Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just, we much ask that which is unjust.
AN: Yes. I know. How realistic is it that both Meroni AND Ducard managed to escape alive from their respective killers? AND Anna Ramirez went uncaught and unpunished? Not likely. But this is fanfiction, where by definition anything's possible…and there's only so many original (or quasi-original, because this is fanfiction and by definition unoriginal) ideas a girl can come up with!
But on a less self-cynical note and without further ado: More Paltron, as promised!
05:00 EST
Friday, August 30th
Lawless Residence
Crumbling concretedeafeningroar fallingbuilding screamingscreaming Angelisscreaming-
I wake. Shaking. Sweating. The Legacy is over. I am alive. My eyes are open, staring, bold numbers from the alarm clock glaring in my face: 5 am. I lie still on my left side, my eyes roaming in the dimness. Where am I-?
…Lawless' house. Connolly's room.
And soft, warm breath whispers on the back of my neck, sending chills down my spine. Something warm, something human is laying next to me….
I freeze in fear. Afraid to turn. To move. To see.
There is a hand pressed lightly over mine, fingers soft and slender. A familiar hand, one that has held mine before during a day-long reign of darkness and doubt.…
I am Boaz. I must know. Gently I roll, stretch shaking fingers towards the thick comforter, slowly uncovering the face now next to mine-
Jimmy Connolly. My Angel. He is pale under plaster and dust, splattered patches of skin cleared from his tears, congealed blood dry and clotted over his ruined cheeks and chin. I dream. And Angel's eyes are open, staring into mine.
Marred. But still beautiful. I reach a trembling fingertip to those horrific wounds and he smiles, small mouth filled with dark scaly scabs of sequestered blood. But I will not be deterred, even in death I adore him. My hand brushes his face, laid over those spreading scars, and his small fingers find mine. The blood is siphoned slowly, like ink blotted on paper, scabs turn to blood scarlet on my hand the wounds healing knitting shrinking until a perfect drop of deep red blood rolls up his face like a single tear.
And he is healed. Whole. A spotless, perfect lamb. I lean, bring his pale face to mine, heart-racing place a kiss on the tip of his nose, the breeze of my breath blowing back the dust and debris until his smooth skin is cleansed…
Hot breath against my face. Flesh warm under my hand. I trace one trembling fingertip down his nose, press its tip, his dark eyes adoring…then the light in them dies he is still and silent grows grey and cold my heart is racing racing racing faster in fear and his flesh is rent torn gaping peeling away from that perfect line I shudder cringe try to piece it together but it splits down tearing tissues bloody bone shredding skin stuck to my struggling fingers skull splits dead skin sloughing Angelcan'tdie I am screamingsobbing Angelscan'tdie-!
…I am sitting up in a strange bed, clutching the covers, tears streaming silently into my open mouth, salty and bitter like the taste of blood.
I shudder. Blink. Cast wildly about. Where am I? What day is it? Stalton's ex-general? The Joker? Has Angel been found-?
But it is 5 AM. The house is silent, empty and dark, and no one is here for me to seek solutions.
Of three things only I am sure. I am Awake. I am Alive.
…I will never see my Angel again.
05:11 EST
Lawless Residence
The showerhead drones, swirls of steam rising. My fever is broken but I am chilled, that hollow face of my dreams before mine still. I shudder, rub the slick slime of soap against my skin, saturated with Angel's scent. There is a sudden draft, a slight rustle, something small moves on the other side of this thin curtain-
Angel is pale, limp in my arms, wet hair hanging in touseled tangles. He nestles deeper into the thick folds of the towel as I carry him to the bed. He stirs, blinks, stretches for me. He is Sleepy. Near senseless. Stirring fretfully. I pull a GCPD shirt down over his head, guide his tiny fingers through the holes for the hands. He is so delicate, so fragile, limp and trusting like a porcelain doll, flawless face, beautiful boy…but no doll was ever so soft and warm, no painted eyes ever so poignant. Soft palm curling gently around my finger, lips brush the bridge of his nose, gently tuck the pillow under his dark head.
I run my fingers through his curly hair, damp drops cool against my skin. And I kiss him, kiss him, eyes closed, soft, smooth skin against my mouth, eight long years of goodnights and goodbyes… curve of his cheek, sudden bridge of his straight nose, arch of his cheekbone, the soft, smiling corner of his tiny mouth…
He sighs. Warm air against wet tears. I open my eyes, whisper his name, and I stare, drowning in the depths of his dark eyes, my Angel, my child, my…
…baby boy. I whisper.
His doe-like lashes finally flit shut, chest rising and falling, breath warm and deep.
Downpouring water blood sweat fearheartbreakloneliness washing away, the tub stained pink with afterbirth. Angel lies sleeping in my bedroom as I cleanse myself of my crimes. Four men. Dead. Four heartless, childfucking men. The world will not mourn them. Neither will I.
But I fear…what? Retribution? The evidence was destroyed. That my sins will find me out? It was not sin, it was justice, poetry, instinct…a mother's love. I am not sorry, will not be sorry, will never repent of that dark deed…
…no. I fear only for Angel. To lose him…lose him like everything else I've ever loved. I will protect him, I say, protect him no matter how high the cost, no matter what the price love him horribly desperately eternally and God help, God fucking help any bastard who tries to harm him…
Water pours, steam rises. The showerhead too loud to hear the click of the latch, feet across the floor. But I know something is wrong. Gut instinct. Primal rage. Steam moves suddenly draft from the open door -!
Swish of curtain click of safety Art's Berretta in my quaking fist finger taut on trigger and waves of cold, cold shock and nausea…
Water pounds.
Rage. Shock. Horrible, horrible guilt: Angel-!
Angel stands dripping and pale, yawning sleepily, squinting his elfin eyes, and slowly, ever so agonizingly slowly he reaches, places tiny fingertips against the gun's cold muzzle, only inches from his upturned, expectant eyes.
…he is young. So young, so innocent…so goddamned naïve. Does not know that death awaits, cold and unfeeling in the barrel, a 9mm hollowpoint parabellum resting irreversibly, one twitch of a finger away where no amount of love, tender kisses or cuddling close could ever hope to staunch its flow. But he does not understand. Does not know what it is I hold-
Move the nuzzle, click the safety, shaking hands, shaking hands drop it gently on the back of the toilet, stare in disbelief in shock at the Angel before me.
He is staring at the gun. At a mother's plaything…he is intrigued, he is curious…but not afraid.
There is a presence. Small and still, perched on the toilet rim, watching me closely through the shadow of the curtain…
…Angel?
I pull it back, hold it against my ruined body, and the upturned, expectant hazel eyes of Ian Anthony Lawless stare into mine.
05:17 EST
Lawless Residence
Auburn hair tousled, reddish freckles on milk-white face. Cop onesies with a proud, bold star emblazoned on the chest, clutching a ratty cinnamon bear as big as he is, one lanky calico arm draped pathetically into the open toilet lid: Ian Lawless.
We stare, speechless.
"You're not Jimmy." He finally states.
So blunt. Matter of fact. So grown up from his child's mouth. "No." I say sadly. Shake my head. Blink back tears. You're not Jimmy, he said….
…and neither are you.
And he leaves, leaves without another word, no backwards glance, leaves dragging that pathetic bear behind him, soggy smear trailing from the drowned limb. Naked, dripping wet and wretched I know that for him, like me, it is final now. There is no going back. Mommy and Daddy and those people he loves have told him a lie a lie a horriblefuckinglie but a stranger is in his brother's room, sleeping in his bed, standing in his shower…
…and now he knows: Jimmy's gone.
Gone. I shut my eyes against the down pouring water and I remember. I remember holding him, bathing him, the slick feel of his silken curls sudsing with shampoo, the tiny prick of his nails as he bats my hands, the brush of wet lashes against my palm as I shield his fawning eyes…
I am a mother. It is mine to remember…it is mine to avenge.
05:45 EST
Lawless Residence
The morning sun has not yet appeared, but its stain spreads brightly across the east horizon. I squint my eyes in the twilight of the house's shadow, grass a dark, dew-bejeweled carpet at my feet. Yet yards away it is pale and translucent, glistening in the first pale gleam of the breaking dawn. In the suburbs we are too far away to hear the city still screaming. There is no shadow, no smoke on the horizon. The day is carefree and young, not blackened with blood, the world renewed…and yet I am left still. Sitting in the shadows. The shroud of my sorrow will not be so easily lifted.
The dew is cold under my bare feet, the tattered ends of Lawless' baggy jeans hanging cordlike over them, soaking slowly up my legs. I sniff. Breathe the clean air. Untainted by petrol and exhaust, those scents of the city never forgotten. But I am not alone in my morning vigil. Ian Lawless sits forlornly on the small swing set, its red and white barber stripe poles offer him no solace. He hugs that stuffed bear nearly as tall as he, his tawny mop of curls all that is visible.
…should I go to him? Talk? Say I miss the young man who was his brother, too? That I've lost something as well, my family forever sundered, a scar that will never fully heal-?
Yet the words would sound insincere. He is three, and I am only the Mean Lady. The one who shows up at holidays and birthdays to talk briefly with his father, hand him a card then leave. I have never been a part of his life, the DaddyIanandJimmy that has defined his small, sheltered world. No. He is young. Innocent. Like my Angel was. And he has no idea the horrors that lie beyond the borders of his small yard kingdom, the evils of men like monsters who prowl outside the steel chain-rings of safety. He is young. Innocent. I am old and wretched.…and I will let him be.
The nascent sun peers over the horizon, its first warm rays finally reaching me. The dull wooden porch suddenly gleams a rich, red amber, spreading about me in a smooth, sanguine sea. And Moses stretched out his hand, and the rivers of Egypt ran red with blood…
Ten plagues. And yet it was only on the last that Pharaoh relented…the striking of the first born. My son lies dead in Gotham, corpse unburied and defiled. And all of Gotham's children are fair play. No frogs nor locusts, no boils nor flaming hail…the Devil knows the playbook. And has the liberty of ignoring the rules.
The swing-set squeaks. Rusted joints whining shrilly. I lift my eyes: Ian Lawless.
He will have a childhood. Innocent, happy, carefree. The cloud and Clown of darkness and despair threaten to overshadow him. Yet I am Atlas. I will lift this burden from his small shoulders…
…I'll send that Bastard back to Hell where he belongs. Along with anyone who had a stake in the Legacy. Everyone responsible. Anyone who profited. Anyone who knew and remained silent and in their silence secured the deaths of thousands…For such is the steep price of the sanctity of the human soul: for he who sheds man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed.
The Joker made a jest of it, but I am death. I laugh last. Every cry, every scream, every gallon of burned, blackened blood down to the last drop I will exact, eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, life for a life until nothing remains but a sickly splatter of viscous slime bright red and shocking scarlet with broken bones scattered over the surface like sunken shipwrecks…
I am Edmund Dantes. Vengeance is mine. I will repay. And then, only then, will the spirits of the dead of the Sleepless City finally rest in peace.
I shiver. My feet are waxen, wet, cold with the dew of this sacred ground where Angel walked, where Ian walks now. I will not let its sanctuary be defiled.
6:30 EST
Lawless Residence
A sudden sound. Screen door sliding back. I turn. Lawless stands in the door frame, small bundle in his arms, odd expression on his face.
"He wake you?" He asks. I shake my head. He grunts, shuts the door one-handed, juggling that struggling ball of cloth and fur. Clicking nails lolling tongue bright eyes flashing the mangy, maladroit puppy darts across the porch, racing off across the dew-stained grass.
"Since when have you had a dog?" I ask.
He shrugs gingerly, trying to sound careless. "Since last night."
I don't mean to be rude. Forward. But my presence here has caused enough strain, my presence has always caused enough strain on their marriage. And she-regardless of my opinion and distaste, regardless of her weakness, her selfishness, her shallowness-is Lawless' wife. And he loves her. He'd be a fucking idiot to let her go. "Your wife okay with it?"
We watch the dog in silence, skittering in a straight line across the yard to the swing set as though knowing, knowing intuitively it was brought here for a purpose, for a reason…like me.
"Ames…Ames isn't sure it's time yet." He sighs, joints creaking as he lowers himself onto the step beside me. "Yeah. We'd…we'd talked about getting him a puppy. Distract him. Keep his mind off it, you know?" Lawless says lowly. "But I, I didn't think it was time…"
The cinnamon colored puppy trips over its own overlarge paws, lets out a yelp and an uff-!, landing in a tumble at Ian's feet. Lawless watches hungrily as the boy stares, uncertain, at the yipping, quivering ball of fur before him, long tail whipping nearly to its nose.
A puppy. Like that Cinnamon bear. Gifts I never had the chance to give to Angel-
I sniff. Lawless continues. "But Gordon goddamn nearly ran the thing down last night. He stomped the brakes, and there he was, just sitting calmly in the road giving us this look like 'I'm gonna kick your ass.' .And I knew. I just…knew. Nora said not to touch it, and yeah, yeah he was a mess, thing's half-starved, had fleas and ringworm, oh hell-"
Lawless bolts from the porch as the puppy takes off, the stuffed toy in its mouth, dragging, tearing, shredding like a dog will do Ian is screaming, yelling, chasing it shouting giveitbackgiveitback-!
The thing zips through Amy's petunias, shaking the stuffing out of that toy Ian is sobbing and the goddamned dog runs straight to me, straight to me and looks at me through winking dark eyes. I think of Masterchief, of Red and Bear, of Masterchief's goddamn dog chasing decommissioned grenades....It drops the bear in my lap and prances off, flinging its paws and tearing circles through the lawn. I stand, limp across the dew-soaked grass to Lawless and Ian.
Strong arms hoisting him up, holding his son close to his chest, chubby cheek laid over his shoulder. "Hey, bud, it's alright, okay? He's just a puppy he doesn't know—"
I hand over the bear, and Ian snatches it, snatches it and wipes his streaming nose down the back of its head, gives that puppy a scathing glare, for a moment looking just like his mother, and whispers, "I hade him. Do we gotsta keep him?" But the puppy doesn't know. Doesn't understand. Lopes giddily around us, yipping and rolling over on its back, long, rope-like tail whipping heedlessly against Lawless' legs. It's a surreal moment, for one split-second I think of Jon, think of the house and yard I haven't seen for nineteen years, think of the kids we never raised, the dog we never had, think if life had been fair if life had been kind it would be my husband, my child standing here with me in the early morning sun. But life, by definition, isn't fair. A life that is fair demands perfect justice, eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, life for a life and that alone seems harsh and unyielding. And yet…life is fair. It is not for all to exact justice. Not everyone is given chance as an avenging Angel.
Yet for my pain and suffering it has been granted. The scales of justice are in my palm. I will weigh. I will measure. And all found wanting I will destroy.
6:45 EST
Lawless Residence
Ian has decided not to hate the dog.
Right now he is laughing, laughing and the sound is shrill but beautiful. It is freed. It belongs. Little boys are supposed to run and chase, fall into the dew-stained grass and squeal as the sticky slurp of dog slobber coats their sputtering, smiling faces…
That ratty bear lies in the mulch, stuffing coming out its overstretched arms, only Lawless' timely intervention into tug-a-war preventing it from shredding to pieces. Barefoot he grimaces through the flower garden, stooping to retrieve the forgotten toy.
Forgotten…like my Angel. The puppy has served its purpose, and I find myself chafing to begin with mine.
"Ames' mother gave it to him." Lawless explains sheepishly, sitting again beside me on that top wooden step. Amy's mother. Terminally ill, stage four breast cancer, metastises to her brain. She died at less than 80 pounds, not three days after the delivery of her only grandchild.
I would know. I went to the funeral.
Emaciated. Skeletal. Aspiration pneumonia. The physician's friend, Lawless had called it. I shudder at the corpse in the casket, even dressed, painted, eyelids plumped it seems nothing but rags and ash.
Lawless stands beside the body, accepting hugs, teary-eyed apologies and stammers about 'your loss.' He takes them all in stride, nods kindly, thanks the visitors sincerely for their condolences. The funeral home is near empty, less than 30 people have come to pay their respects. Begrudging and dressed in black in a sick sort of way I'm glad I came.
More hand wringing, more thank you's, a meaningless ceremony devoid of all religious purpose, intent, or zeal. It is hollow and awkward. We all feel it. He nods wearily when he sees me, and I squeeze his shoulder, hard. He's put up with the hell of hospice these last three months. Good man. Good husband.
"Hey," is all I say.
But his wife is standing there, standing there with a week old baby in her arms. We haven't spoken since that ill-fated baby shower. At twenty-seven she holds the thing I want most in the world, the thing denied me since Warizistan, since they took my Angel: motherhood. And even had that exchange never occurred, those words never passed, I would still tremble under the overwhelming urge to reach out and punch her in that immaculate, emotionless face-
That bundle stirs in her arms, puffy lips yawning sleepily, eyes squinching shut. Ian Anthony Lawless. Pink and dreaming. Momentarily the only thing standing between me and charges of assault.
"I'm…I'm sorry."I finally manage to offer.
"For what?" She states bitterly "She was old. She was sick. I'm the only one who'd take care of her and even then we were never close. Everyone's better off this way."
"She'd kill you if anything ever happened to it?" I ask.
"No." He says, after an honest pause. "No Ames really wouldn't give a shit. But I'd feel like an ass, oh Hell-" he grimaces again. His young son is standing right beside him, peering up at him curiously, wondering at those words. Lawless' eyes roll up in chagrin. "What bud?"
"Can we keep him now?" Ian wheedles. "Pleeeese?"
Lawless winks. Feigns a frown. "I don't know bud, a puppy's an awful lot of work-"
"C'mon pleeese dad pretty pleeese dad-!"
"You'll have to feed him and water him and give him baths-" Lawless enumerates each with the deadpan gravity of a space shuttle launch. "You'll have to let him out and clean up after him-"
"C'mon pleeese-" Ian counters, dancing excitedly. "I'm can take reals good care of him, dad!"
Lawless signs. Shakes his greying head. Concedes with an I guess so as Ian squeals in excitement, jumping up and down while the dog licks the mulch on Lawless' toes. I watch as his son climbs up in his lap, gives him an enthusiastic, bouncing hug, one small foot pressed painfully against his groin. But Lawless doesn't even so much as flinch, holds his son against his chest, holds him tightly, breathes in the scent of his hair caught in that speechless, parental moment between laughter and weeping-
I look away.
Lawless' scratchy voice is impossibly gentle. "What are you going to call him, bud?"
7:01 EST
Lawless Residence
He has been talking for some time now. Trying to put it in words. How strange. Surreal. How fragile and fleeting is life...
...and how utterly do I know it. Yet I am silent. Listen. Listen as he talks to the empty air, eyes vacant and sad, mind full of memories, this yard full of ghosts...
But he is winding down to a close, something dark and sinister, heavy and sodden with grief. "I've done a lot of research, you know? History was always my thing. Yeah, I was doctor, all my undergraduate was science classes but I was in the American History Honors Society, can you believe that? God, that was so damn long ago-"
Yes. I can believe it. He is always writing. Always reading. Has even published a book. "Native Americans…some cultures names were recycled...they believed the spirits were reincarnated. Others never spoke that name or word again, death was taboo. You just couldn't talk about it. It was...it was like no one even wanted to think about death at all...some cultures worshipped it, some feared it, some feared it so much their languages didn't even possess a word…it's just so...weird." He finally states. "It's weird how people, how cultures handle death differently...and how little kids know how to handle it better than we can."
"Fuck." Lawless says vehemently.
Yet it strikes deeper than just a name. I tense. "You got the call, didn't you?"
"Yeah." He says, that bear tucked in his lap, arms holding it close. "Yeah, I did. Gordon…Gordon wants me to go."
"I'm going too."
He turns to me, eyes moist yet stony. No 'you shouldn't. don't need to see this.' It is his son, and mine. It is my right. My duty. And he will not deny me. Angel's death has left us weak and wounded…but together we are strong.
7:20 EST
Lawless Residence
Steady rush. Somewhere a shower is running. I return to that room one last time, dress in Lawless' proffered clothes.
Angel's are too small for me.
I dress. Pack my things. Steal the mountain of medications on the nightstand. Cortical steroids. Inhaler. Three classes of broad-spectrum antibiotics…and enough hard narcotics to kill a horse.
I shudder. Lawless? Dealing drugs-?
But no. Like the veterinarian he visited in the late hours last night, he has many friends in many disciplines. Contacts. Resources. Well liked, well respected…trusted. He had merely to ask and the favors were granted. I stuff the bottles with toilet paper, muffle their rattling. And now the nightstand is empty, save Ian's old baby monitor, and a worn, beaten Bible. Hesitantly I reach out a hand, ask myself do I dare caress its cover or peruse its pages. Is its presence here a warning, or a gift-?
There is a note, a note on the inside cover, faint and faded with sweat and tears. Jimmy, it reads, if you have lost your faith in me, please don't lose faith in God. Read this and I think you will find the answers that you seek. Love, Maggie.
Friend? Social worker? Lover-? My heart quickens, peruses that message for some hidden meaning, to decipher those words again in a way that makes anything but bitter sense. Who is this Maggie? How did she know my Angel?
…and does she know already how hollow and empty her hope and answers are. Whatever comfort he may have found, those words cannot console me.
The spine is broken, the binding torn. The pages fall open, marked with ink, highlighter, and the bitter, heart wrenching blots of tears: the book of Job.
…then something falls, flutters slowly to the distant floor. A scrap of paper, a makeshift bookmark, penned with his tiny script. Random strings of numbers and letters. Most-I find after a minute's reflection, are anagrams of his name or Lawless'. I read it hungrily, search for the loop of his j's and y's, the long, straight stroke of the l's, the even, soothing rows of m's and n's in his name…
They total twelve in number. My heart stops beating.
I know. I know, as clearly had Angel placed them purposefully in my hands. Something within me closes that book with reverence, lays it gently upon the stand, hand quivering as though burned, the light feel of his fingers brush against mine. Like Stalton's list screaming from my wallet, Angel's now sears my eyes: 12 passphrases, for 12 months.
For this is not Angel's room, not Angel's Bible, not the childish scrawl of a schoolboy but the scripted lines of a meticulous young man. An Officer. Detective Jimmy Connolly. GCPD security mandates a change in pass phrases once every thirty days. A minimum of 15 characters, a combination of numbers, letters, capitals and special characters…and they must never be shared, and most certainly never written down and left where prying eyes might see. But they're pain in the ass to remember. So they are written down, even Gordon is guilty of it. Written down and safely hidden. Some are foolish enough to tape them to the underside of desk drawers. The Prudent place them in home safes or safety deposit boxes. And the Innocent? The Innocent place them in something precious, something so personal they could never lose…
…And Angel-Jimmy Connolly-was Innocent.
I kiss that pillow. Say goodbye. Touch the surface of the bookcase, run regretful fingers down the spines of leather bound tomes, open the closet, pull a pressed uniform to my face, inhale deeply its lingering scent…or is that too, only my imagination? Angel is dead. Do the ghosts that have haunted my dreams now plague me waking as well-?
Smell is the most powerful sense of memory. Of emotion. I must leave. Leave soon, before it consumes me. I shut the closet. Smooth the bed. Take my things and leave this sanctuary as it was, empty and expectant, perfect and pristine, missing one thing and one only: Connolly's computer access codes. With one, long, backwards look, I cross the floor.
I stand in the doorway, reluctant yet ready. It is a long, dark road I will travel, but my Angel stands at the end.
I flick the light. Shut the door. I will not keep him waiting.
7:31 EST
Lawless Residence
I am dressed in Lawless' clothes, his oversized shoes, sitting with Ian at the table. I haven't touched my coffee. A calendar is posted on the refrigerator over the ice machine, but the rest…the rest is covered in papers. Bright blobs and stick-like figures, all blue and gold, a mess of squiggled red…
None but a mother could know. Lawless. Angel and Ian. I stand. Walk to the fridge, pull one of Ian's illegible crayon sketches from its place, adoring, the mess of colored wax across the paper safeguarding it against my sudden tears-
Movement. Frantic click of nails on hardwood floor. I turn, and Ian and Jimmybear are staring up at me.
"Hey," is all I say.
"Wanna pet my puppy?"
I don't have much choice. "Sure." I stoop, kneeling to my left knee, feeling the pupy's stiff, coarse coat. It is short and rusty, stretched taut over his thin ribs and bulging belly. The dog gently mauls my arm, teething and slobbering as I scratch behind his ears. A goddamned puppy. Like those goddamned popsicles. Something I never had the chance to share…
"Why are you crying for?" Lawless' living son asks shyly.
Why am I crying? I ask. I'm crying because I'm here in this house with you and your father and the puppy Angel never had the chance to have, crying because I wanted kids and a husband just a fucking baby and a husband had a baby and a husband and lost them both…
I shake my head. Dry my tears. Look into his bashful, freckled face and whisper, "I like your pictures."
7:40 EST
Lawless Residence
Lawless is showered and dressed. Picks up a slumbering Ian from the kitchen floor and puts him back to bed. He pours himself a traveling mug of coffee while I drain my own tepid cup. We are ready.
The front door closes with finality. I am leaving. I will not be coming back. I turn, take it all in, memorize this hallowed haunt, a surreal sanctuary like that lingering scent still on Angel's pillowcase…
Our old cruiser. I climb in. Shut the door. The seatbelt again lays against my breasts. With a pang I realize this is no longer my seat. It was-and will always be- my son's. Lawless opens the driver's side door as his wife comes sprinting down the cobbled walk hastily tying her robe.
"Where are you going?" She asks, wet hair still slick and soapy.
"Call came in." Lawless grunts. "Gordon wants me to check it out."
Her blue eyes flick to me. "She's going with you?"
"Yeah." Lawless says. "She's coming with." She sighs, upturns her face, kisses him, soft skin pressed against the stubble of his beard. Touches his chest. Tells him be careful…a backwards glance. Our eyes meet, and hold. She is the wife. I the mother. She will not stop us from going together to visit his grave.
The engine hums. Lawless throws her in reverse, and we glide down the driveway, his wife standing alone in the front yard, hand held up, squinting in the sun, long hair dripping and damp, one white arm waving goodbye.
We round the corner. The house is lost. I settle back into Connolly's seat. In mid-morning traffic it is a ninety minute ride to the Narrows. The suburbs disappear, neat rows of drab houses and trees with the occasional park or obsolete cornfield like vestigial scars of a by gone era. Wordlessly we pull out onto the highway, the air suddenly choked with fumes and the angry wails of road-rage horns.
The cement is grey and dry, wavering before the dash in the heat of exhaust and the August sun. It stretches for miles upon miles, a broad, ugly furrow in the green earth, funneling us all towards the distant haze of Gotham City…
It is fitting. Wide is the gate, and broad the way that leads to Perdition.
AN: Happy almost Birthday, Ernestina! Although what is says about my subconscious that I first published this fic on Valentine's day I'm not quite sure...that, I believe, is better left to the realms of scary people like Crane and Quinzel (spelled right for the first time in this fic ever!). I shall meddle not in their secrets!