Chapter One: Jim Is Free/ Oswald's Gone

Author's Note: That's right, my lovelies. I'm back! Welcome to the fourth installment of my story! Let me know what you love so far! I'm always happy to hear from you guys.

Jim sat at the elongated table, dressed in his usual suit. In front of him were many watchful eyes, a pair belonging to one Harvey Dent, the District Attorney of Gotham. A row of other executives, including Jim's legal counsel, sat like a chorus line on each side of him. Between them, sitting in a chair with one hand on the table, the other holding a cane after suffering a major stabbing to the thigh, was Captain Nathaniel Barnes, who watched Jim with a mixed expression of suspicion and resigned appreciation.

Jim was being questioned. Standing outside of the room, keeping his betrothed, Leslie Thompkins, somewhat comfortable was his sister, Sylvia Cobblepot. After Jim had been called in, and before walking into the room, the look of hope shared between the two women was noticeable; but their looks were not for the same reason. Lee wanted this entire thing to be over, and done with. Sylvia's look was reserved for him alone. After all, her future, Lee's, and his own was balanced on his shoulders.

He'd been resigned to knowing this day would come. Sooner or later, Theo Galavan's body was going to be found at the pier; the beaten up, bloodied body, a bullet wound in the head—there's no way that would have gone unnoticed by anyone. He figured he'd be on the stand, answering all of the DA's questions….truthfully? Maybe not.

"After searching the premises, I, as well as Alfred Pennyworth and Selina Kyle, was able to locate the abductee, Bruce Wayne." Jim stated monotonously into the microphone.

Scribbling with his right hand, Harvey Dent was quiet, except during the times when he presented a question or a follow-up inquiry to Jim's statement. After he finished writing down his necessary notes, he asked curiously, "Where was he?"

"Theo Galavan's residence." Jim answered.

"And that's when you opened fire?"

"Yes. We eliminated the threat posed by Father Creel and his men, and were able to recover Bruce Wayne."

"You then left to search for Galavan on your own?"

"Not on my own. No." Jim answered calmly.

"Who else was with you?"

"Sylvia Cobblepot, my sister."

"Just to clarify for our records, your sister is married to Oswald Cobblepot, AKA The Penguin?"

"Yes, sir." Jim grimaced.

"And she came with you to Galavan's residence. Why was she there with you?"

"She heard of Bruce Wayne's predicament and wanted to help."

Dent nodded wordlessly, scribbling that too.

"Did you find Galavan?"

"Yes."

"You detained him?"

"No."

Harvey glanced up: "Why not?"

"Captain Barnes and Officer Vargas arrived and placed me under arrest," Jim answered.

"And did they place Mrs. Cobblepot under arrest too?"

Jim suppressed a smile: "They tried."

"She resisted arrest?"

"Yes. I, however, was detained…."

"That's because at the time of this incident—some four weeks ago—you were a wanted man, a fugitive from the law." Harvey expressed calmly.

"That was a misunderstanding."

"A 'misunderstanding'?" Harvey repeated, smiling.

"Yes. Shortly after Mrs. Cobblepot and I were escorted out of the court room, we were tased unconscious, and then kidnapped where Galavan threatened to end our lives."

"How did you escape that dilemma, then?"

Jim leaned into the microphone and said calmly, "Sir, with all due respect. It's safe to say that while having a ruler of the Underworld for a sister has been nothing more than a pain in my ass, it does certainly reward me with people who are constantly looking after her, and know when something is afoot, especially when three corrupted officers take their leader and brother—blindfolded—to a pier."

Harvey considered this statement with little to no expression, and continued his questionnaire: "What happened next?"

"After I was placed under arrest, Oswald Cobblepot and two of his associates arrived, rendered Officer Vargas and Captain Barnes unconscious."

"Was Sylvia included?"

"No. Just two other men that worked for him."

"What happened after?"

"Oswald Cobblepot and his associates escaped with Galavan."

"You then pursued Cobblepot and his men, correct?"

"Yes."

"Did your sister escape with them?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Honestly, sir, I haven't the slightest idea," Jim returned truthfully. "I can't say why she didn't go with him. She has an unflinching loyalty towards Cobblepot. It's really irritating, actually."

Harvey suppressed the urge to smile. After a moment, he asked, "Were you able to locate them?"

"No."

"At which point you decided to flee the city before law enforcement could question you?"

"Yes, and for that, I have no excuse…other than to say that I was concerned for the safety of my fiancée. She had informed me earlier that day that she was pregnant."

"Congratulations." Harvey said sincerely.

"Thank you."

"For the record," Harvey stated factually to the other executives around him, "Sylvia Cobblepot did come to the precinct on her own free will where she was questioned—during this time, she stated that she was not involved in the murder of Theo Galavan. Detective Gordon, since you are under Oath at this given time, you're in such a position to corroborate her story...or offer us a different testimony."

Jim was quiet for a second, before he leaned into the microphone and said calmly, "Let's be honest. My sister is a known trouble maker—she's been detained countless times, and we all" (He glanced to Barnes included) "know that where the law is concerned, she is apathetic. She's guilty of a lot of things, but…In all good conscience, I can testify that Sylvia was not involved in Theo Galavan's murder."

Harvey nodded, scribbling a few more notes. He then placed his pen to the side, interlaced his fingers on the table, and looked at Jim seriously: "Detective Gordon, within hours of your encounter, Theo Galavan was found beaten and shot to death. Were you present at the time of his murder?"

"No, I was not."

"Do you have any information regarding the case that you have not shared with us?"

"No, I do not."

"Detective, did you have anything to do with the murder of Theo Galavan?" Harvey questioned.

Jim hesitated.

Harvey said sternly, "Detective, answer the question. Were you involved in Theo Galavan's murder?"

"No, I was not." Jim said finally, his throat a little hoarse but otherwise firm.

Lee paced the large corridor, her heels clicking against the mirror-like tile. Meanwhile, Sylvia leaned casually against the wall with her arms crossed. She looked up at the sun-stained glass ceiling, slowly breathing through her nose and out her mouth while Lee continued to pace. After a moment, she moved forward, grabbing Lee's wrist, and pulled her back.

"You're annoying me with that clatter," Sylvia told her with forced calm. "Would you try sitting down or something?"

"He's been in there a long time." Lee whispered, pressing her lips firmly together.

"Of course he has. They don't want to leave any stone unturned. No tree, uncut. No flower, unpicked."

"I don't think that last was a saying."

"You get my drift though," said Sylvia, rolling her shoulders back as Lee took a seat on the bench. "Jim has gotten into a lot worse scrapes than this. He's walking out of this, easy."

"Because he says he didn't kill Galavan. What if they don't believe him?"

"Then he'll go to Black Gate. Not hard to understand."

Lee sent her a strict glare before Sylvia raised her hands up in surrender.

"He's not going to jail, Lee. He didn't kill Galavan."

"You know that for a fact?"

"He says he didn't, right? Don't you believe him?"

"Of course, I do."

"Well, there's your answer," Sylvia replied, sitting beside her. "Find some faith for your man, girl. He's not going to flat out lie to you. I mean, running out of Gotham with two suitcases might have been a little overreacting but I think—on the whole—he's was pretty calm through it all. And the people will see that" (she gestured to the room in which the mediocrity was questioning Jim Gordon) "and both of you will be vindicated."

"You deal with this kind of thing everyday, don't you?" Lee asked.

"Yep. It's a lifestyle at this point."

"So," She said quietly, looking at Sylvia through a cool gaze. "Where's Oswald Cobblepot throughout all of this?"

"Don't know."

"What do you mean you 'don't know'?"

"What it exactly means. I really don't know," Sylvia answered—that flippant tone was back again.

Lee heard that chink of sarcasm more frequently these past couple of weeks. She didn't know Sylvia as well as Jim or Oswald did, but having a little bit of psychology trauma work under her belt seemed to pay off more in Gotham than anywhere else. Lee knew enough about her fiancé's sister—knew that Sylvia used biting sarcasm and dark humor to cover up what was really buried just beneath the surface: fear.

Lee blinked saying, "Your husband is out there—somewhere—and you're not panicking?"

"I never said I'm not panicking," Sylvia countered. "But…Oswald is a survivor. He can make it through anything." (Her tone shifted to one of support instead of self-assurance.) "Now, if I were you, I'd be hoping this whole trial thingy ends soon. The longer he stays in there, answering questions, the longer you'll start wondering how innocent your boy is."

Lee glared at her: "You just told me he didn't do it."

"No, I said you're supposed to think he didn't do it. He told you he didn't. I believe he didn't. So, you should believe he didn't kill Galavan." Sylvia reminded smoothly. "Courts always did make me a little sick, though. The order, the style, the traditional antiquity—it's enough to make a girl like me wanna tunnel through the floor to China."

Lee rolled her eyes. That was until the door opened and out came Jim, who looked more or less relieved that the whole situation was done and over with. As Lee and Jim embraced, grateful for one another, Sylvia crossed her arms casually in front of her, smirking at them. After the embrace naturally broke, Jim turned to Sylvia.

"Well?" she asked.

"Well, nothing, Vee." Jim said, smiling. "All charges against me have been lifted and I've been reinstated."

He put an arm around both Sylvia and Lee, and they walked out of the court room.

"Are you sure you want this?" Lee asked. "After everything this job has put us through?"

Jim glanced up at the banister where Capt Barnes and Harvey Dent looked down at the three of them. Sylvia narrowed her eyes at them before Jim pulled her forward, forcing her to break eye contact. Lee noticed the oddity of their presence.

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Is that it?" Lee asked uncertainly.

"Yeah. I'm just tired."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Jim, Lee, and Sylvia were outside of the court house, getting ready to leave. Lee sat in the passenger seat, while Jim stopped by Sylvia's black Mustang. As she climbed into the driver's seat, Jim politely closed her door and then after glancing coolly at Lee—sending her a fair smile back—he turned to his sister.

"How'd the trial go?" Sylvia asked.

"It wasn't a trial."

"I know. But I figured I could be the one to ask you this time around."

Jim allowed himself a small smile. He could always count of her to spread some cheer. Jim leaned into the window, wrapped an arm around her shoulders. It was meaningful, and warm.

"Do they suspect anything?"

"If they did," said Jim, straightening. "They didn't ask."

"What did you tell them?"

"The truth."

"The real truth?"

"No," Jim stated, his jaw hardening. "But the truth I gave them will be enough."

"What truth is that?"

"You weren't involved."

Sylvia smiled this time. It reached her eyes.

Jim rarely saw that look, and he felt a part of him become closer to his sister, closer this time around than any other time he'd ever spoken to her. What could reinforce a loving bond between the formerly estranged siblings than a dark, crooked secret?

"Thank you, Jimmy."

"Well, I'd rather you not go to jail for the fiftieth time—before you're forty." Jim said half-seriously.

"I never went to jail."

"You've gone to Juvie."

"Not the same, trust me."

"I have to thank you, you know."

"For?"

"Doing what you did. You're right. It would have changed me."

"I know it would have." Sylvia said, nodding as she started the car. "That's why I didn't leave it up to you. For what it's worth, you may very well kill someone. It's inevitable for you, natural. I just didn't want your first time to be with someone like Galavan."

"Without context, Vee, that sounds really perverted."

"With context, it still is perverted," She returned, winking at him. "But it wouldn't be me, if it wasn't."

A few drops of water dotted the windshield. For once, it was sunny in Gotham. But that didn't keep the rain forecast at bay. Jim glanced up, squinting his eyes. With the rain would come a monsoon—if the storm grates didn't do their job, the Gothamites would be looking at a flash flood. The Homeless would be burrowing under whatever rock they slept during the night...maybe a cardboard box.

Jim looked at Sylvia somberly.

"You don't know where he is?"

"I don't," She said, knowing just who Jim was referring to.

"He didn't give you any details?"

"I told you before. One night, I woke up, and he was gone. Just gave me a letter. I still have it in my possession if you want to read it."

She fidgeted her fingers around the steering wheel; the leather squeaked with her unsettled motions.

"Do you want me to track him down?"

"No."

"As your brother…."

"I said 'no'." She said firmly. "Oswald specifically stated that he didn't want to be found. Not by police. Not by me. He's distancing us so when he's found, I won't be suspected of harboring him. That's the first thing Barnes will accuse me of doing—he's looking for any excuse to put me behind bars after what happened in Galavan's penthouse."

Jim peered over his shoulder at Lee, who watched him expectantly. A short conversation was turning into a serious one. It had been four weeks since Sylvia and Oswald had been seen together. After Sylvia killed Galavan, all three of them had decided their story, sticking to it as best they could. Jim knew Oswald would do his part—Sylvia was their prime concern, to keep her safe from the law; both men would lie out of their asses and even go to Black Gate before they saw Sylvia go.

What Jim didn't expect was for Oswald to suddenly disappear. For weeks, Jim thought Sylvia knew…evidently, she knew as much as he. That was barely nothing.

Sylvia's uncharacteristically soft voice, the way her eyes watered and the fidgeting of her hands on the steering wheel; those were tell-tale signs that she was worried. She wouldn't say it—goddamn, she was just as stubborn and in denial as Jim could be sometimes—but she was scared for Oswald.

"I'll be right back." Jim whispered. He reached his arm through the window, wrapping it around her shoulders in a half-stretched hug and then kissed her forehead.

"Okay."

Jim left briefly to Lee's car. He conversed with her for only a minute. Lee appeared resigned, but a little too understanding. She understood: Jim wanted to be there for his little sister…for once, he'd make sure that he was.

After they kissed each other good-bye, Jim sat in Sylvia's passenger seat, and together, they headed towards the Falcone Mansion—dubbed the Cobblepot Mansion.

Jim had to tip his hat off to his sister.

Even with Cobblepot on the lam, his disappearance having lasted for almost a full month, Sylvia certainly had a control of things. This was noticed by Jim when he got out of the car; the first person to meet them on the sidewalk was Monsieur Bell, who was both the master chef and Head Butler, but also Sylvia's physical trainer, Sensei, and—more times than not—her bookkeeper.

Mr. Bell was a great deal larger than Sylvia, standing at least two feet higher than she—and a foot higher than Jim. His biceps were the size of Sylvia's thighs, and with such a straight back posture, he looked even taller than he really was. He wore tuxedos, steam pressed, sharp creases, and he made going bald look like a fine art—something Victor Zsasz, the professional hitman, could only but admire.

Jim nodded dutifully to Mr. Bell, who eyed him suspiciously, but allowed Jim to pass him, following Sylvia up the sidewalk to the mansion. When they entered, two brutes named Dagger and Chilly, nodded silently towards their direction. Sylvia greeted them with a 'hey, guys' and they returned, "hey, Liv". Contrary to how Oswald ran things, Jim noticed a vastly big difference: She was informal.

Dagger and Chilly were indebted to Sylvia, so to speak. Jim didn't know their true names, only their aliases. And no matter how curious Jim became, Sylvia would not relinquish the information to him or anyone else in the GCPD. Just as they were protective of her; she was as protective of them.

That's how she ran things—they saved each other.

Jim continued walking closely to Sylvia, lest one of her minions decided he was a narc. In many ways, he was. After the debacle during the gala where Oswald had attempted to kill Galavan (the second time in history, but the first time he legitimately tried), Jim was keen and all too informed that his own police officers had wiped out Sylvia and Oswald's men….including several of Sylvia's employees, to whom she referred lovingly as her 'kiddos'. Since then, they had been operating at minimum capacity.

But Jim wasn't too shocked to see that there was a full house. Again.

Men and women that he didn't recognize, all wearing black leather pants and jackets—the women wore similar garb—stood, talking loudly to each other, holding drinks in their hands, shining and oiling their weapons on the elongated table in the Meeting Room. It was the same room in which Jim and Oswald had regularly conducted business 'under the table'…Boy, what Jim would give to bring back those days.

"Ignore them," Sylvia said dismissively as she moved past the rabble.

"Should I be concerned?"

"Hm. Now you sound like Oswald." She chuckled, but didn't answer the question.

Jim cleared his throat when one of the meatier thugs glared daggers at him. Some of them certainly despised any officers—no matter the fact that he was related to their leader. Sylvia stopped in front of her office where a blonde woman resided; doe-eyed and curvaceous, the woman looked more like a receptionist than a bloodthirsty assassin.

"Brittany." Sylvia called coolly.

The blonde named Brittany stopped flipping through the charts inside a cabinet, and starkly straightened, glancing over her shoulder to see Sylvia standing in the doorway, a stern expression transfixed on her face. Jim wasn't sure whether to stay put for Brittany's safety, or duck out since Sylvia might very well commit a crime in front of him.

"Sorry, Mrs. Cobblepot." She apologized quickly, placing a vanilla-colored file behind her back. "One of the Andersons—the-the youngest one...He wanted a file on…." Brittany stopped talking when she recognized who stood behind Sylvia. "Mrs. Cobblepot?"

Sylvia strode inside.

"Come in, Jim. Have a seat," Sylvia sighed, gesturing to the arm chair in front of her desk. She spoke to him, but didn't look at him. Instead, she eyed Brittany warily, as though she'd had this conversation (whatever it was) with the young woman a hundred of times already.

Jim slowly and cautiously took a seat in the chair, holding the arms with some vitality. He glanced curiously at Brittany, who gulped between breaths as Sylvia approached her. She took Brittany by the arm, and snatched the discreet vanilla-colored folder from her, then uttered darkly into her ear.

Brittany's expression faltered from anxiety to that of fear.

"Do I make myself clear?" Sylvia questioned.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Consider this a warning, hm? I know you're just trying to do your job, but…." Sylvia sat at her desk, smiling kindly at her. "You forget that the Andersons don't decide what we do. I do. Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good."

Brittany quickly walked to the door; her head was bowed. That was until she stood in the doorway, biting her lip nervously.

"What do I tell—"

"If they want something from me," Sylvia said coolly. "They will ask me. They will not ask my staff. But you know, I know what the Andersons do when they get bad news, so don't bother telling them anything. Tell them to wait for me, and I will tell them what they need to know."

"Yes….Yes, ma'am," Brittany squeaked. Though she appeared frightened, there was a small exhale of relief that came out of her, knowing Sylvia was going to take care of delivering the bad news and it might have just spared her life.

"Please close the door on your way out."

Brittany did as she was asked.

Jim turned to Sylvia curiously. Sylvia lifted the file indicatively. On the tab read his name.

"You have a file on me?" Jim questioned indignantly.

"Not officially. It's the same file Loeb gave you and Harvey Bullock when you used his homely daughter against him."

"Why do you have it?"

"Feeling paranoid, Jimmy?"

"No. Just a little insulted," Jim grumbled.

"Your file has made quite the trail. First it was Loeb's. Then it was yours. Someone sneaked into your apartment and got it. For a while, it was passed between the Five Families, to include the Drays, the Maronis, the Paddocks, and the Belichs." Sylvia said listlessly. "When I found that out, I was generous enough to get it back in my hands before the Andersons could get ahold of it."

Jim frowned.

"Don't look so grumpy. There's nothing in it to bedazzle the coins out of the Underworld." She reassured dryly. "You'd be surprised how little the Families know about you."

"Why does that make me feel less assured?"

"Probably because it's coming out of my mouth."

"You're not wrong there."

Sylvia placed the file back in the cabinet, saying, "You'd have to excuse Brittany. She's fairly new. Doesn't know how to handle the Families when they get a little rambunctious. She's a people-pleaser, twenty-four-seven. It's good for business in the club—not for business in the Underworld."

"She seemed apologetic enough."

"She's still learning."

"Is she your new 'kiddo'?"

Sylvia smirked. "Well, I've had to rebuild my crew ever since your kiddos took mine out."

"They're the Strike Force. They're Barnes' people, not mine."

"But you orchestrated the team," Sylvia said, wagging a finger at him. "So, you're basically Dad."

"Ugh. How are you able to pervert everything?"

"I'm a woman with a high metabolism and an unusually overly active sex drive. Everything's dirty to me." Sylvia returned with a promising smile. She added seriously, "It's taken me a lot of time to get over the deaths of all the people you've laid to slaughter—sorry, not you, just your GCPD—but I've realized that with destruction comes an opportunity to rebuild and recast. Brittany is full of unlocked potential; once she stops panhandling to the Families and realize that I'm in charge, she'll get better."

"And Dagger and Chilly?"

"Still loyal as ever."

"How do you find these people again?"

"I don't take resumes," She answered nonchalantly. "I'm actually surprised I've been able to accrue these many employees, to be honest."

"They like your management style."

"Or they like a pretty face. Or they like the money. I'm not cheap, you know. Either way, it gives me employees."

"Things get a little lonely here without Oswald, I imagine."

"Jimmy, you don't want to know what I do on the nights I'm lonely. I'd hate for that image to get stuck in your head." Sylvia lamented, smirking at him. "But you've got a point. Oswald had a certain charisma that I lack. He could get people to work for him—no kindness needed. And I didn't have to work nearly as hard, or talk to the Families nearly as much. But I think with my level of affluence, I don't have to worry about people betraying me. Most of them will gladly stab me in the face before they go behind my back."

"Comforting."

"Not even."

Sylvia sat back in her chair, lazily opening a drawer.

Out of instinct, Jim straightened and put his hand over the holster that sheathed his gun. Sylvia raised her eyebrows, and quickly held up a hand, smirking when Jim relaxed as he saw a pack of cigarettes in it.

"Relax, James." She sighed. "I'm not going to kill you. Just because I'm ruling the roost doesn't mean I'm going to off my kin. Do you have a lighter on you, by any chance?"

Jim rolled his eyes but he pulled one out of the pocket of his inner jacket saying with slight annoyance, "I don't see why you don't just keep one here."

"It's not like it's fucking chap stick—a chap stick for the bedroom, one for work, one for the purse—it's a goddamn lighter," Sylvia said, licking her lips as she placed a single cigarette stick between her lips. She took the lighter from him gratefully, uttering a small noise of thanks, and then flicked it until an ember rose.

"I thought you gave up smoking." Jim said coolly.

"Don't judge me," Sylvia said after she inhaled a deep drag. "I can't run an empire drunk—this seemed like the best alternative."

"It'll age you."

"So will stress. Guess I'll be looking sixty when I'm forty." She gestured to him. "So, what'd you tell Lee?"

"You wanted to talk."

"That's lame."

"Well, it's true, right?" He offered, leaning forward and crossing his arms on the desk. "With all this" (He gestured around the office) "and your cronies sitting and amusing themselves in all of the rooms, I'm surprised you'd want me around here."

Sylvia flicked the tip of her cigarette in the marble ash tray, muttering, "It beats the hell out of talking in the monsoon. This storm is gonna be a bad one."

"It's always a bad one."

"Flash floods, Jim."

"It's not breaking news. Gotham has terrible weather."

"You're not wrong. And the people are going to suffer for it. Speaking of which, you wanted to see the letter?"

"You're going to let me read it?"

Sylvia bit her lip.

"Let's have an understanding, shall we? I wouldn't betray Oswald. He's my husband, and I love him. But you're a great detective. And while he's left me nothing to go on, to figure out where he is or how he's doing, I'm kind of hoping you'll be able to figure it out."

"Figure out what?"

"Anything." She admitted, exhaling smoke through her nose and mouth.

She stood up slowly, walked over to a bookcase that was more than stuffed with the obvious. Jim furrowed his eyebrows when she lifted a book filled with French literature—all written and could only be read in its language—and walked back to the desk. She sat in her throne, and handed it to him.

"What…."

"Page 123."

Jim nodded and turned to the page. In between the pages of the French literature was a single hand-written letter on college-ruled notebook paper. He took it out, and looked up curiously at Sylvia.

"Why is it here? I thought you said you had it on you."

"I said I had it in my possession. Not technically a lie. I'm getting pretty good at it, aren't I?"

Jim let out a sigh of exasperation then glanced at the pages of the book: "Is this where you found the letter?"

"Yes."

"How did he know you'd come across it?"

"I've been learning French," Sylvia returned.

Jim stared at her. A silent question of 'why'.

"He knows French," Sylvia returned, shrugging her shoulders. "He's an intelligent man, if you've never noticed, James. I got him beat at physical prowess—I was hoping to stand on his level with intellect."

"I thought Mr. Bell was teaching you sign language."

"I've mastered it." Sylvia said, smirking at him. "Now I want a new challenge."

"Learning Sign Language wasn't enough for you? Being a hand-to-hand combat fanatic wasn't enough?" Jim questioned ironically.

"Stop judging me, and read the damn letter."

"Fine, fine. Why this page?" Jim asked, looking at the number in particular.

"He's sentimental," Sylvia sighed as she put the cigarette out in the ashtray with finality.

"It's a date?"

"Yes."

"Regarding?"

Sylvia grinned broadly. "It's the first day we made love."

"If it wasn't for the fact you're my sister and you just told me that, I'd think it was really sweet," Jim muttered, closing his eyes as though he just had shampoo fall into them.

He took the letter out of the folded crease and closed the book, certain that Sylvia wouldn't forget the page number. Now he wouldn't be able to, either.

The writing itself was concise, neat, and the lettering was bold. Not written in haste—and for all of Oswald's characteristics, he'd have written the letter calmly. There was no date on the top, not even a signature at the bottom. Jim read the letter aloud:

"'My heart,

We both know how this will end. One of us is going to Black Gate while the other stands on the outside, looking in—I can't imagine either situation will be pleasant. I'm sure you've already decided in which situation you will be.

For now, there needs to be distance. People know us, by now. They know we are never one without the other, and while I would not have it any other way, it's finally come full circle.

Once I'm found and the police have caught me, I need to know you will not be involved in my arrest.

I won't say where I have gone because I know you'll come looking for me. Please, for once, do as I say. And stay. I need to make sure you are safe, and if that means putting as much distance between us, then that's what I'll do.

You are my heart. You always have been, and always will be.

I love you,

Forever Yours.'"

Jim looked up at Sylvia who was blindly staring ember cinders through her desk until Jim cleared his throat, bringing her attention back to him.

"He left in the middle of the night?" Jim asked, handing Sylvia back the letter.

"Yes," She answered hoarsely, placing it back in the leaflet of the French literature. "I went to bed. In the middle of the night, I realized he wasn't sleeping beside me. I didn't find the letter until a couple days after."

Thunder rolled outside of the mansion; a flash of lightning lit up the dark cloudy sky. Sylvia sighed shakily, taking out another cigarette. She used Jim's lighter, and then placed the stick in her mouth, deeply dragging before allowing a slow, steady exhale to leave her lips. Jim watched her curiously.

"I've never seen you so worked up before," Jim pointed out.

"Well, I've never really had to panic."

"Oswald's been in trouble before."

"Not like this."

"Maroni tried to crush him alive in a Sedan."

"Well, that was Maroni," Sylvia snapped, smacking her hand on the desk. "This isn't someone trying to kill him, this is Oswald being….being Oswald."

"He doesn't want to see you get hurt," Jim offered calmly.

"Jim…." Sylvia uttered dangerously, as she closed her eyes in irritation.

She opened them and Jim looked at her empathetically.

"I killed Galavan. I shot him in the head. I watched him die. And so far, you've been questioned and even nearly had your license revoked, and my husband is out on the streets, living like a fucking bum!"

Jim raised his hands level to her.

"I'm not getting any kind of justification."

"You want to go to Black Gate?" Jim questioned incredulously.

"I'm not talking about that kind of justice."

"Good…You were starting to worry me there."

"My marriage is strong enough to withstand a lot of things, but I personally can't sleep knowing my husband is out there on the streets, acting like a homeless person!" Sylvia said shakily. "What if he's getting mugged, or attacked by some dirty hoodlum? We both know he can't physically defend himself—I'm his fucking bodyguard for crying out loud."

"I thought you were his 'Queen'."

"A bit of both, asshole—you chose a good time to poke holes with your technicalities."

"Vee, breathe."

Sylvia stood up suddenly and paced the room.

"Galavan is dead," She growled, glaring daggers out the window. "So whythe hell am I still suffering by his hand?"

"Oswald will come back."

"Yeah, in handcuffs. Not exactly a comforting thought."

"Better than him ending up dead."

"Not getting any better, Jim—your bedside manner is lacking. Maybe you just take a leaflet out of Lee's book," Sylvia said irritably.

"You know, I can't ever tell if you're Oswald's wife or his mother."

Sylvia turned to look at Jim, who eyed her warily. Did he step over a boundary? He was certain he did until she cracked a smile. Still...not that comforting.

"So fine." Sylvia admitted quietly, as she took another drag from her cigarette. "I mother him. That's what people think—so be it. But I can't help it. He brings out a protective urge in me…."

"But he's your husband."

"I know. I don't understand it myself. One moment, he's a strong, virile criminal mastermind with all the power at his fingertips…And in another moment, he's this person that I feel the need to nurture and protect."

Jim rolled his eyes: "That can't be helpful."

"You don't feel the same way about Lee?"

"Can't say I have. It's kind of weird, Vee."

"Sorry, but not all of us can be hard-shelled studs all the fucking time," Sylvia said, looking at him coldly. "If you showed any ounce of sentimentality, maybe Lee would feel the same way about you. You're always running straight into the abyss—hoping you'll find yourself in a dark crevice somewhere to unleash your killer instinct...I wonder if maybe you're just trying to find a room to lock yourself in so you could break down and cry. I mean, that's all I ever want to do anymore!"

Sylvia sat down at her desk, roughly. The chair squeaked from her sudden intrusion, and she outed the cigarette in the ash tray none too ceremoniously. Jim stared at her, not because he wasn't used to getting chewed out by his little sister, but because she was finally revealing to him what she'd been hiding from the rest of the world.

She was tired. She was stressed. Sylvia was one of the best leaders of the Underworld Gotham could ever ask for, but when it came down to it—she never wanted to wear the crown. The burden of running the kingdom was weighing heavily on her shoulders.

"You can't keep doing this to yourself, Vee." Jim said softly, touching her arm and massaging it gently. "You're digging your grave."

"My mother-in-law's funeral is next week," Sylvia uttered weakly. "My kiddos are six feet under. My husband is literally on the streets, and I am constantly looking over my shoulder. The empire Oz and I built is all I have left, Jimmy. If I lose that, then going after Galavan and everything he put us through will have been for nothing."

Jim pressed his lips tightly together, frustration eating him out of house and home.

"Why are you looking over your shoulder?"

"There are always people who think they can rule Gotham's underbelly better. And they're waiting for me to slip up."

"Like who?"

Sylvia glanced through the office door window, seeing all the faces of people who worked for her and laughing together over drinks.

"All of them."