Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: To obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.
AN: Thanks so much to all who have reviewed!
August 26th
21:20 EST
103rd Street
Driving. The car is lulling my aching body to sleep. Sleep. I need it-it beckons me like death, Angel's small, expectant hand mere inches from my own-
Intersection. The slow acceleration stirs me. I open my eyes.
The street is filled with twisted, jumbled mounds of ruined vehicles. A plastic cup and lid come bumping up the sidewalk, an eerie, ominous rattle on the silent street.
The hum of the electric engine. Lawless' breath. My own heart beats. These are the only sounds in Gotham. Draped in dark and doubt, the Sleepless City is finally slumbering.
21:33 EST
Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway
Head lulling, joints aching, knee burning…neither sleeping or waking, walking the verge between dream and death. The car is humming, my heart beating, Lawless drawing deep, measured breaths.
A sudden roaring, a flash of light-!
I wake.
All is white, a sheenless fog.
Dust. Glass. Car exploding a falling building people screaming crashing concrete belching flame burning blackened blood chaoschaos the world is chaos somewhere a boy is screaming…
I wake. Angel's eyes are open. Staring into mine. With agonizing slowness he is etched from nothing… Pale, grey flesh. Thin, dark brows. The straight, perfect line of his nose, the soft, clean angle of his lips and jaw…
I blink, and this face-his face!-again before min, flitting on the shadows of my fleeting consciousness as it has for 13 lonely years. I fear to move, to hope, to breathe lest I wake. Heart breaking, beating, throbbing yet these eyes have never before been so clear…
Angel. I am Tantalus, beyond belief, beyond hope, reaching a hesitant, trembling hand to his evanescent face, shaking fingertips drawing closer and closer-
Dust. Glass. Sirens shouting vomit of ash reek of smoke and burning flesh hell hell this must be hell yet the backs of my falling fingers come softly to rest, trailing lightly against warm, living flesh-
…calm. Still. I wake. Angel lies silent beside me, my hand on his perfect face.
Cold.
I wake. My hand has fallen not against Angel's face but onto the stark chill of a bullet proof windowpane. The car has passed. The night is dark. My heart is empty. The eyes I see are my own, staring back at me through the silhouette of the Sleepless City, spiraling into the night sky as cold and cruel as it had 13 years ago, riding with Gordon.
Gotham.
A cold, unfitting tomb for any Angel.
21:41 EST
Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway
I wake. The warm, familiar hum of the cruiser has disappeared. Voices. Footsteps. I blink groggily and sit up.
A National Guard check point. Ten men block the road, two more in the backs of jeeps, rifles raised and ready. Slowly they surround the car, rapping on the driver's side window. "We'll need to see some ID, officer."
"Detective Aaron Lawless," Lawless grunts, flipping his wallet.
Bright white light in my face. The Uniform stoops, face unintelligible in the blinding glare of the flashlight. "And the girl?"
"That's Lt. Paltron. MCU division."
"We'll need to see some ID." Wearily I search my pockets, holding out my battered wallet. He snatches it from my trembling hand, staring long and hard to reconcile my lifeless face with my photo ID. He does not find it easy.
"Satisfied?" Lawless asks, swiftly taking back our badges. No answer. They are on their radios-probably calling us in, confirming again what they already know-minutes pass, the greenish glow of the dash changing from 9:49 to 9:50.
Lawless grows anxious and restless beside me, muttering to himself and glancing repeatedly out his window.
I shut my eyes again, and try to sleep.
21:54 EST
Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway
I wake. Jarred from sleep by angry shouts "…in need of medical attention, goddamnit! I don't care what the fuck you've got going on just let me take her through!"
Numbed. Sleeping. He seems upset, unusually upset…but consciousness fades in and out, rational thought tumbling slowly away from me.
The door slams. Lawless rips his seat belt from the frame, buckling it with ferocity. "Life is shit." He snarls, glancing in the review mirror with particular vehemence. "Let's get the fuck out of here."
Wearily I nod, turning over in the seat as the engine begins to thrum. My eyes flit open, and the world is white, hazy, unfocused…a pale, poignant face flashes before mine: Angel. I bolt up in my seat with wrenching agony, the pain in my leg nothing, nothing compared to the ache in my heart-
I suck in my breath, lungs turning to lead. I suffocate on my grief.
Lawless' impatience, restlessness, growing anger. All explained. Etched over Gotham's skyline is an advertisement for Stop the Violence, still in place. Those bold words in stark, strong white against the dark backdrop of an image that over the summer has become an icon, an image now both as famous and unbearable as that little girl after 9/11, eyes upraised, face bathed in tears, an American flag clutched firmly in one fragile fist-
Four months ago, Chris Holden captioned it Stop the Violence. The Wayne Legacy Foundation seized rights to it for their promotional advertisement. Every citizen of Gotham knows it as the Crying Cop. But that photo-that face!-were not staged. No artificial lighting no make up no acting coach…nothing but raw, unscripted pain.
…I would know. I was there.
Chinatown. Xiao Wang.
Connolly is brave. Braver than any would have thought. He stands stricken, eyes wide in horror, blanching in pain. He could walk away, walk away in front of us all and even Eugene and Fred would never dare judge him…He could collapse, wretch, run to the strength and protection that is Lawless and no one would think any less of him…but he does not. Slowly, wearily he stumbles forward. He takes gloves, takes the black, unfeeling vinyl, helps lift and arrange each fragile, broken body as gently as though he may accidentally wake the child from her slumber.
Trembling fingers zip shut the last black bag. Weak as he is, he is strong. Any boy can weep, but it takes courage to be both a man and to cry. And of the twenty-odd Officers, Medics, Forensic specialists and interpreters crowded into this dank, humid house-Lawless and myself included- he is the only one with that strength of heart.
Begrudging respect grows thick in my throat.
Lawless is tense beside me. Fred and Eugene have turned away. That small, sad train of gurneys leaves, whirring lights flickering in through the open door frame, the sound of pouring water all around, rain beating down on the roof, overflowing the gutters, lapping higher and higher against the porch.
Yet it is impossible to say which flows faster, the freezing rain or the boy's hot tears.
Connolly stands in the doorframe, tiny and trembling, gloved hands still shaking and smeared with blood. He didn't need to see this, Lawless had said. Called him Kid. Treated him like a kid. He may still-but he will never confuse him for one again. Freezing cold, dripping wet, barely out of boyhood Jimmy Connolly has now glanced into Gotham's despairing heart of darkness, the sickening severity of her sins, her hidden horror…and has walked away scarred, but vulnerable.
I resent him. I-like so many of Gotham's public service workers-have become both calloused and numb…no sorrow, no tears, no suffering. Only anger.
"Kid-" Lawless takes a step forward. Connolly turns towards us, and for a sudden, shrinking second I am held fast in his gaze, Lawless and Eugene frozen beside me. That awful gaze is not accusatory-perhaps it would be bearable if it was. He stares at us like a dying doe, liquid eyes wide in pain, blinking weakly in the bright glare of headlights, unable to comprehend. Stricken. Silent. No anger no curses no screams. Only a pressing, pleading question.
Why?
Rain continues to pound. Silence surrounds us. Time crashes to a halt.
A sudden spattering retch that shrinking second explodes Connolly collapses to the slickened porch heaving sobbing ripping the bloodied latex from his child's hands crawls to the edge gasping retching water pouring down scrubbing hands face ruined uniform flesh red raw in freezing rain Lawless surges forward Eugene shouts just leave him alone for God's sake just let him be alone-!
But he is not alone. Not even in the solace and silence of the midnight downpour. EMS. Neighbors. CSI. The Press. All ring the yellow-tape perimeter, pressing to get a better view. Lawless calls his name, and he raises his wet and wretched head, brows knit, lips parted, dripping face pale in shock and cold-
Lightning flashes. And in that moment, the photographer snaps his picture.
I am Paul. I am blinded. My Angel stood weeping not feet from me, but I did not see. It is the steep price of a veteran's victory: to live and not feel, to look and not see…
Yet I know now it is that picture, that night, my own goddamned callousness that marked him for death. His innocent, boyish face, like Trisha Tanaka's bubbly voice, could never go unmissed-
I too, am responsible for his death. The blood staining my hands not only that of his killer's but his as well. That realization is both black and bitter, stalking me though the silence. Lawless drives on, face set and stern. For the first time in six goddamned years I find his expression inscrutable. I feel a sudden chill: am I so far gone, so fallen from grace, that I can no longer read him? With a shudder I remember the bank, that grey curtain fallen again between my world and this…I feel uncertain. Afraid.
"You still pissed at me?" I whisper. But silence is my only answer.
Still we drive. Light pole after light pole, block after empty block…
"No," He finally sighs. "You did what you thought was necessary-treated him like a man- did what I couldn't do." He grimaces bitterly. "This isn't your fault." The weight of guilt rests heavily on him-I have borne it myself long enough to know.
He casts a glance at me, hazel eyes hesitant, probing. Gordon's words echo eerily in the silence: Connolly's death, I should've known… and suddenly I remember as though an age ago Lawless' weeping: He was, he was my partner, you know? I couldn't-I tried…I had, I had to tell Amy that Jimmy…that, that he was dead.
I do not find hope in another's despair. Yet I am not as alone as I have allowed myself to think. Angel's agonized eyes still reflect in the review mirror, staring hauntingly at us from beyond the grave. I blanch, but cannot look away. My beautiful, perfect little boy.
Gone.
We round the corner. The billboard disappears. Again he is taken from me.
Yet so is my fear. For now I am bound by my injuries and illness…but the road to recovery is the first steps of my path to vengeance. And when I am free the streets will run red with the reek of blood of all those responsible and the criminals and whores and dirty politicians will raise their hands crying spare us-!
…and I will whisper no.
I am Prometheus, I tell the empty, midnight sky. Behold me, I am wronged.