Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.
AN: I took a leaf out of Orson Scott Card's 'book' and have placed this fic in the not-too-distant future to avoid having to deal with current global problems. This gap also gives me more freedom with my adult characters, as their adolescence would be similar to mine, and we might share many of the same experiences.
August 26th
22:08 EST
1776 Lexington Lane
(Lawless Residence)
The night is cold.
She shivers with my tingling fever, limbs aching, joints burning. Lawless opens the door of the squad car, and the seat belt slivers between my sweating breasts. He hoists me from the seat, arms awkwardly under my shoulders, around my body, struggling to support my weight.
I am too tired to be angry. I can only muse emotionlessly that it has been 19 years since a man has touched me so.
The porch light floods the driveway with a sickly shimmer, and I limp alongside Lawless, my right leg numb beneath me. He fumbles with the keys, and for one moment I hear the lulling song of crickets and frogs, oblivious both to our troubles and existence…then the key clicks sharply in the lock, and I am ushered inside.
22:10 EST
Lawless Residence
"We'll head to the back bathroom-" Lawless grunts, still supporting my weight, our footsteps echoing loudly against the walnut floorboards. "That way you won't have to climb stairs-"
The house is dark, his breathing loud, his armpit strangely sweaty and burning against my shivering skin. There is a loud snap of crumpling plastic and I stumble suddenly, falling against him with a curse and a sharp cry, my leg buckling under me.
"Fuck it!" I hiss, looking behind me to the spinning remnants of a tiny toy car, shattered plastic pieces skittering noiselessly.
Childhood. I blink, mesmerized, staring at the scattered shards. It has been many, many years since I forgot I had ever been a child. I feel now as though I have always been wretched, broken…
…No. I have not always been this way. Once, once, I was whole.
Dark eyes heavy with slumber, a gummy yawn that tiny hand against my breasts stretches once then lays still under his smooth cheek fingered fistful of my T-shirt long lashes cascading down chest rising, falling, rising falling Angel sleeps and a strange thrill shoots through me, a deep, indescribable, terrible twinge of pain, my skin-my soul-longs, yearns, aches for this touch. I know this is what it means to be a woman, a mother, to be whole…to hold a child against my chest, sleeping face laid as sweetly as though suckling-
"Sorry." A gravelly voice mumbles, and my mind and weary eyes are jerked back to the present, the sleeping boy wrest from me grasping fingers reachingtearingripping my skin-
I feel like vomiting. Lawless. Lawless' house. Angel, dead. It has been nearly thirty years since I watched the world stop turning,, nineteen since my husband left me, thirteen since my trial…and one week, one, short week since Angel's death-
. "Ian loves those things-" He rights me, his hands suddenly heavy and uncomfortable against my back-
…Jon.
I wrest away, shuddering. "I'm fucking fine."
But I am not. Lawless narrows his eyes in the darkness, offering his arm for support, but he doesn't place it around my waist. With guarded eyes I reach out, and his guiding strength raises me easily from the floor.
"Careful, there's more." He says, pointing out the dark shapes lurking in the shadows. "See?"
We continue to walk, and in my pain and illness, fighting for breath, shaking my aching head against shades and specters of delirium and delusion I do not stop to wonder that even then, even then he does not reach out to turn on the light.
22:33 EST
Lawless Residence
I wake. Lawless' house. Lawless' bathroom. Cold marble countertop. Gingerly I swallow 1500 mg of Tylenol, more water, more amoxicillin.
Beside me shining metal instruments lay, bright sheen against the dull stone. With them are Ice. Tweezers. Flashlight. Hydrogen Peroxide. Rubber Tubing. Rags. Ingredients for the perfect in home surgery.
…I don't believe in hospitals.
Lawless whistles at the ear thermometer. It still reads 102.3. He tells me it has come down nearly two degress in the last fifteen minutes. I ask how long I have slept. He says maybe twenty-enough time to dig through abandoned bookshelves for long lost texts-
A heavy tome lays open on the floor, the diagram of a naked knee joint both freakish and foreboding.
He hands me a rag and I wet it in the sink, bathing my sweating face and neck. My fever must come down, he says, and with that I am stripped of my shirt, packs of ice laid in my axilla, nothing but a thin, sweat-stained beater between my still burning skin and the chilled indoor air.
"You're taking 850 mg amoxicillin…Doc diagnose you with pneumonia?" Lawless asks.
I shake my head no. "I went to a pharmacist." My voice is scratchy and hoarse, as grating as his.
His eyes narrow. "And they filled it without a script?"
Wearily I toss him my badge. "Good enough?"
He catches it with one hand, shaking his head in consternation. "Paltron, that's illegal as hell-"
I raise one eyebrow and stare him down. So's practicing without a license, Lawless. He smiles wryly. "Alright, so you haven't seen a doc." He sighs. "Let's start at the beginning…You have any history of chronic upper respiratory tract infections?"
For a panicked moment I am silent.
"Fuck yeah."
"You ever been exposed-hell, obviously." He growls, the memory of the Legacy bombing only a week old. "But any previous or prolonged exposures to hazardous materials? Heavy construction zones, explosives, asbestos-"
"Yeah," I whisper, not looking in his eyes, "Hell yeah."
Spinning sequins whirl and flash in a myriad of lights and mirrors slippered shoes slide across a waxen stage, splashing in a fountain still clutching my autograph of the NYC Ballet Company the night before squinting eyes upwards a plane drones suddenly veers over the skyline I wave, wave to the people aboard not knowing I will remember that day forever locked in my memory remember, remember the eleventh of September-
"When?" He probes. I tell him almost thirty years ago. And it is his turn to be silent.
He raises one hand to his face, teeth yanking nervously on his thumbnail. "You were in NYC when it happened." He whispers.
"Right there. Right fucking there." I groan. And suddenly it is important, pressing, my mind exhausted and spent. "Saw the first plane go in….And I waved. I fucking waved. Told my mom it was flying too low-
Sun blinding, ponytail whipping in the wind squinting up my mother laughs, laughs, teeth white on pink lipstick tells me to smile for the picture, but I point, point again, she laughs, tells me it's not going to hit, Gwen, it's a trick of the light it's not going to, not going to, oh my God, ohmygodohmyfuckingGod-!
"-Hell." I close my eyes, and shudder, hot, prickling tears threatening to spill from my clenched lids. I saw it. Fucking saw it. Twice now. Once as a child and again as an adult…And both times, both times there had to have been something more I could have done…a way to stop, prevent, do more…But I will not cry. Not again. I am not a child. I am a soldier. A mother. A killer-
Lawless rips the nail off with his teeth, spitting it on the floor. "Eighth grade algebra." He shakes his head bitterly. "They come over the intercom, say there's been a terrorist attack in NYC…they might be shuttin' school down, and all I could feel was relief. Had a test that day, you know?" His breath comes ragged, as choked as my own. "Then they turn on the TV's…Dan Rather, estimating about thirty-thousand, thirty fucking thousand people died…" Then a tear, a single, streaking tear drips down his face. "Fuck." He pants. "Guess now we know how the adults felt, huh?" He wipes his eyes, and I am silent.
"I still feel like shit about that day." He whispers.
I sniff loudly, wipe my running nose against my bare flesh and blink back tears. Words. Only words. No comfort, no changes…but I know now I am not the only one to have grown up in the Valley of the Shadow of terror and guilt. I still feel like shit about that day, he whispered. "You and me both." I choke.
22:41 EST
Lawless Residence
We are silent. Hurting. Lawless sighs, running a hand through his now greying hair. Hair that less than a week ago was a crisp, autumn auburn. No longer. He clears his throat, takes his now-ragged nails from his face, wipes his eyes. He is compassion. Yet strength. He forces through. "So you've got…post 9/11 syndrome. They screen you for lung cancer?"
I nod. "Chest x-rays. Once a year." My physical fitness has saved me, I am sure. My life has been neither gentle nor easy, and perhaps my immune system knows this as well. But it has only and always been a matter of time. I do not sicken easily…nor recover.
Lawless turns his head, fingering the stethoscope. "They clear?"
Again I nod.
"You mind if I take a listen?" I shake my head no, and lean back into the coolness of the mirror, waves of chills ebbing from the ice beneath my armpits. He bends over me, one large hand against my shoulder, the other holding the stethoscope, snaking under my shirt. I look up, once, his eyes boring into mine. I look away. Much has passed between us…but there is more-much more-that he will ask me. And I am feverish. Wounded. Weak. I have not the heart to speak of it now…
"Paltron," he begins, "when, when the Legacy fell-"
screaming screaming people screaming smoke belching blinding dust-
He stops, hesitant. "When she fell, did you, were you-"
Low whine jarring explosion Connolly screaming stay down stay down-! pulse of people low rumbling like thunder peer out through bloodsoaked hair-
He runs a hand again through his hair. "I found you. Both of you. Under that goddamned firetruck.-"
Crumbling plaster roaring waves asphalt cracked boy's eyes wide in terror run run you have to run shell shocked helpless hoist him by the shoulders never leave a man behind can't leave him behind-
"You…you carried him there, didn't you?"
Angel. My eyes are closed, fighting guilt and grief. Yet still he waits for an answer. I shudder, shaking voice a wavering whisper. "Knew it was the only chance we had."
Running running bare feet pavement burning asphalt melted siren still whirring engine thrumming dust dust blinding dust that boy is screaming clutching me ground shaking creaking debris spinning glass cement steel getdowngetdown! hold him closer surround his head holdonholdon rumbling thunder wave rolling closer closer heart lungs throat bursting in fear-
He knows now. What it cost. The dread, panic, desire to runrunawaygetthefuckaway leave anythingeverything behind-!
"You kept a clear head. And it saved your life. Both of your lives…You're a good woman, Paltron. Good cop. " Lawless grunts. "Damn good cop. Anyone ever tell you that?"
You're a killer, Paltron. An unusual killer. Youwereacopweweresupposedtobeabletotrustyou!
Not just a cop. A damn good one. Maybe the best...
Thirteen years. I have been called many things: molester, murderer, child-fucking whore….yet none of these insults is as bitter or biting as his stinging words. I heave a lifeless laugh…perhaps a sob. "Lot of fucking good it did." I hiss miserably, and those dammed up tears slide burning down my fevered face. I saved him, yes. Conquered my childhood fear…
I am the mother of Moses, I mull with remorse, who I kept and loved, for he was a beautiful boy…but Gotham is no Nile. She is colder. Crueler. Possessing neither pity nor mercy. No Pharaoh's daughter but a cunning crocodile, and she will consume any child she finds left in the bulrushes.
22:46 EST
Lawless Residence
The bell of the stethoscope sends shivers against my burning skin. I breathe in, out, in, out, each exaggerated inhalation costing me a spell of coughing, ribs aching with every heave. Lawless frowns deeply, eyes shut in concentration, his hands again uncomfortable against my skin. But finally he finishes, draws the bell away and removes the rubber cups from his ears.
"Not gonna fucking lie to you, it's pretty bad, Paltron. When'd you start the antibiotics?"
I think back to Stalton. Starbucks. Green Street…already it seems an age ago. "This morning," I croak.
He sighs heavily, scratching absently at the shadow of stubble growing around his chin. "You've got an upper respiratory infection, bronchitis, inflammation of your axillary, subclavicular and sternal lymph nodes…prognosis ain't good, Paltron. You need to be admitted-"
"To do fucking what?" I snort. "Get pumped full of antibiotics and electrolytes?" I shake my head bitterly. "I can do that shit right here."
But the doctor in him has been thoroughly roused. "Paltron, we were all goddamned immune-compromised with Stop the Violence…and you were right there in the middle of the Legacy. For twenty four hours. You've been exposed to this shit before and you're lucky you're not already dead from this thing, okay?"
I shake my head no, teeth barred. "I don't do hospitals."
"Paltron-"
"Fuck, no." I state evenly.
"I'm taking you to Methodist-"
"-and they won't admit me if I don't sign the paperwork." I return, holding my head high, bloodshot, achy eyes seared by the light. I am not a child, have not been a child since that terrible day. I will not be treated like one. I am firm. I will not be moved.
He sighs, deflating, hands toying with the stethoscope. "I forgot. It's like arguing with at brick wall. Wall always wins…look, Paltron, I'm a doctor-"
"And I'm your boss." I shrug around the ice.
"No, you're not." Lawless counters. "Gordon put you on medical leave."
"And the state licensure board put you on permanent leave."
He shakes his head tiredly. "Wall one, me, nothing."He sits awkwardly on the closed toilet lid, eyes closed, one hand scratching his chin, contemplating. Finally he speaks. "I won't take you now, but I'm pumping you full of cortical steroids and I'm going to keep checking your vitals. If your lung sounds get any worse I'm taking you straight to Methodist, you hear?"
There is a tone there, hidden in the gravelly texture of his harsh voice. Concern? Worry? Fear? It is light, jesting…but pleading. In his life he has lost a wife, a career, and now a partner. I do not think he can stand to lose another. I have heard him use this tone before. It speaks of his loss. Guilt. Betrayal.
IA. Six years ago. A bronze badge is again in my hand. Hanging on the wall is a larger than life size portrait of an elderly black man, uniform decorated with countless medals. Several recruits study its caption disinterestedly. But I do not need to. I know that man: Sergeant Arthur Jamison. His berretta lies in a holster on my left hip. Etched into the frame are thin, stark words: All in the line of duty. I grip that badge tighter…
The sharp clicking of high heels. A downcast Latina, like death, walks between me and my mentor, eclipsing my view…
"Guinevere."
A man with auburn hair calls my name. He does so, three times. It is not until the fourth that I understand that name belongs to me. I have neither spoken nor heard it said since Gordon, Dent, Surillo. My trial. Even my fucking husband called me Paltron…
"Here." I say, standing and crossing the hall. He looks taken aback, but recovers quickly. I surprise him. At five eleven, I stand not three inches shorter…perhaps outweigh him. My memories of Underworld are not three months old, my muscles hard and bulky. His handshake is firm but weak-the mark of a white-collar man…
He introduces himself. "Lawless," he says. "Aaron Lawless." I grunt and nod my head in response.
He peruses me expectantly. Waiting for me to ask: a cop named Lawless? You've got to be shitting me. I do not. "And I um, call you…Gwen-?" I can see humor and uncertainty swimming in his eyes. A cop named Lawless. Partnered with a goddamned dyke named Guinevere…
"Paltron." I correct him tersely. "Just Paltron."
Our first assignment: parking meters in front of city hall. Get to know you sort of shit. Useless. Pointless. Yet I must play along. We walk down the steps together. He is unlike Jim. Tall, Impressive. Neither mild nor meek. His voice is rough and gravelly. Some slight scarring on his windpipe-motor vehicle wreck, glass cutting the vocal cords? It is both hoarse and grating. "Look, I realize we hardly know each other but we're gonna be working together for some time…"
Wordlessly I slap a ticket on the windshield of a Mercedes Benz. Bastard's been here for three hours in a fifteen minute zone…
"So I think it's only fair I tell you about me, upfront. We're both in WATCHDOG, and I-I thought it'd just be best to get this over with-"
He struggles to talk and fill out a ticket simultaneously. To him it is a task. To my hands it is mindless, routine. If offers me no distraction. No relief. I must hear this tale, and hear it in full.
"My wife left me. Started drinking more and more, you know?" Yes, Lawless, I think, unblinkingly. I know. More than you guess, I fucking know. And I don't want to have this conversation. Not fucking now, not fucking ever.
But I have no choice. Reciprocate or not, he will insist I know it all. Perhaps, I muse bitterly, he is like Gordon, after all…
Nervous gesture. Running fingers through his short-cropped hair. "Got behind the wheel when I was piss-assed drunk. Ran a red-light. T-boned a Honda. They were young, you know? In their twenties. Two kids in the backseat." He shakes his head, the ghost of tears in his hazel eyes "John and Emily Howe. They were teachers. Pronounced dead at the scene. Marissa. Five years old. The seat-belt nearly, nearly decapitated her…." His voice breaks, and yet this man, this stranger continues, hands shaking, unable to complete the ticket. "they, they um, lifelined the baby to Methodist…held on for a few hours… And I, I wasn't even wearing a seatbelt and I fucking walked-"
He sniffs, hands shaking he tucks the ticket beneath the wipers. "What, what are you here for?"
The sun is hot. His gaze unrelenting. You want to know about me, Lawless? I think darkly, you really want to know? And my answer falls black and burning from my lips. "Child rape and quadruple homicide." I state, unblinking. "Now can we skip the shit and get the damn job done?"
I have been harsh. Cruel. In my bitterness I have become unfeeling. This twice now I have mocked his pain…I will not do so again. The accident is now eight years old, but there are some scars that never heal…and I know it intimately. Lawless' friendship will be taken from me soon enough, but for now I will cherish it.
Stalton's list, my revenge, the Joker…They will come. For now I must wait. I must rest. I must be ready...and I will relish the friendships that I must renounce.
22:52 EST
Lawless Residence
Seconds pass. Lawless surveys me shrewdly in the silence.
"Deal." I finally whisper.
He grunts in acquiescence. "Alright, then." He rises from his improvised perch, and we shake on it, my arm limp and lifeless, no longer strong, palm now cold and clammy.
Sudden gratitude. It stabs my heart. But I am not-have never been-good with words. I stretch out a trembling hand to his arm. "Lawless," I breathe.
His eyes fall down to that hand, and he turns. "What?" There is something in his eyes…arm-hair prickling eerily under my chilled fingers, perhaps the chill of my touch against his skin. I remove my hand.
I bite my lips, eyes downcast. "Thank you." I whisper.
"Don't thank me yet." He says. "I haven't operated on anyone in eight years, Paltron…and all my patients in the OR were under general anesthesia…and the ones that weren't were already dead." His tone is gentle, but tinged with regret. I ask him if he has missed it…
He tells me Hell yeah. Every damn day.
…but he says he may be a little rusty.
I tell him I can handle pain.
"Yeah, if by handle you mean ignore."Lawless grimaces, dipping the metal instruments into alcohol. He sighs, and holds my gaze, hazel eyes intent and probing. "You sure you want to do this?"
Fuck yeah, my mind answers, but the shadow of a smile creases my lips. "Please tell me this isn't your version of informed consent."
We try to laugh. But can't.
"You're lucky my kid's still in pull-ups at night," He mumbles lowly, sliding his hands into white rubber gloves. "Else I wouldn't have the equipment."
"Yeah, Lawless, like I have any fucking STD's." I whisper scathingly, the first time I have acknowledged aloud the scars spreading down my pelvis and legs. Nineteen years. Yet it isn't funny. Will never be. Warizistan took everything from me.
…Everything but Angel.
I shudder and jerk my head against tears, choking and rasping on the rising fumes of alcohol, shaking fingers ripping open my right pant-leg. The denim is crusted with congealed blood, but the wound, though ugly, has mercifully dried-
Lawless squints, uncertain, that miscarried joke lying dead between us. He clears his throat. "Alright, first thing, I'm going to have to make a diagnosis…bilateral ROM, ligament strength, try to figure out what's going on."
"Right." I say, eyes falling shut.
We've got to ice that knee, he tells me, voice muffled and fading. You've got about a five minute window for joint injuries before muscles start guarding. We'll have to trick them. Ice it. Then we'll do a Lockman test…
I nod tiredly, body aching. "You're the doctor…"
He sighs. "And you're not listening."
"Ice. Five minutes muscle guarding…lockman test." I mumble back to him, weary head lolling against the mirror.
"Yeah, and that's all fancy-ass doctor speak for I need you to take off your pants."
My eyes snap open, neck lashing up, heart racing.
I look away. "Can't…can't you just work around it?" I ask sharply.
"I need an open working field. I have to palpate, manipulate the joints. Paltron, I have to see what I'm doing-"
Silence. I suck in my breath to argue but am suddenly choking, choking like yesterday, fat drops of phlegm spattering down my chest, leaning over to hack slavering strings to the floor below-
He places a strong hand on my shoulder, steadying me. Dark swimming spots, my vision tunneling, head hot and heavy with fever and rushing blood-
And suddenly it is finished. He sits me up again as I wipe my mouth moaning in disgust. I can't raise my eyes. Can't look at him. I don't care shit about modesty. It's pity I can't stand. Not from Gordon, not from Wayne…not from anyone.
But especially not from him.
January. Five years ago. Gothem City Ferry Service. On duty with Lawless. He is shouting my name, clawing for my hand, fingers stretching, desperate for mine-
But the cold shock of water is nothing-I have my burning hatred to keep me warm. Struggling through the choppy waves, ice freezing on my face, Nabokov's dead weight dragging me down I have one thought and one thought only: Not like this, Motherfucker. You don't deserve to die like this-!
In transit to Arkham Asylum, the bastard jumped ship half way across the channel. The water is well over thirty feet deep, well under thirty degrees. Cuffed and bound, he had no chance of escaping. He knew it, too, staring into Lawless' eyes, sinister smile etched on his face as he stepped back-
"PALTRON!" Lawless is screaming. "PALTRON JUST DROP HIM-!"
His flailing hand. Our fingers brush. Another wave. I go under again.
Surface. Gasping. Choking now. Lawless' hand. Again our fingers brush…and clasp-!The Ferry's crew joins him grabs me hands hemming, pressing from every angle tearing clothes, hair, armpits hoisting me and my monstrous companion up, over, through the railing-
"Jesus Christ, Paltron what the hell were you thinking you could've died, you could've drowned-!"
I am sopping wet, hair frozen to my paling face, clothing bitter and chafing against my unfeeling skin. I don't have time to hear him. Stubble against my face I press my mouth again to Nabokov's purple lips-
Perhaps the only woman to have ever done so willingly.
The only to have done so desperately.
"NO! Youcan'tdieyoucan'tdienotlikethisyou'renotgettingoffthateasybreatheyoumotherfuckingbastardBREATHE!"
A voice is crying, shouting from this dark tunnel swearing cursing-a woman's voice, rising and rising-
"You'renotgettingoffthateasyyoucocksuckernowBREATHEyou'renotdeaduntilIsayyou'redeadBREATHE!"
I am freezing, shivering, pumping my blue fingers against the Bastard's hideous, hairy chest, ribs breaking, crunching I count to thirty, shouldersachingIpresspresspress-!
"Get an AED!" Lawless' voice far and fading, I fight hypothermia barely able to breathe into the fucker's open, disgusting mouth-
That woman is screaming again screaming. Strong arms pull me back I fight I struggle I scream I have to resuscitate Navokov he can't die this easy he doesn't deserve to die like this-!
A warm wave of air hits me, thawing drops of water pouring from my frozen hair. I am wrapped in an emergency blanket, shaking so bad I cannot control it, that voice stops its screaming, I cannot speak lips too numb jaws chattering violently-
Nabokov lies pale and still on the deck Lawless carries me I struggle and fight desperately, no more than a pathetic squirm. Locker room shower water boiling hot crying out fingers scrabble against the metal boiling, boiling flesh burning ohgodohfuckohChrist it's too hot too hot that voice is screaming again-
"Paltron, Paltron look at me!" Hands slap my face, hazel eyes before mine. Lawless. And suddenly I know that crying woman is me, my hands clenched around the tap, the hot water has never been on I am freezing to death, skin a strange and deathly white-
Hands on my skin ripping frozen clothing off screaming protesting no please no fuckyoufuckyounoletgodon'tfuckingtouchme! nails scraping hands trembling can't move can't fight jaws chattering Lawless' voice shouting I'mnotgoingtohurtyouPaltrondamnitI'mnotgoingtohurtyou-!"
…Silence.
A slow, shuddering sigh. Burning water on bare skin. The faucet pours, drain gurgles. Scars exposed I am a monster. "Jesus Christ," Lawless whispers.
Freezing. Naked. And thoroughly wretched. Wordlessly he covers me with the blanket. Wiry fingers tenacious on his wrist teeth barred I find his eyes, hold them fast, dare fucking dare him to question, to pity-
But looking into those eyes again tonight I know now I was too unfeeling. Too untrusting. Too goddamned pissed at his entire gender to discern the difference. I lower my head, force my aching arms to move and slip the denim down my long legs, the counter cool under my burning thighs, understanding tonight-only tonight-that it was compassion, compassion in his eyes that I mistook for pity.
….but I should have known, known long ago, that he is too good, too strong a man to indulge in such a cheap, misshapen excuse for love.