Hello, Hello. I've had this old story saved from my last account and I didn't like where it was going then and quit it before I forgot how to get back into it. But I've re-vamped it and figured I'd repost to see if anyone had an interest. It's going to be a Joker/OC and a Bruce/OC but mostly it's going to be about the nature of Gotham and how human instinct tends to guide our morals and experiences. Sorry if that's vague! There won't be a lot/any romance at first, it's not that kind of story (which I think is more realistic given who we are talking about). This chapter is very Bruce-centric. And just to remind you all, at the end of the Dark Knight, Batman has taken the fall for the supposed death of Harvey Dent and the people Dent killed. If you have the time, let me know what you think.

...

The light that Harvey Dent emitted was seen by every hopeful eye, for once; the sarcasm began to cease. The Batman could only do so much, he could only save them, scrape the city of Gotham off the tar and paste it against the wall. But it was Dent, that could glow, Dent's was the image that could water and care for a brighter Gotham, for enlightenment. The man waving the gun at Gordon's son, his lifeline; was twisted into something different, a invaluable work of art splintered into streams of canvas, Gotham's white Knight. He no longer glowed from an inner light; he burned and writhed in the flames forced inside his every orifice.

Perhaps he would sympathize with the man at a later time, given his ability to do so only previous to this. But turning his wretched features to the dirt, the familiar bile rose in his throat almost afraid it would show in the words that left his lips. For all he could currently feel was regret.

Regret, physical pain, and then…nothing.

He had been strangely glad to run. It felt, in a way, liberation to be crucified. To be given up, to have no one expect anything of you. What hadn't felt good was the sudden wrenching pain in his legs. In his minds' eye, he could see his bones moving, grinding, then lifting, and then scraping against each other with every stride in his escape.

Then came the dogs. Barreling dogs who didn't care what had been a noble deed, and who didn't have the chance for any failure except that of their masters. The same men in blue who pursued the batman were those that idealized or detested him long before today.

The feel of the motorcycle between his thighs did nothing to ease the world that was already spinning. The navigation of Gotham's chaotic alleyways became increasingly more difficult as he rode on. The tips of his fingers and his legs numb underneath, his tongue felt like it was stuck to the roof of his mouth, unable to focus, the dark knights mind whirred beneath his faux face. He guessed, that this was what it would feel like, if he ingested the color gray.

At one point, he could no longer explain if it was him, his bike, or the back streets of Gotham that were wobbling violently to his already offended form. He'd barely had time to still the machine in realization for him to fall bodily to the ground, his vision not following the laws of physics that his head should allow given it seemed to roll all the way up. Further, and further into his skull, and the man beneath the mask found that his irises had disappeared into his head, and all the left was gray.

He drifted into a scenario of his mind's own creation. No longer able to remember how he'd arrived here, his response thoroughly lacked emotion by observing the sky, and the seemingly endless sands that surrounded it. The desert. But he'd never seen a desert when it was cloudy. The shades of neutrals were intensified without the light to merit them real saturation. Naturally, the unnatural sight of a desert in the middle of Gotham could be easily be explained by physical and mental trauma—and he would need that explanation later.

But he had nothing to do, so he waited and watched the ash sand shift above him like clouds.

Until the roar of a very familiar sound started approaching him at an alarming rate. His own batcar bearing down on him with strangely wild determination, its headlights having been a gaze locked onto his form. His hand went out to stop the car, but not to dodge, thinking he still had power over it. But the realization of seeing the skin of his forearm and hand bared to him, was the shocking revelation that he was no longer in the bat suit. And the vehicle wasn't going to stop for Bruce Wayne.

A dream, a dream. He knew it was a farce the moment he focused his eyes on a machine much more like a dog rather than his Batmobile.

The growl of the motor had forced his mind away from the false reality, and spilled his awareness into a world that tended to hurt a whole lot more. Strangely enough, the rumble of sound seemed to follow him, his shoulders and arms tensed up when he realized there was an immense canine over him. Assuming that it was more than likely keeping watch over him to verify his hunt, the bat also cursed his fate bitterly. Why was it always dogs lately?

"Man, put that fucking thing away, it's pissing it off!"

"Well, what the- what the hell am I supposed to do? Man you know there's two of us and one of him, just keep my fucking back man."

"It's not worth it. This is trouble"

The conversation was seemingly going in the wrong direction. Pissing who off? Everything was in water, and still he could feel the sand that accompanied his thoughts—making them heavy. He could no longer assume that he was in the dark or whether his vision was two shakes from failing yet again. He was on the ground, he knew because of the awful taste in his mouth that could only be identified as passing out in the filth of Gotham's underbelly. But these were not the words of a trained officer. Finally forced to pry open an eye, he realized that there was no vicious animal bearing down on him, but he had a marvelous view of his rear end. This discovery was soon followed by the fact that the dog was standing between him and the men who were talking. The pair were equally blurry to his eyes and he was forced to acknowledge the mental sand was affecting his vision as well.. Eyes drifting down to glance at the body language he found the first one who spoke was the one looking incredulously at the other who was only half through pulling a gun from his pocket. Upon testing the mutt in front of him, he'd then proceeded to attempt to even tighten his hold on the weapon causing the dog to raise his shackles, the sound that came from him produced chills. He could now even hear the fevered breathing of the two men and stretched his mental capacity to the rest of his body.

Uncomfortably sticking to the suit were the battle injuries he acquired over this hell of a day, and he was sure something was broken, or at least a large ripped muscle in his back. The alarm stemmed from elsewhere. He didn't have the clearest memory of what happened before he'd toppled off his bike but he was absolutely positive that he had, in fact; been near his bike when that happened. So where was his bike? Subtly trying to move his head to create a better knowledge of the situation he found he was no longer out in the back streets or even an alley. But what appeared to be an open skeleton of a building. This find was stumped completely by the choking pain flowering beneath his neck. At where his collar bone met the stretch of his shoulder, had instantly flamed. The sound of a gunshot was enough to pull him out of his reverie, and he waited with his nose barley sticking out above the dark water of sleep. The dog, did not fall like he'd expected and within the extent of the crack that resounded off the lonely unused walls he was currently encased in, several things happened.

Before the echo even had time to respond to the vicious sound, the dog had lept up into the air grabbing hold of the offender's leg. Body shutting down in it's stubborn pursuit of health, he numbly observed as the second stranger raised his pistol to fire it into the dog, the sound of shock emitting from a wide opened mouth as it ripped him down, his skull smacking hard against the concrete made to serve as a floor. Falling back into his mind, the bat watched idly and feeling without purpose as another shot rang true, though from a different area. A woman entered the mix, with and forced tone, hoarse as the bark of the canine.

"Back off! Or I'll let his sister go…"

At this point, Bruce had strangely decided this conversation no longer applied to him. Nothing could be more important than what he thought was a bullet wound. With a grunt he forced his neck to turn enough to look at what he thought would be a weeping hole in his shoulder and instead he only saw his Kevlar. Almost as if for an explanation he'd shifted his attention back to the dog's rear end. Even from this angle he could see the dog was well prepared to leap into the throat of the man who held the gun. The man who held the gun, however, was instantly much less willing to fire.

The third player in their mix was a woman, he could tell by the voice, but more importantly another massive canine was in her tow. The dog was probably larger than the "sister" that currently guarded the batman from these invaders. Unconsciously deciding that he'd had enough of the situation, his eyes had closed again, and he'd drifted.

He'd had worse than this. He could feel himself want to get up, to move. To check his injuries; but most importantly, to stand up. Resurfacing from the world of sand had been a disorienting process. He'd felt that strange traveling sensation, like his body was being dragged across the ground. Comically enough; this time the sensation was based off truth. The snort of the dog's snout so close to his ear was heard through a filter that his mind had no doubt installed of its own accord. A dog was dragging him. His six foot frame was being strewn across and moved by a dog? Well sure, it was a big dog but…Oh, that was why. The canine wasn't his only unassigned tow truck. The pull on his right was thankfully absent of whiskers. Attempting to skim through his previous consciousness he found himself disappointed to recall he couldn't find who the hell was dragging him. Yet, the memory of being injured, of pain, now that was crystal clear. So why couldn't he sense the stings, pulls, and throbbing of his body now? It was an Algebra test at six thirty in the morning, it was Tetris while he was drunk, it was a memory clouded by infuriating packing peanuts; and somehow it was fine. He could easily write the movement off as drifting across the ground.

….

His previous experience of what he thought was consciousness must have been a delusion built by his brain. For the next time Batman graced the world with his grim open stare, he most certainly felt the pain of his injuries. The room was dark save for two candles by the bedside that illuminated a glass of water which was ignored. Instead, the mind beneath the mask set to work. The room was clean without any offending stenches and his eyes were already well adjusted to the dark which was almost a regret given the shadow of the dog in a mostly dark room had been enough to give him a start that clenched all the muscles in his upper body in preparation to rise immediately. Fortunately, the dog seemed rather apathetic, and considerably less threatening. At the man's tension, however, he tilted his ears. Bruce made a scowl that hurt his head, but didn't stick to his mask like he'd been expecting. His heart rapidly developed the habits of a blacksmith, filling each and every vein with steel. He couldn't feel his mask. Frantically his fingers searched his face, his hair, his neck.

Bare.

Naked, exposed, stripped.

Save for his collar bone. Continuing his needy examination he found stitches, on the back of his hand he found an IV. On his ribs he found bandages, on his leg more stitches and some sort of antiseptic jelly by the smell and feel of it. Was this…? What was this? Where was his ignorance? The numb caused by ripping his body into pieces, by crucifying his humble alias, by Rachel's death, and Dent's fall to earth that was so forceful he shattered it and went straight to hell? He tried to will it all back, pull it to him so at this moment he would not care so much that someone had seen his face. As usual, fate was not so kind, there was the gentle creek of the door, that produced the reaction of the watchful mutt even though he didn't move, Bruce could distinctly hear the beast's tail thumping against the wood floor. Deciding it was best not for the stranger entering the room to notice his tension so instead he focused it into making a plan the first chance he got to…well the first chance he hoped to get to do something to possibly better this situation.

It wasn't a saucy criminal sauntering confidently into the room, nor was it a child innocent to the concepts of; secrecy, crime fighting, and darkened heroes. Something in between. A woman. Full grown, white lace shirt, strange sort of button up sweater filled with pattern, jeans, and mismatched socks. Most importantly, a lowered head. She'd went to the dog, silently offering it something from her hand. The silence, save for the dogs sloppy tongue over her palm would have been awkward, if she knew she had any conscious company, and fortuitous circumstance would have it that she would look up at the thought.

Her lips parted as if she'd uttered an 'oh' but no sound could be heard. The Bat watched her with a stony expression he usually wore under the mask. But he himself was having a bit of an identity crisis under the circumstance. Given if she knew both his faces, which one should he put on? This was all unnecessary given she'd made a jerking motion toward the door, as if she was going to fear in flight.

Directly assuming the worse; that she was not in fact the one who brought him here and was frightened he was awake because she was supposed to have retrieved her superior before he'd woken, Bruce did something that would no doubt deserve the guilt that would well up in him later.

Used to fighting through physical and emotional pain that would paralyze a lesser man, the blankets were hardly a problem, neither were the wide steps he'd taken, nor was the form of a creature with arms half the width of his own, and the IV was thankfully on a stand with wheels so it didn't rip from his arm. She jolted in wide-eyed pain as he jerked her against the wall, her lower back nearly impaled by the doorknob now jammed into her right kidney area. But there was no sound above a dull thump, he was careful to do it silently, and furthering that theme, he'd clasped a hand over her lips that nearly covered half of her face. Breathing hard as he recognized that pain of newly sewn wounds stretching on skin unusually taught, he allowed himself to lean on her also to ascertain she didn't have any weapons.

She did not whimper, or close her eyes, or grace him with shaking, but there was no question with her stare that she was most decidedly intimidated. Bruce, the Batman, could only hope that his voice wouldn't shake with the exertion that this had required.

"Who's out there?"

He asked, his voice slipping in and out of the tone that belonged to the Bat, unable to comprehend who he wanted to be in this situation. She shook her head immediately, and he realized dimly she was waving her hand at the dog who had started in a threatening growl, one he'd heard before.

Of course, this was the owner of the canine who'd stood in front of him, and the pair of men he'd witnessed before. All right, well that explained that. He searched her eyes for surprise or fear, but in all likelihood if she was the owner of the dog, and the one who found him here, she was not in work of some higher power that existed behind the off white door. Releasing her mouth, and some of the pressure on her body the pair stared at each other. He; at her eyes, and she, somewhere near his nose…then forehead…then over his shoulder, then his mouth, then up. Realizing she wasn't going to say anything was when she looked down within herself, no doubt pulling herself into her mind, her tongue running over her bottom lip as if to ensure that it was free.

"Who are you?"

He inquired as Bruce now, though his tone uncharacteristically harsh next to the usual velvet. Her lips parted, in small quivering motions before she shut her eyes, and given the lack of space he could distinctly sense her heart speed. It took a second for her to make the slightest of sounds, and even then it was nothing intelligible. Fuzzy from blatant bewilderment he came to the conclusion with wide eyes; she had a stutter. And a rather awful one at that given she was instantly beginning to panic when she couldn't force a word out. No doubt, being pressed against the door wasn't helping for any nerves that often made a stutter worse. But he could not let pity quell his heart. Instead, he cooled his voice and put additional space between the two of them as the dog to his right whined at the image before him, no doubt testing the waters. She'd waved at him again, and Bruce determined it would be best to ask yes or no questions to sate his justifiable curiosity. He couldn't keep standing forever, he was on one leg, and it was the side of his body with the broken ribs.

"Do you know who I am?"

A nod. She hadn't moved from the door looking as if he'd hung her on a hook by the back of her shirt. Bruce sighed.

"Is there anyone out there?"

A shake of her head. And somehow, he believed her, even though she didn't say a word, and she didn't even try to make eye contact he didn't really have much of a choice. He was safe now, with probably one of the few people in this city that would have saved him without wanting to offer him up for blood… at least immediately. He'd cleared away from her at this point, though completely not satisfied with the conversation he made the move to simply sit on the bed. Not that he had much of a choice, already the motion had caused his chest to swell with a pant and his forehead to gather sweat. The stranger, however, had different plans. For she'd moved much more elegantly this time, disappearing quietly behind the open door and shutting it with a click.

After at least a half an hour, he'd leaned against his borrowed pillow. He went through paranoia, acceptance, burning-eyed need for sleep, curiosity, nausea, grief, and acceptance of everything yet again, and then he felt…fidgety. Briefly, he'd wondered how long he'd been out. But he also needed a bathroom. Testing his legs, on the floor to see if he'd bothered anything he now came to notice that he was not, in fact rid of his suit entirely. The armor was gone, but the one who stitched him up had been so kind as to slip back the lining of his pants over his legs. It was…painful, but manageable.

He'd opened the door with caution that would not easily been thrown into the wind. And it wasn't much of a surprise that the dog followed him. Even while standing, it still came up near mid thigh on his rather lengthy form. Brushing up against him with a closeness he did not expect given the lack of wagging tale it probably wasn't of affection. Wondering the dog's purpose; he'd found himself in a kitchen. These homes, when originally built had been family oriented. Averaging on two to three bedrooms, with a charming kitchen and a sitting room they were homey and comfortable. But the poverty had stretched its lustful fingers out to even here. Now, you didn't raise families in these homes often . Most fell into disrepair, or controlled by much less conventional means of societal family. This however was, for lack of a better word; charming. It smelled like a home. One that was cooked in, slept in, and cared for. One that peeled and cracked in many places but held a soft light. The walls were all painted a soft warm color, making the room feel warm even on his chilled skin. The texture beneath his feet was only linoleum, but had the smell of lemon like it had recently been washed. There was a large ceramic tree without leaves off in the corner with notes attached to it he couldn't read from where he was standing, mostly due to the fact that even in here, everything was lit with candles. The habit usually associated with romance or perhaps being amish, was more practical given they were organized in pairs of two or three at a time in places where it was deemed necessary.

On the circular table, his eyes picked up the sight of a plate covered with a pot lid. Taking in the details, he'd also made the note that the door to the outside was double bolted, but no guard, no tripwire. Nothing, it appeared to be his own decision whether to leave or not. Not exactly what one would expect to find in Gotham's underbelly. But given the old fashioned construction of the home and the fact it appeared to be a stand alone house from the little that he'd seen and heard—this was probably no longer in the narrows. But instead, this could be old Gotham, farther away from the old center of the city and no less crime, but less of a population. But he couldn't leave when the thought of his identity was compromised. Now; everyone hated him. It didn't matter if he fell into civilian hands, the mob's, or the officials. So…What was the real circumstance? He should get to Alfred…Alfred would know…

The door across from him, painted a dark blue, opened cautiously having no doubt heard his door open as well. She'd taken off the sweater. There wasn't any heating in the house from what he could notice, but the candles kept it warm. Appearing much more comfortable from the other side of the room eyes of a currently indiscernible color observed him from the other side. Finding him stationary and silent, she'd suddenly broken into the sort of smile that would weaken the knees and strengthen the heart of anyone he could think of.

"I figured you wouldn't stay down for long…"

Her voice was even, cheerful. With the tone that suggested she thought of everything she said before it escaped her lips. Gesturing to the table she pointed out what he'd questioned before.

"It's for you, but only if you want it. I would suggest you eat but-"

"Who are you?"

He'd questioned again. The smile faded, her tongue running across her bottom lip as she'd done before.

"Mary."

"Mary…?"

"Mary Harth"

Going through the files of names in his head to attempt to match a name and therefore perhaps a purpose to the strange set of cards having dealt themselves, she surprisingly interrupted him.

"Born December twelfth, no arrests or misdemeanors, I was not Gotham raised."

Listening to her, he'd had a shift of heart and took a seat at the kitchen table. Her words had the feel of one that was a little too flat to be spontaneous. But sincere. Even the hardwood of the chair was soothing to a man recovering from injury. He'd realized she'd probably rehearsed this since he'd saw her last.

"Where did you learn to treat people?"

"Wu- Wel…I h-had to."

"Why?"

The confidence that she had now, in comparison to the woman in his room made the well trained vigilante both curious and paranoid. She was…pretty. Very pretty. But rather than luring him in, the observation made him considerably more weary. People oftentimes reflected what they did, and many pretty women he ran into in times of physical vulnerability were very rarely harmless. But no, she didn't look like the kind of pretty that would be some trained assassin. She looked like the babysitter a child would have a crush on. He could see her as a woman who got married to her childhood sweetheart of fifteen years. Was it this that dulled his sense to danger? Was he deep in a trap he couldn't get out of? The mob didn't go for this affect, and neither did any villain he'd encountered. As she skimmed her tongue over her bottom lip yet again, he found himself mirroring the action, his mouth stuck with thirst, his stomach hollow, and he was reminded yet again of his need to find the bathroom.

"My baby brother had a neurological disorder that he could not feel pain. We di-didn't live with our parents so I ha-ha-ha-had to take care of him, you learn things faster under those c-c-ccc-circumstances." Her eyes had lowered again, he'd sucked the confidence out of her without meaning to. But she didn't look to be contemplating, or upset. Just, vacant for a moment.

"Congenital Insensitivity to Pain with Anhidrosis…" He'd muttered, catching her interest immediately once more. "Since he couldn't feel pain…he'd probably inflicted some pretty awful wounds on himself." She hadn't been expecting any sort of emotional response and he felt her anxiety spike.

"Yes…well, taught me fast. But uh-" She smiled lightly, the grin a bit sheepish but her lips quivered. The dog had abandoned his side, nudging into hers instead. How was this the creature with the harsh bark of a voice he'd heard in the alleyway? Bruce couldn't label it. She was probably as good at throwing her voice as he was. "N-n-ever had to use morphine before, so you were kind, uh, of my guinea pig." She laughed, the sound was nervous but managed to stay pleasant. Mary's anxiety was infectious, and the dim light of the candles made it all seem a bit more surreal.

She was so tense, while he felt as he was fading into a puddle on her chair. She calmed visibly at the dog's attention at her side. He wondered if that was the same animal that had guarded him.

"I th-th-think, I gave you too big of a dose the first time, I mis-miscalculated your weight while you were still in that suit. But I mean, I couldn't move you when you were like that…" As if the action required all her concentration, Mary buried her fingers into the dog's fur. He noticed now that the dog was not as large as he originally thought. To his barely-conscious mind he'd thought it to be the size of a monster—a hellhound. Still, it came up to her waist. "I just didn't want you to wake up… and start swinging, you know?"

He nodded, but stood. "Bathroom?"

...

Once in the safety of the bathroom he'd purposefully avoided the mirror at first, the candles were in here as well so this was not hard to do. Finally given the chance to relieve himself he found himself too distracted for the moment to do so. The bathroom was outdated and small, like the rest of his house. But with the same charming details as on the outside of the door. More shakey than he was in front of her he half sat and half fell onto the pink toilet. Drawing his hand through his hair he felt as if half of his troubles were residing there. Sweat from pain, blood from hurt, grease from time and continued stagnancy. Unable to decide which he wanted to do more; toilet, shower, food, get up and find his suit or curl up and die—he instead to sit there, half curled over his knees. Having been unable to decide whether he was batman or Bruce or neither, he decided that whatever he was he was hurting.

True, he had let them capture the clown. But he had lost his best friend… the girl he was in love with. He lost Gotham's white knight. And thought the public would go on thinking that Harvey Dent was the pillar of light that they always wanted—he realized that he had relied far more on Dent than most of the population. He'd dared to hope that he was free… As much as he'd lost, it was the future that he mourned now. So the present seemed inconsequential. Plus, the morphine was wearing off.

Attempting to put a hand on the bathtub and force himself to a standing position, he wasn't ready to support his own weight and his hand slipped out from under him comically quick and he smacked his face on the edge of the tub with an immediate groan. It took all of four seconds for her to be in that bathroom that was already too small for his size. She didn't touch him but hovered over him with palpable concern. He forced breath from his lips in a dry laugh that turned into a cough. She was just like her dogs. He could practically see her with her ears perked up, her stance firm and tail wagging in a questioning manner. It was only after he pathetically tried to lift himself from his new status on the floor that she leaned down. Hesitant to touch him for someone who apparently removed his suit—he wondered for the first time how she did it. Was she shocked by its' defense mechanisms? He only now realized the bandages on the fingertips of her right hand and realized that she probably did. Her strength felt substantial as she fought to lift him to his feet and made a move to the door before he stopped her. "No… No… Bathroom first." The strained voice was weak enough to catch her interest, but also made it far more likely she would listen to him. And he doubted she'd want to stay here and help. She looked at him with a question that he felt rather than heard or saw on her face. "I can do it"

After she reluctantly and silently left, holding her hands away from her as if they seemed strange from touching him, he realized he must smell horrific. Finishing with the bathroom he even leaned one hand on the sink and fought to wash his hand and run the water over his face. Despit the modest action, he did feel cleaner. As the morphine wore off, the pain returned in waves, but so did a steady sense of awareness. She was waiting on the other side of the little kitchen, looking at him with her arms crossed. It was now that he realized one of the dogs was asleep in a bed he could see by the front door and the other padded up to him with a rolling tongue. He realized naturally that this was undoubtedly a service dog, and his stress brought the canine toward him. It was half-heartedly that he brought his hand to the rough dark fur, and strangely it did instill a sense of calm.

"I'm going to need some… explanations…" His measured speech was as slow as hers, and hesitatnt only because he didn't know what he wanted to know. "You can have them." She then sat slowly down at the table, her eyes steadily making contact with his collar bone. "I made tea." It was plainly an offer that he could refuse and instead found that he didn't. Sitting beside his untouched food was now a cup filled with an undetermined liquid. Not knowing which question to ask first, he was surprised when she spoke again.

"Something has ha-happened… I know…I know you'll want to know…But it will hurt you." Vacant eyes flickered up toward her at this moment. "But I ha-have to say-y it…H-h-he got…out." She brought her eyes to the table as if feeling some deep personal shame. Despite the ambiguity, the sinking feeling that sank in his stomach relayed the truth of his statement. The Joker didn't stay behind bars.

It didn't matter how he got out all that mattered was that he did. His fingers clenched in on themselves as he stared at the lines in the tables. In his line of vision she delicately pushed a newspaper toward him across the table. Stubbornly his eyes remained fixed, unable to move even the muscles to glance at what she was showing him.

"…I—it's dangerous out. People don't know what to b-belive…" He'd stood with sudden strength, forgetting pain as quickly as he could he was already walking to the room, trusting that the suit would appear in his line of vision. "Please… y-you don't understand e-e-e-everyone is looking f-for y-y-y-you…" In the effort to relay her insistence her voice got so stuck in her throat he could barely hear her. Even so, he wasn't listening. Leaning heavily against the door his dark eyes scoured the small room. The rumpled bed, more candles, stacks of newspapers, books, magazines, clothes…

"They don't know what to d-do they think you killed Ha-Ha-Harvey!" He could feel that she wanted to grab him, the frustration in her own language pattern was nearly painful. Unable to find his suit, he closed his eyes tightly at the domestic scene in frustration but what was surprising was the burn in his eyes and his throat.

"I did kill him…" His breathing shuddered in his lungs, suddenly feeling entirely enclosed. "…I took him away, this was my fault. It's all my fault." Light couldn't exist in such a dark place, and he felt that he had created this darkness. It was inside of him and worked it's way out until it wrecked everything he came in contact with. And it was darkness that he met when his legs gave out beneath him. Immediately the world had spun and he felt the sand once more, pushing over him and forcing him into that tiny bed again.

It was seconds later that he felt a warm snout snuffling over his face, a hot tongue soon following.

"Please…Please rest…you need rest…" She was muttering over him and his head rolled and she was slipping the IV back into his arm.

.