Wayne Manor
16:13 pm

Outside Wayne Manor, the wind has started picking up, blowing the flowers decorating the freshly dug grave of Thomas and Martha Wayne. The funeral guests have long since vacated the premises, either to attend the will reading or to leave for their own home.

"Let's never do that again," Bullock whispers harshly in Jim's ear on their way out of the door. They're the last to leave the room, having been preceded by a throng of (disappointed) people.

By 'that', he means the three hours-long will reading they've just survived. It has been truly one of those ordeals that make him wish he smoked or drank on the clock.

Jim agrees with his partner, even as his mind whirs with all he's learned today. He riffles through the observations he noted in his trusted notebook. While the funeral has unearthed a lot of revelations, it has also added more question marks to the growing mystery of the Wayne murder.

It had looked like the most somber Emmy awards for rich people, in there. Only a select number of people had been allowed in there. He'd written down the names of everyone the will had mentioned along with a few notes, like strange jewelry and tattoos, how nervous they acted, anything that caught his eye, really. He figures a lot of it is just extraneous—breadcrumbs that lead nowhere—but he's at that point in the investigation where any breadcrumb is better than no breadcrumb at all.

Their reactions to hearing Thomas Wayne's decisions were the most interesting-

"What's this?" Bullock plucks the notebook out of Jim's hands. Jim tries to take it back but Bullock is surprisingly quick for his size and equipped with great reflexes—which is totally unexpected from someone who complains about his back every other hour—evading his grabs. "Seen ya scribbling in this lil' thing since the Cobblepot fiasco two weeks ag-" Bullock's smirk slides right off his face when he reads the content of the notebook. "What the fuck, Jim?"

First name? That's how Jim knows Bullock's one hundred percent serious about this.

"Don't make it personal, Chi-town," Bullock warns.

Jim snatches the notebook back. His thumb rubs the hard leather cover: it's a small black notebook, barely the size of his palm. Very easy to slip into his pocket and pull out when needed. He thinks of two brothers in a dark and damp alley, smudged blood on their round faces. He thinks of cops who'd rather play bodyguards to a rich kid than patrol their assigned areas. Justice is always personal, is what he wants to say.

Bullock glowers. "Burn it."

"I'd appreciate it if you kept your paranoia to yourself." Jim glares right back.

"Officer James Gordon, right?" A voice says behind them, ending their little squabble. They turn around. It's a woman, brown-haired and brown-eyed, dressed in funeral black, and holding a baby in her arms. "Good morning, Detective Bullock."

Bullock perks up. "Ah, Les, good to see ya! You've heard of Jim? Jim, this is Leslie Thompkins. She's-" Bullock's face crumples for a millisecond before he grunts and continues, "She was Wayne's student. Intern? Whatever they call the fishies over on the medical side."

Her smile is quick and easy. "I was doing my residence under Thomas' tutelage, back at his clinic." She offers her hand, which Jim shakes. "Pleased to meet you, officer. Although I'd have liked for it to happen in pleasurable circumstances."

"Gordon is fine, and likewise, Dr. Thompkins," he nods and glances at the babe in her arms. There's only one baby around here who gets bundled in cashmere shawls. "Is he alright?"

"As good as new. No infection or damage to his eye, thankfully, but he'll scar. Nothing too obvious, though. And…" she hesitates, taking a moment to wrap the cashmere shawl tighter around the sleeping boy's head. Jim catches a glimpse of his face—cute as a button, even with the band-aid covering his left eye.

"And?" He encourages quietly.

Dr. Thompkins looks at him with red-rimmed eyes. "Frankly speaking, it's not Rhys I'm worried about."

She's about to say more when a new voice remarks in a thick British accent. "If the gentlemen and lady would head to the dining room," —it's the butler, Pennyworth, approaching them— "We've set a few snacks and refreshments for our guests."

Bullock, whose eyes haven't left Rhys' face, looks up, face brightening. "Alfred," he scrapes his throat, with all the awkward familiarity of meeting your former coworker. "Long time no see."

Jim knows from the file he has on him that Pennyworth has just hit his thirties. The man before them looks like he's aged fifteen years in the five days between that night, when Jim had met him for the first time, and now. His cheeks are gaunt. He's lost a lot of weight since then too.

"Aye, Harvey, it is good to see an old friend, although I...I wish it had been for more pleasurable circumstances."

"Yeah, we gotta work on that, pal." The joke falls flat but Pennyworth doesn't let it fester, smoothing Bullock's stumble with an easy, "Naturally." The butler's shoulders slump briefly before he bids them to follow him. "This way."

The dining room holds a long rectangular table. On it, a spread of coffee, milk, and tea, and plates full of biscuits and bread. Most guests have left, only a few lingering but mostly keeping to themselves or their little groups, finishing a much needed cup of coffee or tea before their trek home.

"How's Bruce?" Thompkins asks, and when Pennyworth shakes his head, she asks again, "What about you, Alfred? How are you holding up?"

"I will manage," Pennyworth says quietly, "I'm only glad this will soon all be over. The Mayor has asked me to attend the conference he'll be holding next week. He asked me to talk to the press

"You don't have to talk to the press, Alfred," Thompkins says, "We'll leave it to someone else."

Pennyworth goes to protest but Bullock claps him on the shoulder. "Seems like the best option, considering…" He waves vaguely at Pennyworth’s exhausted form and coughs. "Yeah, this. But who in their right mind would accept to face those sharks?"

A new voice cuts in.

"I will."