Chapter Seventeen: Calm My Storm

"I talked to Cat the other day." Ivy mumbled, looking up from her hamburger to peer at Sylvia, who was sipping on a cup of tea.

For the moment, they were settled at the same hamburger joint that they had been to the last time, sitting across from each other in a booth.

It wasn't so early in the morning to be called 'dawn', but between getting pancakes or a grilled patty, the child chose the latter and so while Ivy was having a Quarter pounder with cheese, fries, coleslaw, and a milkshake, Sylvia had opted out in favor for tea; her stomach was queasy.

"Did you, now." Sylvia shook a few packets of sugar into her cup.

"Yeah…"

"How'd that go?"

"Well, she asked where I was."

"Does she normally have a habit of asking where you've been?"

"Not really, but she came to the Flea the other night and I wasn't there."

"Was she worried?" She asked sincerely.

"I think so."

"What'd you tell her?"

"'I went for a walk'." Ivy replied, quirking a small smile which disappeared almost immediately. "She knows something, but I don't know what she knows."

"And you won't ask her what she knows?"

"Because I know she's doing something too."

"Like what?"

Ivy scoffed, "'Top Secret', she says. I don't know why she won't tell me."

"Maybe she's looking after your best interests."

"Or maybe she doesn't want to share." She pouted, throwing a French fry into the pool of ketchup that was starting to drown the rest of the potato pioneers.

Sylvia cocked her head to the side.

"Do you envy her?"

"What?"

"That she gets caught up in something every week. She finds gigs all the time, it seems. Doesn't invite you to any of them. Does that make you feel a certain way?"

"She gives me money," Ivy said pathetically. "She lets me follow her around, you know. It gives me something to do, stops me from being bored."

"I feel like you'd benefit from having a garden." Sylvia noted lazily, sitting back in her seat.

The queasiness of her stomach made a low rumble, and it gave way to a wave of nausea which made her exhale slowly.

Ivy noticed: "Are you okay, Lark?"

"I'm great."

"Lark…"

"Yeah?"

"How come you talk to me?"

"What do you mean?"

"It's not news. You know. The cops killed my dad; my mom died right after."

"You're right. It's not news. Everyone knows that by now."

"Your brother killed my dad, you know." Ivy said coolly. A soft glare lifted from her plate to Sylvia. "You're not scared that I might wanna do something about that?"

Sylvia looked at her. For a moment—if only just for half of a second—she wondered whether Ivy was threatening her. Subtle, perhaps…but even then.

"Would you want to do something about it?" Sylvia challenged softly.

"Maybe. If the opportunity came."

Sylvia clicked her tongue thoughtfully before she straightened in her seat. She reached into the pocket of her blue denim jeans and held out a metal piece on the table. After pressing a button, a blade shot out from its nest; Ivy jumped from the sudden motion.

"Here's your chance. Your 'opportunity'." Sylvia offered, placing it in front of her. She rolled her sleeves up to her elbows, resting her forearms on the table, her wrists out in the open. "If you want your pound of flesh, Ms. Pepper. Take it."

Ivy grimaced.

"Lark…I—"

"Open an artery," She encouraged. "Go on…"

Ivy licked her lips, the bottom one quivered. Slowly, she put down her hamburger, wiped her hands clean of the grease and patty oil, and even with slower grace, took the knife in her hand. Her eyes stared down at the freckled, porcelain-white complexion that covered Sylvia's arms. What determination might have flickered suddenly left when Ivy spotted the light, white, slightly raised lines that had already scarred her radials.

Sylvia smiled instantly when Ivy sat back down, her back lined against the seat. Reluctantly, Ivy placed the knife down on the table, pushing it towards her.

"You wanted to, didn't you?"

"How come…? Why did you ask if…?" Ivy mumbled, unable to formulate her words properly. "If you knew…"

Sensing what she was wanting to know, Sylvia unrolled her sleeves back to their original resting place, sheathed the blade back in its nest, and then pocketed the switchblade inside her jeans with little pause.

"It's not really anything against you. Nothing you could have done would have justified anything what the police—or the world—has done to you. There's nothing you could have done that I've not already done myself, or someone else has done. The only justification you'd have gotten from hurting me would have been short-lived. If you want real satisfaction, you have to go towards the source."

"So, you're saying," Ivy muttered, "I'd have to actually—"

"Go after the man that killed your father, yes. And since you brought it up, my brother didn't shoot Mario. His partner did. Regardless, the men responsible for your father's death aren't even the people who shot him. His right to live was revoked the moment Falcone, and the rest of them, decided to frame your father. It wasn't until after they did the job that the police went after them."

Ivy said unhappily, "How come you're telling me this now."

"Closure isn't always satisfying, is it? But at least, now, you get to sleep, knowing just exactly who the person was that ruined your family."

"How do I go after Falcone?"

"You don't." Sylvia said finally, after taking a sip from her tea. "Falcone retired a long time ago. In your position, there's nothing much else you can do except to move forward: Look for opportunities, be kind to your friends…"

"My friends are mostly plants."

"Well, I'm sure if you are good to them, they will be kind to you, huh."

Ivy nodded. Somehow, that was the most comforting thing she'd ever heard. After a moment, she shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

"Do people know that I was involved with her death?"

Sylvia raised her eyebrows: "Who—Delilah?"

"Yeah."

"No one knows so naturally, everyone knows. I killed her. You weren't involved, and nowhere near the crime when it happened." She said lazily. "The body was gone by daylight. Delilah was forgettable. It's really not that hard to make anyone disappear in Gotham."

"Could you make yourself disappear?"

"Is that your way of telling me to leave?"

Ivy giggled, "No!"

Sylvia smirked.

"Where Cat is concerned," She continued while Ivy's laugh sobered. "If she tells you to stay away, then I'd say that's probably a safe bet that you need to stay away. She seems to be looking out for you, even if she does keep a few secrets for herself."

Ivy nodded, taking her advice into account.

Sylvia patted her hand: "If you'll excuse me, I have to run. I have an appointment."

"Going to the baby doctor?"

"Yes, I am. They're checking on my progress."

"When do you find out if it's a boy or girl?"

"Some twenty weeks, so it'll be some time."

"You'll tell me, right?"

Sylvia nodded, saying, "Yes, I'll tell you."

The visit to the baby doctor was uneventful, which was probably the best outcome one could hope for. Waiting for the check-in, waiting to be called, waiting for the doctor to come in, waiting for the 'you're doing well' comment, and then waiting for the next appointment to be scheduled. What came out of it was the gynecologist suggesting that Sylvia take some prenatal vitamins, get a jump start on that pre-baby care, and that was basically it.

Sylvia sat in the driver's seat; Oswald sat beside her.

"Well, that was fun." Sylvia sighed tiredly as she started the car, and they were heading back to the mansion.

"It's not an amusement park ride, Pigeon."

"I didn't expect it to be like a fucking roller coaster but at least give me a Ferris Wheel view," Sylvia said snidely, glaring at the sudden halt of traffic around them. She honked the horn, poked her head out of the window, and shouted, "Can you go any slower, jackass!"

Sylvia rolled up her window, seething.

Oswald noticed.

"Are you sure you don't want me to drive?" He asked carefully.

"I'm sure. I'm just irritated because these assholes don't have a fucking clue when the light is green! TODAY, fuckers! Go!" Sylvia screamed, and she slammed her hand on the blaring horn once again.

"Will you calm down for a second?"

"Well, I can't help it! These people don't know how to fucking drive! I'm about to just ram my foot up their asses. DRIVE, ASSHOLES!"

When the traffic started moving, she said wryly, "Oh look, see—they actually listened!"

About two miles from the mansion, Oswald's nerves were strung so tightly from his wife's screaming, he wondered if he'd be pardoned for losing his temper. She was just so moody today—the easy-going trip to the doctor hadn't lifted her spirits at all.

The moment the car was parked, he crawled out of the passenger seat, and opened the door for her. Sylvia took his hand and she got out of the car, looking at him grumpily.

"Pigeon."

"What."

"Nothing." Oswald retracted; he'd rather not slap the bull on the back just yet, fearing he'd get the horns anytime soon.

Sylvia stormed inside the mansion, letting everyone know that she was pissed off. After the bedroom door slammed shut, Gabe and Butch glanced at Oswald inquisitively.

His only explanation came out simply: "Mood swings."

A few hours later, Sylvia hadn't come out of the bedroom. That was a little worrisome.

Oswald gently tapped his knuckles on the door, waiting for any sort of acknowledgement (be it furious or otherwise), but none came. When he entered silently, he noticed that she was in bed, lying on her back, eyes open, staring up at the ceiling. She glanced down, seeing him.

"Are you feeling better?" Oswald asked.

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"I don't. I'm not angry, if that's what you're asking."

Oswald sighed, not bothering to enunciate that this was his primary concern. He took off his gloves and dress jacket, leaving his waist coat on, but he loosened his tie. After he took off his shoes, he scooted into the bed, his back against the headboard. Sylvia glanced at him suspiciously, but didn't inquire as to what he was doing.

"Pigeon."

"What."

"Sit up."

"Just let me lie here, okay?"

"Sit up, please."

Sylvia grumbled, "Okay, fine. I don't know why you…" The rest of her words were lost to him as she said them under her breath.

As she did as he asked, Oswald gently held her arms and just as tenderly pulled her back to him. She tried to wriggle away from his touch, but he wasn't letting her go just yet. Resigned to see what he was up to, Sylvia allowed him to adjust where he needed.

He moved his legs so she lied between them; her head rested on his chest, her shoulders on his stomach. He released her arms, smiling when they flopped down on the bed like fish. She was looking up at the ceiling, an odd but comical expression on her face.

She giggled, "Oswald, what are you doing?"

And then his intentions became clear.

He started massaging her shoulders, the tight muscles along her neck and collar bone. Oswald smiled to himself when he heard her stifled, contented sigh. For a moment, they stayed like this.

Sylvia looked up at him, an apology written all over her face.

"I guess I was a little angry. I'm sorry I snapped at you." She said remorsefully. "The visit to the doctor was probably better than we could have hoped."

He murmured a soft 'mmm' in acknowledgement but said nothing else.

Oswald gingerly wrapped his hands around her throat, his thumbs inclined and rubbing concentric circles just above her tensed jaw, beneath her ears.

"Will you say something?" Sylvia asked.

"What do you want me to say?"

"Anything."

"'Anything'." He repeated.

"Smart ass." Sylvia giggled, smiling.

She sat up, then turned to face him, crawling between his knees, and sitting on her own feet.

"Look at me."

"I am looking at you."

"No. I mean really look at me," Sylvia urged. "What do you see?"

For a moment, she looked worried. As though his answer would either send her to heavenly song or deep into the pit of depression.

His hand caressed her face, brushing a lock of ginger hair behind her ear. He said truthfully, "I see you."

"And I, you." Sylvia said sweetly, her anxiety breaking apart and her facial features, relaxed. "I have something of a favor—if you call it that."

"Sylvia, you're my wife. We don't do favors for each other."

"Then just do something for me, okay?"

"What is it?"

"The next time I'm angry like that, kiss me."

"I believe that would be a death sentence for me." Oswald said calmly.

"Please, just do it."

"Pigeon—"

"Everyone else pisses me off," Sylvia persuaded, gesturing behind her with a tinge of irritation. "If they tell me to calm down, I want to pop their head off their shoulders like a fucking dandelion. When you talk to me—it's just different. I might pop off at you, but I don't feel so angry…it's like you have the key to my mind, a way of getting in that no other person has privy to."

"Sylvia, you have strength that of which I still find unbelievable, and I've known no other person to possess your feat for negotiation."

"So, I'm strong. So, I'm good at what I do…I'm not strong in everything, and my temper—as you know—is still needing work… These mood swings coming out of nowhere…I don't know how to navigate through them. I was so angry, and I don't even know why I was angry. I can't do this on my own…You weather my temper; you calm my storm. No matter how strong I am or weaponized I become, I still need that."

Her voice was almost pleading. Her eyes reflected the same emotion.

"I can't deny you much of anything anymore, can I?" Oswald resigned, although he smiled a little.

"You could. You just don't." She said mischievously. "Kiss me."

And like any other time, Oswald gave her what she wanted with little hesitation. He couldn't say 'no' to her, ever. He couldn't deny her much of anything, indeed. But neither could she deny him.