Hey, readers! Thanks for keeping up with this story. I've been loving the new Gotham season so far, and I hope you guys are too. Here's the next! Big thank you to everyone who favorited/followed this time around! Hope everybody's work/school week got off to a good start. :)

(x)

Jim Gordon sat alone at an ancient, graying picnic table in "the yard", which was a poor designation in his opinion. Really, it was just a huge, fenced-off asphalt area where the prison gangs could fight over turf and time on the basketball court. He hunched over and stuffed his hands down inside his pockets, as he watched his breath crystalize in the frigid air. The threadbare prison-issued coat did little to shield him from the bone-cold temperature outside.

The metal door to the yard loudly swung open, and he turned to look over his shoulder. Harvey Bullock entered into the area, walking in as though he owned the place, trademark sideways smile in place.

Harvey slid down across from him at the picnic table. "He-eeey. There he is." He gave him a long once-over. "You're lookin' good." He pointed to his own face. "Sight for these sore eyes, I'll tell ya that much."

Jim only nodded to him. Harvey was being kind. They didn't have much in the way of creature comforts in Blackgate, but they did have mirrors. He knew he looked like hell.

His partner dug into the side pocket of his leather jacket and took out a couple horse pills. Right before he drank them down with whiskey from his flask.

Jim took an educated guess. "Blood pressure?"

"I'm gettin' old," he said. "I gotta take vitamins and shit." He offered his flask to Jim. He accepted it and took a long swig himself.

When Harvey took back the flask, an uncomfortable silence began to settle between them. Then his partner suddenly pointed to him. "I know what you're thinkin'..." He smirked and tugged at the collar of his leather coat, as if showing it off. "But this jacket is vintage. You can look but you won't be able to find it anywhere."

Jim dug up a ghost of a smile. "You on your way into the salt mines?"

"Yeah," he said, long and drawn out. "I gotta drive the squad car up here just to be able to park less than three miles away. Finding a legal parking spot around here is like the stuff dreams are made of." Harvey gave a quick raise of his eyebrows and he suddenly presented a carton of cigarettes, magician-style. "Speaking of which. Thought you might be able to use some walking around money."

He took it from him. "Thanks, Harv. I appreciate it."

"Hey, I told you. I got your back. This is the brotherhood. This is how it works."

It took Jim a minute before he asked, "How're things at the precinct?"

Harvey breathed out an exasperated sigh. "Got this bullshit case I'm dealing with right now. Whackass serial killer who's got a serious appetite for bloodshed. Three murders in two weeks."

"Sounds like a busy two weeks."

"You don't know the half of it. Barnes' got his nose right up my ass about this one. You'd think he'd have less toxic, more scenic places to be."

That was his specialty when it came to Harvey. "Got any suspects?"

"I'm pulling in Johns left and right, but no dice. Usually, there's beaucoup suspects to choose from. It's a goddamn desert out there."

Jim's brow furrowed as he considered the case. "You run by the stash houses on the East End?"

Harvey made a face. "Those posers used to have halfway decent intel, but lately they're a bunch of useless fucks. They're all front. All they do anymore is sell shit weed and drink Colt 45."

Jim felt a small hint of a familiar sensation. He recognized it as … belonging. For a short moment, he didn't feel like a prisoner. This was a conversation they could just as easily have had at their desks, or in the squad car, or getting greasy burgers outside a food truck. Of course, the fact that he acknowledged it only reminded him that these were the temporary blips of human connection he'd have to look forward to over his sentence.

Harvey kept right on going as usual. "Whoever's stabbing the whole set of kitchen knives through these broads, they're one cold son of a bitch. He's got more issues than Sports Illustrated."

He eased back into the conversation. "You run any ballistics? Find any DNA?"

"Ed looked into this massage oil the psycho rubs all over before he slices into 'em. It's Balsam oil. Apparently it's tough to find. But so far, no hits on anyone's account."

Jim frowned in thought. "...Balsam oil?"

"Yeah." Then. "I think. I dunno as soon as Nygma starts yammering it's like my brain shuts down purely on principle."

"Don't they use that oil in churches? For ceremonies, baptisms, that kinda thing?"

Harvey grinned suddenly. "You goin' all religious on me in here? That fast? It usually takes a good month or two before jailbirds go looking for Jesus."

Jim deadpanned, "From what I hear before you find God you've got to hit rock bottom."

"Either that or become a hopeless alcoholic." Harvey held up his flask. "Don't knock it. Some of us got goals we're workin' on here." Then he let out a sigh of relaxation. "So, you think I should scare up some salvation and barge in on Sunday morning worship, huh?"

"That's where I'd start."

"Hopefully when I walk in there I won't burst into flames." But he did add, "Thanks for the tip."

Another silence seeped in before Jim asked in a softer, more serious tone, "How's Lee doing?"

He kept it short. "She's back at work. Came back last week."

It was the same thing Madeline had said… and it said everything.

Which reminded him. Jim cleared his throat. "Look, Harvey. There's something I gotta tell you..."

"Save it. I already know."

Jim's eyes widened slightly in response.

Harvey shrugged. "I smelled that one comin' off her from a mile away. All I had to do was corner her and wait for her inevitable crisis of conscience." He said, "She buckled like a belt."

So it took Harvey less than three days to figure it out. He wondered how long it might take anyone else. But then again, maybe they wouldn't have to. Jim looked at him. "So it's done. You put a stop to it."

He sent him a stare. "How'd that go when you tried it?" As soon as he saw Jim's face drop, he nodded a solid 'that's what I thought'. "Don't worry. That ain't the last move I got. I'll end this thing." He said, "At least until then, I got eyes on it."

Jim sighed in response.

He stood up, walked over, and clapped him on the back. "But look it. Just because I got all these cute little intrigues keepin' my days full doesn't mean I've forgotten about you. I'm still narrowing down suspects in Pinkney's murder." He looked at Jim when he said, "I canvassed his neighborhood, friends, family. They're all clean as a preacher's sheets." He said, "Whoever did this covered his tracks big time. I think that means we gotta start lookin' in house at this thing."

Jim gave him a nod, as that had been his opinion exactly. "I appreciate it, Harv."

"Hang in there, Jimbo. Like I said, I'm gettin' you outta here." He started to back away. "Oh, hey. Just 'cause you're in here doesn't mean you're off the hook. I haven't forgotten about your little engagement to the doc. Get ready. 'Cause once we bust you outta here, you're gonna have the Girls Gone Wildest bachelor party this thieving town's ever seen."

Jim forced a smile and answered sarcastically, "Good to know."

As he walked away, he called back, "You're gonna have glitter in places you didn't even know you had. Keep those g-strings and singles on standby!"

(x)

Madeline sat behind her desk in her rented office space, jotting down notes, keeping herself occupied until her next session made his arrival. Though technically it wasn't really a session, more of a … check-in.

Only moments later, she raised her head as she heard someone enter in through the front door of the lobby. She walked through the doorway, to find Alfred Pennyworth in the foyer, shaking out his black umbrella. It had grown bitterly cold outside, but the freezing rain had yet to turn to snow.

Alfred looked up and said in his crisp British accent, "I appreciate you allowing me to stop in on short notice." He stood at attention. "I figured, seeing as how I was in the neighborhood…"

Madeline sent him a small smile and accepted his umbrella from him. "No, I was happy you returned my call." She hung the umbrella from her coatrack and motioned for him to follow her. "Come on inside."

Alfred took a step forward and pointed. "Into your office?"

"Mmm-hmm."

She clicked the door shut behind him as they both stepped into the still, quiet room. Alfred gazed around at the space, taking it in, as she'd often seen parents or significant others do before. … He was wondering what Bruce had said or not said about him in therapy. Had he been mentioned casually, ripped apart, or revered?

He turned back around and sent her an awkward glance. Madeline tried another little smile.

Alfred motioned to the two seats in the center of the room. "So, which one do I…?"

She shrugged. "Either's fine."

It only took him another moment's assessment to figure out which seat was probably hers, and he took the seat across from it.

Madeline joined him, sitting down comfortably, crossing one leg over the other.

They sat in relative silence for a moment. Then Alfred said, "You said you wanted to speak with me. About Bruce."

"Yes. Since you're here and he's not, I take it he hasn't returned home yet."

"No." There was a layer of sadness in his voice. "No, he hasn't."

She said, "You must be terrified for him."

"I'm worried sick. There hasn't been a day in his life until now that I haven't been there for that boy."

"I had no idea you'd been with the Waynes for so long." She sat back in her chair. "They must have had an enormous amount of respect for you. They must have trusted you completely, for them to leave Bruce in your care."

"Yes, well. In many ways, the Waynes are the only family I've ever known."

In the past, Madeline spent a great deal of time thinking about how Thomas and Martha Wayne's passing affected Bruce, but she'd be the first to admit that she hadn't considered how the loss would affect Alfred, despite how obvious his grief should have been to her. She latched onto the last part of what he'd said. "The only family you've ever known?"

He hesitated before he said, "Some of us come from homes where they have the luxury of individual care and attention. But in my experience, most don't." He added, "Often, we have to make our own way."

"It's got to be difficult growing up in a home where you aren't the priority. It tells you from a young age: you're on your own."

It became clear that Alfred saw it a different way. "It gives you thick skin," he said. "You learn to fight your own battles, to take care of yourself."

Madeline said, "That teaches a person how to survive. Unfortunately, it doesn't leave much room for your own needs, your own wants."

He considered her, and then a small smirk appeared on his face. "Are you trying to psychoanalyze me, doctor?"

"Well… I have made a career of it."

"Maybe you can't help yourself."

She unsuccessfully tried to hold back a smile. "That's probably true." She moved them back onto topic. "To be honest, some nights I've had thoughts myself of going out and looking for Bruce. I haven't, of course. But … if I'm thinking about it and I'm only his therapist, I can only imagine the steps you're taking to try to find him."

Alfred nodded. "I'm out looking most nights. In hopes of bringing him back. Unfortunately, it's more than a touch of the needle in the haystack."

She heard how tired his voice became. "What about the police? Are they providing any assistance?"

"They were, when Jim Gordon was …" He chose his words carefully. "Still in the service of the police department."

Madeline frowned to herself. She looked back up at Alfred. "That's a lot of loss." She added, "For you and Bruce. Gordon's sentencing, your time spent in the hospital, the anniversary of his parents' passing." She said, "It's a lot to handle at once."

Alfred sunk down just slightly as he appraised her. Then he asked, "You believe my time in the hospital is partly what made him leave?"

That hadn't been what she'd said. She'd been trying to get Alfred in touch with his own grief. But for some reason that's what he'd heard. "Are you feeling in any way responsible?"

He frowned a little. "How can I bloody not? I'm his guardian after all. At the very least I'm supposed to make his home a place he wants to be. A place where he can feel safe."

"You haven't done that?"

His voice became slightly irritated. "Yes, I've done that so well that he's vanished, probably into the most dangerous back alleys of Gotham, where any manner of harm could come to him at any time."

Madeline noticed the shift in the air. "Just so you know, it wasn't my intention to blame you, or any of us who care for him." She said, "That's often a misunderstanding of therapy. That we're here to find a scapegoat for our problems."

He blinked a few times. "What is the point, if you don't mind my asking?" His voice wasn't accusing, merely curious. "Of attending sessions like these? I've often wondered, as to the end goal you doctors have in mind."

Her smile quirked back into place. "Well, 'us doctors' think life is better off examined. When you have grief and anger and pain, how else can it be healed except by looking at it and thinking about it in a different way?"

Alfred said, "Does it ever get to the point where that prolongs the initial problem? I'm sure you'd have to agree that there comes a time when we need to … stop looking at every ache and pain. Eventually we have to move on."

She adjusted her glasses and sat up straighter. "When someone has a childhood where they have to be an adult because no one is going to care for them, there's no choice but to move on. The focus needs to be on surviving, getting through. However, unfortunately, that only pushes the pain to one side. It doesn't teach you to deal with it."

Madeline's words didn't seem to sit right with him. He stared off to the side. "Where I come from, being soft … can get you killed. I've seen … nightmares, horrors. Especially in the service. Now despite how badly the Waynes tried to protect him, Bruce has seen the same. Those experiences. They shape your view of the world."

She tried to put it in a nutshell. "So vulnerability needs to be avoided. At all costs."

Alfred didn't argue the interpretation. "In this city, if you remain vulnerable, you might not live long enough to make it into rooms like these."

She said, "And now Bruce is running away from this room and from his home, into the streets of Gotham where survival will be his only priority. Where there won't be any time or space to feel anything at all."

Alfred's mouth closed, and the room fell silent. He cleared his throat, and he moved forward to sitting on the edge of his seat. He looked … saddened by what she'd said, but also unsettled. "Well, I suppose," he said in a clipped tone. "That's one perspective."

Madeline looked at him for a long moment. Then, she took a chance, asking him, "Who are you really angry at, Alfred?"

He looked at her, and his demeanor softened. "Myself," he answered in a huff. He tossed up his hand. "Of course."

"Bruce loves you," she said.

It earned her sudden, intense eye contact. "He said that?"

"He doesn't have to. You're everything to him. He trusts you more than anyone," Madeline spoke it as an easy, obvious truth.

His frown deepened. She had meant for the thought to bring him comfort, but … perhaps it had only further amplified Bruce's absence and his own worry and grief concerning it.

They were just about at time. She'd have to bring them to a close, so she could see her next client. But she wanted to ask him one more question. "I know you were most likely left instructions on how to raise Bruce from Martha and Thomas."

Alfred looked up at her. He did confirm or deny it, nor did his face give anything away.

Madeline said, "But they're not here any more. You're his parent now. Are there things you have to teach Bruce that aren't of his own choosing? That aren't hard lessons that make him 'thick-skinned?'"

"Yes, of course, I have." He blinked at her and seemed to want her to get to her point. "What are you trying to say here, doctor?"

She obliged him. "I'm saying that, despite the circumstances, what you say and do matters to him, and you have much more influence over his decisions than you think."

Alfred took his leave. But before he left the office, he thanked her and promised to give her a call as soon as Bruce returned home.

Madeline closed the door behind him, and a memory bubbled up, a moment from one of Martha Wayne's sessions. She'd been volunteering much of her time to Child Protective Services. Martha had just come from removing several children from a house where the mother tried to provide a safe, loving home for them, even though she couldn't. It was clear the mother loved them all desperately, but she had no money, no food, no family, no support.

It kicked up old feelings of guilt for Martha and reminded her of the injustices that plagued the city. Sitting in the chair across from Madeline, she stared away, deep in thought and said, "It's hard out here, isn't it?"

Madeline often thought that if someone who didn't know her well had overheard, they might have become indignant. How dare this wife of a billionaire suggest that life is in any way difficult for her?

But Madeline understood what she meant. When one person experiences grief and loss, its impact doesn't end there. Because we're all connected, the rest of us experience it, too. She was saying, 'Isn't it heart-breaking that it's so hard out here in this city? For all of us?'