«You okay?» Harvey asked, joining Jim in front of the doors of Gotham General.
The blond was sitting on on the stairs, looking like days old crap.
«Me? I'm fine. It's Lee you have to worry about.»
Bullock lit a cigarette, ignoring the death stares thrown his way, and sat next to his partner.
«How's she doin'?»
His friend just breathed in. Selina Kyle picked that moment to saunter to them. She stopped in front of them, hand in her pockets, rocking on her heels.
«Hello, Selina», Jim greeted. Then he turned to Harvey. «Babysitting duty?»
«She was squatting my apartment when I went home.»
«She does that.»
«HEY! She's right here.»
«Anyway, she's surprisingly difficult to dislodge», Harvey continued, rubbing his scratched cheek. «And when she saw the news about the attack on Arkham, she had me drive her there like her own personal chauffeur.»
«You were going anyway, jackass», the kid snapped back. «And I just wanted to know what was happening with Barb'.»
Jim stared right through the girl, his face going blank.
«Barbara», he whispered. His voice grew stronger. «Barbara. Well, Barbara let herself be rescued by Penguin's men, went to his place, and then slit Leslie's throat.»
Kyle was both unsurprised and unconcerned by the news.
«I take it it didn't stick, or you wouldn't be here?»
«No, it didn't stick», Gordon replied in a carefully empty voice.
«So where is Barbara now?» the girl questioned him.
«I have no idea. No one does. It's not unlikely Cobblepot killed her. If he has not, well, she escaped, and she must be somewhere, plotting her next attempted murder, maybe.»
Selina rolled her eyes.
«Well whose fault is that?»
Jim froze. Harvey heaved himself up.
«Mind not being an absolute cunt for two seconds?» he shouted.
«Well, I'm sorry, but it's not like I'm wrong, is it? WHO totally forgot about Barbara and let her be kidnapped by the psycho serial killer he was baiting? WHO didn't notice she came back all messed up and got all surprised when she tried to stab his girlfriend? And seriously, it's not like it was hard to notice. Why'd'ya think Ivy and I ran back to the streets and ended up with Fish?»
Gordon stood up and walked back into the hospital, not even bothering to defend himself.
«Oh Jesus Christ», his partner swore, watching him go. «I hope you're proud of yourself.»
«As a matter of fact? Yeah.»
The detective whirled to the girl.
«That was shitty. That was plain shitty. You didn't have to kick the guy when he was down.»
She snorted.
«Right. Kicking people when they're down is practically your mantra. You do it all the time!»
«Not to nice people!»
«Well he deserves to be kicked when he's down, because it's not like he pays attention the rest of the time! He thinks he's such a great cop. Jim Gordon, saving the day! Plowing through! So what if someone has to escort Bruce away from professional assassins while he blunders around, or if a perfectly nice lady goes crazy? Saving the day!» - She paused to breathe in, jaw clenched shut, then stared straight into Harvey's eyes. - «He should know how much he fucked up!»
The cop's anger faded as she spoke, replaced by tiredness.
Jim's ability to soldier through his failures was both a strength and a blessing, and it made him him. Every hospice bill Harvey paid still hit him square in the gut. He still felt how much he had fucked up when he had cost Dix his legs, and he didn't wish that guilt upon anyone. Not that he dwelled on that too often.
«Are you done?», he asked.
She glared at him with all of the hatred she could gather, which was plenty. Out to fend for herself for years, with nothing and no one to rely on, every adult in her life dead or gone.
«No I'm not. I liked Barb'! We were safe! Ivy was not sick anymore! We had food and we had money! And that idiot runs in with that shitty drawing of some guy, because he messed up again, and I'm supposed to feel sorry for him and not tell him things as they are? NO, I'm not DONE!»
Harvey sighed.
«Bitching at him - or capturing him to hand him over to Fish, for that matter - ain't gonna fix Kean. And it ain't gonna make you feel any better.»
«DON'T TELL ME HOW I'LL FEEL.»
«WELL THEN FUCK OFF! You knew what you wanted to know! Get the hell out of my sight!»
She stomped away.
###
«Well my Abra is level fifteen so it's much better than your Charmander.»
«Yeah but I have a Ninetales so your Abra is just lousy.»
«Well I didn't cheat to get my Abra!»
«I didn't cheat to get my Ninetales! Mooooooom!»
Giulia leaned back into the passenger seat and tried to tune out the boys' bickering. She had not sent them to school since Salvatore's death, and while she loved her sons, having twins around for such a long period was tiring. The gameboys kept them busy, but unfortunately not silent. She waved to Umberto so he would settle his argument himself.
«Are you alright?» she asked to Montoya, who was driving with a vacant expression on her face.
The undercover cop blinked twice before realizing she was being talked to. She had been pale and withdrawn since the previous day.
«Wh… Yes. Yes, Mrs. Maroni.»
«You look preoccupied.»
«It's nothing to be concerned about, Mrs. Maroni. A small family matter.»
Giulia studied her face. Her only worry was that the «matter» was work related. But the only notable event of the previous day had been the raid on Arkham Asylum. Her moles in the MCU hadn't noticed anything strange. Crispus Allen was perfectly fine. As for Montoya's family, she only had her parents, and their lives seemed unperturbed.
«I hope it resolves itself quickly, then», she replied, turning back to the road.
Her phone rang. She picked up as Montoya turned left.
«Carmine. It's been nearly twenty-four hours. I was growing wor-»
«Get your driver to turn left.»
The old man's tone was unmistakable: cold, urgent, and afraid. Giulia turned to Renee, who had gone from dejection to perfect focus. She was peeking in the rear-view mirror, and to the sides of the car. An Audi started following them, coming from the street they had been meant to take, before that sudden left turn.
«We're being tailed», the cop announced in a whisper, so the children would not hear.
«Boys. Heads down», Giulia ordered, getting her gun.
They complied immediately, sliding down and keeping out of the line of sight, as Sal had taught them to back when they were four. Their mother pressed her phone to her ear.
«Left again», Carmine prompted her.
It was a split second decision. The old bastard was probably sending her right into a trap.
«Left!» she snapped.
Montoya braked and turned, having nearly missed the intersection, then sped.
«What now?», she asked Falcone.
She peeked through the rear-view window. Three cars were chasing them: the Audi, and two nondescript Fords.
«Now you avoid Seventh and Eight, and I'll tell you all I can as soon as I get more information from my men.»
She repeated the instructions to Montoya, who nodded. She was driving fast, but the streets were not empty and the traffic forced her to swerve and slow down. It made it difficult to escape their pursuers. Maroni clenched her teeth.
«What's going on?»
«Oswald Cobblepot finally collected enough money to send Zsasz after you. Victor is not one to waste time.»
She swore.
«I told you he would be a thorn in your side, my dear», Carmine pointed out. «You should not have waited to dispose of him.»
«Well, you know how things go. He's one expensive bastard to take out, and I have territory to maintain.»
«Turn right.»
«Right!»
Montoya turned, barely avoiding gunfire from an approaching truck. A stray bullet shattered a side window.
«I take it it's a large operation?» Giulia mused.
«Worth a few millions», the required Don commented. «Cristiano's demise being bundled in. By the way, where is he? You'd think your best hitman would not leave your side.»
«Unrest in the Bowery, I sent him to handle things.»
«Learn not to separate yourself from your most efficient bodyguard, my dear. Make your way to Port Adams.»
Giulia repeated that to Montoya too. The streets grew quieter as they moved away from the city streets and entered the industrial area. The only vehicles they had to avoid were slow moving trucks. Their car moved faster, but so did their pursuers'. One of the Fords caught up with them. It was driven by one of Zsasz' girls. The other was in the car too, sitting on the backseat, and aiming at them.
«HEADS DOWN!» Giulia screamed, even though the boys were still burying their faces into their laps.
The assassin started firing. So did Giulia. Zsasz' sidekick did not make it.
Maroni heard Montoya shout her name and saw her ram the car into the Ford, on purpose. The boys screamed. She felt faint. The cop grabbed her phone.
«Where to?»
There was more ramming of cars, more gunshots, more brutal turns, then the cop drove straight through a warehouse's open doors. The men waiting inside let them pass, and opened fire on the cars that followed them. Giulia was helped out of her seat. She breathed in and fought the dizziness. Shoulder wound. Some blood loss. Not critical. Her legs were terribly weak all the same.
She turned to the entrance and watched the doors slowly sliding closed. Men were posted on scaffolding along the walls, inside the warehouse, and were shooting outside through arrow slits.
The Audi was parked just out of range. All she saw of the driver was that he was bald, enough to recognize Victor Zsasz.
There was a «clank» as the doors finished closing.
A man joined Giulia, who took a deep breath. Straight from the frying pan, into the fire.
«So, Carmine, wasn't Trinidad agreeing with you?»
«Such a bland place. And I couldn't bear the constant sunburns», he replied, his skin as pale as ever. «Let's have that shoulder tended to, my dear.»
###
«You bought me», Butch said.
He'd been driving Barbara around for half an hour with that thought running in circles in his minds.
She had bought him. For one million dollars, to be paid in installments. Which, added to the million she was already shelling out for her own release, made for quite a check. There had been some bartering - enough for Oswald's face to go from mocking superiority to sheer annoyance - and the woman had made sure to let the crime lord know that the completion of the payment entirely depended on her continued survival. She had given him access to one offshore business and its bank account, but the available funds for that one fell just a little short of the million. Now, for a second, Butch had thought Cobblepot would decide that was just enough money to shoot Kean in the face and be done with it, but the boy was a greedy little bastard. Terms had been discussed, as well as the dates and amounts of the installments to be paid, then Oswald had waited for a few hours (and the proof that he could actually get his hands on the first account) to free her.
At no point had the mob boss picked up on the fact that Kean had been quoting the «Legally Blonde» musical for most of their conversation. Thankfully.
«I did», Barbara commented, reading a fashion magazine she had Butch purchase from the first Walmart they had passed near, along with the jeans and sweater she was now wearing.
«You bought me.»
«I believe I just confirmed that.»
«Yes. I just don't think you get what I mean, lady.»
«What is there to understand? I needed a sidekick, and Cobblepot was ready to let you go, not necessarily in one piece. And you are funny. So I bought you.»
«That's still not what I mean. You seem to think that you can actually buy people.»
«Yes?»
«You can't actually buy people.»
«Was there any hope that the crazy little creep would ever let you go alive?»
«Not really but-»
«Where you obeying him blindly?»
«That's-»
«Then he owned you. And he could sell you. Now turn left.»
He turned left.
«So is this some kind of indentured servitude or a permanent slavery deal? Just so I know.»
«Are you going to nag me for much longer? I can get a refund, you know?»
He groaned.
«Second street on the right», she said.
Butch followed her directions for another quarter of an hour, finally stopping in front of a small house in suburbia, right out of Gotham, in a world of white picket fences and HOAs. Barbara got out of the car and went to ring the house's doorbell. Her «sidekick» joined her, not quite hurrying his pace. A man opened the door, recognized Kean, and hugged her.
«Hey, Jaimie!» she greeted him. «You still have my things?»
«Your suitcases? Yep, in the attic. Come on in! Who's your friend?»
«New driver», she replied, walking through the door.
She motioned for Butch to follow, which he did. Apparently she had friends who did not mind that she had turned into a murderous lunatic. That was a surprise.
«Want to buy anything while you're here?» Jaimie asked.
«No, no, I'm trying to get clean. You know how it goes. You really don't want to mix and match when you're on meds.»
«Aw, that sucks. Want coffee?»
«Coffee would be nice, thank you.»
They were invited to sit in the kitchen and served coffee, then Jaimie went to fetch two large suitcases from the attic.
«So, you orchestrated your own escape or something?» the dealer wondered. «I saw you on TV, they say you were abducted.»
«I was abducted, then helped out. And I really don't feel like going back», Barbara explained, opening one of the suitcases and retrieving a pair of sandals.
She promptly removed the sneakers Butch had bought for her and stuffed them in the suitcases, under piles of neatly folded clothing.
«Yeah, I hear the place is creepy as hell. Are you getting out of town?»
The blonde took a sip of her coffee.
«Absolutely. I was thinking Spain, or maybe Venice. I've always wanted to visit Venice.»
She finished her cup and quietly put it down.
«But we can't stay», she continued. «Though it was very nice to see you again. I have a train to catch in an hour.»
She turned to Butch, extending her hand.
«Wallet?»
He stared at her. She waited, lifting her eyebrows. He handed her his wallet. She took out two hundred bucks and gave them to Jaimie.
«Thanks again for storing my things. You were a life saver.»
«You're welcome. Good luck to you.»
Butch and Barbara left the house and drove away from the suburbs, the woman's only instructions being «find me a safe house». He knew better than to argue. Oh, he could have pointed out that safe houses required a modicum of preparation, and that he was not miraculously going to pull one out of his hat, but he had understood by then that the less time you spent talking to Barbara Kean, the saner you remained. And he happened to have a few safe houses in town, anyway. With Fish's temper and constant plotting, it had just been common sense to prepare a few hideouts.
He brought miss Crazypants to the same building he had brought Fish to after rescuing her from that torture room, to the same tiny, cramped room. He felt ill as soon as he entered the place, memories flooding in. Remembering Fish gave him cold sweats, now. There was still longing, of course, but her name was tied to the stench of Dettol and to unbearable pain.
Barbara pushed him out of the way to drag her suitcases into the room, and opened them. She threw shirts and dresses on the bed, pêle-mêle, digging for something more to her taste.
«So what do you think?» she asked, showing him to fairly similar black dresses. «Which one would look best?»
He picked one at random. His opinion did not matter. It had not mattered to Fish either, in similar situations.
«That one.»
She beamed.
«I think so too!» she declared, stripping out of her sweater and pants.
Butch had never turned away from a woman so fast in his life. He stared at the wall, listening to the sounds of ruffled fabric.
«Can't believe you dragged me on a two hours ride to go and get some old clothes», he muttered, as a distraction more than anything.
He could absolutely believe it. Could she have bought new dresses? Weren't the outfits replaceable? Ten years by Fish's side had taught him the answer to those questions. Barbara walked to him, poking his shoulder. She clicked her tongue and made him turn.
«What do you think?»
The dress managed to be at once entirely slutty and not trashy at all. It couldn't have been cut shorter, nor more elegantly. It was a strange mix, the kind that came with really expensive designer clothing.
«Nice», he replied, neutral.
That was not the answer she had wanted. She took a step back, clenching her teeth. Butch wondered where her blades were. He felt like escaping.
He could overpower her and run, but Zsasz would find him. Oswald would notice quickly enough he was not getting his money. He closed his eyes and pushed the thoughts away.
She grabbed his tie.
«Can I see your scars?» she asked, prying the knot loose.
Butch jumped away, blind with fury. He was an easygoing guy. He was. You had to go out of your way to shake him into more than lukewarm annoyance. But that…
«Your so-called one million dollar 'purchase' does not entitle you to my dignity», he hissed.
She looked up in surprise. He expected a «it does». For all intents and purposes, it did. But she blinked, shook her head, and smiled.
«I just… I just want to see», she explained, pulling his necktie away and opening the first button of his shirt.
He let her undo the others, watching her in disgust. If she noticed he was shaking with rage, she made no comment. She opened his shirt and grinned, looking at his scarred, burnt, mangled skin. Her fingers hovered over his chest, tracing but not touching the outlines of his worst wounds. He bit the inside of his cheeks. She was studying the damage. She wanted to figure out what had been done to him, so she could try it herself.
She scratched a patch of burned flesh. Butch had to fight the knee-jerk reaction of slapping her. He grabbed her wrist instead.
«Lady, do you want me to hurt you?» he growled.
Her smile flickered between defiant and lost, while never leaving the territory of «crazy». Gilzean's rage vanished as he realized that yes, she wanted him to. It was exactly what she was looking for. She was messed up enough that she was hoping for it. He just couldn't be angry at that, it was too pathetic. He could feel pity, though, tons of it. It was the kind of things that got to him, the psychological damage, the trauma. He could kill someone in cold blood and not lose any sleep. He could abduct, beat up, and torture, and not feel overly concerned about it. He did not delude himself into thinking that his living victims had left his care in perfect mental condition. Some PTSD, he figured. Some bad dreams. Some anxiety. Maybe the occasional case of alcoholism and drug addiction. But he didn't think he had ever erased someone, that he had ever scrambled their marbles so bad that their concept of normalcy had flipped.
She tried to free her right hand, failed, and slapped him with the left one. He endured the stinging and grabbed that hand too. So she started kicking him, and he pulled her to him, holding her close so she could not hurt him. She still headbutted him and stomped on his feet. When that failed to make him snap, she changed tactics. She smiled - a nasty, chilling thing - and started moving against him, ever so slightly grinding their hips together.
That was the kind of game she was pretty good at winning.
###