Harvey Dent took a deep breath, then stretched, groaning, and grinned, looking over at Shawn, who had fallen asleep against his chest, enfolded in his arm. He sighed, smiling down at Shawn, then gently pressed his lips to the shaggy top of the other man's head. "Good morning, Sunshine," he said. He rested his cheek against Shawn's head, looking around the room, quite satisfied with himself. "Today's a school day," he said with a sigh.

He glanced down at Shawn again, then a wry smile crossed his face. "Hold on," he said, holding up a finger, "watch this." He raised his eyebrows at Shawn, devious, then turned to his bedside table and picked up his cell phone. He flipped the phone open, looked through his list of numbers, and finally decided on one. He put the phone to his ear, waiting as it dialled, and winked at Shawn. Then his face lit up with a sarcastic grin as he said, "Hey, Garcia. It's Harvey. Harvey Dent."

He listened for a moment, then nodded with a false laugh. "Yeah, I know, I know," he said, "I wouldn't be my biggest fan at the moment, either. Right. Right. Well, I can understand your frustration." He nodded again. "Oh, of course, Garcia. I understand. Right. Listen, uh, there's someone I'd like to ask you about." He listened for another moment, nodding, then cleared his throat. "Right, that one," he said. "Well, uh… you know your assistant, Shawn? Shawn Palmer, right." He nodded. "Well, he's going to be a little late coming into work today."

He paused for a long moment, listening. "Mm-hmm. Him. Well, you know how I'm the only one who knows that your wife left you because…" He paused. "Right. Because you insisted on wearing eye shadow." He paused again. "Sorry, eyeliner," he corrected himself. "Well, now Shawn knows." He grinned over at Shawn. "No, I'm not kidding. You want to talk to him? No?" He laughed again, a falsely amiable laugh, and shrugged. "All right, well, you take care now, Garcia. Uh-huh. Goodbye."

He hung up the phone, stared at it for a moment, then looked back up at Shawn. "Well," he said, "now that that's over…" He set the cell phone back onto the nightstand, then turned back to Shawn, folding him up in his arms and pressing his nose lovingly against Shawn's cheek. "We can get back to the really important stuff," he said into his ear.

Shawn's eyes opened halfway, and he gazed blearily at the half-lit room he was in. He had a moment of disorientation, and he sat up in bed in a panic. Then he felt Harvey's arm slide off of his chest, and looked down to find the other man still asleep next to him, and he relaxed.

He looked around once more with a smile. For once in his long, anxious life, he was totally and completely calm. He heaved a sigh and looked back at Harvey. "Hey," he murmured, reaching out a hand to put it on his bicep, but realized that he was still asleep. Shawn hesitated, then folded his hands in his lap on top of the covers and looked down at them.

Why had this happened? He wasn't disappointed or anything it was...it was just so unexpected. Sure, he'd dreamed about it. He flushed bright red, glanced at Harvey's bare chest, and looked immediately away. But good things like this didn't happen to him. He lay his head back on the pillow and tucked it under Harvey's chin, placing one hand on his slowly rising and falling chest. "Why? Why me?" he whispered, then shut his eyes to go back to sleep.

. . .

Bruce Wayne lifted his head with a sharp inhale, suddenly realizing that he had fallen asleep sitting next to Jessica's bed. He paused a moment, squinting, then shook his head, trying to clear it, and rubbed his eyes. He looked up, staring at Jessica, lying in the bed, and sighed. It was a little eerie, having a dead woman in his house, but he supposed there was really nothing that could have been done about it.

Wayne checked his Rolex. He would have to call in Gotham General to remove her on a stretcher, and then the local morgue to see if there was anything he could do to help with the funeral service. He let his hands fall back into his lap, and he looked back at Jessica. If he contributed money as an anonymous beneficiary, Fox would know who had given the money, but he would be unable to do anything about it. Then Wayne frowned. Even if he wanted to help, it seemed a little juvenile to push unwanted help onto a grieving relative.

If Fox felt the only way he could deal with grief was to push people away, then Wayne would have to live with that. He only wished Fox had not decided that he, Wayne, had been the one to blame for Jessica's death. There was no way he could have known the Joker was at large – much less that he could disguise himself and slip into Wayne Manor unnoticed.

It seemed almost too bizarre for Wayne to imagine. Then again, he admitted, Gotham was full of people who thought up things like that on a regular basis.

"You've decided to wake up, I see, Master Wayne."

Wayne turned in his chair to see Alfred standing in the doorway, holding a tray. He offered him a small, sad smile. "Hey, Alfred," he said with a sigh. Wayne got up from his seat and paused, staring at Jessica for a long moment. Then he turned to Alfred. "Fox can't really be all that mad at me, can he?" he asked. "You know him better than anybody. Is he really going to leave WayneTech?"

Alfred exhaled deeply, looking away. "Mister Fox is a very passionate man," he said. "He was very passionate about his work, and he very much loved Miss Jessica. Losing her was…" He paused, trying to think of how to say it. "Well, it would be like losing Miss Dawes, Sir," he said, looking back at Wayne. "If you can imagine."

Wayne's frown deepened. "No," he said, looking back at Jessica. "I can't… even imagine what life would be like without Rachel." There was a long silence. Then Wayne looked back at Alfred. "I have to help pay for the funeral," he said firmly.

Alfred took a deep breath, raising his eyebrows. "I think, Sir," he said candidly, "locking the Joker up for good would be a better way to get on Mister Fox's good side."

Wayne paused, then nodded his agreement. "I think you're right, Alfred," he said.

"Of course I am, Sir," said Alfred with a smile.

. . .

That hadn't been a good idea. Leaving those two together, without supervision; not a good idea at all. Jeanette stared unseeingly at the passing buildings as the cab driver screamed at whatever idiot driver he'd just cut off. The car jerked, and she grabbed the door handle. "Slow down, then," she told the driver, who turned to flick her off. She ignored him.

Napier and Jeannie Rose wouldn't do anything really awful, she figured, hand resting on her pocket where her brand-new handgun sat snugly. She smiled down at it, then looked back out the window. Weren't parents and children, even ones who'd never met, supposed to have some sort of...connection, or something? Either way, hopefully her threat would be enough to make him toe the line.

If not...well, she had a gun now. She was safe.

Relatively.

Only fifteen minutes had passed since she'd left the Lounge, which was very little, especially with Gotham traffic. So she fully expected Os to be duly impressed when she returned to the bar. "So where are we going on this little field trip?" she asked, again skipping a greeting. His urgent air was catching, but she kept herself calm. Wherever they were going, she had to assume it was safe. Well, safe enough. She didn't trust Os (as he himself had said earlier, that would ruin their entire dynamic), but she didn't distrust him, either. It took her a moment to realize that that made no sense, but she shook her head.

Cobblepot looked up when he heard her voice, and took a deep breath. "Come with me," he said, starting towards the back of the Lounge and indicating for her to follow. He put his hands in his pockets and glanced at her as they walked. "I would take a car, or a taxi cab," he told her, "but I thought it would be much more personal this way." He shrugged. "Besides, there's no one out there who will attack us without just cause. Between us, I'd say we look… pretty damn intimidating."

He smiled at her. Then he looked away again, pushing open the back door of the Lounge and letting her out before him. "Let me show you something, Jeanette," he said, letting the door close behind them. He started walking down the alley with her in his wake. "You think you know everything about the darker side of the world," he told her, "but I'm sure there are some things you aren't aware of."

Cobblepot looked down at his polished shoes, continuing on his way with Jeanette. "People aren't just scary because they wave around firearms and run gangs from some smoke-filled room," he told her. "There are scarier things to worry about. They may not seem like much at the moment… you're young, you're beautiful, you've got plenty of money in the bank…" He stopped, turning to face her. "But you won't always be that way."

He turned a corner, leading her out into a squalor of homelessness and dirt, where several ragged elderly people sat hunched around a garbage can, warming their gloved hands. Cobblepot stood, staring at them, and indicated them to Jeanette. "They used to be just like you," he told her. "They thought nothing could touch them. They were saving up for a luxurious retirement, paying off all their debts…" He shrugged, putting his hands back into his pockets. "Until Warren White took everything they owned."

Cobblepot turned to her. "He can do that, you know," he told her solemnly. "Take everything. And he can make sure that you are never able to get it back. He doesn't do it with a big light and sound show… he does it in the privacy of his offices, and no one has caught him at it yet, but everyone knows who it is." He looked back at the homeless people. "If you get on Warren White's bad side," he said, raising his eyebrows, "he will destroy you."

There was a long silence. Then he turned to her. "Have you ever seen a dog fight?" he asked. "Horrible things. Absolutely appalling." His frown deepened, and he looked back at the homeless people. "It's hard to believe people would do that for sport," he said quietly. He paused, then turned to her. "Come on," he said, indicating for her to follow again. "Let me show you just how awful the people in Warren White's innermost circle can be."

Cobblepot turned away, starting to walk away again, and waved for her to follow him down another side alley. "Come on," he said. "There's nothing more to see here."

Jeanette put her own hands in her pockets and stared at the defeated men for a moment. She felt...nothing, to be perfectly honest. Sympathy had always been a tough emotion for her, and a bunch of ragged homeless bums wasn't doing much.

But she knew that, logically, she should be worried. Everything Ozzie said might be doom and gloom, but he knew better than she. He, after all, had several more years in this squalid city than she did; he was plenty more experienced, in both the locale and crime itself. As much as she might hate to admit it.

And this Warren White fellow, Great White as he was known in the underground. She sighed and looked back at Os, with the slight dusting of sweat on his forehead. She'd have to meet White face-to-face sometime, and see how he had the criminals in Gotham tiptoeing around him like mice.

"Os..." she started, but ended up sighing and looking away. She couldn't say that to him. Any of it. All of that was so...trivial. He wouldn't care, as much as he might claim that he liked her. So instead she shrugged. "I know I'm not invincible. I know," she said, "I'm not...untouchable. I'm going to be taken down some day. I'm going to die. Probably soon, with the line of work I'm in." She paused and looked at the sky. "But...that doesn't really matter to me. Don't get me wrong, I don't want to die," she corrected herself, holding up her hands. "It just doesn't bother me. It happens to everyone eventually."

She smiled and looked back at the men. "But I'd like to spend my remaining years in happiness. Regardless of people like Warren White." She ended her explanation with a shrug, as if it really didn't matter, and followed him.

. . .

Eight cups of coffe. Eight fucking cups of coffe, two energy bars, and twenty-seven hours without sleep, but it was all worth it. Thomas smiled hazily down at the freshly-printed paper for that morning. The headline? "Joker Still At Large: GCPD Incompetent?"

He sat back in his desk chair, nodding at a coworker who sped past with a hurried "nice!" Thank God he'd gotten that card to work the night before, so that the story could be this morning's paper. He tipped his ninth cup of coffe down his throat and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, scanning the article. This would light a few fires, maybe even start a few investigations. The story was practically an editorial, chronicling the Joker's activities and his appearance at the Iceberg Lounge the night before from Thomas' own point of view. The editors hadn't really seemed to care, though. It was his usual sort of story, the groundbreaking, behind-the-scenes stuff that really sold papers.

Hell, it was a story about the Joker. They'd take whatever they could get. Thank God they'd looked past Thomas'...unsteady behavior. He would never have come back to work drunk, if it wasn't such a huge story. He grinned again and rubbed the stubble on his chin. He'd been given the rest of the day off, but he'd wanted to bask in his victory for a little while before he'd go home. Finally, he sighed contentedly, got up, and grabbed his briefcase.

It had been a long, long day. Time to head home. As he exited his cubicle, he brushed a hand across the photograph of Emily tacked to the wall. It's for you, he thought, pausing to inspect her face before continuing out. It's all for you.

. . .

Harvey Dent tapped a pencil against the edge of his desk impatiently and checked his watch. He had finally decided it was time for him and Shawn to get out of bed and go to work, because, as he said, he could only go so far with blackmail. The truth was, he could go as far as he liked with all the blackmail he had collected from having friends from both sides of Gotham's societal spectrum, but he had arranged to meet up with Rachel, and he would not miss this meeting for the world.

He looked up eagerly as a knock came at his door, and grinned as his secretary came in. "Good morning," he said with a signature boxy grin. "What can I do you for?"

His secretary smiled politely. "You've got a visitor, Mister Dent," she said, opening the door to let someone behind her inside.

Harvey stopped tapping the pencil against his desk as Rachel Dawes entered his office. He smiled at her, and she smiled back. "Hey, Harvey," she said.

"Hey, Rachel," he replied. "Long time, no see."

Rachel tucked a lock of dark hair behind one ear and looked away, still smiling, though rather sheepishly. "Listen," she said, shrugging slightly, "I'm really sorry, Harvey. I just wasn't thinking before I spoke, that one time… What I said, about you and Batman –"

Harvey held up a hand, stopping her. "Don't worry about it," he said. A wry grin came to his face then. "What do you say you have dinner with me tonight and we call it even?" His smile widened. "And maybe we can even think about dessert afterwards," he said, grinning seductively at her.

Rachel turned to look at him, a little thrown. Then a smile began to split her face. "Same old Harvey Dent," she said, chuckling. "Always got just one thing on his mind."

"Work, of course," said Dent, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands behind his head.

Rachel giggled. "Of course," she replied.

. . .

White had hired a chauffeur because he felt he deserved one. He was the king of the Gotham underground, and Great White deserved to ride in style. At the moment, he sat in the back of the vintage white car and stared at Selina, who seemed to be deep in thought. She did that sometimes, he realized, when she was not mouthing off or primping herself. She would stare out the window, or just past someone, and get lost in thought. Of course, she always thought about the same thing, but it still amused White to ask.

"Penny for your thoughts," he said.

Selina looked at him, seeming peeved to have been pulled out of her thoughtful meditation. "A penny?" she scoffed. She looked away again. "You're going to have to pay higher than that to hear my thoughts." White raised his eyebrows, then pulled out his wallet and extracted a hundred-dollar bill, holding it out to Selina. She glanced over at him, looked at the bill, then took it and turned away again. "Bruce Wayne," she answered simply.

White chuckled. "I would've been disappointed if you'd answered differently," he told her, putting his wallet away again.

She sighed, ignoring his comments. Then she turned to him again. "I'm better than any lawyer hussy," she said, suddenly defensive, her lips pouty. "Don't you think?"

"Oh, definitely," said White. "Most definitely. Much better."

Selina turned away again. "Well, it really doesn't matter what you think, Warren," she said, raising her eyebrows. "It only really matters what Bruce Wayne thinks. And thus far, he's shown absolutely no interest in me whatsoever." She sniffed, lifting her chin. "He just hasn't had the chance," she assured herself.

White nodded, looking away. There was a long pause. Then he turned back to Selina. "You know," he said, "I bet I could get you into one of Bruce Wayne's exclusive parties… if you want."

Selina looked over at him in interest. "Oh, really?" she asked. "How's that?"

White grinned. "I have my ways," he said slyly. "But it won't be free."

Selina looked away again. "Of course," she said bitterly. "Nothing ever is, with you."

"Now, that's not entirely true, darling," White said. "Just… mostly true." He grinned at her. "It's a simple thing, Selina," he assured her, taking her hand.

"Oh, like last time?" she asked, pulling her hand away. "It's easy, Selina. Just break into this museum and get me that precious diamond." She looked at him, then turned away again. "Why can't you just use my feminine wiles to your advantage, for a change?" she asked. "Instead of always my burglary skills. Stealing things for you is getting old, Warren."

He paused, considering her statement, then nodded. "All right," he said, "that sounds reasonable to me." He looked back at her. "How good are your feminine wiles, Selina?" he asked.

She turned to him, grinning wryly. "I can get a man to do anything I want," she said seductively, leaning towards him and batting her eyelashes.

He grinned slyly at her. "Perfect," he said.

. . .

Napier pulled on his green vest over his peculiarly patterned blue shirt and buttoned it, smoothing it down to make sure it was not too badly wrinkled from being tossed around earlier. He picked up his tie from the couch and looped it around his neck, tying it tightly and pulling it through, securing it around his neck in the fashion he had learned from countless times of repetition. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his pinstripe purple pants with a satisfied sigh, and turned back to his clothing, considering putting on the coat as well, but decided against it.

He was still in leisure mode. He would put the coat on later, when he put on the makeup. He did not really need to wear the heavy thing all the time – only when it was necessary for theatrical effect.

He fell back onto the couch, leaning his head back against the cushions and closing his eyes. "Mm," he said with a deep exhale. "Quiet." He paused a moment, smiling slightly, and then the smile started to slowly fade from his face. He opened his eyes. "Too quiet," he said flatly.

He sat up from the couch and glanced over in the direction of the bedroom, frowning suspiciously. One part of him told him that he should go check up on the girl, to see if she was all right. The other part of him said that it was a stupid idea, and was only a sign of weakness. What did he care if the brat was all right or not? She was probably asleep, he reasoned. He leaned back against the couch again, closing his eyes and folding his hands over his ribcage. "She's fine," he assured himself.

Then he opened his eyes again. "But I should make sure," he said. He paused again, conflicted. "No," he said, "I don't care." He closed his eyes, crossing his ankles, and settled down into a more comfortable position on the couch. Then he frowned, eyes still closed, and let out an annoyed sigh. "Jeanette will kill me if something happens to her," he told himself. He opened his eyes, sitting upright on the couch. "I should check," he said, getting up. "But only so Jeanette won't kill me."

Napier crossed to the bedroom door and lifted a hand to knock, hesitated, then decided against it. He put an ear to the door, listening, but all he heard was faint rustling coming from inside. He frowned slightly. Then he cracked open the door and peeked inside.

Jeannie Rose was spinning in front of the mirror, wearing a long skirt that was much too big for her and flowed past her ankles. On a grown woman, it would have gone just past the knees, but on the little girl it looked like a ball gown. She looked at her reflection, smiling away, and curtsied to herself, giggling at the way the dress fit. Napier found himself smiling faintly as he watched her examining the way she looked in the dress.

He quietly opened the door and stepped inside, careful not to disturb the little girl. She was looking down at her feet, lifting the skirt to see her little pink shoes. He crossed to the bed and silently sat down, folding his hands between his knees and watching her, smiling ever so slightly. He could not help himself. Jeannie Rose looked back up in the mirror, and he saw her face reflected back at him, framed in honey waves, her rosy cheeks lit up with fervour, her dark eyes full of life.

He turned his head slightly, looking at her. Then he looked down at the clothes she had laid out on the bed. In amongst all of the black skirts, blouses, and evening dresses, there was a single piece of periwinkle clothing. He frowned slightly, pulling it out and looking at it. It was a modest piece of clothing; there was nothing fancy about it, and it did not seem to be expensively made. But there was something intriguing about it. He passed the dress between his hands, trying to figure out what it was. Then he pressed the dress to his face and inhaled.

There it was. That familiar scent. He would recognize that scent anywhere. That was the scent of –

"What are you doing?"

He dropped the dress into his lap and looked down at the little girl, who was looking at him strangely, her face twisted up in confusion. There was a long silence between the two. Then he cleared his throat. "I was looking at this dress," he finally said, holding it up for her to see. He paused, then let the dress drop back into his lap. "That's all," he told her.

Jeannie Rose looked at the dress, then back at him. "It won't fit you," she told him.

He considered snapping back at her, but paused. Then he smiled and chuckled lightly, shaking his head. "No," he said, looking down at the dress. "I don't suppose it would." He looked back up at her. She looked surprised by his answer. "But it doesn't fit you too well either," he told her.

She stared at him for a moment. Then she cocked her head slightly. "It'll fit me in a couple years," she said, looking back at her reflection in the mirror, at the long black dress she wore. "My mommie says so." She spun in front of the mirror, looking at how the dress billowed around her feet. Napier watched her. Then she turned back to him. "My mommie's been gone for a long time," she said. "She was going to go somewhere yesterday to meet up with somebody, but... she never came back."

Napier frowned slightly. "Where was she going?" he asked. "Who was she going to meet up with?"

Jeannie Rose shrugged, looking down at her shoes. "I dunno where she was going," she said, swishing the end of the dress. Then she looked back up at him. "But everyone kept talking about this guy... Naper."

Napier frowned. "Naper?" he asked. "Who's Naper?"

Jeannie Rose looked back at her shoes. "Ionno," she said, quieter. "Everybody's looking for Naper."

Napier looked back down at the dress in his lap, thinking. Then he looked back up at Jeannie Rose. "Was it Naper," he said slowly, "or... Napier?"

"That's him!" said Jeannie Rose, looking up suddenly. "Napier. Jack Napier."

He stared at her, shocked. She went back to looking at her reflection in the mirror, swishing the end of the dress around her ankles. "Jack?" he asked, slightly hoarse. "Jack... Napier?"

"Yeah," she said with a careless sigh, twirling in front of the mirror. "Something about him."

"Wait." He caught hold of her arm, stopping her from spinning, and she looked up at him in surprise. "Your mommie was going to go to the Iceberg Lounge yesterday to meet up with... Jack Napier?"

She paused, thinking, then nodded. Then she looked at her wrist. "Let go," she said.

He was too shocked to hear her words. "But..." He looked away, at the dress sitting on the bed. Then he looked back at Jeannie Rose. "What..." The words stuck in his throat. He swallowed hard. "What... is your mommie's name?" he asked, hoarse.

Jeannie Rose frowned slightly, looking up at him. "Mommie," she answered.

"No, no, I mean..." He closed his eyes, putting a hand to his forehead. Then he looked back at Jeannie Rose. "What's your mommie's real name?" he asked.

She frowned even deeper, staring at him. "Kitty," she said. Then she looked at her wrist again. "Please let go," she repeated.

But he did not let go. He just stared at her. "K-Kitty?" he asked, his mouth dry. He felt himself tearing up. He bit his lip, trying to keep his emotions in check as he stared at Jeannie Rose. She looked up at him, staring into his eyes, and suddenly he saw his own eyes looking back at him. Then he shook his head, letting go of her wrist and turning away. "No," he said, standing, not looking at the little girl. "No... No!"

Jeannie Rose looked up at him, confused. "Are you... Jack Napier?" she asked.

He turned back to her, looking down at the little girl staring up at him who looked so much like himself. "Yes," he said, his voice shaking. "But..." He stared at her for a long moment, then turned away again, his hands going to his head, gripping his hair and closing his eyes.

Her brow furrowed as she looked up at him. "D..." she began to say, but stopped. "D-Daddy?"

Napier shook his head, clenching his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut. "No," he said firmly. "No... no, not Daddy." He turned back, looking down at her, his breathing getting heavier, and he frowned darkly. "Don't call me Daddy," he said. "I'm not your Daddy." He turned away from her again, his hands going to his face, and he sat heavily down on the bed. "I'm not your Daddy," he said quietly.

Jeannie Rose stared up at him, confused. "Daddy...?" she asked, putting a hand on his knee.

"NO!" He pulled her hand off his knee and stood, moving away from her. "I'm not your father! Stop calling me that!" He looked up and saw his reflection in the full-length mirror. He stared at himself for a long moment. Then, with a loud, feral growl, he crossed to the mirror and, lifting a fist, smashed it in. He did not want to see the resemblance between them. He was not this little girl's father, of that he was sure. He turned back to look at her, his hand bloody. She was staring at him in horror, the start of tears in her eyes.

"But..." she said, her lip trembling, "my mommie always said that Jack Napier was my daddy!"

"I'm not your Daddy!" he shouted, indicating himself, spattering his suit with blood. "You are not my child! My child is a boy! Kitty said so! She... she said so!"

Jeannie Rose shook her head, tears running down her face, clinging to her mother's dress. "No, Daddy!" she sobbed. "I'm a girl!"

Napier screamed in rage and moved to the bed, grabbing the nightstand and smashing it. Then he picked up one of the dresses from off of the bed and tore it in half. "You are not my child!" he shouted at the little girl. He grabbed the bed underneath the frame on one side and, with a heave, flipped it up onto its side. "Look at me!" he shouted at her. "Do you really think you could even possibly be related to me?! Look at me!"

Jeannie Rose covered her face with the dress, sobbing. "Daddy, stop it!" she screamed.

Napier put a hand to his face, making sure he was not crying as well. "STOP IT!" he roared. "STOP CALLING ME DADDY!" He put his other hand to his head, running them through his hair. He let out a loud scream of frustration and confusion, then turned to the closet and, tearing it open, pulled out all the dresses and started tearing them, throwing them around the room. Jeannie Rose ran to him and clung to his pants-leg, sobbing into it.

"STOP!" she screamed. "PLEASE, PLEASE STOP!"

He looked down at her, snarling, and grabbed her up by the back of her dress, lifting her into the air. "You," he said, dangerous, "are not my child." He glared at her for a long moment, his breathing heavy, then he let her down. He put his hands to his face and gave a dry sob. Then, taking a deep breath, he took his hands from his face, cleared his throat, and shook his head savagely, like a dog shaking water. "My child is dead," he said in a strange, distant voice. "But at least I can still save my wife."

He turned back to Jeannie Rose, who was staring at him, tears streaming down her face, clinging to her mother's periwinkle dress, which he had not destroyed. He glared at her for a long moment, then snatched the dress from her grip. "This doesn't belong to you," he hissed. And with that, he put it over his arm and walked out, making sure to slam the door of the apartment behind him.

Jeannie Rose ran into the living-room after him, but he had left by the time she got there. She stared at the door for a long moment, waiting, but when he did not come back, her face split into a tearful grimace again, and she turned away, looking down at the dress she wore.

"Mommie," she sobbed, pressing the skirt to her face. "Mommie..."

. . .

Cobblepot took a turn down a dark alley, glancing behind him to see if Jeanette was following. When he was satisfied he had not lost her, he turned back and started for the end of the alley. At the end of the alleyway was a dingy metal door, which did not look as if it led anywhere spectacular. Cobblepot knocked on the door, and a little panel slid aside to reveal a set of slitted eyes. "Oswald Cobblepot," said Cobblepot, indicating himself. Then he indicated Jeanette. "And guest," he added.

The slitted eyes stared at Jeanette for a moment, then the little window closed. Cobblepot waited a moment, then the lock clicked back on the door and it opened to reveal a dimly lit, smoky back room of sorts. A little further in, the sounds of voices and dogs barking could be heard. Cobblepot glanced back at Jeanette, unsmiling, then turned and started in to the room. The man standing at the door glared at the two of them as they entered, then quickly shut the door behind them.

Cobblepot entered the back room, where a larger number of gangsters than he had expected were all gathered around a large, circular cage. From inside the cage, the sound of snarling and barking could be heard. Cobblepot glanced at Jeanette, then moved with her to the front of the crowd. He pointed out Warren White, who was standing at one edge of the ring, holding onto the chain leash of a large, rabid-looking Doberman. Cobblepot frowned darkly. "That's his prize fighter," he told her. "Never lost a match." He shook his head, glancing over across the ring at a heavy-set gangster, also holding onto the leash of a large, angry Doberman. "But they certainly try," he said with a sigh.

The heavy-set gangster unclipped his chain from the dog's leash and released it into the ring. The Doberman snarled, foaming at the mouth, and barked loudly at the opposition, its eyes wild as it pawed at the ground, shifting between its feet as it waited impatiently for its opponent. Warren White grinned, holding his own rearing, barking dog back by its chain, then, bending down, removed the chain from the dog's collar. White's dog bounded into the ring, grabbing the other dog by the throat and tackling it to the ground.

The other dog whimpered, snarling back as White's dog tore at its throat. "Get that son of a bitch!" White cried from the sidelines, punching a fist into the air as the two dogs tore apart, snarling at each other, circling one another in the ring. "Rip 'im apart!"

"Get that fucker! Tear 'is head off!" the gangster shouted, kicking at the chain fence around the dog ring. White's dog snarled and leaped for the other dog, but the other dog dodged and White's dog missed, sliding across the dirt floor into the wall of the ring. The other dog leapt for him and grabbed his ear, ripping it open, spraying the dusty floor with blood. White's dog howled in pain, shaking its head, then turned around and closed its jaws on the other dog's hind leg, snapping the bone.

The gangster's dog let out a howl of pain and whimpered in agony, trying to limp back to its master, but White's dog would not back down. It leapt forward, grabbing hold of the other leg and biting down on it as well, snapping the other leg bone. "Get your mutt off my dog!" the gangster shouted, bursting into the ring and grabbing the collar of his wounded dog, but White just laughed as his dog grabbed hold of the gangster's pants-leg and started to drag him back into the ring. "Get it off me!" the gangster exclaimed, hitting at White's bleeding dog with his fist. "Get your fuckin' dog off me!"

"He likes you, Smitty," White laughed, clapping his hands. Then he whistled, and the dog let go of the gangster's leg and moved back to White's side of the ring, panting heavily and watching as the gangster dragged his wounded dog and himself shamefully out of the ring. White smirked. "Better luck next time, aye, Smitty?" White said, puffing at his Cuban cigar. Smitty glared at him, but said nothing.

Cobblepot frowned darkly, looking over at Jeanette. "And that's just the start of it," he said quietly.

"Cobblepot!" White threw out his hands, grinning at Cobblepot, his cigar smoking at the side of his mouth as he made his way through the thin crowd towards him. Cobblepot frowned, turning slightly to Jeanette.

"Don't say anything he might take offense at," he said in barely above a whisper. "Just stay calm."

"Oswald Cobblepot," said White as he got right up to the two of them, taking his cigar from his mouth and grinning at Cobblepot, sleazy as ever. "I'll be damned. I didn't know you was into this kinda sport."

"I'm not," said Cobblepot with a false smile. "I was simply showing my acquaintance here what you do, Warren."

"Oh, I got a fan, huh?" White laughed, tapping the ashes from the end of his cigar. "Well, that's okay, doll, get in line. You ain't the first, an' you won't be the last, trust me." He put the cigar back between his teeth, looking her up and down, and his eyebrows went up slightly. "You ain't bad, you know that?" he said, grinning at her. "Look like you got some money of your own. You kill your lover for it?"

"She's from a wealthy business family, Warren," said Cobblepot, waving his question off slightly. "Oh, and speaking of which, where is Selina? I never see you without her."

"Huh?" White's attention snapped back to Cobblepot, and a slight frown crossed his face as he puffed on his cigar distractedly. "Oh, Selina, sure. She's out, prob'ly wastin' my money shopping for shoes or something. I dunno. I'm never really sure of where she is, even when she's sittin' right next to me." He shrugged, taking the cigar from between his teeth and letting out a deep exhale. "But she's a good girl," he said, nodding. "She's good to have around."

"I see," said Cobblepot, frowning. It was suspicious that White was unsure of where his biggest investment and latest arm candy was, when Cobblepot usually never saw them apart. What was even more suspicious was how nonchalant White was being about it. It was uncharacteristic. But he was not going to ask questions, because he wanted to be as much on White's good side as possible. He smiled slightly at White. "Well, this has been interesting," he said, "but we really must be going. We have places to be, and…" He trailed off, shrugging. "We have to be there," he said, failing to find a better ending for his statement.

White's cigar returned slowly to his teeth as he looked between Cobblepot and Jeanette with slitted grey eyes, and his lips closed around it as he puffed thoughtfully at the cigar. "Is that so?" he asked. Cobblepot nodded, uncomfortable. White nodded as well, looking between them. Then he leaned down to Cobblepot. "She your girl, Cobblepot?" he asked in a low voice. "I ain't lookin' t' fuck her if she is. Just lookin'."

Cobblepot let out a slight, relieved breath and smiled at White. "Oh, no," he said, shaking his head. "I'm still together with Maggie, for the most part. She's just an acquaintance." He glanced over at Jeanette, grinning. Then he looked back at White. "But we really must be going now," he said, turning away and putting a hand on Jeanette's arm, leading her away as well. "We're already late for where we're going, and we shouldn't be any later, if we can help it!"

White watched as the two exited the room, going out through the rusty door, and took the cigar from his mouth, staring after them with slitted eyes. "He knows something," he said in a low voice. "And she… I don't trust her one bit." He shook his head slightly, still staring after where they had disappeared. "Not one bit," he said slowly, returning the cigar to his teeth.

As they walked away, Jeanette shot a cursory glance back towards White. Oh, he was a card she thought, the polite smile plastered on her face cracking just a bit. When they were out of earshot, she finally leaned over to Os. "Your girl?" she hissed quietly, looking around the alley and keeping her temper quite well, considering the circumstances. "Charming guy. And do remind my why no one's slit his throat yet?"

She sighed and answered her own question. "Oh, right, because he owns this city." She wanted to punch something. No, shoot someone. White was pretty damn lucky she had something occupying her time at the moment, or she might have been tempted to make him her next job. Free of charge.

Hell, maybe she'd give it a shot now, no pun intended. She'd have to be careful, more so than usual. She didn't really want those in Gotham's underbelly loyal to White out for her blood. Maybe she could find out where he lived, and take him out there...

She finally shook her head, realizing that she'd gotten distracted and they'd reached the Lounge. "I'd better go check on the girl, and make sure that idiot didn't do anything," she said, mostly to herself. She put her hands on Ozzie's shoulders and considered him for a moment. "You know," she said, then hesitated. Finally, she sighed. "Don't get too torn apart about this. You'll be fine." She smiled. "I'll make sure of it. Alright?" With that, she left the Lounge.