Chapter One: An Election, Won

Disclaimer: That's right, my beautiful people. I am back so quickly, and with another sequel. So, as before, I do not own any of the Gotham's major plotlines, its characters. My subplots are my own as are my many, many, many, many, many OC characters from the past as well as in the future.

Author's Note: If you're just popping in, hello, and welcome. If you're back to read more, also hello and welcome! :) By the way, let me just say, that since writing Penguin's Weakness, do you all realize I've been invested (emotionally and time-speaking, actually) in this story for over a year now? Phew! Where does the time go! Anyway, no more stalling: here's the first chapter!

Sylvia was dressed in a white hospital gown, being rolled into the maternity ward in a wheel chair by Demetri. They hadn't any exams to attend nor any where to go. Her being wheeled around the hospital was for Sylvia's own general amusement.

"Anything yet?" Demetri asked hopefully.

"Contractions? I don't feel any. None that are real." Sylvia answered, leaning her back so she peered up at him.

"Well, I guess only some women feel those Braxton Hicks then, huh."

"Or maybe I have such a high pain tolerance, I don't feel a thing."

"Wouldn't surprise me, coming from you," Demetri chortled, shaking his head whimsically as he carted her back into her room.

Gotham General Hospital. Sylvia hadn't been back since she had been shot in the neck by one of her late employees, Michael Travinsky. While the memory itself was still very vague (she'd been in a coma for three weeks), the stay at the hospital still left an oily, bitter residue in her mouth that no amount of sweet nectar could erase.

Demetri helped her into the bed, gingerly placing the blanket over her, fluffing her pillows before tucking both cushions behind her head and back. As he did, Sylvia watched him. It was only when he'd stopped moving that Demetri realized her gaze hadn't dwindled, and suddenly, he became very self-conscious, seated by her side in a comfy armchair.

"What is it?" He asked uncertainly.

"You will make a handsome father one day, you know that," Sylvia said sweetly, holding her hand out for him to take. Steadily, he did. "You've been so helpful these past few days."

"It's the least I can do. You've done so much for me, Miss Sylvia."

"You've more than paid me back," she said appreciatively. "You've helped Oswald with his errands, helped me with mine, and now, look at you: tending to my every need."

Demetri clasped his hands together, looking fretful for only a second before a small smile of gratitude slowly crept to his facial features. The pool of solemn and misunderstanding that so frequently reflected from those light hazel brown eyes was now replaced with one of familial attentiveness.

"Do you still trust me, my lady?" He asked arbitrarily, his eyes flickering from the news channel upon where the election for the mayor's office was steadily creeping to a fanatical finish, then to Sylvia, who gazed at him suddenly, put off by his inquiry.

"Of course, I do."

"I'm glad you do…glad."

Sylvia said slowly, "Are you feeling alright?"

"I'm just glad, you know," said Demetri, nodding furiously. He leaned back in the arm chair, crossing his ankles by the bedside. "I feel like I've had to prove myself to you for so long, to prove my loyalty for such a long time, I just had to ask. That's all."

"Oh well…" Sylvia said, shaking her head. "As you can imagine, trust is hard to find in Gotham."

"Especially with the people you surround yourself with."

"Demetri, you are one of those people."

"Well," he laughed, and the sound set Sylvia's nerves at ease. "I guess I am, aren't I!"

"Undoubtedly, darling."

There was a moment of silence that passed, but not completely. On the television, Sylvia and Demetri watched as the anchorwoman on the news declared that the votes were in, and that within the next few hours, a mayor would soon be announced. Whether that was Aubrey James, who'd governed Gotham for almost ten years, or Oswald Cobblepot, the established 'former Gotham kingpin'…it was still up for debate.

"It's anyone's election now," Demetri sighed, frowning slightly. "It's a shame though."

" 'Shame'?"

"Yeah. Being compared to someone like Aubrey James…I'll be honest, Miss Sylvia. I'm not really invested in politics, and I'm actually ignorant in most of those situations, but even I think someone could run Gotham better than that man."

"Well, you're not the only one who feels that way," Sylvia responded, interlacing her fingers together over her belly. "I mean, that's why the election has lasted as long as it has. It's—oh!" She leaned forward, holding her stomach and grimaced initially before she started wincing and stifling a grunt of pain.

"Miss Sylvia? Are you okay? Do—Do you need a doctor?" Demetri said quickly, jumping to his feet and hurrying to her side as he touched her shoulder.

"No!" Sylvia hushed, smiling in spite of the cramp. "I think…I think it's just one of those Braxton Hicks things. You know… faux contractions, that type of thing."

"Are you sure you don't need one?"

"I certainly don't need a contraction, but no…I don't need a doctor. Not right now, no. I don't think so."

Demetri unsteadily sat back down in the arm chair, nearly missing the target and landing on the hospital floor before he quickly grabbed the back and balanced himself down. He pursed his lips, watching Sylvia intently until his mistress relaxed into the bed and let out a deep exhale.

"How long do you think that was?" asked Demetri. "Five minutes?"

"Honestly, it felt like an hour to me but you know. Perspective." Sylvia let out a small laugh, grinning. "Do you care to bring me a glass of water? Something…?"

"Oh sure, sure! I'll see if there's some vending machine or…I'll do that, just give me one moment!" He quickly left the room, glancing behind one last time fretfully before sprinting out, shouting, "I NEED A GLASS OF WATER HERE!"

Sylvia rolled her eyes, but she still couldn't help but giggle. After, she reached over to the bedside table, grabbed her cell phone, and called Oswald, who, after hearing she was starting to undergo any type of contraction, beat the traffic with Butch Gilzean in the driver's seat, and Ed Nygma in the back.

For whatever reason—not to her surprise—Sylvia was unable to get a hold of her brother, Jim.

'Probably out trying to save the world again much to Captain Barnes' chagrin', she figured.

Sylvia and Demetri were speaking in low voices when Ed, Butch, and Oswald entered the room. It was like one big family reunion, minus the other Gordon relative. The familiarity was iconic as Demetri shook hands with Butch, Ed, and greeted Oswald with a small respectful bow of his.

After greeting him, Butch moved past to half-hug Sylvia around the shoulders; she returned it.

"How're you doing, Liv?" He asked conversationally.

She gave him a look; her hair was a little tangled and some of the strands fell over her face. Light perspiration dotted her forehead and darkened the collar of her hospital gown. So early in the process, she already appeared and felt tired.

"No better, no worse," Sylvia answered sarcastically. "How're you?"

"Doing," chuckled Butch, shrugging.

Demetri quickly moved away, out of the armchair so Oswald could take his place. Like a honed bodyguard, he resumed his duty nearest to the door, trying to get Butch in a conversation about the most random things: coffee tables, for instance.

Ed sat opposite of Oswald, on the edge of Sylvia's bed.

"Hey," Sylvia greeted him, smirking. "How's the politicking, Mr. Nygma."

"You don't even wanna know," Ed returned, raising his eyebrows. Then he cracked a grin, adding, "It hasn't been too bad, actually."

Sylvia scoffed, looking at her husband: "'Hasn't been too bad'. Quite the wordsmith you have there."

"He's been exemplary," Oswald returned, grinning proudly at Ed, who returned the flattered smile.

Butch cast Ed a disdainful glance before resuming his conversation with Demetri. Undetected by the other two sophisticated gentlemen, but noticed by Sylvia, who considered calling him out on it but not before feeling another cramp coming on.

"Liv…" Butch and Ed voiced simultaneously.

"—Miss Sylvia—"

"I'm fine!" Sylvia said quickly in an attempt to calm them all down.

While her guardsmen and Ed seemed on their toes about the new arrival of Sylvia and Oswald's first born, the latter smiled in spite of his staff's deep rooted concern. He held out his hand and she took it gratefully, squeezing as she suffered through another contraction.

"Breathe," Oswald whispered.

"Trust me when I say this," Sylvia grunted, glaring at him. "A lot easier said than done."

"Well, breathing is innate," Butch offered helpfully.

"Wow!" Ed gasped.

"What?" Butch responded irritably.

"I'm surprised you know that."

"About breathing?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't expect you to understand immediately. No, I meant the word, 'innate'."

"You little—"

"Guys!" Sylvia snapped, glaring at Ed and Butch, both of whom glowered at one another before clearing their throats embarrassedly and resumed to keep a fair amount of distance between them. "Can you all leave—except Oswald. Just, I don't know, stand outside the door for a sec?"

"Sure thing," Butch responded, smiling at her. "I'll be out here if you need anything."

"Oh, sure," Ed muttered. "What are you going to do for her?"

"Oh yeah, what the hell can you do?"

"A lot more than you."

"It's not a contest, Nygma."

"Well, seeing as you're standing on the losing side of the fence, I can see why you might think that," Ed snickered satirically, rolling his eyes. He waited for Butch to leave first before speaking to Demetri, "Hey, kid, do you like riddles?"

"Of course, I do," Demetri gushed, smiling widely.

Then the door closed.

Oswald and Sylvia exchanged glances before they both let out a deep sigh.

"How long have they been clawing at each other's throats?" She asked, her eyes lifting to the door to indicate the gentlemen in question.

"To be fair, I believe it's a difference in opinion." Oswald offered, smiling. "But, for the time being, forget about them. How are you feeling?"

"Like someone just stuffed my uterus with barbed wire, and every thirty minutes or so, they're trying to yank it out of me."

"Oh my goodness."

"Yes, it's very graphic. Try feeling it."

"I couldn't imagine."

"Well, you don't have a uterus, so I can't imagine you could." Sylvia returned, grinning at him. "How are you feeling?"

"About?"

"The election. The tallying is coming up, isn't it?"

"Yes. It'll be announced on the news."

"Wouldn't you rather be in the manor, awaiting the results rather than at a hospital?" Sylvia questioned pointedly. "I mean, hearing the verdict with all your fans surrounding you—that sounds a lot better than sitting in a hospital, waiting on pins and needles for something that might not come in another twelve or—god forbid—some forty-two hours."

"Don't be ridiculous." Oswald said, shushing her. He ran his hand gingerly through her hair so the strands that had been left in abandon were pushed from her face, and he kissed her cheek. "I'm needed here."

"Have I ever told you what a gentleman you are?"

"Considering the fact that I was raised one, I think you've said it countless times."

"I'd say it again."

"You're more than welcome to, if that makes this process any easier for you."

"Well, I doubt it will, but I do like the feeling of 'I told you so'."

Oswald uttered, "You have an indomitable spirit."

"You think so, do you?"

"Yes, I do."

"Well, I'll show you mine if you show me yours," Sylvia snickered, sending him an impish smile before he kissed her in return.

His hand caressed one side of her face within his palm; the other moved behind her neck, his fingers tangled in her ginger hair. She responded appreciatively, soft lips retracting only to partly open so he could deepen the kiss. When the kiss naturally broke, Oswald smiled at her; she reciprocated it.

"How's the Underworld?" Sylvia asked. "Prospering?"

"For the most part."

"What do you mean: 'For the most part'."

"I don't have to tell you that the Families miss you at the meetings."

"Really," Sylvia chortled, shifting her blanket so she could wiggle her legs. "And here I thought I was just an annoying imp trying to ruin their day with my opinions."

"Well, they expressed a similar sentiment," Oswald offered, "but you've left a fingerprint that not many other people would be able to match."

"That's poetic."

"Is it?"

"Seemed like it to me," Sylvia chuckled. "I mean, if we're being poets then—fuck!" She bent over, hand over her stomach as she'd done before, but this time, she was unable to hold back her sound of pain. The same feeling—the barbed wire effect—it was stronger this time, like it might burrow out of her any moment, the worst pain she'd ever felt.

And this was coming from a woman who'd been shot.

"Pigeon…?"

"I…I don't think this is fake," Sylvia grunted, gritting her teeth. "This can't be Braxton Hicks—this is…fuck, this is something different."

"Sweetheart—"

"Get me someone." Sylvia said, shaking her head, waving her hand at him.

"Who?"

"I don't know—a doctor, a nurse, a fucking Doula, I don't care…" Sylvia groaned. She damn near bit down on her tongue as the pain continued, for a longer period. And it hadn't even been the full five minutes before it had happened again. "Fuck—get anyone!"

Oswald stood, but just as he did, Butch, Ed, and Demetri burst in, having heard her through the door.

"Demetri. Nurse…now." Sylvia panted.

"On it!" Demetri responded immediately. He sprinted out of the room, shouting at the top of the lungs, "I NEED A DOCTOR IN HERE! BABY'S COMING! THE BABY'S COMING!"

Butch whistled low: "Boy's got a set of pipes."

Sylvia twisted in her sheets, flailing her legs, growling, "Uhhh—what the fuck, the baby's going to kill me!"

And then…the contractions stopped. Like a cramp having let go. Sylvia let out a deep sigh of relief, a strangled sob following only a second after. She brushed her hand through her hair, some of it was matted to her face.

"Fuck this…" Sylvia whimpered, staring up at the ceiling. "Fuck it."

"Pigeon," Oswald began, attempting to be consolable. "I…"

"No. Don't talk. Not right now."

"Liv," Ed said dutifully, coming to her side. "The doctor is on his way. Do you need anything?"

"Just stop talking." Sylvia mumbled, her breathing was erratic for a moment before returning to its normal respiration.

"How about we lie down for a mo'." Ed offered.

"That's fine…sure…"

Ed moved past Butch, who sent him a glare of his own. He took the remote for the bed, and hit a button. The head of the bed slowly lowered, the mechanical creaking accompanying it in its steady but slow descent. Sylvia smiled up at him from her back in gratitude.

Soon, an elderly man—probably in his sixties—came into the room, glancing idly at everyone, including Oswald, before he smiled candidly, stepping close to Sylvia, so she could see him, even while lying on her back. He was dressed in the familiar white lab coat, a stethoscope around his neck, a clipboard in his hand. Silently, he observed her current condition, his soft gaze was warm. Not concerned, but friendly and attentive.

"Mrs. Cobblepot…?"

"Mmhmm?" Sylvia answered, nodding her head.

"My dear woman, my staff and I could hear you all the way from our break room." The doctor chortled, making her smile. "Having this young man screaming at the top of his lungs for help was a bit of overkill, don't you think?"

"But necessary," Demetri piped up, earning a solemn look from the doctor but an appreciative one from both Oswald and Sylvia.

"For verification purposes, please tell me your full name."

"Sylvia Diana Cobblepot."

"And do you know where you are?"

"Gotham General."

"And why you're here?"

Sylvia blinked and said in the most sarcastic way possible, "Are you fucking serious?"

The doctor shrugged, saying apologetically, "I'm sorry. That was a poor attempt at humor."

"One of the poorest, if you ask me." Ed voiced from across the room; he and Butch stood against the wall; his hands folded in front of him while Butch's arms were crossed: typical bodyguard.

Ignoring Ed's low remark, the doctor asked, "How are you feeling currently, Mrs. Cobblepot?"

"Tired."

"How often are you feeling these contractions?"

"Every…I think every five minutes. Maybe more. I don't know…"

"I'm assuming this is the father?" said the doctor, glancing at Oswald indicatively.

"He is," Sylvia confirmed.

The doctor smiled and he held out a hand to him, saying, "I've been following your mayoral campaign, such a stride of success you've made so far, my dear sir. I do hope you win!"

"Oh, thank you," Oswald returned, shaking his hand.

"Oh, so candid," Sylvia muttered, rubbing her face. "Doctor?"

"I imagine that if you continue to have these contractions more frequently and in less time, you won't be in labor for a very long time. The staff and I had discussed the option of inducing in order to hurry this along, but it appears your daughter is making headway—if you'll forgive the pun—in order to get this process moving along." The doctor said warmly. "I do have to say though that when the time comes when you are in labor, we do permit the father and—if requested—a Doula to assist in the childbirth. I'm afraid the other guests would have to leave the room."

Demetri said lightly, "Would we be able to stand outside the room?"

"Yeah," Butch said slowly, "I don't care to step out, but you know never know—people are pretty skittish around here, Doc."

"The hospital personnel don't discriminate who can stand outside," The doctor said lightheartedly. "Provided, of course, that the mother and father have no objections." He glanced at Sylvia and Oswald respectively. "You may decide within the next hour, but any longer than that, I believe we'd be pressing for time. Again, forgive the pun. Until then, I'll be making arrangements within the nursery to reserve a bed for young Miss Cobblepot. Do either of you have any questions?"

Oswald glanced at Sylvia who shook her head, so he returned, "None. Not at the moment."

"Very well. I'll return shortly."

He left as he said it.

Sylvia said warily to Butch, "Do you really think someone would try to do something in the middle of the delivery?"

"To be honest, Liv, I'm not even sure what people won't do." Butch returned, shaking his head. He gave the wall's a disappointed look, adding, "Not exactly the reinforced weapon of steel that I'd have preferred in this situation. I mean, if you think about it. Sylvia's on the table…Oswald'll be preoccupied—you" (he gestured to Demetri) "Probably preoccupied with waiting on Sylvia's every demand, and you" (he gestured to Ed)"…well, you're 'you'."

"Why do I get the feeling that you are trying to insult me?" Ed asked pointedly.

"Because I did insult you."

"Well, the insult was weak. Extremely diluted."

"Listen, you little punk," Butch began, but he suddenly silenced when he heard his phone ring. He stepped outside of the room to answer it.

Sylvia looked at the both of them before waving Demetri over; the latter clamored over to her, smiling respectfully at Oswald, who watched their interaction with a certain amusement.

"After this is over," Sylvia told him, "Could you do me a favor?"

"Sure! Of course, anything."

"Would you be able to find me a diet Sprite?"

"Of course, Miss Sylvia. Of course." Demetri said emphatically, nodding his head.

"Thank you."

"You're very welcome. I'll actually get it now…"

"Or you can wait. It might be a few hours." Sylvia reminded.

"Oh, right. Sure, I'll wait."

"Thanks, kid."

"No problem."

The news flickered with the poll, and the anchorwoman was speaking, "The final results will soon be in…"

Oswald smiled at Ed, standing to meet him. Ed met him with equal anticipation.

"This is it," Oswald said, glancing at the television. "The moment I've been waiting for."

"One of them anyway," Sylvia uttered, smirking when Oswald sent her a semi-apologetic smile, but didn't retract from his excitement.

Butch had answered the phone call, all right. Then he came in, hollering, "YOU! You ruined everything!"

He burrowed past Oswald, grabbed Ed by the throat, and slammed him against the wall. Sylvia sat upright, looking at him incredulously.

"Butch!" Oswald snapped. "Release him this instant! What is going on—"

"What the fuck are you doing!" Sylvia exclaimed.

Butch had never appeared so vexed, so furious. His grip around Ed's throat was tight, making the latter cough, but at least he wasn't literally choking him—although it appeared he might have wanted to.

"I'll tell you what's going on!" Butch snapped, glaring daggers at Ed. "He just cost us the election! He went to every district official, and he asked for the money back! Said you wanted to run a clean election!"

The betrayal on Oswald's face. It wasn't the first time Sylvia nor Ed had seen it.

"Tell me this is not true," Oswald told Ed, his voice quiet but fearful.

"I'm afraid Butch is right," Ed said, glancing at him then at Butch pointedly as he added, "For once."

Sylvia managed to get out of bed, wobbling over to Butch, and shoving his hand off Ed, snapping, "Would you get a fucking grip on yourself. All of you!"

"Why!" Oswald snapped, looking fretfully at Ed. "Why? After everything I've done for you—everything we could've done together…you betray me." He glanced at Sylvia and uttered more to himself than to anyone else: "Again…" He glared. "Butch."

"Oswald, no!" Sylvia exclaimed as Butch reached from within his jacket and pulled out a gun, aiming it at Ed.

"Get out of the way, Liv—"

"—Fuck you, Butch—"

"Move aside, Sylvia—"

"You're not killing him, Oz!" Sylvia retorted, pushing Butch's gun out of Ed's face, and standing in front of him.

"I said 'Get out of the way!" Butch growled.

"And I said 'fuck you'!" She snapped.

The doctor, along with a few other hospital personnel, hurried inside. Butch held a gun to Sylvia's face; Sylvia was standing in front of Ed, who was backed up against a wall; meanwhile, Oswald looked torn between wanting to get Ed deep into the ground but also pulled another way due to the fact that his own hitman was aiming a gun at the mother of his child.

"What the hell is going on here!" The doctor demanded.

""Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you where you stand," Oswald threatened, glaring at Ed.

"Well, for one," Ed began, "We're in a hospital, and there are witnesses—"

"—I don't care—!" Oswald shouted.

"And then, there's that." Ed said, looking above Butch's shoulder at the television set that was nailed to the hospital wall.

Butch, Oswald, and Sylvia—along with the doctor and nurses—turned to the tv where the news anchorwoman was declaring Oswald's victory for mayor.

Sylvia side-stepped, no longer needing to be Ed's human shield and she smiled as Oswald approached him, pushing Butch slightly to the side.

"I still won…" Oswald whispered, trying to believe it himself. "They still want me as mayor."

Oswald looked at him, obviously no longer inclined to kill him at any point.

"I can be bought," He recited, "but I can't be stolen with a glance. I'm worthless to one. But priceless to two."

"What, a riddle?" Sylvia asked, glancing between Ed and Oswald curiously.

"Love," Oswald answered. "They love me."

"Yes. And if you paid those elected officials, you'd have never known. Feels good, doesn't it?"

He smiled back, saying in disbelief, "How did you know I would win?"

"Because I believe in you, Oswald. Even when you don't believe in yourself."

Oswald smiled, then turned to Butch: "You. You never thought I could win this election on my own. Maybe you're not cut out for this after all."

"What?" Butch exclaimed. "Are you kidding me?"

"Guys…" Sylvia mumbled.

"Don't worry!" Oswald snarled. "I still need somebody to crack skulls—"

Sylvia whimpered, slowly sitting down on the bed. She held her belly, trying to brace herself for another contraction. But this one was worse, one of the worse yet. The doctor ignored the men's arguing, and rushed to her side.

"Mrs. Cobblepot, are you okay," The doctor said swiftly.

"No," Sylvia groaned. "I say I'm pretty fucking far from being okay. It's—it's another one—it's another—"

Oswald turned, hearing Sylvia speak. When he saw her hunched over on the bed, with the doctor knelt by her side, he moved towards her—election victory, forgotten.

"It's not fake!" Sylvia sobbed, gritting her teeth. "It's not fake! FUCK! It's hurts—I can't take this—I can't do this—"

"We need to get her to the delivery room. Now." The nurse ordered. "Orderly!"

Ed and Butch glanced at each other. Despite their animosity, it was time to put a pin in that. As the orderlies came to the room with a softer, but gurney-like bed on wheels, they assisted Sylvia onto it while she painstakingly swore as she lied back down. Oswald moved past all of them, standing at her side, offering his hand, which he immediately regretted the moment she squeezed. And she squeezed hard.

As she was taken to the delivery room, Demetri came running to the room, stopping at the doorway, seeing only Butch and Ed.

He was holding a Diet Sprite.