Chapter Twenty-Nine: People Notice

Author's Note: Thank you for your lovely reviews! It makes me happy to see that email pop up in my box!


The mansion was quiet.

No foot falls. No murmurs.

Just quiet.

Sylvia placed her purse on the coffee table in the living room, steadily looking around. Odds are, Tiffany and Henry had gone back to the club, now that Tiffany was a little more healed after the Galavan ambush. Dagger and Chilly were patrolling the outside of the mansion—she'd seen them on her way in.

But still….so quiet. And if things were as they seemed, why did Sylvia's heart race too quickly, and her breathing become shallow? The hairs on her neck stood on end. And she listened closely, not moving her body but only her eyes.

It was abnormally quiet, and oddly dark.

Suddenly, two large tree-trunk arms wrapped around her shoulders, locking her in. Sylvia inhaled sharply. Who was it—she didn't know, but she would give them hell to pay for coming up behind her like that.

She made a hard kick to their shins—they grunted, but didn't let her go.

She and the intruder were struggling, trying to get the upper hand. This fella had a strong sense of balance; he wouldn't be thrown off easily. Instead, she'd counteract his weight with her own.

Nimble and quick, Sylvia ducked, slipping out of the man's grasp, and then while he was disarmed, she grabbed his shoulders and brought his face down on her knee, hard.

And again.

And again.

He grunted, fell over, holding his nose. Panting, Sylvia darted towards the nearest light switch, turned it on, and pulled her gun out, aiming it at the intruder.

With the light on, Sylvia's fear was extinguished when she saw who it was.

It was Mr. Bell.

He groaned, sitting upright, and rubbed his ankle where she'd hit him initially; blood ran profusely down his lip, nose, and chin from where she'd struck him with her knee. Seeing him, Sylvia scoffed, lowering her gun.

"What the hell were you trying to accomplish?" Sylvia inquired indignantly.

Mr. Bell stood to his feet, staggering a little, to sit in favor of the couch. He rubbed his jaw and despite the blood that tainted his otherwise white teeth, he grinned.

"It was a test," said Mr. Bell.

"A test?" Sylvia said skeptically.

"Yes."

"Did I pass?"

"With flying colors," he chortled. "But that still begs me to wonder just why exactly you've been missing our lessons."

"First things first," said Sylvia. "Where's Oswald?"

"He retired early," Mr. Bell informed, gesturing to the Meeting Room. His eyes flickered around her. "Where's Gabriel?"

"After I came home, I sent him to the bar. He earned it."

"I don't see his car."

"He took mine."

"Why on Earth did he take yours?"

"Well, Mr. Bell, this provides a perfect segue. I need your help," said Sylvia, rattling Gabe's car keys in her hand. "On my way to my dinner date with my brother and his girlfriend, a half-wit tried to rob me. I have him in Gabe's trunk, ready to question." She grinned, offering him the keys. "You used to interrogate terrorists, right?"

Mr. Bell rubbed his face with the back of his hand, sniffling the rest of the blood that had started to dry.

"You're right." He confirmed. "But I've not been that man for quite some time."

A glint of mischief twinkled in Sylvia's eyes as she said mischievously, "You have a look of nostalgia, Mr. Bell. You miss those days."

"They were good days."

"And you miss them," said Sylvia knowingly. "It's why you like our lessons so much, and..." (She rattled the car keys.) "...From the stories you've told me, Mr. Bell, you miss those days very much, and you wish you could relive them once again."

A sentimental smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Proving that she was right.

"Want to have a go then?" Sylvia asked, gesturing to the door with her thumb. "The fella's in the trunk right now."

"Knocked out?"

"Initially, yeah, but it's been a couple of hours. He should be wide awake. Screaming, in fact."

Practically, Mr. Bell raised his head, but lowered his eyelids, peering at Sylvia from underneath him. Eager, but logical.

He said in such a matter-of-fact tone, "What do you want to get out of him?"

"Anything and everything, Mr. Bell," said Sylvia, grinning widely. "For all we know, he knows shit. Just a common, garden-variety thief who saw who I was and wanted some money. Or, best-case scenario, he knows what Galavan's aim is and we'll find some useful information to use against the prick that's holding my mother-in-law hostage. So, what do you say, Mr. Bell? You up for some midnight fun?"

Mr. Bell gathered himself to a stand, smiling as he said lowly, "It would be my absolute pleasure, milady."

"Figured you'd say that," said Sylvia. She tossed Mr. Bell the keys; he caught them. "He's in the trunk. You can bring him inside, if you want, or leave him be. Doesn't really matter to me."

Mr. Bell strode towards the door, then curiously stopped as he turned to her.

"Where have you been going these past few days?" Mr. Bell asked.

She gave him a stern expression.

"I know my place," he said lightly. "I know what I can ask and what I ought not to inquire, but the rest of the staff are starting to doubt your allegiance."

"Let them doubt," said Sylvia coolly.

"Is that wise?"

"Probably not," she said, shrugging. "But I can assure you that I've not been banging anyone behind Oswald's back, and I've not turned against him. What I am planning is something that will keep us safe, Mr. Bell. And that's all you need to know. At least, for now."

"Of course," he said, nodding. "I was just making sure you are not being threatened, is all."

"Galavan has my mother-in-law locked in some cage," said Sylvia darkly. "I'm threatened every day."

Mr. Bell touched her shoulder comfortingly then he said softly, "I will do what I can to find out what he knows about Galavan, if anything." And then he left through the door.

Sylvia watched after him, then she moved throughout the house just as quietly as she'd moved before. She took a shower, applied vanilla lotion, and an hour later, she walked into the bedroom where she saw Oswald sleeping under the blankets. His soft whimpers from under the sheets made Sylvia curious; she sat on the edge of the bed, watching him stir uncomfortably, like he was having a bad dream.

She smiled in spite of herself—he reminded her of a puppy, having a nightmare. All wriggly and pitiful. Sylvia crawled into bed, sitting up; she gathered his shoulders and moved him to her so his head laid in her lap.

Gently, softly, Sylvia sang the sweet lullaby:

"The fire has gone out, wet from snow above

But nothing will warm me more, than my, my mother's love.

I light another candle, dry the tears from my face.

Nothing can protect me more than my mother's warm embrace

The path ahead is dark, so dark I cannot see

But I will not fear 'cause my mother looks over me."

Oswald slowly stopped wriggling, his body relaxed, and he let out a sigh of relief.

"Sweet baby," Sylvia murmured, smiling at him.

It was the same lullaby that Gertrud had sang to her while she was in a coma, and it'd woken her up. Seeing as it was the same that she had sung to Oswald when he wanted to feel better, Sylvia felt very accomplished in helping him rest.

Sylvia took her phone from the back of her pocket, glancing at the screen. Oswald had left her a voicemail—that hadn't been a simple fib to get out of the most awkward double dinner date known to man. As the subject of her affections returned to a deeper sleep than in the state she had found him, Sylvia placed the phone to her ear and listened to the voicemail.

"Pigeon, I...I don't know why I called you," Oswald's voice sounded not exactly slurred, but like he'd been drinking a lot. "I don't even know what I was going to say if I did. I just like hearing your voice, even if it's telling me to leave a message after the tone." (There was some fumbling around in the background, rustling of clothes...was he getting ready for bed?) "I love you, Sylvia. You've been gone….wait, wait, someone's at the door…."

Sylvia listened closely, her heart rate picked up a sec.

Then she heard him say "For fuck's sake, what is it, Butch? I told you I was turning in for the night…" Then there was discussion that Sylvia couldn't hear, and after whatever Butch said, Oswald sighed in resignation, saying in the message, "I'll see you when you get home, Sylvia. I love you."

Sylvia placed her phone back in her jeans. For the first time in their relationship, Oswald had drunk-dialed her. And that was just too fucking adorable.

Who knew how long he'd been under the sheets, rustling the covers in this nightmare. But, since his over all disposition had changed to one of tranquility, Sylvia slowly moved him from her lap, and placed the covers around him, tucking him in. As she kissed his cheek, a soft tapping of knuckles on the door frame grabbed her attention.

It was Butch.

He gestured for her to come over; Sylvia nodded. He stepped aside from the doorway as she came over the threshold, silently closing the door with a soft click.

"What?" Sylvia asked lightly.

"We need to talk."

Sylvia raised her eyebrows saying, "Talk about what?"

He gestured for her to follow. She did so, assuming that this conversation was better left out of earshot from a sleeping Penguin. As she followed him into the Meeting Room, he spoke.

"Galavan's sister came by," said Butch, glancing at the door from where they'd just come.

"For what reason?"

"She gave Penguin some addresses to burn to the ground," said Butch.

"Arson?" Sylvia quipped; she sat down in a chair, running her hands over the table. "How many places?"

"Five."

"Five in one night?"

Butch nodded.

"Wow," said Sylvia coolly. "She's ambitious. Have anyone in mind that could do the deed right the first time?"

"I do," said Butch.

"Know where they live?"

"Yeah."

"Then why do you need my help?" asked Sylvia, before relaxing back into the chair. "You seem to know what you're doing; you don't need a babysitter."

"I'm not asking for your help," said Butch, slightly irritated. "I said we need to talk."

"Fine," said Sylvia, gesturing to him. "Talk."

Butch seemed to register that Sylvia was capping her own annoyance with Galavan and his sister. Her snippy remarks and standoffish responses were a great hint to the fact, but despite everything, he could understand that sort of stress that she was under. Butch placed his hands on the back of a chair, knuckles tightened, as he stood opposite of her.

"Has the boss been showing signs of paranoia around you?" asked Butch.

"No more than he normally shows," said Sylvia. "Galavan has his mother locked up like some sort of animal. Count House was raided and we don't know who it was that did it. I say he's got plenty of stuff to be paranoid about, but I'm guessing you're talking about something more than that."

She leaned forward, grabbing the bowl of peanuts that were on the table, and pulled them to her; she took a few and munched on them.

"He seems extra paranoid—more than usual," said Butch, glancing at her handful of peanuts and her in general. "He mentioned having trouble finding a trustworthy arsonist."

"But you said you knew someone who'd get the job done," Sylvia reminded. "So, ergo, you must have someone you know is trustworthy."

"I know where they are," he said, slightly defensive. "I just doubt they'll welcome me with open arms."

"Why's that?"

"They're Fish loyalists."

"Fish is dead."

"I know that," said Butch, giving her a look. "But they're hoping she'll come back."

"She might come back."

"I was there," said Butch. "She's not coming back."

"Well, I was there too," said Sylvia pointedly. "And Fish is a fighter. If she comes back, she'll do it in a way none of us will be able to ignore her. Personally, Butchy-ole-pal, I think you're hoping she will come back. Being in love with her, that sort of thing."

Butch sighed, closing his eyes.

"So, these people you're wanting to hire," said Sylvia smoothly. "They're Fish Loyalists. So find someone who is close to them, and get them to vouch for you."

"I have someone in mind."

"So find him."

"Her."

"So find her," said Sylvia, gesturing to Butch apathetically. "You don't need my permission to do your job."

"I'm not asking your permission."

"Then what are we talking about here?" She questioned tiredly. "Because so far" (She counted on her fingers) "We've talked about Tabitha, the Arson job, paranoia, Fish, and so far this conversation seems like it could have been a phone call or an email. So, Butch—tell me what's on your mind..."

"It's Selina Kyle."

"The kid?" Sylvia questioned incredulously.

"She's more than a kid."

"Oh, I know. I believe you. But she lives here and there—last I saw her, she was living at Barbara Kean's place, but that's been some several months ago. Find her in the Narrows, I guess."

"She won't greet me with open arms, you know."

"So give her a reason to welcome you," said Sylvia, popping another peanut in her mouth. "Money seems to be a good motivator for people. Bring enough though."

"Point taken."

"So, do you wanna tell me why we're really talking?" Sylvia asked, getting to her feet.

Butch glanced at her curiously saying, "What other reason could there be?"

"Come on, Butch. There's more to you than what meets the eye. You're not nearly as thick as you seem, so lay it on me. What's really going on in that skull of yours?" Sylvia questioned, leaning forward and bracing her hands on the edges of the long table.

Butch narrowed his eyes at her, like he was suspicious of her possibly having mind-reading abilities. Then again, it wasn't lost on him that she was really good at reading people.

"How are you doing?" Butch asked lightly.

Taken aback, Sylvia stared at him.

"In what aspect?" Sylvia questioned.

"I mean it," said Butch, gesticulating to her sincerely. "You know. How are you doing?"

Sylvia cracked a grin saying, "As well as possible."

"You seem calm about this whole thing..."

"What thing?"

"Starting fires, killing mayoral candidates.." Butch said lazily.

"Arson isn't a big deal for me. I lit myself on fire during a performance," Sylvia reminded. "I like fire. I find it odd that you've not asked me to destroy any of these addresses. Wouldn't be hard. Five places in one night is a Party Night. It could take four people to do it, in one night, but personally, give me about 12 hours, and they'll be smoldering."

"Penguin specifically said you're not on the list to hire," said Butch cautiously.

"Typical," She sighed. "I'm not surprised."

"He's protecting you."

"I know," said Sylvia smoothly. "I'm well aware. And in return, I'm doing my best to protect him."

"Is that why you've been sneaking off every morning for the past week?" Butch questioned, quirking an eyebrow.

Sylvia smirked, saying, "I guess I've not done very well at sneaking off to anywhere. A lot of people seemed to have noticed."

"Well, you're the Queen of Gotham," said Butch practically. "People don't care to see a peasant walking out of the mansion at 4 in the morning, but you can be rest assured we notice when royalty leaves that early."

Sylvia crossed her arms and leaned her back against the fireplace.

Butch looked at her more closely.

"You're doing something," said Butch knowingly. "Plotting."

"I'm doing nothing of the sort."

"Come on, Liv. I know you."

Sylvia rolled her eyes, turning so she faced the fireplace; its embers had long been burned down to its soft, flickering glow but she stared into its molten depths as though it would give her the subtle distraction she needed.

Butch moved around the table, and leaned a shoulder against the fireplace.

"I know you back when you were working for Fish," He reminded her. "You weren't good about hiding stuff then, and you're not doing a good job at hiding stuff now. You've been up to something—we all can see it...even that little umbrella boy of yours—what's his name..."

"Josh," Sylvia said coolly.

"Yeah," said Butch, gesturing to her. "He knows something too. But he won't say nothing—he's pretty committed to hiding whatever it is you've got going on. I can help you, if you want."

"You're brainwashed."

Butch looked offended, saying, "I gotta do whatever Penguin says, sure. But where you're concerned..." He didn't finish, but Sylvia's expression softened.

He touched her shoulder.

"Tell me what you're up to," said Butch earnestly. At Sylvia's hesitation, he added, "Your husband" (he glanced warily at the bedroom door before turning back to look at her) "is an emotional wreck. He's paranoid, and looks like an egg that's ready to crack. You don't trust your people, so how 'bout you start trusting someone who knows a little something about playing a hand?"

She considered his words.

"I'm keeping us safe," said Sylvia quietly. "If I can't tear out Tabitha's eyes or kill her brother, I'll play Defense. Since, obviously, Offense is out of the question. And I can't sit here and do nothing while Galavan does whatever he wants."

Butch smiled sadly, saying, "I can see you're trying."

"Trying is half the battle," said Sylvia. "'Doing' is what wins the war."

"And what are you 'doing' every morning?" asked Butch.

"Building."

"Building what."

"Safe houses," she admitted, lowering her arms. "I'm providing means of a safe haven."

"This mansion is your safe haven," said Butch confusedly. "You have guards at every door, inside and out."

"But people come in whenever they feel like it—Tabitha, included," said Sylvia darkly. "That's not a safe haven, Butch. That's business."

"Wanna tell me where they are?" Butch asked, furrowing his eyebrows. "I can probably make them safer. Get a few people out there to watch these places for you."

"No."

Butch looked surprised.

Sylvia smiled apologetically saying, "No one knows where these safe houses are, except for me. Not even Oswald knows. And, for the time being, I want it to stay that way. Galavan is taking steps to control this city—the Underworld, the GCPD—and if I can't keep this empire safe, I need to make sure there is at least one place Oz and I can go to if it crumbles beneath our feet."

"And you think that your people would betray you—give your hideout away?" Butch inquired kindly.

"I don't know what they would do," said Sylvia.

"And, I'm guessing, you can't trust me? That's what it sounds like you're saying."

"You're right. I can't trust you. Not completely."

"But you've seen it—I have to do whatever Penguin says. So I can't betray you."

"You've been brainwashed," said Sylvia, smiling at him. "If someone can fix you, Butch, someone else can fix you again. And not for the best."

"It sounds like you're becoming paranoid too," Butch uttered.

"Call it 'overt caution'," Sylvia remarked, grinning in spite of herself. "If there's one thing I can pride myself on, it's that. Now, if I were you, I'd find Selina, find your fire bugs, and then get to work."

Butch started to leave, but he turned on his foot.

"Liv."

Sylvia looked at him expectantly. He seemed to reconsider after a moment, saying, "Never mind."

He walked off. Sylvia looked after him, curious.