As far as life advice went, one of the most sensible, important tips was «don't stick your dick in crazy». It was a good rule, if only because if you did stick your dick in crazy, you could not be sure you would get it back. More generally, it ended in a mess in eleven out of ten cases. Butch liked sensible life advice. He tried to follow common sense in most of his decisions, when common sense applied (which was rarely). He had been known to slip. Among other things, he had joined the Mafia. And followed Fish Mooney for more than a decade. And killed a few people. And if Fish had admitted to returning his feelings more than five minutes before her demise, he would have thrown caution to the winds and stuck his dick in crazy with reckless abandon.
All things considered, maybe he wasn't that good at decision making. So it was a good thing that Barbara was so certifiably insane that he did not feel the compulsion to accept her advances. Not too much. She was laying it on quite thick. But he had the distinct feeling that attempting to sleep with Kean would have been akin to throwing one's soul into a blender and expecting to get it out intact. She did not want sex. She wanted to find some button to push you over the edge so you would pay her a visit in Crazy Land. It was all a creepy, sick power game, and Butch wanted no part of it. His cock was not always in perfect agreement, but so far his brains had remained firmly in control. It helped that her mood swings were bad enough that you knew saying yes could get you stabbed in the face.
Her brand of crazy was hard to pinpoint. Bipolars swayed between mania and depression. That was their thing. If he had to coin a term here, he'd have aimed for «multipolar», what with not being a psychiatrist or anything. She could be all nice and elegant and polite and ladylike, only to start sulking like a four years old for reasons that made no sense at all. Then she would flip and physically attack you, be it with her fists or knives (it had led to her taking a chair to the face, as the sanest reaction against a knife-wielder was not to let them within arm's reach). Or she would quote Dead or Alive - «All I know is that to me, you look like you're lots of fun, open up your lovin' arms» and all that jazz - and flirt like you wouldn't believe. She could also go blank and vacant and lost, talking like a little child. Or, most of the time, she went into full «this is hilarious», «no fucks given» mode, which was the worst of all because it drove you insane.
The song lyrics thing was weird. Funny, but weird.
Butch could not figure out what her plans were. He was not sure she had plans beyond the next day. There was some «attempt to murder Jim Gordon's loved ones» on the horizon, but nothing expressly defined. She was «considering her options», or so she said. Mostly, they spent their days reading magazines in their hideout, and Butch was sent to get bio salads and smoothies at random intervals. When Kean actually tried to organize something, it seemed to have freshly popped out of her mind.
«Hey, can you find me some men?» she asked one day, from her cushion fort on the bed, in the middle of a 16 and pregnant episode.
«Probably. Depends. What for?»
«Criminal activities.»
«Well that really clarifies matters. I'll post a classified and let you sort through the resumes.»
«Now come on, don't be difficult. I thought 'henchmen' jobs required versatility.»
«Lady. Different jobs require different skill sets and, more importantly, different salaries. So what do you want to do? Steal things? Kill people? Rob places?»
«All of the above? Maybe?»
«Pick one!»
«Are you somehow unable to get men for one of those activities?»
«Huh, no?»
«THEN STOP BEING DIFFICULT AND JUST SAY YES!»
He groaned.
«Yeah, I suppose I can get you men.»
She jumped out of bed and stole his phone, then made a call and started pacing, waiting for the other side to pick up. It took twenty seconds. By that point, she was standing on the bed and bouncing into place. She dropped down in lotus position as soon as someone replied.
«Hi, Paul! This is Barbara, Barbara Kean! I have a business proposal for you. I believe you'll reeeeally like it.»
Three hours later, they met «Paul» in the woods right behind his mansion. The man - a forty-something in an Armani suit - was accompanied by two bodyguards, and kept a sane distance between him and Barbara.
«Barbara. I'll have to admit, your call came as a surprise. I was under the impression you were on the run after your escape from Arkham Asylum.»
She gave him a polite, warm smile.
«I wouldn't say on the run. I fully intend to stay in Gotham. I grew up here. You know how difficult it is to leave your home.»
«Yes, of course. Now, from the news I have heard… Were you really committed because you murdered your parents?»
«I'm afraid that's true. We just couldn't see eye to eye.»
«Well, I suppose I'm mostly surprised that it took you so long.»
Butch choked at that. Paul turned to him, unfazed.
«I take it you never met Miss Kean's parents?»
«Haven't had the pleasure», Gilzean replied, stunned.
Paul chuckled and turned back to Barbara.
«What brings you? I'll admit, I'm curious about that business proposal.»
«I'll be direct. Is your prenup still preventing you from getting that divorce?»
Paul stared at her, lips pinched. He mulled over her words, then relaxed.
«You weren't kidding when you said 'direct', were you? How does that relate to business?»
«I thought you might be in need of some assistance to extract some valuables from your home, and exchange them for sixty percent of their value in cash. The Picasso comes to mind.»
«Just so we are clear. When you say 'extract', you mean 'steal', right?»
«I think the exact terms would be 'armed robbery', if I'm not mistaken, but I'm not yet up to date on criminal terminology.»
Butch stared at her. So she had a plan. And it was not absolutely insane either. He could picture it: raiding the mansion, walking out with one or two master painting and whatever wasn't nailed down on the way. It wouldn't be easy - that kind of place came with guards - but it would not be impossible. About the same odds as a bank heist, really, minus the terrified civilians. The place was out of town, too, which meant a slower response time from the cops. Also, if one of the residents were to inform the team of the guards' routine, things could go very smoothly.
Paul crossed his arms.
«How am I supposed to trust you not to vanish with the paintings?»
Barbara lifted her eyebrows.
«It would greatly hinder my future as a fence, really, seeing how you would immediately tell the cops that I contacted you about a 'purchase' or something equally not incriminating for you.»
«Not nearly convincing enough», her potential customer replied.
She smiled.
«It makes no difference to you, does it? You won't see a dime of the value of those paintings if Janet leaves you, and we both know you're grasping at straws to keep your relationship together. At worst, I vanish with the Picasso. What is it to you? Janet will be the one inconvenienced. You lose nothing.»
«At worst you get caught and you accuse me of helping you out.»
She started laughing and did not quite stop. After a few moments, she waved her hand and wiped her eyes.
«I'm a lunatic», she pointed out. «Certifiably insane. Can't stand trial. A whole team of doctors agreed. I could accuse you, and so what? No one would believe me.»
Paul studied her face. Butch studied his. The man was convinced.
###
Dollmaker had not lied about the pain. Once the meds had worn off - and that had been right after he had sewn her torn stitches back together - she had started to feel it.
It was bad. It was awful when she breathed. It was worse when she moved. Not that she moved a lot, being strapped to her bed. But it was bad even when the only thing she did was stare at Liza on the ceiling's mirror. She could feel every suture, and they numbered in the thousands.
The pain, she could take. She was not about to brag that she could endure any kind of torture, but she was tougher than most. She had never had a choice in the matter. Life, lemons, lemonade. What she could not stomach was the inaction. She could not free herself (God knew she had tried, and it had only gotten her stitches to reopen). Thus, she could not get out of bed, she could not bash the Dollmaker's face in when he visited, and she could not attempt to escape. Which was infuriating, as she knew the door was not even locked. She had no idea how long she had spent in the room either. There was no night and day, the walls were mirrors from floor to ceiling, without a single window. No clocks. Her meals seemed to be brought every four hours, if she had counted right, but she couldn't match the nurses' visits to a specific hour.
She was going crazy with rage.
The only thing she could do was insult Dulmacher when he joined her, and it would have sounded so pathetic that she mostly kept silent. She still ground her teeth every time the door opened.
That day, she turned her head expecting to find herself face to face with her jailer. She had to look down by a few heads.
«Hi», said the seven years old brown skinned boy who had pushed the door open.
She blinked.
«Hello?»
Now what was a child doing there?
He was wearing a hospital gown and plastic slippers. His arms were covered with needle marks.
«Have you seen my brother?» he asked. «The nurses say he's in another room but I can't find him.»
«I don't know», Fish replied. «What does your brother look like?»
The boy rocked on his heels and walked to her.
«Like me», he announced. «But bigger. Like this.»
He waved his hand ten inches above his head.
«I don't think I've seen him. What's your name?»
«Why are you all tied up?»
«So I don't turn while I sleep. I have stitches», she said, thankful that her bandages were covering enough for the boy not to see the horrors underneath.
«I have stitches too», he said, taping his belly. «I had appendicitis.»
Appendicitis seemed a bit too common for Dulmacher's skill. What had the boy received? A kidney? A liver?
«Did you?»
«Yep. You have a lot of scars.»
«I do, as a matter of fact. So. You still didn't tell me your name.»
«I'm Calvin.»
«Like Calvin and Hobbes?»
He glared at her. He clearly had heard that before.
«Ah well, what's in a name? I'm Fish», she replied.
«You're serious?»
«No, not Sirius. Fish.»
The boy stared at her.
«That wasn't funny at all.»
«They removed my funny bone.»
Calvin stared.
«Alright, I'm done attempting to joke», Fish promised. «Have you been here long? Where are your parents?»
«Mom's in Gotham, I think. The city people came and took us away because she was… Ill. And me and my brother we had appendicitis, so we had to come here to get surgery. But doctor Dulmacher says I have a case of complications and I have to stay a bit longer.»
Fish felt the blood drain from her face. The kid was not a patient. He was a donor. And so was his brother, if she had to guess.
«So when did you arrive?»
«I dunno. Weeeeeks. I think. There's no school, so I don't know.»
«And your brother? When did you see him last?»
«I dunno. I should go search, too! Before someone sees I'm gone. The nurses are going to be angry at me.»
«You're not supposed to get out of your room?»
«Nah. I have needle things and tubes I'm not allowed to remove.»
«Like mine?» Fish said, pointing at her own catheters with her chin.
«Yeah.»
«I'm not sure you should remove those.»
«It's okay, I'm not ill or anything», Calvin told her as he ran back to the door. «Want me to close this?»
She stared. She did not want him to go.
«Yes, please. You should go back to your room», she replied.
He was never going to find his brother. She could have bet her life on it.
«After I find Logan.»
«Before the nurses find you! And you didn't come here, alright? You'd get in trouble. I'm not supposed to see people», she explained with a wink. «I catch people's colds and bugs all the time.»
«D'you? I haven't made you sick, have I?»
«Not a chance. You look very healthy to me. But you know the nurses. They're strict.»
The boy swallowed.
«Yeah. I won't tell», he muttered. «Uh, get well soon?»
«I will, I will. You too!»
«Yep! Bye!»
And, just like that, he closed the door and trotted away.
###