Chapter Ten: Mother Hen To Us All

Sylvia came home around dinner time. As she strolled through the front door, she noticed Mr. Bell sitting in the living room. That alone was an interesting sight; she'd never really seen him sit before, at least, not without permission of any sort. He was always doing something: walking, strolling, standing, cleaning, fighting (when she and Mr. Bell had been training)...but never really sitting. And he had the saddest look on his face; perhaps a death in the family?

When she came into the living room fully, Mr. Bell glanced up at her.

"Bonsoir, Monsieur Bell." She greeted, trying to cheer him up. He had a trace of French descent, and she aimed to cheer his spirits with his native language.

"Bonsoir, Madame."

Sylvia looked at him curiously. He never looked so sad. She approached him and sat in an armchair in front of a lively fireplace, looking across at her manservant, empathetic.

"Quel est le problème?" Sylvia asked, concerned.

Mr. Bell lifted his eyes to hers and said sadly, "I have osteosarcoma."

Sylvia's eyebrows stitched together, understanding that this wasn't good news at all, but not understanding the gravity of it. At that moment Olga walked into the room to clean a few things before registering Sylvia's serious glance. Immediately, the housemaid excused herself in her own native language before she left the room.

"What is that?" Sylvia asked gently.

"It's cancer."

"Cancer. You have it?"

"I was just as surprised as you are."

"But how did you find out?"

"I went to the doctor."

"You went to the…?" She gasped.

"Yes. Mr. Cobblepot noticed I was in pain and he strongly recommended that I see my physician. I refused initially, but…Anyway, I went and they found it." He held out his hands sentimentally. "Apparently, it has been there for a while. I've been in pain, but it's nothing I couldn't handle, you know."

"Of course."

"If I hadn't fallen on the table—"

"—Well, you broke the table—"

"—That too. We wouldn't have known."

Sylvia bit her bottom lip, uncertain what to say. It was the first time she'd been stumped in a long time. She could handle torture victims, but when it came to heavy situations such as these, she didn't know what to say. What could she say?

"Monsieur Bell…."

He held up a hand, to stop her from speaking.

He said softly, "I know what you're going to ask. It doesn't look good. I'm at a survival rate of 5 years; that's optimal. However, the cancer has spread so much that my chance of surviving to at least the five-year mark is fifteen to thirty percent. That's what the doctors are telling me, at least."

Sylvia stared at him.

Sportingly, she said, "Mr. Bell, I'll be honest. I wouldn't put much worth into what these Gotham doctors have to say about 'health'. These are the same people who—"

"Sylvia, it is what it is."

She nibbled on the inside of her cheek nervously.

"Are you seeking treatment?"

"I'm getting on in age." Mr. Bell said quietly, lowering his hands to his knees. "My back hurts all the time. My knees hurt…people are starting to notice now. For a while there, I thought I would be able to hack it, get through it, but I'll be honest. I've fought for a long, long time. Now, where I am and knowing why I've been the way I've been, I'm just tired of fighting."

He held out his hand. She gingerly put hers in his palm. It was like a child's in a gorilla's hand.

"Mr. Bell, you're not this type person. You don't lie down for anyone or anything. You fight."

"This is different."

"What's different?" Sylvia responded; her voice hitched with a pain he didn't fail to notice. "It's cancer. So what. People live through stage four cancer all the time. People are coming back from the dead with supernatural strength and abilities, and there are cures to things that I didn't even know existed. And you think cancer is the end-all, be-all? Fuck that. It's not, it's—"

Mr. Bell laughed quietly. But it wasn't joyful. Not really. It was like he was nostalgic, like he had heard Sylvia's pep talks one too many times, and perhaps this was a time where she thought she could get through to him. Mr. Bell smiled at her appreciatively; despite the sadness in them, it reached his eyes.

"I've lived through wars. I've been on both ends of the torture routine. I've fought alongside my friends, and I've been more than happy to fight alongside you. You are the protege that I never thought I could ever have. You learned everything I taught you so quickly, and I fear that I have nothing else to give you."

Sylvia took her hand from his, staring at him.

"Why do you sound like you're saying good-bye?"

Mr. Bell stood painfully to his feet. She, however, remained still.

"I want you to remember me as you see me right now," He said, puffing his chest out so he appeared younger, more confident. "I want you to remember me as your mentor, as your trainer. I don't want you to see what I look like after chemotherapy treatments, or whatever else comes next."

"So, you're leaving?" Sylvia questioned knowingly, standing. She couldn't keep her voice from cracking.

Mr. Bell wasn't a stranger to her anger. He looked at her when she spoke, noticing the strength of her angry lines diminish her empathetic glow.

"After everything we've been through, you're just going to leave?"

"It's my choice—"

"You work for me, Mr. Bell. I'm telling you to stay." Sylvia ordered. Tears started clouding her vision. A pang, an aching pain was growing in her chest, like she had swallowed a larger piece of meat than she should have. It almost choked her.

"Sylvia—"

"You can't leave. Your place is here, with me, with us. This is your home."

He opened his mouth to speak but she was readily firing off anything in order to keep him from talking any more. Her thought process was child-like: if he couldn't say where he was going and what he was doing, then he couldn't.

He started to leave; he couldn't bear to see her cry. Not a strong woman like her.

But as strong as she was physically and as mentally tough as she had become, Sylvia had no restraint or toughness when it came to her staff. She was emotionally attached to them, all right. As Mr. Bell had begun to leave, her hand shot out, grabbing his sleeve so he couldn't escape.

"You can't go."

"Sylvia…."

"You just can't!"

Mr. Bell attempted to pull out of her grasp, but she kept holding on. She was almost like a child. For him, it was like seeing one of his children crying because he was about to leave home. Like he'd done before. He came back then.

"You're the closest thing I've had to a Dad in a while. Please don't go. Please. Please."

Mr. Bell stopped pulling away. Instead, he gathered her into his arms and waited for her cries to ebb away, for her tears to stop falling. Mr. Bell had watched her fall apart, and due to this, they were both on the floor; his back against the foot of the armchair and Sylvia on the floor with him.

It was at that point when Oswald entered the room, having heard the commotion from the kitchen. He saw the scene before him, and he looked to Mr. Bell for an explanation. The latter made a gesture to himself then to Sylvia and Oswald immediately registered his meaning. Apparently, the same news that had been brought to him earlier by the manservant himself had now been given to Sylvia as well.

"I have a plane to catch," Mr. Bell said gently, lightly tugging her hands from his sleeves. "I'm going back home to Nebraska. I must see my family."

"You can't go…"

Yes. Like a child, Mr. Bell thought. Why would she care if he missed his flight? Why would she care if he couldn't see his family for another month or so? All she wanted was to keep things normal for just a moment longer.

Sensing that Sylvia would be a problem, Oswald and Mr. Bell exchanged unfortunate expressions. Considering that Sylvia saw Mr. Bell as a father, it would only make it worse. Her father had a certain detachment, it seemed; whatever her detest towards the DA lawyer proved to be, Sylvia still had a daughter's love for him; it wasn't the same love as Jim Gordon's, but a father was a father, even if he did favor her brother more and made his favoritism known. Now that Mr. Bell was on his way out and he'd likely never visit Sylvia again after this, Oswald was certain that she was having a replay of the night she'd lost her father (and possibly her mother).

Yes, this would be a problem.

"Sylvia…." Mr. Bell said weakly. "Please. Please don't make this harder for me than it already is."

"You're not going anywhere," Sylvia said evenly as Mr. Bell stood up.

"Mr. Cobblepot, would you…"

Oswald sighed and walked over to them, anticipating the worst as he tried to collect his wife; Mr. Bell pried Sylvia's hand off his arm.

"Sylvia," Mr. Bell said patiently. "You're the daughter I never had. I love you like my own. But you must be strong, okay? I know you can be. You're intelligent, and stronger than I've ever been. I've never been prouder."

"You can't go. You can't. Please, stay. Please?"

Mr. Bell looked at Oswald, a cue. He nodded. Mr. Bell started to leave. And Sylvia Cobblepot, who was currently thirty-two years old, threw herself into the mindset of a devastated five-year-old. There had never been a worse temper tantrum!

Mr. Bell sprung for the door, picking up a suitcase that had been sitting by the entrance. Outside of the mansion was a cab that had been waiting for him. He took one look back, smiling sympathetically at her, before he headed out to meet the driver. Meanwhile, Oswald grabbed Sylvia, locking his arms around her, hoping to god she wouldn't fight.

His hopes were immediately dismissed as she pushed him off; she even had gone so far as to decking him in the jaw in order to get to the butler before the cab driver whipped out from the driveway on the way to the airport.

"Gabe!" Oswald shouted. "Butch!"

Gabe and Butch, both of whom held tranquilizing syringes, ran into the room. All of them had been anticipating that this would happen once the news had been given. It took all three of them and four more syringes to get Sylvia down on the ground.

Ten minutes later, she lied on her stomach, her head in Oswald's lap, fully sedated; he, Butch, and Gabe were slowly trying to catch their breath, all of them sitting on the floor.

"See." Butch said breathlessly, glancing at Oswald, who rubbed his jaw where she had hit him. "I told you she'd react this way."

"It's sweet though," Gabe said, smiling a little. When Oswald and Butch stared at him, he added, "It's nice to know she cares this much. About all of us. Mother Hen to us all."

To this, neither Butch nor Oswald could contest.