Note: This story is complete on Archive of our own. Same author name.
Jim parked in front of Leslie's, leaned back into his seat, and took a deep breath. He had not managed to track Barbara down, though he assumed Cobblepot would be much more successful. He also feared that, in the unlikely event the two of them were not accomplices, Penguin would kill Barbara if he got his hands on her. The more Jim thought of it, the more he suspected they were working together. If she was going around robbing collectors and stealing masterpieces, she needed someone who could move millions around. And she was working with both Gilzean and Zsasz. That wasn't suspicious at all. It was a tidbit of information he'd have to pass to MCU.
He called Harvey, who had been trying to track down Gilzean.
«Hey, any luck?» they asked in one voice as soon as Bullock picked up.
Then there was a silence as they tried to figure out who should talk first.
«None on my side», Jim said. «I went to Cobblepot, he 'doesn't know', so I waited to see if he called Zsasz in, so I could tail h-»
«You what?»
«I figured he could possibly be tailed to Barbara's hideout. What else do we have?»
«Don't go and follow the homicidal maniac! Christ. What the hell were you thinking?»
«That there was a slim possibility that Penguin would send him to murder her.»
«Which would save us all a lot of trouble. Leave the hitman alone. Let me track Butch down.»
«Any luck on your side?»
«Nooooooo!» came a girl's voice in the background.
«Is that Selina?» Jim said.
«Yeah», Harvey mumbled. «The brat dropped on me when I stopped for food and demanded a hot-dog.»
His version of the events obviously did not agree with Kyle's.
«I didn't demand, I said I help you track the guy down but that it didn't come for free!»
«Anyway, I have nothing yet», Bullock explained. «Usually, I'd go to the club, he spent ten years with his ass glued to a barstool there, but of course when you need him, he's nowhere near the place.»
«Just call me if you hear something and I'll join you.»
«Yeah. Is someone still watching Penguin's place? I know the cap' sent men, but I don't see the little freak allowing them to hang around.»
Sent men was an understatement. Sarah had dispatched a few teams, Carlos a few others, and a great many cops had taken it upon themselves to start looking for Barbara on their own time. People liked Essen. With Maroni dead and Falcone retired, no one cared about her arresting Flass anymore. Her kids were cute. And she was a cop. A good part of the GCPD was closing ranks around her.
«I've be keeping in touch with Alvarez», Jim said. «Sarah went home, he has been handling everything. From what he tells me, one of the teams has been nicely asked to leave, and the others can't get close. Cobblepot has half an army patrolling around the place.»
«Makes sense, he's waiting for Maroni to hit back.»
The blond sighed. Right. Penguin had tried his best to start a new gang war. He had nearly forgotten about that.
«Anyway, they saw cars going in and out, but they're posted too far to see whose, let alone to check the license plates. If they get more, I'll let you know.»
«BUY YOUR OWN FRIGGING FRIES, FOR FUCK'S SAKE!» his partner screamed into his ear. Jim nearly dropped his phone. «Sorry. Damnit. Yeah, let me know. I'll call you later anyway.»
«Don't kill the girl, Harv'!»
«Don't tempt me», his friend replied, hanging up.
Jim took a deep breath and spent five minutes looking at his phone, too exhausted to even try to get out of the car. He was hanging on by a thread. He kept pulling at that thread, hauling himself up, dragging himself forward, and he wasn't sure he knew why. Debra Paxton, thirty-two, mother to a boy of nine. And how many more? She had been an afterthought, like everyone else he had screwed over. Bruce. Selina. Leslie. Barbara. Barbara.
He hated her. He did. The monster she was, every word out of her mouth, the sick game with the lyrics - «I didn't think what I told you mattered at all, it never did» - but most of all he hated her because if he stopped, he would not be able to take the guilt. She was dead, and she was haunting him, but she was dead and it was his fault, and he would pay. At least he hoped she was dead. Maybe, somewhere underneath those thorns and splinters and shards of ice, there was something left of her, somehow. Jim knew how to drown fear in fury, how to cover pain with rage, how to build walls so strong no one could see your weaknesses, not even you. It was a good armor, one you didn't want to let go of.
Of course, she 's there underneath. It's too personal not to be.
He had come to the point where he could only summon anger in short bursts, where his mental walls were falling to pieces. He was feeling again, and he hated it. It was much easier to feel only when he allowed himself to. You busied yourself, you held your mother's hand, you woke up early in the morning for PE and drills and patrol and then you ran through battlefields and over corpses and you held some friend's hand while he was bleeding out, only to realize that he couldn't feel it because his arm was severed at the elbow but you didn't allow yourself to break because you knew about blood and lethal injuries and your mother had dragged you to therapy for six years and it hadn't helped as much as just shutting it out, so you did and it worked for everything, be it war or your father's burial where the casket had been closed, absolutely closed, and then the horrors of Gotham that would punch you in the gut and made you slip a bit, a bit, and a bit more, but you just pushed it down and didn't talk about it «so please stop asking questions, Barb'», and you put one foot in front of the other and tried to do good, but it only worked up to a point. The point where he could only summon so little anger he felt like curling up into a ball and sleeping most of the time, and - every now and then - weeping.
Scottie had recommended trauma counseling. «Leslie. You. Together. Separately. Counseling. GO». Lee was already going. Jim didn't see the point. It had not helped after his father's death. It wouldn't help now.
He forced himself to get out of the car, then forced himself to start walking. He straightened his spine. He squared his jaw. Then he walked to Leslie's building and patted himself to find his key. An old woman walked up to him, looking confused and lost. She had to be in her nineties, with sparse violet-gray hair, a silk scarf over her shoulders, and an old-fashioned coat with a houndstooth pattern.
«Excuse me, young man. Could you please help me? I-I believe I'm lost.»
«Of course, ma'am. What seems to be the problem?», Jim replied, habit kicking in.
«I am looking for Stillwell Street. I'm trying to get to my grandson's, but I think I got lost. I had to take the bus, see. I used to have a license, but they took it away. Bad eyesight, they said. So here I am, taking the bus, and I think I got the stop wrong.»
The cop thought about it. Stillwell street was two blocks - and one bus stop - away. It wasn't a long walk, but it was Gotham city, and the woman appeared a bit more than just physically lost.
«It's not far. I can show you the bus that goes that way. I'll wait for it with with you.»
«Don't be nonsensical! Do I look like an infirm? Just point me at the direction, and I-I'll go. I can walk just fine! Young people nowadays. Always relying on motors. Fresh air would do you good. You are very pale.»
«Then maybe I could accompany you?» he offered, worried. «You are right. Stillwell street is not that far. I believe you got out of your bus one stop too early.»
The old woman stared at him.
«Bus? I took no bus! I just walked out to buy bread. I don't know what nonsense you're inventing now, Jonathan, but I'll be heading home! I have no time for silliness.»
It was Jim's turn to stare, and pale.
«Mrs», he said, getting his badge out. «I'm detective Gordon, from the GCPD. Can you please-»
She walked away from him, quite swiftly for her age.
«I said 'no time for nonsense', boy, and you're too old for toys.»
He hurried after her.
«What is your name, Mrs.? Can you please give me your address?»
«I'm Grandmother to you, young boy, and you know full well where I live.»
«Stillwell street?» Jim hazarded.
If she was confusing him with her grandson, maybe he was living in her own house.
«Of course, Stillwell street. Your mother was born there, you little rascal. You should know full well.»
Jim sighed and followed her. It wasn't such a long walk, and her pace was energetic. If he was lucky, her family was actually living in the house she was trying to get to, and her grandson would be able to take care of her.
«What's your name, Mrs?» he insisted.
«Adora. Adora Valentine. And who are you?» she replied, only vaguely curious, with no recollection of having mistaken him for 'Jonathan'.
«Detective Gordon, Mrs. From the GCPD.»
«You look like a dependable man. Well dressed. My daughter would like you.»
«I, uh, I'm very flattered, Mrs. Valentine», he replied.
«So, what does a detective do, exactly?»
«Well, Mrs., I'd say it depends of the case…»
He gave her a heavily romanticized version of his daily activities, and she led him to a little house at the back of a derelict property. It had been cozy, once upon a time, but it looked like it hadn't been renovated since the early twenties. Jim thought it was abandoned for a moment, then Mrs. Valentine got the key out of her purse and opened the door.
«Please come right in», she invited. «I'll make us some tea.»
He nodded, hoping he would find her grandson inside, or at least some other member of her family. If not, he would call the precinct. He walked in, stopping in the hallway, and caught a faint motion behind his back. He whirled just in time to see the man who had been hiding behind the door slam it. Then Mrs. Valentine tased him.
###
Barbara let herself be escorted back to her loft, weeping all the way through like some herself in Falcone's hands. She curled up on the sofa as Cobblepot's men - Gabe, and a tall blond in the mandatory gray suit - discussed her state.
«Think she learned her lesson?» the fat ass asked.
«Sure looks like it. Heh, she's lucky, the boss went soft on her. He's not always that forgiving», the blond remarked as they left.
«Take care of yourself, Miss Kean», Gabe advised her as they walked out the door.
He studied her face. She started wailing and curled up some more, until the door closed. Then she jumped up and slowly wiped her face against her shoulder and arm, leaving a trail of makeup over her skin and clothes. She rubbed the foundation and concealer away from her face with both hands, the pain of her bruises a welcome sting.
«I mean that I'm granting you a refund», the little creep had told her. Refund. She would give him a refund. «Here's what will be happening. You are going to go on your merry way, stealing artwork, selling it, sharing the profits, and then I might consent to let your companion live.»
She walked to the bedroom and stripped, throwing her fancy clothes away.
If you sit around and let them get on top, you might as well be saying you think that it 's OK.*
Her junkie outfit had worked just fine when she had stalked Jim - the Cardinals hoodie, the old jeans, the extremely expensive and comfortable sneakers she had covered in dirt. So she put them on and went to the bathroom to clean her face - not too much - and took a step back and looked at herself in the mirror. Bruised, battered, broke and broken.
And THAT 'S NOT RIGHT.*
She went for her knives and hid them, in her pockets, in her sleeve, against her calf, elsewhere.
«And if that's not right, you have to put it RIGHT»*, she growled, slamming the bathroom's door as she got out.
How convenient that everything had already been put into words by someone else. She found it really validated her feelings.
She walked to the window and looked down to the street. As she suspected, there was a car waiting for her, and a man was watching both the building's door and its fire escape.
People thought she was fragile and helpless but no longer. «I've known parents», Butch had said. «Out of the house for several hours a week». But that had been the singing. Good little girls also played the piano and the violin. And they danced. And they took gymnastics classes.
All escapes …
«… Start with the click of a lock»*, she whispered as she opened the balcony door and ran to the fire escape.
Several stories underneath, Cobblepot's thug looked up and waited for her to climb down. She was not going down. There were no steps up - A storm can begin with the flap of a wing.* - so she jumped from the stairs - five seconds of free fall - to grab the ledge of the closest balcony, on the adjacent building, and heaved herself up. Sure, it had been a few years since she had last swung from uneven bars, but she did yoga. And she jogged. And she lifted weights. And she put herself through hundreds of push-ups a week so she would be thin and pretty for her handsome boyfriend (who had left anyway, but who cared?), and then some.
All in one, climbing up was easy. The steps of this building's fire escape led to the roof, and from there she could go anywhere. People thought she was too dumb to learn. Well, she was blonde. She was pretty. Of course they did. She could listen and watch just fine and Selina thought she was the only person who could climb. Once upon a time, Barbara had been afraid of heights, so she could not have followed, that was all. No longer.
«Just because you think that life's not fair…» she recited as she raced across the roof, «it doesn't doesn't mean you have to grin and bear it…»*
The song got her through a few blocks, as she kept mixing the lyrics up. She ended up slipping into an upscale flat, a few streets away from the loft. Of course, a woman had to be present, and had to scream when Barbara walked into her living room, so the blonde stabbed her in the belly and slit her throat. Sometimes you have to be a little bit naughty*. Then she stole the idiot's phone and called Willy. She gave him very clear instructions (he wasn't big on understanding the underlying meanings of a conversation, so clarity was in order). She found her victim's car keys, her wallet, and matches. An hour later, the building was burning down and Barb' was getting out of the woman's Audi, in some industrial complex downtown. She met with Willy and three dozen hirelings in the basement of an abandoned lamp factory.
She explained the plan. She got protests.
«It's suicide», one of the thugs pointed out.
«Of course it's suicide», she retorted. «That's why I'm giving you all a two hundred grands incentive if you survive. And it's not that complicated, really. Raid the place. Kill everyone. Spare the women. Now… The first one to the weapons crate gets the rocket launcher.»
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