…And everything had been going so well.

Just last week they'd talked for the first time in ages. Hadn't gotten far, but they'd at least addressed it. She'd called him arrogant, overbearing, overprotective, even…but he could work on that. Change. He could make it better. Make them better. And she'd seemed relieved—relieved, yes, to know his next partner would be a man, to know she wouldn't have to vie, compete for his attention, to worry or wonder—

He'd always assured her that she didn't. She'd never believed him. But you couldn't be mad at her, had to hate the woman who'd ingrained in her from such an early age that men would use and abuse, wander and abandon. Not him. Not Aaron Lawless. He'd set out to prove himself different, above that, to change her mind, comfort her, assuage those fears. But his Damsel in Distress was used to the drama by now, so inured she couldn't see it, and you couldn't rescue a woman from a truth or trope she refused to acknowledge, refused to face. Yet Jimmy Connolly was just as flighty. Just as needy. He'd looked forward to the companionship of another man and had been met with an effeminate, adolescent insecurity. Where Amy was words, words, words and sullen stubbornness his new partner was skittish silence. It wasn't the speechless stoicism that Paltron had had, it was the emotionally draining kind that kept you reaching out your hand in the darkness, an endless babble of positive encouragement and chatter that fell on deaf, unfeeling ears. Between carrying the boy's gun in the intervening days and trying to break that shell of forced isolation he was exhausted. Even Amy had noticed the change. Said he seemed more tired. Drained. Spent.

It played with his reaction time. His ability to process. And now in the GCPD gym it had become apparent.

It got out of hand. So quickly. He couldn't pin down the moment when that sick dread hit him, bitter in the back of his throat, but it was there all the same. He'd sensed it in the crowd, a wild, hungry anticipation, like sharks trailing a slaver's ship. The tension was off. Wrong. Not the chanting camaraderie and hopeful cheering for a team member. No, this was an opponent. The gathered boys were here to see his partner punished.

The hell—? he wondered.

Renee Montoya had taken on a class of fifty-four new GCPD recruits, and had handed each one their ass in succession. He didn't approve, but he couldn't begrudge them their traditions. McGinty's even got in on the fun, offering a free night on the house for whatever class managed to dethrone the current champion. But every academy class for the past six years had learned to truth: Montoya might be little, but she fought like a son of a bitch. She'd grown up rough, ostracized from society by the color of her skin and nap of her hair, rejected by the black community for her badge, and spurned by the Latino community for her girlfriends. She had never fit in, never truly belonged, and the experience had left her with a chip on her shoulder that served as the perfect foil for these young mostly white men barely out of adolescence who needed a lesson in humility and life.

Tonight, fifty-three young men had taken a swing at her. Few had ever hit their intended mark. Montoya was small, but she was fast. Renee Montoya was into boxeo and street-fighting and wasn't afraid to take a punch. Paltron had told him she'd even done cage matches, and not for nothing had she been known as la Venenosa. With her well-muscled, smooth, sweaty physique and writhing speed she looked like a snake indeed.

Jimmy Connolly was opponent number fifty-four, and it was painfully apparent from the moment he climbed up into the ring he didn't stand a chance. With only one left standing, you'd expect the stands to be erupting in loud encouragement and shouting despite the odds or chances. They were team mates. Academy mates. A Fraternal Order…

He'd been met instead with jeers.

"What a fag—"

"Jesus, just hit the bitch already—"

Kid, what the hell—

He'd guessed the Kid to have been unpopular, being the youngest and the runt. He'd also—in an unprecedented move, even for WATCHDOG—received the probationary rank of Detective. But even then Lawless would've pegged him as ignored or simply envied, rather than unliked. Hated even. But Jimmy Connolly never rose to their obscene banter or cat calling. Never once took his eyes off the fists of his lightning fast opponent. He circled her doggedly, ducking and dodging as Montoya's strong arms sent soft lobs at him, testing the waters.

He had to give that to her, at least. She always kept her fights fair, regardless of her flagrant violation of due process and GCPD protocol out on the beat. Paltron, however, had always gone straight to the throat, eyes, or balls and wasn't afraid to use her teeth, even in training. Renee Montoya liked the thrill, got that glint in her eye handing grown men their asses in their ring by their rules. And Paltron?

Paltron just liked to win.

On the mat, Montoya sent her infamous right hook into Connolly's face. The warning shot. She was done fucking around. Aaron cringed as the fist broke through the boy's defenses and sent him sprawling. THWACK. The sound of skin slapping against the sweat soaked mat made him grimace. With as scrawny as his partner was, there'd be friction burns and bruising. That was going to hurt like hell come morning.

The stands around him erupted into raucous laughter. "Like a bitch!" the young man behind him jeered as the bleachers erupted in laughter.

"Back on your feet!" Aaron called, hoping Connolly could hear him."You do know he's your last chance, right?" he turned in the bleachers to address the cat caller with an eye of disapproval.

Oh, damn. Guy had to be at least six foot four. And those bulging biceps and that thick, wide forehead and prominent chin gave him the physique and power of a gorilla. Whoever the hell he was, he was the ringleader. He was also, Aaron surmised by the cool, detached stare in that corn-fed face, an arrogant son of a bitch.

"Whatever, man." A polite Millennial 'fuck off'.

"What's your problem with him, anyways?"

"Whoa, chill, man."

"No, he's my partner so I'm not going to 'chill'," Aaron insisted. "What's your problem with him. Spill."

The guy laughed. Flashed his too-white teeth in that pink pig's face. Flexed his pex in a stretch obviously meant to intimidate, belittle, cow. "So you guys work together, or are you just fucking him?"

Yeah, and if I juiced I could have a body like that too, Aaron bristled to himself. Shame about the balls. "I don't like your homophobic tone."

"Whatever, man."

"What's your rank?"

"Look old man, you don't want to take this outside."

"The name's Lawless. Detective Aaron Lawless," he drawled. "And you're right, I don't want to have to step out of this ring and take the matter up with your boss because Lt. Paltron is my former partner and I happen to know how pissy the paperwork would make her and as much as I would love to see you get your worthless ass handed to you by a woman for a second time tonight, it's better for all of us if she gets some sleep," he threatened in one long breath. "So what's your rank…son?"

God. He loved dropping the Paltron bomb. That look of doubt, of momentary anxiety, trying to decide whether you were faking them out or whether they ought to just shit their pants. That shifting look in those squinting eyes, facial muscles bulging as he chewed his tongue, searching for a retort, a comeback—

But that bristling tension only compounded. "All you boys hear that?" Renee barked, all attention turning back to the ring. "Connolly doesn't hit girls.

"Don't count, man!" Pigface shouted. "She's a dyke!"

"Yeah, well this dyke just whooped your collective ass," Montoya snarled back to her anonymous heckler, dark eyes flashing dangerously in the permafrost of her face. "Mariposas! Now hit me."

His partner's answer was a violent shake of the head.

Montoya sent her right fist into his face. He staggered.

"Hit me."

Again he negated. Renee Montoya swore. Dropped her guard. Threw her helmet down in graceless frustration. "Hijo de puta! Lawless!"

It was necessary, he told himself. Connolly had to learn. But the sight of someone beating the shit out of his partner was still enough to make him queasy. He'd been trained for this. Ingrained for this. Every instinct screamed to use any force necessary to make her stop. He stood, with Pigface's eyes glued to the back of his head. "Yeah?"

"Toss me your tazer."

An interesting compromise. Not what he'd wanted…but a compromise. Warily he pulled the contraption from his belt. Chucked it reluctantly down through the chains. She caught it, one-handed.

"There." She shoved it at the Kid in full view of everyone. "You're not hitting me. Do it."

He took it gingerly, awkwardly enveloped in his gloved hand. For once the room had gone silent. Aaron heard him whisper, in a child's voice: "I can't."

Damn it, Kid. C'mon, Lawless reproached him. You've got to do this.

"How the hell you going to do your job?" Montoya said for him, with the forcefulness he just couldn't seem to muster in Connolly's meek presence. Paltron had handed him over to his better judgement…but after what she'd put him through he couldn't bring himself to be anything other than nurturing. The Kid needed patience, a gentle handler… he also needed to quit.

"What if your perp's a woman?" she snarled. "What then?"

"He'll shoot her—" Pigface called.

"—same as he did that kid!" Damn them. Damn them all.

She punched his face, not hard, those rock solid muscles of her forearms didn't contract enough for that. but it was still enough to sting. "Do it."

He wouldn't.

She got more aggressive as bile built up in his throat. Fist to the face, the stomach, knee towards the groin. Each and every move he'd block or dodge, but never once even with the taser in his hand would he make an offensive posture.

She took the kid gloves off, then. Those gentle lobs and stinging blows turned to bone-crunching bruise machines.

Jimmy Connolly cried out. He felt his stomach lurch.

"Your perp is resisting arrest," Renee shouted as a welts the size of a her fists rose up in lurid purple swatches on his bare arms. "Assaulting an officer. Taze her!"

"I can't I can't I can't I WON'T!" the Kid shouted, flinging the tazer onto the mat. "I won't," he repeated, deathly pale.

Goddamnit, Kid. Montoya picked up the tazer, swearing and wiping sweat from her face with the back of her bronze arm. Jimmy Connolly shut his eyes and lowered his gaze, defeated. Accepting. Slowly she came forward, waiting, wishing, willing for him to resist. He never did.

Back off, Renee. Just back off. Connolly had given up, thrown in the towel. He couldn't imagine that she'd actually, not now—

Renee Montoya pushed the electrodes into his flesh—

"Renee, don't—!" Lawless protested.

…Nothing happened. She'd turned the taser off. The boy's head jerked up in wonder.

Renee Montoya swiped his legs out from under him. He fell back, sprawling, hitting the mat with a uff! that knocked the wind out of him. She knelt. Drove a knee into his chest and put her right fist through his face. "Hit me."

Jimmy Connolly scrabbled against the mat, tractionless, slick with sweat. It made him sick. To see your partner so goddamned helpless…

She leaned in. Put her weight into his stomach. Her left glove came swinging down. "Fight back."

He wriggled out from under her, rolling to all fours—

Her foot found his stomach. He reeled to his side. "Defend yourself."

She kicked him. Hard. "Get up."

Connolly rolled to his hands and knees, but she didn't give him time. No space. No quarter. Within seconds she'd pounced again, slamming a fist into his back, sending him sprawling. One firm step had her standing over him, and a foot shot out into his stomach.

The sound was like a soccer ball being kicked.

It was necessary. He needed to learn, he told himself. She was hurting him, but she wouldn't harm him…

Renee Montoya didn't have kids. Didn't want kids. It was easier for her, he thought, not having to think like a parent, a mother—

She relented. Let him stand. Jimmy said something but he couldn't hear over the deafening din of the crowd. They were booing. Jeering. They wanted him down. Hard.

Renee Montoya removed her gloves and obliged. She punched him with her bare fist. Blood rained in splatters from his broken nose. "Hit me!"

That was far enough. Too far. He'd let this go on too long. "Renee—!"

But Montoya was unrelenting. "Hit me!" Another bright splash of blood. "I said fucking hit me!" She swung back a foot and caught him clean in the crotch. Even with protection, with that much force…

He felt himself shrivel a bit. All around the bleachers let out a collective groan. But the sympathy only lasted a millisecond. Once the shock wore off, Jimmy Connolly's classmates thought it was absolutely hilarious.

"Right in the balls, man!"

"Do you think he even felt it?"

Yeah, assholes. He fucking felt it. Jimmy Connolly was still retching, curled with his knees to his chest.

The hell is wrong with these people? He thought, bewildered. WATCHDOG made GCPD standards lax, yes, but to graduate an entire Academy class of sociopaths—?

Montoya stalked across the mat. Lawless watched, sickened, as the Kid tried to drag himself away, crawling through pools of his own puke.

…he didn't get far.

She knelt, one knee against his chest, driving the air out of him. She hit him again. And again. And again. After the fifth blow his arms fell, dazed, and her fists slammed against his skull.

It'd gone far enough. Bystander effect. He'd let the crowd convince him she wouldn't do something stupid, that she'd teach him, not humiliate him, that he wouldn't actually get hurt. Enough, Aaron Lawless thought. Enough. When she played by the rules and gave him a chance it was one thing.

This…this was just cruel.

…And getting loud.

"Renee—" Lawless shouted as the stands erupted behind him.

"Don't be such a fucking pussy!"

" Don't be such a fucking fag!"

"Get up and fight!"

"Renee—" he shouldered his way through the gathered throng, knocked back by shoulders of oblivious boys who still thought it was all a game.

"Stay out of this!" Montoya snarled, still crouched over her prey with one knee in his chest, forcing the breath out of him. "You just stay out of this!"

Connolly's face had gone a deathly grey. Lawless' heart was pounding. She'd gone too far. He'd let it get out of hand, how the hell had the world gotten so fucked up? "Montoya, that's enough—!"

But he wasn't the only one. All around him these boys were suddenly realizing the match down on the mats was no longer a game. And it hadn't been for quite a long time.

"Oh my God, oh my God, that's a lot of blood—"

"Shit, man, she's going to kill him!"

"—I-I think she broke his jaw!"

"Oh, fuck!"

"Someone should do something—"

Over the din of chanting, jeering voices and panicked, milling worry he couldn't hear the boy's words, but Montoya's answer was just another fist to the face.

That's when Connolly started screaming. "Renee, please—!"

"Hit me. Hit me. HIT ME!" She commanded, every syllable punctuated by another blow. Guys don't hit girls, the words from the WATCHDOG application came back to him with mounting dread. It doesn't matter if they're gay or whatever. Guys don't hit girls and they don't let them get hit. Renee Montoya knew him better than anyone, had reinstated him based on those words alone.

…She was trying to force him to learn a lesson he would never accept.

"Please! Please! Somebody help!"

"Just hit the bitch already!"

"Renee, ENOUGH!" he ordered.

Jimmy Connolly wouldn't hit a girl. Not even to save himself. And now he was too weak to even mount a defense. It had escalated too far, too fast, he had to rein it in before—

"Help me!" the Kid cried to the crowd. "Somebody, help me!"

He knocked these idiots out of his way. Scrambled across the floor to find his way barred by the ropes of the arena. He was old. Stiff. His adrenaline up, he wasn't thinking, slipped climbing through the chains. "RENEE!"

"Help me!" the Kid shrieked. "Please!"

Montoya struck him anew.

"HELP ME!"

Too late. The fight had gotten too loud. Those pleas too piteous. The Pre-Colombian natives in this area said a vengeful spirit slumbered beneath the earth, that the evil deeds of men and sacrilege would wake it. Sociologists laughed, jokingly said it was the reason for the mental illness, poverty, and crime rates in Gotham City, then went back to their maps and software, scratching their heads and dismissing the supernatural entirely. But to Aaron Lawless it wasn't a joke. He'd met the demon before, on Fear Night, and he believed in her.

He'd done everything in his power since to keep her to her slumber.

"Paltron!" he shouted, tripping over the ropes again and sprawling. "Goddamnit, Paltron, wait—"

But one of her mannish white hands had already buried itself in Montoya's plait. "Cat fight!" the stands erupted in glee.

…And then the world went straight to hell. That split-second of elation turned into terror.

She threw Montoya. By her hair. Tossed her with a cry of rage like she weighed nothing, pounced on her prey before the other woman had even hit the mat, talons tight against her throat, knees driving the air from her lungs. And it was horrifying, heartstoppinglypansthittinglyhorrifying to see the victor turn victim so easily.

"Paltron!" Lawless shouted. "Paltron, enough—!"

"IS THIS HOW YOU LIKE IT?" Grendel's Mother roared. "IS THIS HOW YOU FUCKING LIKE IT BITCH!"

"Shit, man!"

"She's going to kill her!"

"Ohgodohgodohgod—!"

"Somebody do something!"

There were moments like these. Split seconds of the truth when he saw her soul and knew without a doubt that Gwen Paltron belonged behind bars or buried six feet down. "JESUS, PALTRON, THAT'S ENOUGH—!"

"Stop it!" A shrill, small voice said in that vortex of chaos. "Just stop it—!"

Jimmy Connolly was panting, bright red blood pooled between his white teeth. It took a thousand thundering heartbeats to realize it had been the boy who'd spoken. "Y-you didn't have to hurt her," he bleated.

She blinked like she'd been struck. Let go. Relented.

Renee Montoya gasped for air, clawing at her throat. He rushed to her side.

But the Demon's anger hadn't been abated. Only re-directed. "What is wrong with you!" Paltron raged. "The fuck is wrong with all of you!" She let out a primal cry, wrenching the ropes lose and overturning a table laden with water coolers as if it had been made of match sticks. Sticky, sweet sports drink bled and glugged in rivers across the gym floor. No one spoke. No one moved.

"Fifty of you just stood around and watched?" she kicked one of the coolers, sending it skating into the wall with a scraping, final clang. "One of your own got the living shit beaten out of him and you just stood there and did fucking nothing?!"

"You goddamned cowards!" she spat. "Motherfucking cunts!"

"Hijo de puta—!" Montoya managed to choke in his arms.

"You!" Paltron rounded on the two of them huddled on the mat. He was holding the dark hair back from her face, the force of that attack having loosened her braids and ripped up scalp and roots.

"Fuck you, puta!" Renee howled, clutching her neck and tender head. "Just fuck you!"

She noticed him seemingly for the first time. "You to, Lawless?" Et tu, Brutae?

"Paltron—"

"Fuck you," came her blunt reply. "My office. Now. The rest of you, down!"

Fifty-two cowed young men dropped to the floor, soaked in sports drink. But that arrogant son of a bitch shit-stain stood. Crossed his arms. Said something stupid.

Aaron shut his eyes.

"Lawless, get him out of here," Paltron bristled.

"Montoya—"

"Montoya and I are going to have a little talk," she promised.

Renee Montoya was up and breathing, if still a bit grey and furious. There was no point arguing. Not with her, not right now. He clapped Montoya's swarthy shoulder once, then moved to obey. He wrapped a hand around Connolly's arm, half-dragging, half-carrying him from the room.

"I said down," he heard Paltron hiss behind them.

"Jesus, Kid," he said once they'd reached the floor. "That lip lac's bleeding like crazy—" the Kid would need stitches for sure. And he himself needed a pair of gloves. There wasn't an inch of his partner's skin or clothes not speckled with sprays of blood.

"Don't touch me," Jimmy demanded, batting his hands away. "Just. Don't. Touch. Me."

"Kid, you need help."

His partner out a sound that was half scream, half sob.

"Kid—"

"You have nothing to say to me. No one has anything to say to me," Jimmy raised his head, shaking in pain and rage. His left eye was swollen almost shut, and there was a capillary bleed across both his sclera.

He looked fucking miserable. He looked like a fucking mess.

"Kid, I'm sorry-"

"No!" Jimmy said, wrenching his small arm away while his nose and lips were still spewing blood. "Stay away from me!"

"Kid, I'm your partner—" he remonstrated, but to no avail.

"I don't care. I don't care I don't care I don't care. I thought you were different. I trusted you! You said you'd have my back but you're no different than the rest of them!" The Kid accused. "You're just the same. I begged you for help and you just stood there and did nothing! You let them hurt me! GO AWAY."

"Lawless?" Paltron's clipped voice came from behind him as Connolly collapsed against her desk, completely spent. "Do what he says."

The silence was punctuated by the boy's soft sobs.

"Christ, Paltron, he needs medical attention—"

"And you think you're the only one qualified?" she hoisted him up by the armpits to sit slumping on the desktop. "I know how to patch up a couple fingers."

"We should get him to the ER," he argued.

"You want to fill out the fucking incident report?" she rammed a bag of ice against his bruised and bloodied face with unnecessary force. "Deal with all the paperwork and shit? Go right ahead."

"You've got to report this to the proper authorities."

"I'm the Lieutenant Commissioner," she leveled dangerously. "Consider it reported."

"Damnit, Paltron, what those kids did in there, there has to be consequences—"

She shot him a pointed stare. "What makes you think there haven't been?"

After six years he knew better than to ask what she'd done. Don't ask, don't tell had been her creed from the beginning of their partnership. Don't ask me, don't tell me, and we won't have to rat on each other later. No judge or jury or sacred oath on an ancient text could bind them to betrayal if they could claim in all good conscience to have never truly known.

That stare went on for the better part of a minute, terminated only in an acquiescing sigh.

Connolly was still whimpering into the bag of ice clutched across his face. She peeled it off and put a finger under his chin.

"Jesus, Paltron. Put some gloves on—" but Guinevere Paltron laughed in the face of universal precautions.

"Broken nose," she fussed, digging through the desk drawers. "Thing's bleeding like hell."

"Wh-what's that?"

"It's a tampon, dumbass," she hissed as plastic wrappers crinkled to the floor. "This is going to hurt like fuck." She pinched the nasal cartilage back up into place with a sickening crunch, then crammed the cartridges up into his nostrils before he could blink or cry out in protest. Within seconds twin slimy, scabbed strings were hanging from his nose.

"Ice?" she asked drily as he reeled from the shock.

"I-I th-think I lost a t-tooth…" Connolly opened a trembling palm.

Damn. Dental avulsion. "We should—" keep warm and moist, preferably within the mouth itself, immediate dentist intervention.

"Stay away from me!" he hiccoughed. "You just stay away!"

"Kid—"

"Lawless?"

"What?"

"Stay the fuck away. And shut up." She plucked the rooted incisor gracelessly from his shaking, broken fingers. Stuck it between her lips, sucked the blood and tissues off. Spat. Yanked his head back by his dark, matted hair and crammed it back into socket. The boy let out a gasp and a startling cry that was equal parts shock, shame and pain.

One of her mannish hands still on his jaw, the other caught in his curls, and for a second he rested his bloodied cheek against her palm, brought a trembling hand up as if to clutch her arm—

She'd have none of it. "Stop crying," she slapped him brusquely, and the shock of her answer stopped his tears. "You're an adult and an officer. Act like one. Go clean up."

"Y-yes sir."

Eyebrow.

"Ma'am," he muttered into that bag of ice. "Lieutenant."

"Tomorrow eight am, I want to see your ass back at that desk. You don't show, and you never show your face hear again. We clear, Connolly?"

The boy only nodded to his feet. It didn't take a genius to know he wouldn't be back.

And suddenly, finally, they were alone.

"Paltron—" he began.

She punched the glass in the office windows, sending stark white spirals through its bullet resistant surface. Brought the bloodied knuckles to her lips and sucked them, eyes closed tight in pain—or was it rapture?

"Look, Paltron, I—"Excuses. Apologies. It was just so damn important she knew, that she understood,it wasn't his fault, this wasn't what he'd meant to happen, what he'd wanted to happen, he'd never have let the same thing happen to her—

But whatever ounce of pity and caring she'd had she spent it all on a lonely boy whose entire world had turned on him. She stalked to put the desk between them. It wasn't a symbol of power or authority, she didn't believe in that 'psychological bullshit'. No, this was something much more terrifying. The desk was a physical barrier for his safety. "I could seriously beat the shit out of you right now," she warned him.

He believed her.

"I—" he struggled to excuse, to stammer, to explain—

"He's your partner. Your responsibility!" she slammed her hand down against the wooden surface of the desk, sending paperclips flying. "This is on you. All of it. I trusted you. I sent him to you to sort out and you hand him over to the wolves."

The wolves—? That shit-eating scum, or—? "The hell's your problem with Renee?"

"My problem? For fuck's sake, Lawless! She's a goddamn loose cannon!"

"Says the cunt queen of the goddamned loose cannons!" Shit. It had slipped out. In his anger. He hadn't meant to—

"What did you call me?"

Six years. He recognized that set of her jaw. Tension in her muscles. Raised his hands in surrender. Apology. "I said you were being a cunt." And he'd been a misogynistic bastard.

"Yeah. That's me," she spat cryptically, pacing behind her chair. "Overcompensating."

"What's your problem with Renee?" he ventured after several moments of silence.

She paused. Chewed her tongue, aware of the hypocrisy. "She's unstable."

"Like you're not."

"I've stopped trying," she stated, staring him straight in the eye. "Hit rock bottom, Lawless. There's nowhere left for me to go. Montoya's teetering, and when she falls, this whole damn department is going to blow up in her face. That girl she's got? High maintenance and way too pretty," she sneered. "A ten to Renee's four. Those are not good odds in a relationship, and right now that relationship is the only thing between her and eating a bullet."

All the women of the GCPD had it rough. Had to worry about rape and family and unequal pay on top of the physical dangers and the mental health effects that every officer faced. But Renee Montoya and Paltron had it even rougher. Even the other women wouldn't accept them for their sexuality. The medical training in him screamed she didn't belong here, neither of them did, that they were emotionally and mentally unstable, unable to divorce themselves from the stress of their work…but years on the job had taught him differently. For people like Montoya and Paltron, the job was all they had left. It was a lifestyle, not a profession. Their redemption and reason as much as his. And taking that away from them would result in self destruction and suicide. They were safer—Gotham City was safer—with them on the force.

It was unspoken. You didn't—couldn't—say that aloud.

"Gee, I hate to see what you predict for my marriage," he tried to joke instead. At twenty-nine, post-baby, Amy was a still looker. Even in his youthful glory days he'd never been quite the epitome of the rugged, hyper-masculine physique he'd imagined he was. The thought of Amy had him hitting the gym and watching his weight even more so than his med school days, but he still had to hide his weak chin under a coarse layer of auburn scruff, and no small part of the weight loss had been due to stress from Fear Night and the Joker, leaving him haggard, greyed and worn.

Paltron didn't even blink. "I have no opinion on the matter."

"Yeah, right," he called her bullshit. "You and my wife get on swimmingly."

"We're polar opposites and she's convinced herself she's competing with me for your attention," she addressed the nonexistent sexual tension she felt between them in words for the first time in six years. "That only ends in a fuckton of trouble."

His wife and his partner. Not his best friend, but partner. The two most important people in his sphere of existence, the protector of his life and the confidante of his soul. He couldn't be forced to choose, shouldn't be forced to choose, but deciding not to choose was a choice in and of itself. And he'd made a sacred vow. To Amy. And that was enough determination to see it through. (Except that nagging doubt in the back of his head. Had she been younger, less damaged, straight, he not married…they had an intimate understanding. An emotional bond. Was it too much to wonder what life might look like had he been able to fulfill emotional needs with physical desires in the same woman? Even one so unconventional looking as Paltron? Perhaps it was only him, it wouldn't be a surprise to know she didn't feel the same, if she didn't feel at all…)

He tried to shrug it off. Ended up letting on more than he wanted to. More than he even knew. "Well, maybe this promotion is a good thing for both of us."

She stopped. Blinked. Licked her teeth. So she hadn't even considered—

But GCPD Lieutenant Guinevere Paltron was the proverbial ice queen, and whatever she felt or didn't feel she either ignored it or kept it to her fucking self.

She tutted, "I'd hoped it be a good thing for Connolly. Lawless, if you can't handle this, I don't think anyone can. It's your shit, now go deal with it."

"I thought I was," he admitted.

"Next time you need someone to beat the piss out of your partner to teach him a lesson, make goddamned certain that it's you."

He signed. Tried to front a defense. "The whole point of the exercise was to realize that a woman could hurt him."

"Oh," she snorted. "Is that what you think he learned?"

The locker room was full of morose, sullen young men in various stages of undress, all groaning and clutching sore muscles, muttering about "that Bitch." Paltron, it seemed, was a fan of corporal punishment in the form of military drills. He had a mind to call them on the misogyny, to tell them they deserved it, but that wasn't his mission. They weren't his concern. The beaten, broken boy named Jimmy Connolly was.

And to no one's great surprise, they'd given him a wide, wide berth. Jimmy Connolly was the Teacher's Pet now, but any kid who'd ever gone through junior high could tell you that protection wouldn't last. They'd get to him, one day. One way or another, his classmates were gunning for him. He didn't belong here, so perhaps Montoya's lesson had its merits after all...

He'd showered and dressed in the handicap stall. His white T-shirt was still stained pink with blood and stuck to his small frame from sweat and his attempts at scrubbing. His bloodshot eyes were nearly swollen shut, and between that, the scotch tape he'd used as stitches on that lip lac and the tampons he looked two parts tragic and twelve parts ridiculous. Everything about him screamed inadequate, unready, and insecure.

Aaron said nothing.

Jimmy Connolly stood there in dripping silence for nearly a minute, staring across the locker room, steeling himself for what came next. Aaron was expecting his badge. What happened instead surprised him.

"I want my gun back now."

Lawless blinked. "You going to shoot me with it?"

Connolly was silent.

That failed joke hung on the air like an insurmountable wall between them. "You sure you—"

"I said I want it."

"Kid, you couldn't even throw a punch against a woman beating the living shit out you," he began. "How are you going to do this job?"

"I don't hit girls, Mr. Lawless." There was a ring of defiance in that tone.

"I'm not entirely sure a consensual ring-fight counts."

"Give me the gun."

"No."

"You said—"

"I said when you were ready, ask for it back. I don't think you're ready. I don't think you'll ever be ready. I give this to you, and I have to know you've got my back—"

"Like you had mine." Jimmy stated. "Today." So that's what you think he learned, he heard Paltron's voice again.

"Kid—"

"I want it now. Please."

"You couldn't kill a woman, Jimmy Connolly. And there's nothing wrong with that, it just means—"

"I said I don't hit girls, Mr. Lawless. I never said I couldn't shoot one."

"And that's…different?"

"Yes."

"How?" Lawless insisted.

"It just is."

"Right," Lawless mulled. "And today—?"

"I took an oath. Protect and serve. It never said anything about self-preservation."

"So if she'd punched someone else—"

"I would've tried to stop her."

"And Paltron?" Lawless pressed.

He was silent. Almost sick.

Paltron had been acting within the scope of her duties. Protecting him. "You can't rely on better people to protect you, Jimmy. One day you're going to find yourself in a bind and you'll be the only person who can get you out of it. If you're not ready, not prepared to do that, you'll face the consequences."

"I can face the consequences."

He could. Nearly did. Right out there on that mat. He'd let Renee choke him, beat him within a breath of unconsciousness—

"Do you think you're not worth protecting?" Aaron wondered aloud. "Is that what this is about?"

"I killed somebody's son to protect myself," he said emotionlessly. "That was wrong."

"He would've killed you."

"I can't know that. You can't know that. No one can. Now I always have to wonder. His family, too."

"Kid, a cop's got to be ready to make a split second decision," Aaron tried to soothe. "That's why we're trained so rigorously in detection and marksmanship."

"Maybe we're doing it wrong. Maybe if you only have a split second you ought to be trained it's not enough time to make a choice. Maybe you shouldn't pull the trigger at all. Maybe you'll regret it for the rest of your life."

"What happened to Ranaan Frye wasn't your fault." But the boy's face said differently.

"I pulled the trigger," the Kid insisted. "I killed him. I chose to kill him. Not some manual. Not some training. Not some accident. It was me."

"And the next time your perp's armed, or could be armed, and he's about to kill me or some random person out on the street, are you going to let him go based on that uncertainty?"

"No," the boy answered.

Aaron blinked in surprise. "You'd shoot him—or her?"

"Yes."

"Why," Lawless pressed.

"I've got your back," he said bitterly. "We're supposed to protect other people."

"But not yourself," Aaron was beginning to understand. "Kid, that's suicidal—"

"It's better than murder. Can I have my gun back please." Hand up. Outstretched palm. This was as confrontational and demanding as Jimmy Connolly got. His eyes weren't empty or angry, they were just closed, like the shutters on an abandoned house, hiding the secrets of their owner inside.

Paltron had said he'd ask when he was ready. Psych had cleared him. He wasn't a danger to others, only himself. Jimmy Connolly was a Homicide Detective in Gotham City, and had the survival instinct—and odds—of a squirrel crossing an interstate. It'd be one thing if he'd been naive…but he knew.

Reluctantly he placed the sleek form of the Glock 26 into the boy's open palm. "Jesus, Kid. You're going to get yourself killed," Lawless finally whispered. Harsh metallic sounds in the ensuing silence were his only answer.

Small hands ejected and inspected the magazine, locking it back into place. Fingers fidgeting with the safety to see it was engaged. Finally the boy looked up, satisfied the weapon that had claimed the life of Ranaan Frye was again a instrument of gross lethality. "It's not like anyone cares," Jimmy Connolly returned unblinking. It wasn't the harsh tones he'd grown used to with Paltron, sure, but it didn't take a genius to realize he'd just been dismissed with the most monotone, emotionless 'fuck you' ever recorded in human history.

Aaron Scott Lawless sat wearily down, surveying the empty locker room for answers and a comeback that continued to elude him.

"Why do I always get the ones with such charming personalities?"