Chapter Fifteen: Sibling Love-Hate Relationship


Tiffany had only been working in the club scene for a week. Not even a week. So naturally, I didn't think anything would have happened so quickly. I'd gathered the day shift together before the club opened, dishing out the duties to the individuals such as who would be responsible for taking out the trash for pick-up, who would be waiting on which tables, and who would be ensuring peace among the more drunken patrons, as well as responsible for counting the register at the end of the day—that sort of thing. I'd dropped down to the bottom of the list.

"Who is going to show Tiffany how to make a slippery nipple—stop giggling, folks, we're grown adults here!" I said without looking up from my list (once more, I was standing on a chair because I was short).

"Tiffany isn't here, Boss," Henry spoke up.

I looked up and turned my head to the left where his voice had sounded. The staff glanced at each other, then at me nervously.

"Why not?" I asked calmly. "Is she sick?"

"She's in the hospital," Henry answered politely.

I placed my notepad on the table none too gently. Some of them flinched.

"And no one bothered to tell me!" I questioned irritably.

Unaffected by my mood change, Henry continued with the same politeness: "She was in a car accident, couple blocks from here. Some guys in a van ran a red light—newspapers are calling them the 'Red Hood Gang'. Ever since they started robbing banks."

"How long ago?"

"Couple days ago. The Gang's been robbing banks and—"

"I don't care what the gang is doing, kid. I meant when did Tiffany get hurt?" I said vehemently.

"Oh, sorry. Yesterday."

"Fine. Get to work. I'll be back."

"Who's in charge while you're gone?" asked one of the nameless bartenders.

"Penguin, you idiot!" I snapped. "I'm only in charge when he isn't here."

"Oh right…."

Fucking morons.

I called Oswald on my way to the hospital, speaking into the phone while driving one-handed. He answered on the third ring.

"It's me," I said quickly before he could say something to distract me. "I left the club, and I'm on my way to the hospital."

I could hear the worry in his tone when he asked, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. I'm just going to visit Tiffany."

"Who?"

"The girl that started working at the bar," I clarified. "You know—burnt and dead fiancé, battered woman…."

"Oh, her." Oswald recalled.

"Yes, 'her'. Henry just told me she was in a car accident. I'm going to make sure she is okay."

"All right. Is there anything I can do?"

"No. I just wanted to let you know where I was going," I returned sweetly. "I'll call you when I leave. I love you."

"Love you too."

We hung up at the same time.


Prior to arriving, I stopped by the nearest fast food joint, and purchased a chicken sandwich, fries, and a diet Sprite. I parked the car just outside the hospital, striding into Gotham General. I stood in line behind an irritable mother and her obnoxious devil spawn before the pediatrician called the patient's name and the kid started running towards them; a wave of relief washed over the woman's face as she accompanied her son to his appointment. Shortly after, the receptionist asked for my name.

"Sylvia Gordon," I answered politely. "I'm here to see an employee of mine: her name is Tiffany Rubberdale. She may also go by 'Drifas'?"

"Ah yes," said the receptionist. She looked at me sternly. "Do you have any association with a 'Burke Drifas'? It says here that he is not permitted to come within fifty feet of her."

She had a restraining order against him. Good girl.

"I have nothing to do with that man," I promised.

"You're not on the restricted list…. her room is on the third floor. If you go up the elevator to the third floor and go down the hall to your right, her room will be first on the left."

"Third floor, right, then left, got it. Thank you very much, Ma'am."

"No problem. Next!"

I did as she instructed, swerving through the hallways before finally finding a working elevator. This place was a damn maze! I didn't think I would be back in Gotham General for another year or so…. you know, until I was shot in the neck again by another moron.

I took the elevator up, thankfully alone. When the doors opened, I continued to the right and stopped at the first room I saw on the left. The door was halfway closed. I tapped the frame with my knuckles, rapping lightly.

"Come in."

I slipped inside, pushed aside the curtain, and pulled it back to its original position when I had come in. Tiffany Rubberdale was sitting upright in the bed, a tray of food in front of her. Seeing as she hadn't touched any of it, I could not help but smile.

"How are you?" I asked gently.

For having gotten into a car accident, she looked great. A few scratches on her face where debris had flown and had torn into her skin, and she had a few bruises on her exposed legs. The bruises on her arms left by her abusive ex-fiancé were now yellow, but healing.

"Hungry," Tiffany answered gravely.

I placed the bag of fast food in front of her.

"Oh, bless you," Tiffany thanked, smiling widely. "I've not eaten real food all day."

"I know the feeling," I returned, smiling as well. "It's like prison food, but worse."

"Is that from experience as well?"

"Partly," I admitted shamelessly. "I was in and out of Juvie as a teenager. The food doesn't get any better."

I sat on the edge of her bed while she gorged on the chicken sandwich. The pleased look on her face made me reconsider if I should have even been in the same room as her and a chicken sandwich; she looked as though she might black out from a powerful orgasm as she ate a delicious French fry, licking her lips.

"How did you find out where I was?" Tiffany asked, licking her lips again. She took a long drink of the Diet Sprite.

"One of your co-workers mentioned that you were in an accident. And you didn't show up for work," I told her. "I was worried."

"Sorry I didn't call," Tiffany said remorsefully. "It's not that I didn't want to. It's just that I couldn't. I don't have anyone's number…."

I stood and pulled a napkin from the dispenser and wrote my personal phone number on it with the marker that had been left on a dry-erase board nailed on the door; it detailed the current names of nurses and doctors of the hour. The nurses switched patients every four hours; the doctors, every twelve.

"You were magnificent, by the way," Tiffany complimented as she threw the scrap of her dinner into the trash bin beside her. "On stage. You have a nice voice."

"Thanks."

"It's like listening to a choir of angels sing in all kinds of harmony, but instead, you're only one person. It's really magnetic, in some ways. I bet you get that a lot."

"Yes, but not in so many words and certainly not so descriptive."

"Am I embarrassing you?"

"Yes, but I can take it."

"You don't like to sing in public, do you?"

"Only Oswald and my brother have ever really heard me sing," I commented factually. "I don't prefer to sing in public because I have stage fright. I make a great effort not to get out of my comfort zone."

"You're good at it, though. I listened to you, to the people in the crowd. They liked you—and not just the singing, the comedy act too. They responded to you. All of those people were cheering you on, and it's because they relate to you on a personal level."

"You're quite the motivational speaker today."

"I'm only telling you what everyone else wants you to see. You don't pretend to be someone you're not. You show who you are up front. Do you have any idea how rare that is?"

"Got all of that from me telling a dark joke, did you?" I said skeptically.

"You connected with them."

"Connecting with a crowd full of gangsters would not be the highest point of my life."

"Well, at least you know who you're dealing with," Tiffany murmured, glancing at her IV monitor. "You see people. You can read them."

"It's not a gift, I assure you. I was raised by a District Attorney and my brother is a detective. You learn to see things objectively…. sometimes the heart gets involved; that's when things get a little muddy."

"Like with what happened with Burke?" Tiffany piped.

I raised my eyebrows at her, not having expected that reaction.

She continued knowingly, "You tortured him because he was working against Penguin. But you didn't decide to kill him until after you found out what he had been doing to me. Not that I don't appreciate what you did for me."

I smiled saying, "Perhaps I'm not the only one that can read people."

She smiled back.

A nurse came inside, changed out the IV drip and wrapped the cord around the machine, wordlessly pulling it out of the hallway after disinfecting it. She acknowledged me with a curt nod of her head and she was out of the door.

"Has the doctor said whether or not you would be discharged today?" I asked, changing the topic.

"No. But he was here early in the morning. Seven-ish."

"And how's the prognosis?"

"Mild," Tiffany reported nonchalantly. "The people that hit my car caused a fender bender. I've got a few scrapes, some scratches, but no broken bones." (She smiled guiltily.) "You know better than anyone else that I have experienced a lot worse."

"That, I do." I said, patting her hand.

"Looks busy out there," Tiffany noted.

And it was. People were bustling about, holding clipboards, pointing every which a way but not in such an urgent matter as they had done before when a code was going over the intercom.

"Maybe it's shift change," I suggested.

"Maybe. Do you want me to let you know when I get discharged?"

"Please do. Call me anytime; I always have my phone."

"Thanks, Miss Gordon."

I held out my hand. She took it.

"Sylvia," I corrected sweetly.

"Thank you…. Sylvia," Tiffany said happily.

I left the room and started walking down the hall. Then I bumped into Jim, who was holding a wrapped bagel, purchased from the food court. Seeing me, Jim did a double glance.

"Vee!" He exclaimed, cracking a smile.

"Hey," I greeted. I glanced at the sandwich: "What are you doing here?"

"Visiting a friend," said Jim vaguely. "You?"

"Doing the same." I returned, gesturing behind me to the door I just closed. "She was in a car accident—fender bender. Have you heard of this Red Hood Gang yet?"

"Of course. People are standing in banks just waiting for them to rob it so they can get their fair share of the loot."

"Is that right? Well, if you get the inside scoop of which bank they'll be targeting next, would you let me know? I wouldn't mind having an extra bit of cash for Christmas shopping."

Jim gave me a look that said 'don't you even dare' but then asked sincerely, "Is your friend okay?"

"She'll be fine," I nodded. "Only a few scratches. The Gang totaled her car—she's awake if you want to try for a description of the driver."

"That's generous of you," Jim said, glancing inside the room where Tiffany was. "I'll try her later."

"How's your friend?" I glanced at the bagel. "Hungry, I guess?"

"Doing well." He answered, then arbitrarily asked, "Do you want to meet Bruce Wayne?"

Skeptically, I said, "The Bruce Wayne? Parents-Murdered-In-Crime-Alley Bruce—?"

"Yeah," He cut me off short. "That Bruce. His butler was stabbed—"

"No one is safe in Gotham anymore, are they? Corrupted people floating up from weather balloons…. Non-offenders thinking they're goats and going after rich kids…. Butlers are getting stabbed..."

Jim smiled bitterly saying, "That's the way it goes."

"I didn't even know anyone employed butlers anymore."

"The Waynes are an old-traditional kind of family."

"I shouldn't be surprised."

"About the tradition?"

"No—that butlers are getting stabbed."

"You're surprised at that?"

"I am, but I shouldn't be."

"Come with me. I'll introduce you." Jim offered, taking my wrist. "The fresh faces will be good for you."

"Fresh 'blood', you mean," I teased.

"You're hilarious."

He guided me into a room where an older gentleman lied in bed; however, due to the upright position, he was sitting up. Like Tiffany had been before, he was hooked up to two machines. A younger lad, who I could only assume was Bruce Wayne, sat in a large brown armchair: narrow chin, dark brown eyes, darker hair, and skinny.

"Slim pickings from the food court," Jim said as he entered, handing the bagel to Bruce.

Seeing me, Bruce suddenly stood. It caught me by surprise.

"Hey—Hi," Bruce greeted nervously. His eyes darted to Jim, then to the butler, then back at me.

"Bruce, this is my sister, Sylvia. Sylvia, this is Bruce Wayne, and his butler, Alfred Pennyworth."

Like the gentleman he had been raised to behave, Bruce held out his hand and I shook it. Alfred was bed-ridden, it appeared, so I strolled to his side of the bed. He held out his hand to shake mine and when I gave it to him, he kissed the back of my hand.

"Charmed, I'm sure," Alfred replied—he had a British accent.

"Through and through," I said with a smile, and he returned it.

Bruce sat down, saying shyly, "I didn't know you had a sister, Detective."

I poked Jim in the ribs.

"He's so secretive," I teased, smirking at him.

"Your name just never came up," Jim explained.

"Funny—I mention you to all of my friends. They can't stop talking about you."

Jim rolled his eyes, despite Alfred and Bruce exchanging suspicious glances.

"I just happened to be visiting a friend of mine," I told them politely. "She was in a car accident yesterday."

"I do hope she's alright," Alfred commented.

"She's fine, thanks for asking."

"Do you live with Detective Gordon?" Bruce asked suddenly.

"That's a little personal, Master Bruce, don't you think?" Alfred scolded softly.

"It's fine," I reassured. "To answer your question, I don't. My fiancé just recently moved in with me. The dust is finally starting to settle."

"Funny you say that," Jim muttered. "I hear you have a couple roommates."

"One roommate," I corrected. "And Tomas isn't a 'roommate'. He's a guard."

"A guard for what?" Bruce asked curiously.

"Extra security," I quipped, grinning despite the kid's growing curiosity. "Can't be too careful these days."

"No, you can't," Alfred said coolly.

I suspected there was something else in that tone of his, but I couldn't pick up on his meaning. However, he and Bruce exchanged a set of glances. I looked at Jim inquisitively but he just shrugged a shoulder like he didn't know what it meant either.

"Well, this has been fun and only slightly awkward," I pointed out, clasping my hands together. "If you don't mind, I have to get back to work. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Pennyworth—"

"—Alfred—" He insisted as I shook his hand.

"…Alfred," I repeated, smiling kindly. I shook Bruce's hand as well: "And it's been a pleasure meeting you, Bruce Wayne." (I turned to Jim). "Tiffany is awake if you want to ask her about the driver. I can let her know that you'll be dropping by for a visit."

"That'll be helpful; thanks, Vee."

"What are siblings for?" I said, bumping my hip playfully into his.

"I'll walk you out," Jim offered, placing his hand in the middle of my back.

When we were a few paces from the room, I sensed that Jim wanted to speak more in private. I leaned my shoulder against the glass; he looped a couple fingers through the belt loops of his slacks, ball of his hand on his hips. It was going to be one of those discussions. I prepared myself for an argument.

"Listen," Jim began in a hushed tone, "I know you're angry with me for not shooting Travinsky when you told me too. I also know there's some stuff going on with you that you're not ready to tell me yet—"

"I told you what happened to me. We spoke on the phone, remember?"

"You sounded apathetic on the phone."

"Well, it was a traumatic experience. I'm fine now."

"That doesn't mean you've healed," Jim said softly. "You need to talk to someone about what happened in that office with Maroni's men."

"I talked to Oswald."

"I mean, talking to a therapist, or someone who can help you move on."

"I have moved on," I insisted coolly. "You're just unhappy because I didn't come to you."

"Fine, you got me," Jim admitted, crossing his arms over his chest. "I am a little disappointed that you went to Cobblepot before you came to me…Surprised me, actually."

"Why would it? He's my fiancé."

"I'm your brother."

I scoffed, "Oh good lord, it's not about you, Jim. It's about me. I felt more comfortable talking to Oswald about what happened. If you have trouble understanding that, I'm sorry. I was in a dark place—and he helped me through it."

"What did he have to do to get you through it, though?" Jim said suspiciously.

I smiled but it didn't reach my eyes this time.

"He was there for me when I needed him to be," I said steadily. "We went out to dinner, we had normal conversation. When I talked about what happened, he was understanding. We didn't argue about nonsense like you and I have a tendency to do. And let's face it, Jim: You and I don't talk unless you need something from me—don't look at me like that, you know it's true!"

"We could have met up for lunch, talked about what happened," Jim suggested pointedly.

"And then we would have been interrupted by your job—yet again."

Jim frowned saying, "You can't say I don't make time for you."

"Oh really? When do you?" I retorted.

"Forgive me if my honorable job keeps me from having a day off while your crooked boyfriend—"

"Oh please, not this again. We're not talking about Oswald. We're talking about you!"

"You're comparing—"

I cut him off furiously: "You're the one who keeps comparing yourself to him! You're so jealous that he and I are closer than you or I will ever be! Despite what his position in Falcone's ranks consist of, he always makes time for me. Always. That's more than what can be said about you."

"You know what my job entails!" Jim snarled.

"I sure do. But you can't use that as an excuse for not dropping by for a visit. You don't just come to me because you want to see me."

"I came and saw you when you were in the hospital."

"Sure, you did. You were worried about me. Of course, you would be; I'm your kin." I told him pointedly. "You felt guilty for not taking down Travinsky when I told you to. You came to visit me because you needed to know that I forgave you for what happened and I have. But like I said, you came—not because I was in the hospital, hurting—but because you needed something from me. You needed to hear that my getting shot wasn't your fault, so you could sleep better at night. And after that, you didn't come visit me again until well after the fact."

He seemed to protest but I was on a roll so I kept going.

I kept my tone relatively calm: "I've put you before myself many times: When Barbara left, who did you come to? When you were going after Sionis and none of your corrupted asshat cop buddies came, who was fighting alongside you the entire fucking time, huh?"

"I didn't ask you to come—"

"You didn't have to! You were going into danger alone—and your cop friends may have hated you but they should have gone, none the less. I put aside my plans, my job, even my own personal welfare to make sure that you didn't face that horse's ass alone. I didn't ask for anything in return, James! And what about when you and Harvey were about to take down Falcone and the Mayor, where did you go first to hunker down from the other crime families? You went to me. And Lord knows I didn't get anything out of it."

Jim was frowning deeply.

"Face it, James. You come to me on your own initiative when you want something from me," I said bluntly. "It'd be nice to be graced by your presence without there being something in it for you for a change—speaking of which, I do not appreciate you turning down Oswald's invitation. After all, he helped you put away Flass!"

Jim shoved his hand over my mouth as a doctor and nurse walked by; the hospital staff gave us a quick second-glance before hurrying onto the next whining patient. I glared at him and he slowly put his hand down apologetically.

"You want to say that a little louder?" Jim dared. "I don't think everyone in the hospital heard you."

"See—you don't want any part of my life until you are desperate for help, and when you finally get it, you pretend it never happened. You snub the people who helped you from the beginning," I sneered. "You know what that's called, Jimmy? Huh? It's called 'being a hypocrite'. You say you detest dirty cops—"

"—That's because I do—"

"—You work with several—"

"—That's because I have to—"

"—Just like you had to go to Oswald to get dirt on Flass so you could 'single-handedly' put him down?" I snapped. "Is that something you just had to do?"

"Don't you—"

"Don't I what? Say what's true? Say what you are too afraid to say, or are too ashamed to admit? Your hands are dirty. And you pretend they're not except for all the times when they are!"

Jim frowned at me.

I took a deep breath, rubbed my face, and forced myself to speak calmly due to the fact that there were people starting to peer over at us from the bays.

"You're an idealist, a moralist. And how I envy that. God knows I hate you for it. But it's the same reason I love you. Just like the reason you love me is that I'm a realist; I don't feed around the bush. I don't bullshit. I'm not about to start now."

"You're angry because I threw away a stupid invitation?" Jim exclaimed incredulously.

"Is that really the only thing you've heard? The fucking invitation is not the issue, here—it's you. If you don't want to own up to the fact that you got your hands dirty, fine—but don't come to Oswald, asking for a favor, and then treat him like yesterday's news. You treat Oswald like a tool! And he knows you do!" I responded passionately. "And he lets you because he wants to be your friend."

"I don't want to be his friend."

"Fine!" I retorted. "Then you should expect from here on out that any favor you request of him, you'll owe him one in return!"

Jim frowned, pointing to the elevators: "I think you should go."

"Wow, Jim—for once you've come up with something that doesn't sound like a bad idea."

I turned on my heel. He watched me leave. I didn't look back.


A/N: So, I'll admit that a lot of my personal emotions made their way into this chapter. I hated it when Gordon told Oswald he didn't want him in the GCPD station anymore, and threw his invitation away. I wanted to punch him in the nose. Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed that chapter. :) It was fun writing it!