn't like that with White; he was her patient. He was her patient, she was meant to make him 'better'. The ideology that these kinds of patients could get 'better' was laughable. At best, if they could just be controlled a bit and contained, then that was good enough for her. In addition, that wasn't why she had become a criminal psychologist. White wasn't anywhere near, from what she could gather, as manic or insane as the Joker. And whatever this was about him being 'the worst person' the Joker has ever met must have been something that Harley made up.
Westler had let her off for the day and told her not to come back until tomorrow. Shirley had tried to propose her coming back and catching up on the interview that she would miss. Westler's response was a roll of her eyes and telling her to enjoy her afternoon off. Which was highly contradicted by the fact that she was going to a morgue. She doubled checked her car, making sure it was locked, before going in to the police department. Stepping inside the doors, she realized that she had left her white coat on with her nametag. Snapping it off, she pushed it in to a pocket and approached the main desk. A woman was looking at her computer, quite entranced by the glow of the monitor that she jumped when she saw Shirley.
"Oh sorry honey! Just reading the news," the woman apologised. The woman was probably in her early forties, but she dressed at least ten years younger. She had the uniform but her hair had been highlighted quite brightly in contrast to her natural brown hair and there were many blonde streaks. She had applied heavy amounts of foundation, but had at least gone light on the eyeliner and mascara. "You know that young blonde woman over in Hollywood? Well she's going to jail! What's her name?" The concept of 'news' to her must differ from Shirley's.
"I'm here to see-"
"Oh you a doctor? My sister's in hospital right now! Broke her hip somehow. I told her to be careful around the house," the woman was talking with great speed again, waving her manicured hands around. She found it humorous that a police officer would go to such great lengths for manicures but gathered that this police officer didn't do much 'on-site work'. "Now what's your name? I've got a list here of doctors coming in." The officer typed and clicked the mouse a few times and Shirley waited anxiously. "I forgot to ask your name honey, what is it?"
"Shirley Gibbs."
"Hmm, that's funny, your name isn't here. Just let me check something…else," the woman's hyper tone had dropped and her hands rested above the keyboard. She drew her eyes away from the screen and looked at Shirley with wide eyes.
"Yes?"
"Oh sorry, let me just call, call someone," she replied, shaken. Her hands were shaking slightly and she reached for a chunky phone next to the monitor. With a few words and a distressed expression the phone was placed quite carefully back on the receiver. "He'll be here in a few minutes."
For a moment it sounded like she had called up the Commissioner, which only added to her nerves. But when a man a few years younger than the female office strode up to her she breathed a sigh of relief. He didn't look anything like the Commissioner. He had dark brown, nearly black hair, specked with some grey that had been combined with grease neatly. He looked like a man lost in the future. It was like he was from the thirties and he was ruggedly handsome. Not to mention extremely tall. Taller than Lewis and White.
"Miss Gibbs, I'm Detective Jenkins," he introduced himself with a sonorous voice. He outstretched his hand and Shirley slowly took it. Giving it a firm shake and a nod of her head, he started walking down a hallway. The room where she had been was busy and many young men were in cuffs, a few scary looking women too. Following Detective Jenkins they made their way down to a lift. In the lift he turned to her and began to talk to her again:
"Dr. Westler must have told you about Mr. Dickens's state." It was a warning, she knew. She was prepared though, as prepared as she could be.
"Yes."
"Thank you for coming in," he said, not knowing what else to say. Shirley was thankful for the silence that followed but when the lift's doors opened, she wasn't so sure. It was really cold down here, but that was to be expected. The fluorescent lights burned her eyes as she followed the tall detective. They came to a set of white doors, which had a few scratches here and there on them. He paused, waiting for her to say something. Normally people would say something in despair, curse at him or say nothing, like she was. This wasn't normal though. This was like what Commissioner Gordon had told him about, along with other new officers, when they had joined the department. They had all joked about it but now, twelve years later, the reality of his job had set in. Losing your buddies was one thing, but losing them to crazies in the most horrific way, beyond his imagination, was like nothing they could have prepared him for. Seeing this young woman he almost felt envious. Envious that at this moment in time, she was naive. Sure she had studied the minds of those fuckers but seeing it in flesh was something different all together. Something that he was not envious about was that he didn't know what that body had once been.
She went up to the doors and touched the cold, metal handles. With a push she opened them and walked in, Detective Jenkins behind her. At first she felt kind of cheated, in a weird kind of way. She had expected the body to be there; she had been ready. But there was still the waiting game. She stepped closer until she was standing above what was once Dickens. There was a white cloth over him, which had been stained with a few dots of blood. The forensic examiner across from her waited for her approval; she nodded. As the sheet was slowly lifted from the body she knew that there was nothing in the world that could have prepared her. Jenkins grabbed her shoulders as she turned away for a moment. This was one of those moments, which were to forever be burnt in to one's mind. The ones where no matter how many years had passed, the image was still as clear as day.
What yesterday had been Dickens, a man, was now a body of ripped flesh. It was like an animal had gotten to him. His chest was ripped open in many long slashes. His arms had thin but deep cuts running up and down them, as did his legs. Looking at his chest you could see fragments of his ribcage, underneath pieces of flesh and soft tissue. Further down some of his lower organs were ripped and gapping under soft tissue and flesh. Jenkins grip tightened on her shoulders and she was thankful for the contact. It was the only thing keeping her level. She'd seen this documentary once. It was about people that had survived animal attacks. There was this one man, a young man, not that dissimilar from Dickens. He was a surfer. One morning he was with some friends, at the beach. His friends were taking too long to get ready so the man had raced ahead. Not twenty minutes later, a shark had attacked him. His back and left leg had been in shreds. This is what she was reminded of when looking at Dickens. His chest muscles and skin were in flops, chunks. She didn't dare look at his face.
"Miss Gibbs?" She heard Jenkins say.
"Y-es," she tried her best to sound composed but her response came out muffled.
"I need you to look at - his face," Jenkins replied. He looked down, but kept his grip on the short woman. She didn't want to. If she did, it would make this body someone that she had known. Right now it was a horrific sight but it wasn't a person, it was a corpse. Slowly she looked up and she could feel her stomach clenching. Unlike his body, his face had been left considerably untouched. There were bruises and cuts that scattered his face. His expression was one of pure pain and terror. Thankfully, his eyes had been shut. But she could tell. She tripped backwards in to Jenkins. He held her tightly but she pushed him away and turned away from the body. Hands over her mouth she breathed loudly. Jenkins came over to her with a bucket.
"Do you?" He asked, trying to comfort her. She just shook her head frantically and tried to calm down. How had Westler looked at it? Stumbling over to a metal counter she steadied herself and she could hear the forensic examiner place the sheet back over it. She shut her eyes and she could see it again. It was all she saw. Her hands flew from her face as she swore she could feel blood on her hands. Hell, who was she kidding? Her cold demeanour was nothing here. She felt Jenkins's large warm hand on her back and she looked up. From the look on his face, he was silently asking her if it was 'him'.
"Yes, yes, it's h-im," she answered the silent question. He lightly grabbed her elbow and took her out of the room. Next thing she knew, they were in a tiled room with a table and three chairs. She looked to her side and saw a mirror, a double-sided mirror. A few questions, yeah. This was going to be an interview. Jenkins pulled out a seat and she sat down. She pushed herself up to the table and rested her arms there. He sat down opposite her, leaned his head in his hand for a moment then looked up.
"Run through yesterday Miss Gibbs," he asked with a low tone. And that's how the next, near two hours continued. After about twenty minutes another officer came in, roasting her with questions. She didn't cry but it was hard not to. The good cop, bad cop thing was stressing her out and she was exceedingly tired. She wanted to be alone but she also wanted someone to hold her. There was no way she could tell her mother about this and she didn't even consider her father. When the two had finished with her, Jenkins told her to please not tell the media. She just looked at him in horror. He accepted her response and took her to her car.
"Are you sure you can drive?"
"Sure."
"I can take you to your apartment," he didn't feel right about leaving her. He guessed that she was a cold and 'keeps to herself' kind of woman, but she wouldn't be human if she hadn't reacted to what she had just seen. Dr. Westler had come in before to see other bodies and as such she hadn't really reacted to this case.
"Detective, I really don't want to be seen coming out of a police car," she responded, her gaze averted. They stood there and he nodded then gave her a pat on the back.
"Here's my card, call me if you-" he held the card in his hand but didn't know how to continue.
"Thanks," she said and took the card from his hand. He watched her drive away and gave himself a mental shake. He had a case to solve.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Not two minutes had passed when she got in the door when her mobile started to ring. Frantically she answered it and answered.
"He-llo."
"Shirley, wait Shirley?" It was Lewis. Why was she so relieved to hear his voice? She grasped the phone tightly and leaned against the wall. Her bag was on the floor, open and discarded. She was panting heavily, like she had run a race.
"Yes," she mumbled in-between pants trying her best to sound like her normal self.
"Shit, are you okay?"
"I'm fine," her voice hiccupped and she knew that she wasn't long off for the tears. She could count on her fingers the times she had cried in her life, after the age of seven. It wasn't many.
"No you aren't, do you need me?" Did she need him? Yes. She did. She didn't want to be alone. Her back began to slide down the wall and her mouth opened in a silent cry. The floor felt cold and instantly associated it with the morgue. Then she was crying, the tears falling down her cheeks. She didn't hear Lewis say that he would be over in there in a few minutes. The phone fell from her hand as she wept.
When Lewis came in to the hallway, where her apartment was, he was unnerved to see her door open. He ran up to door and raced in. There on the floor was Shirley, a shaking mess. Her blonde curls were everywhere, some hair stuck to her face. He closed the door and bent down to her. He was freaking, he didn't know what had happened or what to do. He hadn't ever expected to see her this upset. He touched her shoulder and she jerked, now crying louder. He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her to him. She fought him at first, punching his chest. He persevered though and eventually she fell in to him. He didn't think the floor was the most comfortable place so he lifted her in to his arms. She wasn't the lightest but he would be a little worried if she was, with her curvier figure and all. Finding her bedroom he dropped her on her bed and she grabbed a pillow. Debating whether to join her and hold her, thinking about what would happen once she was calm, he threw it out the window – he needed her whether she said it or not.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
When Shirley woke up, she was confused. Opening her eyes she realized two things; one she was on her bed and two, someone had their arms quite firmly around her. Stretching her legs, she turned slightly and saw Lewis. She jumped and he woke with a start.
"What the hell are you doing in my bed?" She said loudly, grasping the sheets.
"What?"
"I said, what are you doing here?" She asked again, still confused at how she was home.
"I came over here, last night. You called," he replied, just staring at her. Then it hit her, like a ton of bricks. Her mouth opened and she held herself. Lewis jumped out from his side of the bed and came over to her, holding her again. Dickens. Dead. Mutilated. Lewis was holding her firmly and rubbing her back.
"What day is it?" She asked, still looking down at the floor.
'"Wednesday, why?"
"Wait what time is it?" Her head shot up.
"Eight in the morning, why?" He asked again, pulling back from her.
"I've got work."
"Are you kidding? You aren't in any state to go to work," he said harshly, getting up. She ignored him and grabbed some clothes from her closet and walked to the bathroom. Lewis was following her but she slammed the door in his face. She showered quickly and practically jumped in to her clothes. Once she was dressed she opened the door and Lewis started his onslaught of 'you aren't serious's again. Slipping on some flats she dashed wearing stockings, she didn't have time. Her bag was at the front door and she picked it up. Giving herself the one last once over she was about to leave but she felt a firm grip on her arm.
"Can you wait a moment?"
"What?" She turned to him, hands on hips and her curly hair dripping on to her white top.
"You know what happened last night? I was at a mate's house, about thirty minutes away from here. He's got his girlfriend with him and I was thinking, man I wish Shirley was here," he began to explain. She hoped he wasn't going in that direction.
"Why would you wish that?" She asked, now annoyed because of how late she was going to be. Right now she needed a distraction and what better then to help people with their problems. Her job had never sounded so good.
"Cause – you are special and I would like to-" he started again but Shirley cut him off.
"Don't say it, please."
"Why?"
"Because I'm not ready," she said softly and left him standing there. Driving to work, thankfully, did not take as long as she had anticipated. She must have missed rush hour. Arriving at work she saw on her watch that she only had ten minutes until, until White's interview. She dashed to her office, many people getting angry as she pushed them out of the way. Finally she got to her office and opened the door. She fell in to her chair and pressed a key on her keyboard. It was on her e-mail, Arkham Asylum e-mail. There was a new message from Dr. Westler; she opened it. It read:
Dr. Gibbs,
I expect you to be late to work, even though you don't have to be here. I have pushed Mr. White's interview forward one hour.
Dr. Westler
She rested her head on her desk and breathed a sigh of relief. She had missed his interview yesterday but at least she had made it today and had time to prepare. She wasn't worried about leaving Lewis in her apartment; she knew he wouldn't rob her. But she had had to get out of there. She liked Lewis. Despite what she thought and behaved, she liked him. He made her smile, even if it was internally most of the time and made her feel 'special'. But she didn't want a label. No boyfriend/girlfriend thing or 'partners'. That wasn't something she wasn't ready for. She just hoped he understood that.
When White's interview had arrived, she had fixed her hair and now looked presentable, despite her lack of stockings. She felt exposed without them, but her appearance was now the best it could be with what she had. Hearing a knock at the door, it brought back unpleasant memories of Dickens. Pushing it aside she opened the door and saw a tall, slender but well built man standing there, with White. She must have looked confused because the man motioned for them all to enter but Shirley stood in the doorway.
"I see you are not familiar with the new arrangements," he had what women would call a velvety voice, with an Italian accent. He had dark eyes with a set of thick but attractive eyebrows and neat brown hair. Where his sleeves had been pushed up on his arms she could see many tattoos. So this was the new guard. He paused and for a moment looked over at White, waiting for something. Shirley looked away from them and sighed. She hadn't thought about a new guard.
"You are the new guard?" She asked, she already knew that but she just wanted his name.
"Rocco Gallo," he replied, not offering her a hand. Good, she thought. She didn't want Dickens happening again. Dickens. Quickly she moved out of the way and sat down in her chair. White followed suit and joined her in his chair. Rocco nodded at White, which she found odd. Rocco closed the door and now there was silence. Had it affected him? Did he care? Did he even notice? She was at a loss at how to start the interview. So the trouble was taken away.
"It is good to see you Shirley, I missed you yesterday," he spoke in the familiar tone. A sense of familiarity swept over her and she sunk in to her seat. It was like being with Lewis again, the comfort and sense of security. His voice shouldn't do that to her but it had.
"Dr. Gibbs."
Her mechanical answer amused White. She noticed this as well and started the interview. For the most part, it was boring but it was distracting. It was about forty minutes in to the interview when White said something that put her on edge.
"How is Dickens?"
She dropped her notepad and papers went flying on the floor. Scattering to the floor she was picking things up. For that moment White took notice of her bent over figure on the ground before helping her. He handed her a stack of papers and she thanked him quietly. Whether he knew or not, his question scared her. She didn't think he knew. He couldn't.
"Do you know?" She stupidly replied, but what was said was said.
"Do I know what?" He replied, leaning forward in his chair.
"About – Dickens?" It was stupid for her act like this. She was the one in the position of power and control.
"All I know is that he has left Arkham."
"Well, alright then," she turned away and looked at the floor. Then she saw it, his body on the floor. The walls were white and the light above her was fluorescent. The floor was smooth cement and his blood was everywhere. Looking down at her feet she saw that her feet were in a puddle of blood. His blood! She shuddered. She gasped as her eyes meet the body again and she cried out softly. She forgot where she was and whom she was with. Then she felt something. Arms. Around her shoulders. They were comforting and for a moment she sat there, with them around her. Looking down she saw pale, white arms. White.
She jumped from her seat and White stepped back. The room was her office again. Now the gravity of what had just happened set in. She looked over at him to see him standing behind her chair, arms at his sides. He began to walk over to her again but she flinched backwards. He reached for her and she fell backwards on to the floor. He looked down at her and smiled, in a concerned way. He offered her his hand, with few fingers on it. She looked at him, then his hand. Pushing it away she got up. They looked at each other for a moment, and then she opened the door. There were no words as White was lead away.
