Hello, everyone! As always, thanks for encouraging more writing insanity on my part. Happy Tuesday, and Happy Nanowrimo to all you writers out there. This year, I'm working on "Trust Fall", which will be my next Gotham FanFic. So, whether I 'win' or not, there will be a new story getting posted after this one. It will take place in between Season 2 and Season 3, because the actual writers of the show gave me a whole 6 months where Harvey Bullock is 'acting' Captain. Whee!
(x)
Jim Gordon thought it was ironic that, before he talked to Bullock, he'd acknowledged, to himself only, that he needed his next session. He also knew it wasn't in anyone's best interest for him to be thinking that way. Just having that thought encouraged Madeline to continue to use favors and back doors, ones that could potentially lead to her being targeted or arrested on charges herself.
But he'd been in a cage too long. And despite the toll their last session had taken on him, up until seeing Harvey, he'd begun to feel… better. Not good, not great, but clearer. Not quite as raw. Not quite as numb.
There wasn't much to do at Blackgate, other than to think. The more he considered the words Madeline shared with him, the more he noticed some of the patterns she pointed out repeating themselves in his thinking and even more in his immediate actions.
It became especially apparent when he was led by Warden Grey onto F-Wing, better known as "World's End". For most the inmates, it was just that. The end of the line.
As he stepped onto the block, Jim secured his 'go ahead, try it' drill-bit stare in place, just like he had in the army, at the GCPD, and … at other points in his life. As usual, the threat of immediate physical danger gave him pinpoint focus. But that wasn't where it stopped.
The pattern reared its ugly head later that same day. With Puck, who stood up for him and got his face punched in for his trouble.
Jim wanted to ignore the fact that Puck was yet another person that he "was disinclined to let get close" or who "was worth protecting" over himself. … But he couldn't. That was the thing with therapy. Once a pattern of behavior is called for what it is and brought out in the open, it can't be denied. It's exposed. You can't continue to act it out with the same intensity, once you understand how it's destructive to yourself, or more importantly, others.
'… Or more importantly, others.'
That was the other problem. Jim was learning that once you start noticing, you can't stop.
Unfortunately, just recognizing the pattern wasn't enough. He needed a stronger, more powerful way of thinking if he was going to keep himself clear and stable. That was the whole reason he'd planned to keep the next session, if there even happened to be one. Madeline had pulled up things from his past, but she hadn't closed them back up. He knew it didn't work that way in therapy, but he at least needed the therapeutic equivalent of duct tape. His mind needed a patch-job. And fast.
Or at least, that's what he'd planned. But that was before Bullock came to call, bringing news of Lee and the baby with him.
Jim trudged down the white-washed, peeling hallways, led forward by Wilson Bishop. Now all he wanted to do was run and keep running. Unfortunately, Madeline chose to break into the prison during the time he'd usually be in the yard, sprinting around the perimeter to keep his thoughts at bay.
Instead of exhausting his body until his weary mind shut down, he walked up to a room with the only person in his life who could amplify every feeling he had to its maximum volume.
The door to the abandoned therapy room creaked open loudly. Jim only had to take one look at Madeline's face and he saw it.
He wouldn't need to tell her what happened. She already knew.
She sat in her usual position, on the other side of the dilapidated card table. She didn't greet him and didn't tell him to drink the coffee on the table. She didn't even ask about the fresh bruises on his face. She didn't say anything. She just watched him closely.
Jim eyed her apprehensively. Behind him, the door loudly shut, and Wilson took his leave, just like always. He sat down in the chair, his entire body primed for … for what? An attack? He knew it made no sense. Madeline was a lot of things but physically threatening wasn't one of them.
Or maybe it did make sense. Here in this room she could speak anything into existence. Something about him being in the center of World's End. Something about Lee. Something about the baby. She knew his weak points, nearly every one he wagered. Here he sat before her, one big open, exposed pressure point.
He found himself just slightly shaking his head. Why did she come back here? What would be the point of talking about it now at this point? What did she want him to do? Go to pieces? Break down? What good would it do?
Madeline kept silent. Jim met her stare for as long as he could. Then, he dropped eye contact. He was afraid that if she looked at him in that deep careful way for too long that she'd see too much.
The silence moved in like a cloud covering. Jim waited for it to disperse, but it hung there, thick and heavy. Madeline didn't force anything, didn't make him talk about anything. ...But that didn't mean it wasn't all right there in the room with them.
Jim stared down into the gritty cement flooring, his gaze unfocused. If someone would have asked him a couple weeks ago if he'd hit rock bottom, Jim would have said in a stern, gruff voice, "I don't know. But I think this is what it looks like." Unfortunately, it turned out rock bottom had a basement.
Now that he was at his lowest point, the only thing he could think of that would make it worse was having someone else there to witness it.
Jim closed his eyes and rolled them to himself.
He immediately dismissed the thought as soon as he had it. He knew it wasn't true.
Madeline didn't come there to rip at wounds that hadn't closed or to dig up old fears or expose his failures. That was never her intention. He'd been doing all those things just fine on his own, way before she chose to involve herself in the state of his mental health. It wasn't her fault that he was on edge and broken down and surrounded by dangerous killers threatening to end his life at every turn. No more than it was his, if he chose to believe what she so desperately wished he would.
No matter how openly he'd disagreed with every theory she presented, the more he thought about it, the more some of her assessments made logical sense. Aside from Harvey he had no close friends. He didn't confide in others. There had been only one real exception to that rule. Lee and their child had been his rock, his center. Without them, he could feel himself spinning off his axis.
Now this woman in front of him comes in here and puts her safety in jeopardy all in some thin hope of reaching him. What does he do? He does whatever he can, says anything that might get her to end things, to leave him be. To get out while she still can.
And even after all that, she hadn't let him distract her or take her off task, not in the least. She saw something needed to be done, so she did it, in spite of all the glaringly obvious reasons not to.
Something welled up inside him, and suddenly, Jim wanted to thank her. Wanted to apologize. But he knew that neither were what she wanted to hear from him. She wanted him to start talking about anything he felt, all the things he worked so hard to keep under wraps. She wanted him to do that so the people in his own life might benefit. Or more importantly, so he might benefit.
But here was the thing. He couldn't. It was just that simple. Jim couldn't do that for her, or for him, or for anyone he wagered. Not at this point. Maybe he could have done it for Lee, maybe if she'd been there that moment. Of course, she was who he really wanted to talk to in every moment, including this one.
Without moving a muscle, he briefly glanced at Madeline. She kept staring off to the side away from him, lost for the moment in her own thoughts. Today she put him in mind of one of his mother's Lladro figurines. White lace top, pale blue circle skirt. He averted his gaze as he wondered how the analysis of that might go. Probably something Freudian. If wasn't something he ever would have spoken out loud, but he was still glad he hadn't.
Madeline sat up and ran her hands through her hair, smoothing the strands down over her shoulder. She waited a long moment before she began to speak. "My first internship I worked for Hospice Care. I was twenty-one, just out of college. So I already knew everything, of course. When I met with the families, I tried to say things to make it all better, to bring them some kind of comfort as they watched someone they loved pass away. But every time I opened my mouth to talk ... I just made things worse. I got so frustrated one day that I asked my supervisor to give me some talking points, some go-to phrases that would help them feel better about everything." A wistful smile quirked onto her face. "He looked at me very strangely, and he said, 'Why do you think you have to say something?' I got pretty quiet and felt sort of embarrassed. And he said, 'You don't have to say anything. All you have to do is be there with them.'"
Listening to the soft sound of her voice, Jim felt some of the tension that knotted up inside him begin to uncoil. Construction in his chest eased and for the slightest moment, his breathing was more relaxed.
Jim hadn't even begun to address let alone get over the pain of losing his child and his connection to Lee. He was certain Madeline knew that about him before he even stepped inside the room with her. They both knew grief didn't work that way. Pain like that had a way of sticking around for the long haul. Jim also knew it could all be suppressed behind a facade, if the person worked hard enough. But even if he put on a performance that put DeNiro to shame, it wouldn't work with her. So he saved his energy and let the grief fall upon him in whatever capacity it naturally would. He let it sink him down, and he allowed himself to look however he was going to look sitting across from her.
He half-expected himself to cry. He wouldn't even have minded if he did. Normally, Jim took pride in not crying. Now he wanted to and he wasn't sure if he could.
Instead of crying, something else happened. In letting go, he experienced one clear, quiet moment of relief.
When Jim lifted his head, he found Madeline staring straight back at him. Something came over her. She wore a look of deep concern. He realized that he'd never seen her look at him that way, not in any of their previous sessions. Maybe she was affected more than he thought she'd be, seeing the grief wash over him. … Or maybe, as she'd implied, he read her as caring for him far less than she actually did.
Madeline hesitated. Then she reached out and touched the sleeve of his shirt.
It got his absolute attention, which was no doubt exactly why she'd done it.
She leaned in slightly and said, "I know you think that there's no way for you to get out of this place. But I need you to hear something."
Jim felt his chest swell up, and he met her eye.
She looked back at him. "I need you to know that when Harvey tells you that he's coming for you and he's getting you out?" She whispered, "He's coming for you and he's getting you out."
He felt his face smile just slightly. It was tired and weary, and it wasn't much of one. But it still happened. Madeline smiled wanly back at him, removed her hand, and sat back in her chair.
They didn't discuss his partner in session. Given his and Madeline's obvious history, Jim always figured there was a therapist rule against that. But since she was the one who spoke it into the room, he said, "I know that." His voice sounded hoarse as he made a safe guess, "For the same reason you do."
Madeline's smile widened slightly before it muted again. "Because those of us lucky enough to make it into the inner circle get the V.I.P. treatment."
Jim breathed a short noise that might have become a laugh under different circumstances. As they sat there, Jim realized that at some point during the session she'd switched roles on him. She wasn't talking to him like a therapist. She was talking to him like she was his friend.
Just then, the silence was broken by the buzz of her phone, set on vibrate.
She lifted the phone to her eyes. Jim had never seen her answer her phone in a session before either. Madeline's face paled slightly, and she quickly texted back.
Jim felt himself frowning. "Madeline, what-"
He broke off suddenly as he heard a door at the end of the hallway bang open, metal on concrete. Jim swerved around in his seat, all nerves. All at once, he shot up, primed for action. He heard pounding, urgent footsteps rushing toward them. Boots the guards wore, but not Wilson Bishop's. There were two, no, three of them, heading straight for them.
Jim ran forward and grabbed Madeline by the arm, yanking her up to her feet in one swift motion. He ordered her in a hard voice, "You have to get out of here. Run! Right now!"
He went to jolt her forward with him, but she anchored herself and didn't budge. He briefly considered grabbing her up, throwing her out of the room, and forcing her to make a run for it. But she remained absolutely still. "No," she said decisively. "It's like I said, Jim. I'm not going anywhere."
He pulled her arm toward him and lowered his voice into a growl of authority. "You have to go. If you run, you can make it-"
"If I did, would it help?" She looked at him evenly.
Jim gritted his teeth against his closed mouth. Looking at her, he realized that her mind was made up. She'd put these events into motion. She wouldn't abandon them now.
Behind him, he heard the guards' footsteps approaching. In seconds, they would be there. A frustrated sigh escaped from between his lips, and he released her arm.
Madeline calmly took her seat and smoothed down her skirt. She leveled her gaze forward, took a deep breath, and watched the door. She sat patiently, waiting for it to open.