Author's Note: This note replaces the original, which was first posted several years ago.
As of May 10, 2017, this story will be undergoing a major facelift. I know that sounds crazy, considering that I'm not even done with it yet! (As of this revised note, I've posted forty-four chapters.) I've been wanting to post this fic on AO3 for awhile now, but I really don't want to post it there in its current condition, without fine tuning it. So as I edit, I'll post it there under my pseud arrowinthesky - and replace the chapters with the new ones here. (BTW, if you can, would you leave me a little love on that site, too? I'd appreciate it!)
As you know, it has taken me nearly three years to write forty-four chapters...and in that time, my style/technique has changed quite a bit. And when I look back at the early chapters, I keep obsessing about fixing them. Since I feel so inspired to do this, I'm diving in with gusto before I realize how crazy this really is and change my mind. ;) I decided not to take this story down and completely repost. I didn't want to feel like I was starting over and not actually moving forward with the story. Which is not true. We're moving forward, I'll just be editing each and every chapter from the beginning, also.
The first two chapters have been edited and reposted, and will hopefully give you a taste of how things will change. There is a discrepancy between chapters two and three, as I'm adjusting a couple of scenes. So please note that along the way, there could be more discrepancies as I shuffle scenes, but only until I follow up with the next chapter, and so forth. The story's main plot and most of the subplots WILL NOT CHANGE. However, there could be small plot changes here and there. For example, I'll be revisiting the whole Nurse Beth thing, and possibly leaving some of it out. I'm still undecided about that. Basically, I want to tighten up the scenes and leave out any and all unnecessary parts for the sole purpose of gaining clarity in the writing. Focusing my edits on the narrative/diagloge, instead. I'm honestly pretty sure that each chapter will read differently, though some will be edited less than others. My goal is to upload two to four revised chapters each week. While continuing to work on Chapter 45 - which is still not done but getting there. :)
A few random notes. This is a semi-slow burn, as I don't think Bruce and Selina would immediately jump into a relationship after TDKR. I'll be treating medical conditions as realistically as possible in this. I don't believe in an instant healing for Bruce after the events of TDKR. He was already in bad shape. IMHO, it really isn't realistic to write it otherwise.
I love the Nolanverse, and fully understand that there are no "powers" in it, but my muse had other plans, as you can see from the tags. The crossover with Superman doesn't begin until later on (after chapter 33 or thereabouts) but I'm amending the content to better suit that. I'll be slipping in mentions of Superman here and there in the narrative or dialogue where appropriate, to make that transition more realistic, too. Though I'm not going to change the fact that Bruce doesn't even think about the emergence of Superman at all until later in the story.
Okay, that's all! I hope the news regarding the edits excites you all rather than disappoints. I really feel like the effort is worth it. As cheesy as it sounds, I feel like this Bruce and Selina are worth the extra effort, too. I'm crossing my fingers that you feel the same!
I'll be replacing/posting Chapter 3 this weekend, so check back after Saturday if you want to read the 'new' chapter. Nothing will be beta read at this point, for my own convenience at this time, although that could change. All mistakes are my own.
Thank you, and happy reading! And if you're rereading the story as I repost the chapters each week, I'd love to hear how you like the changes! :)
The call came mid-afternoon the first day, but Selina brushed it off as she folded the last of her meager clothing into a suitcase. When the number came across the screen again later that evening, she didn't bother then, either. She was tying up loose ends in Gotham and leaving the country the very next morning, and how had Dr. Thompkins remembered her alternate phone number, anyway?
The Clean Slate had erased all her active and past numbers under her legal name, leaving only those registered under an alias. And one she used intermittently—a Ms. Catherine Asher. She also hadn't contacted Dr. Thompkins in years, assuming she'd forgotten about her just like everyone else had as she forged her own path. A criminal path, but a darker one than even she had expected.
But the next day, the call came again, in the morning and five minutes before Selina planned to leave her apartment for the airport. She finally answered, God knows why. Months later Selina still wouldn't deny that it had, at the very least, gutted her well-laid plans. For now, it remained an annoying reminder of why being indebted to anyone led to trouble.
"Hello?" she asked without bending to the lump lodged in her throat.
"Selina, it's Leslie."
Selina braced herself against the torrent of memories that had flooded back ever since the doctor's number had popped up on her tiny phone screen. Now, hearing Leslie's voice ushered in a menagerie of memories of the woman who'd offered refuge and healing on Crime Alley to the wounded riffraff of the street. Of the mother-figure trying to nurture the best in an abandoned young girl hell-bent on saving only herself. Of a doctor who'd treated the injuries Selina no doubt sustained because of her many sins, no questions asked.
Selina expelled a breath slowly and sank down onto her sofa. She put the phone on speaker beside her, tucked her clutch tightly underneath her crossed arms, and waited. She'd not talked to Dr. Leslie Thompkins in over three years, ever since she'd gotten in over her head with the wrong people. They'd gone their separate ways, but Selina heard the strain lacing in the doctor's greeting immediately. That simple greeting—and her name—a rare whisper from the doctor's lips.
"Selina?" Leslie's voice shook, like she was breathless.
"I'm here," she admitted, her past as a young woman under Leslie's care preventing her from hanging up without learning why the doctor seemed so rattled.
"I'm sorry to bother you, Selina, but…." A fatigued sigh wooshed through the speaker. "I...I need your help."
Selina's fingers curled around the cool leather of her clutch. Her instincts had been correct. This wasn't a friendly farewell. "Yes?" She tried not to let her tone betray how terribly inconvenient all of this was and quite possibly the worst timing she could ever imagine.
"This is." The doctor hesitated. "Not a good time, I take it."
Selina rolled her eyes. Like she would back out of the conversation now when Leslie sounded needy and so unlike herself. "Leslie, it's fi—"
"I'm short-handed at the clinic," Leslie interrupted, her voice shaking more. "You can't imagine the need since Bane's occupation of Gotham and now that he's gone...we're...I..."
Selina counted to ten. She could see now where this was headed, and she didn't want to hear it. Any of it. She should hang up now, before she allowed Leslie to go on and get her hopes up when she remained silent. A polite listener, when she was anything but that.
But this was Leslie. And she was right. Bane had nearly destroyed the city, its citizens picking up the pieces since the Batman had died.
She sighed, giving in to the pressure. Patience had never been her virtue. Hell, she didn't have a single virtue in her body, a fact that Leslie seemed to have forgotten.
"Could you possibly come help me for a few days?" Leslie continued hurriedly. "I have a particular patient who needs more time than I can give to them right now. No training necessary. Besides, I know you'd be able to do mostly anything I ask you to do. You could always think on your feet, better than most."
Flattery usually didn't have an affect on her, but when had been the last time she'd been needed? Truly needed to help someone else?
Her heart caught in her throat when she realized her question was simply ridiculous. She'd been needed here in Gotham once. But that time was over.
She cleared her throat, her heart now pounding in her chest. "Why me?"
"I need someone light of foot and quick of mind."
Selina dropped her head back, half-smiling at the compliment. "That I am."
"I remember," Leslie mused. "You never let a chance go by to sneak into my clinic undetected. Always proving you were ahead of everyone else, even if you were but a wisp of a child."
She made it sound like Selina had been a beautiful child with a pleasant, carefree childhood. Not a skinny kid with stringy hair who'd had no real home or parents to watch over her.
The memory too bitter to continue, she sighed again. "I have plans, you know," she said, not even bothering to hide her displeasure.
She was already running late thanks to this call. Her watch read a minute past the time she'd set to leave for the airport.
"I wouldn't be calling you if—"
"Leslie, please," Selina cut in before she could stop herself from being completely rude and berate Leslie going as far as begging.
Memories provoked by the doctor's request flashed through her mind and quickened the nausea growing in the pit of her stomach. It was like the plague, the goodness of Bruce Wayne. A plague she could no more rid herself of than she could rid herself of her own hand. She squeezed her eyes shut, wanting to rid her mind of his face and her heart of his predictable hero complex.
She didn't have room for that in her life. It cramped her style, but her tongue wouldn't listen. "I'll be there."
"Thank you." Leslie's voice brightened noticeably.
"Not this afternoon, but probably tonight." She reached over to her cellphone and pressed end, foregoing the unnecessary courtesy of a goodbye.
Besides, she was well-acquainted with the route to Crime Alley. She didn't need a map, or a few directions, to get to the place that had been her resting ground as a teenage delinquent.
Uncrossing her legs, Selina stared dispassionately at the two pieces of luggage she'd prepared for the afternoon flight. She hadn't planned on taking much, only the suitcase and carry-on. Anything that remained in the apartment would go to Jen. Selina had cleaned out her fridge and cupboards the day before. She'd erased her name and everything tied to it the day before that, the drive with the Clean Slate now safely tucked in her brassiere.
It was done, and her future awaited her. Only a different future than what she'd originally planned. Her flight to Paris had promised a new start but had given no certainty that her inner turmoil would end. As she sat contemplating how everything had changed in a blink of an eye, her suppressed, unshed tears festered behind her eyes, withering every sane thought in her mind.
Agreeing to help Leslie with her patients? Good Lord, what had she'd been thinking?
A solitary tear fell from the corner of her eye before she even realized it, slowly streaking down her perfect complexion. It slipped, and then another slipped, and another; like a dam having broken, the hairline cracks having burst open at Leslie's call.
Selina kicked off her heels and curled into herself, rocking back and forth as the hurt she'd accumulated and tamped down the past five months finally unleashed. She allowed herself to weep. Allowed the bottled up despair claw up her throat with such unprecedented emotion that she could barely breathe.
She spared herself nothing, for experiencing the pain made it all tangible. She could feel him here with her, beside her, although she'd never have the chance to find out what it would be like to kiss him a third time.
Selina knew exactly what she'd been thinking of this morning.
Bruce Wayne's funeral commenced this very hour.
Unfurling herself from the sofa was no small task, but she'd weighed her excuses and there was but one thing to do.
Still, as the taxi turned into the drive and Selina arrived at Wayne Manor with a completely different itinerary than the first time she came, she duly blamed Wayne for the fact that she missed her flight.
Selina instructed the driver to drop her off in front of the door and stepped out onto the driveway as if she had every right to be paying her respects to the wasteful, dimwitted, playboy of Gotham, albeit after the actual ceremony. Her black dress skimmed over her body with smooth precision, the broad-rimmed hat on her head effortlessly cloaking her emotions. Only her face, hidden in the shadows and slightly swollen from her tears, betrayed her.
Unconsciously, she rested a hand upon her collarbone as the memory of the last time she'd walked along the same path resurfaced. She'd been dressed similarly, except for the hat and lack of pearls. On that day, the holiday remembrance at Wayne Manor had been well-attended to honor their deceptively-placed hero, Harvey Dent. Today, the grounds echoed silence in an unearthly hollowness, despite the scent of a freshly cut lawn wafting over her. How odd that someone had taken the time, despite Wayne's financial losses and now, his death, to trim the yard.
The gated plot of land loomed before her, holding the empty but fresh grave of Bruce Wayne. The grave she was incapable of ignoring. She continued past the manor and could not subdue her surprise when she saw the man observing her from the expanse of a front window. It was the butler who'd handed her the key, unknowingly enabling her all the more to act and begin the domino effect which led to the ultimate demise of his employer.
From beneath the shade of her hat, Selina let down her guard. Publicly, just this once. Grief—the ancient, raw kind that Selina had only read about in books and turned a blind eye to in her own life (with the exception of this very morning)—lined every crevice of the old man's face. It hinted at a history between them. That the butler had an attachment to Bruce was, in Selina's opinion, somewhat of an anomaly. They'd been close. They had to have been. Maybe he'd known Bruce's secret, and maybe—
Bruce. She huffed in disbelief. She'd taken to calling the man by his first name and, even worse, had begun to contemplate the relationships he'd had outside of his mask. It wasn't any of her business, as tempting as it was to continue humanizing the Batman.
She should spare herself, shouldn't she? It was what she always did. What she had to do to survive.
Her eyes dashed away from the window, the butler's crumpling expression unraveling the emotions she thought she'd tamped down with her strong resolve as she stepped out of her home.
She lifted her chin and walked quietly along the path towards the small graveyard. With a sweep of her hand, the gate swung open on a squeaking hinge, lending itself to the eeriness she felt stepping on these sacred, private grounds.
It was easy to find. Wayne's headstone, the newer of the two beside it, mocked her fight for composure. She set her back ramrod straight, silently reading his name over and over again as if to carve it into her heart.
She couldn't form any spoken words. She didn't feel she needed to. What she did feel, she whispered from a battered corner of her heart before her own scorn for vulnerability sealed her emotions safely inside again. The man behind the cape and cowl, whoever he'd been, had reduced her years of independence, the years of fight-or-flight, to this humble apology.
I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. For all I did to you. Every last part.
The Bruce Wayne she'd met seemed a far cry from the tabloids. Eight years of banishment, crippled and alone with the exception of his butler, surely chiseled away at the worthless, self-serving billionaire facade Wayne once held up for Gotham. Upon their second meeting, he'd been caring, altogether too forgiving, and eager to know her. He'd been suave, of course. Once or twice he'd showed his wit and charm, and—
Selina covered her mouth, a slip of a sob held back with a tenacious effort. Her shoulders shuddered once as she pitted her skillful control against her gripping sadness.
She knew this wasn't a good idea. It was his fault for making her care. For making her sorry for every part she played.
For a short amount of time, Bruce had changed her with those simple words—I think there's more to you.
Without a doubt, Selina could no longer deny she once wished there was more to her. But that was when Bruce Wayne walked this earth. She couldn't be that woman now.
She didn't even know where to begin.
One day ago
A droning hum pulled him from slumber, matching the pain in his aching skull. Bruce quickly wished he hadn't awakened at all but had remained ignorant and in the throes of unconsciousness. Joining the chorus were higher-pitched, successive beeps that could drive a man to madness, and threatened to do so to him now.
Already entrenched in a mind-boggling migraine, his eyes remained closed despite his best efforts, exhaustion and excruciating pain stripping away his ability to fight the heaviness pressing into his body on all sides.
Breathing slowly, he depended upon his training to keep himself calm and observant of his surroundings with his other senses. He took stock of his body, for something else was different. Something was incredibly wrong. He couldn't identify where he was in the first place, or how he had got here.
He'd climbed out of the pit. Had he escaped, merely to be caught again? Beaten? He shifted his aching knees—but stopped almost immediately. Stunned by the throbbing pain in his side, he stilled the best he could, panting as he regained control of his body. Although this was uncomfortable, he'd been in worse situations before.
Wherever this was, it wasn't his cave or master bedroom. The sounds were different. The smell was different. His instincts told him it was different. And, maybe...even safe.
A hand rested on his forehead. Involuntarily he shied away, but another hand braced his head. "Ah, you're awake."
He foolishly grunted, unable to help himself.
"A migraine again?" the woman murmured.
He flinched at the very word.
Migraines?
Even as a recluse he'd never gotten them.
"I'm giving you something for the pain now." The hand stroked his hair back once, then twice, a comforting gesture "It'll help you very, very soon."
Familiar but far away, the voice settled over him as the drug took over. His body craved the loose-limbed feeling seeping into every agonized muscle. The familiar ache in his knees diminished and his migraine retreated to a manageable level.
"Can you try to open your eyes for me?" she asked.
Finding that he'd gained a little strength, he fought and won. Through narrow slits, he observed a woman bending over him, silhouetted by the soft lights behind her.
"Where am I?" His voice, rough and cracked, bespoke of disuse.
Had he been out that long?
She made a soft noise in her throat. "Somewhere safe."
He forced his eyes to open wider, finally seeing the woman standing above him. She smiled down at him, gray hair and lines revealing her to be about twenty-five years his senior. He knew this woman. Alfred knew this woman—and trusted her.
"Leslie." Bruce focused on the face of Dr. Leslie Thompkins, a woman he'd known since the time of his parents' murder.
"Yes." Her faint smile widened. "I'm glad you're finally awake. How are you feeling?"
"Where am I?" Quiet and weak, his voice was lost in the throes of the machines.
"You were hurt and came directly to me. Do you remember?"
He had nothing to appease her, or himself, but wasn't that normal after certain accidents? Maybe he'd been struck, had a concussion. "No," he said hoarsely.
The doctor's smile flickered, doing nothing to help the sinking feeling he had in his stomach. "Do you remember your name?"
"Bruce Wayne." His throat burned to talk anymore. He coughed, and Leslie quickly brought a cup of water to his lips and placed a straw in his mouth.
He eagerly sipped.
"Drink slowly, Bruce," she cautioned as he choked, then coughed again.
He took three more sips and, spent from the effort, turned his head away from the offered drink.
She pulled the glass away from him. "Who is your butler?" she asked softly.
The question confused him. She knew who was his butler, but he'd humor her. "Alfred…" He swallowed with difficulty. "Pennyworth."
"Can you tell me today's date?"
"I..." Unable to answer, he queried her in return, his voice remaining oddly strained and fatigued. "Why...all…the questions?"
"Try for just the month," she urged gently.
"Aug…August. No. Octo..." The words scraped across his throat, the burn too much, causing him to fall silent.
Her expression shadowed. "I'm sorry to keep asking you questions, Bruce, when you are unwell, but I do need you to answer me. Do you recall where you were a day ago?"
"Climbing...out of a pit." He stopped, breathing heavily from the exertion. He'd climbed to get to Gotham. His eyes widened. "Bane."
"Bane is no longer a threat to Gotham, Bruce. The Batman took care of that."
He didn't remember taking care of it. His expression told her as much for the doctor's face fell, as if she knew exactly who he was.
But that was impossible.
"You were in a pit?" Leslie nodded, urging him on. He frowned, unable to add anything to the story. "That's more than what you told me before."
That wasn't good. "Before?"
"Yesterday," she said quietly. "We talked yesterday, Bruce, and the day before that. You didn't climb out of the pit yesterday, because you were here, same as four days ago. And it's February."
Bruce stared at her for a long moment, uncomfortable with the implications. That couldn't be right, could it?
"Bruce," Leslie whispered, her eyes piteous. "I now this is a lot to take in, and I'm sorry for that.
Resigned, he asked, "What happened, Leslie?"
"You sustained a traumatic brain injury. You were also stabbed on your right side, below your lungs. Do you remember?"
"No," he whispered, this new knowledge unnerving.
She squeezed his hand. "The good news is that I repaired the damage. The bad news is that it was tipped with poison, which accounts for the severe pain you feel in the affected area. I synthesized an antidote and now your body is working hard to cleanse itself. There are previous injuries we need to discuss and, eventually, formulate a gameplan to fix them. But for now, know that for the most part your body is healing. You can stay here as long as you want. You're in a secluded area and I've admitted you under an alias, Thomas Highland. I'll write it down for you, along with a few other things, so you can refresh your memory when needed."
He could hardly grasp most of what she said, his migraine already returning full-force. "My memory loss...is it permanent?" he rasped.
He saw it in her eyes before she even replied.
He'd been wrong. This was far worse than anything he'd ever endured.
Her eyes flickered with sadness. "I've seen short memory return with therapy after a few weeks but it could be months, Bruce. You just need time."
"Leslie...my head...it's...it hurts." He paused, drawing a ragged breath and unsure how to describe his pain. Unsure he knew why it hurt to begin with.
"I'm sorry, Bruce. I've already increased your medication, but I'll do it again," she murmured.
More medication? "Painkillers...no."
"Bruce, for now, it is best that you're comfortable as your recuperate, giving your body a break."
"No," he whispered harshly. "Please. Can't...think."
"Stubborn man, I'm not about to let you call the shots this time," she huffed. "You're not invincible, you know. I'm giving you the medication this time. When you're a little better, I'll compromise."
He closed his eyes, the simplicity of feeling safe overwhelming, as if this refuge was what he'd wanted. Leslie, as strong of a woman she was to be here in the midst of criminals, had always mothered him in his earlier years when Alfred took his small charge on trips to visit her. "How did...I get...here?"
"You brought yourself, to my very back door."
"The clinic," Bruce opened his eyes. "I'm at...your clinic."
Leslie nodded. "I don't know how you made it, because I know where you came from, dripping wet and still in your suit, although you'd lost your cape and cowl—"
A sound of dismay slipped from the back of his throat.
Leslie cocked an eye. "Really, Bruce Wayne. I put two and two together whenever Alfred told me of your exploits spelunking, water-polo, or whatever else you two concocted to hide the truth about your injuries. Yes, I know what you've been hiding from the people of Gotham. Thankfully, I'm the only one in the clinic that knows your secret."
She paused, observing him with a tender expression despite the tightness around her mouth. Bruce mentally fidgeted, getting the feeling he was about to be scolded.
"Bruce," she began cautiously, "I must tell you that Alfred doesn't know you're here."
"He doesn't?" Taken aback, Bruce asked slowly, "How long...have I've been here?"
"Four days, Bruce," she said softly. "I'm not altogether thrilled with keeping the truth from Alfred, Bruce, but it was the first thing you said to me—Don't tell Alfred. I'm not ready. He's not either. Bruce Wayne has to be remain dead. Promise me, Leslie. Or I'll leave right now."
Bruce stared at her, trying to solve his own riddle. He recalled having words with Alfred about Rachel and his life as Batman, but beyond that, he could not make an emotional connection between that and what he'd told Leslie. "So, you...you haven't told him that I am here? I must have had a good reason...for asking for your silence. I admit, however, that I'm surprised you listened to me."
"You were very serious about leaving if I didn't promise. I don't go back on my promises, Bruce, even if I don't agree with a patient's personal wishes. Besides, being that you'd just saved the city of Gotham from becoming a nuclear wasteland, by flying the bomb out over the bay, thereby killing Batman, I thought it was the least I could do."
"I flew it...killing...what?" He groaned and closed his hands, tightly fisting the sheets. "I remember the bomb being a threat, and Bane…" His breath hitched. "Is he still in Gotham?"
"He's dead," Leslie said, her voice too even and calm. He must have asked her this before. "His men no longer have power over the city."
"Dead." Bruce blinked. He had no memory of this, either. It seemed impossible. "How?"
"Shot, but I don't know by whom." Leslie squeezed his hand. "Maybe I should get you a newspaper. And a mirror."
"A mirror? What for?"
Her eyes drifted over his face pointedly. "So you can see your new disguise."
Cautiously, he lifted a hand. The hair at his chin surprised him. It was a goatee, similar to the bearded he'd worn as a recluse. "This isn't...so bad. Where did you...did you find the disguise?"
"I was involved in theater back in the day." She smiled. "It's when I met Alfred. Had a few things on hand and came up with the rest to make sure no one recognizes the clean cut, handsome playboy billionaire. Your goatee and ponytail..."
Ponytail? His eyes widened.
"...are a very dark brown. Almost black."
"I like black," he muttered, his eyes too heavy to keep open. "I shouldn't be here," he whispered, irritated by his predicament. "What...happened?" he asked, desperately trying to keep himself awake. It was the only way he could make sense of anything.
Leslie gave him a small smile. "You must listen to your body, Bruce. You can't go back to what you were doing. It is possible your memory will return with work, but I can't promise that you'll be as lucky the next time. Do you understand what I am saying?"
"It's time for me to retire—this time for good." The words felt right. It didn't distress him to say those words, or pain him to believe that he'd follow through. He felt...relieved, even. That the Batman had been taken from him, once and for all. Something he'd wanted but could never attain on his own, not even by his own free will.
He could hear Alfred's voice, a haunting I told you so, loud and clear.
"Yes." She sat down in the chair beside him, leaning forward with a somber expression. "Bruce, your body has been broken more times than I thought a person could be broken and yet, survive, let alone walk. While you recuperate, I promise you a refuge here as long as you need it."
"I trust you." He did, but he also had no choice. He had nowhere else to turn to without sorely inconveniencing someone.
"I know you do, and I hope you trust me when we talk more about a recent, serious back injury of yours?"
"It healed." It wasn't so much a defensive reply as the truth.
"If that's what you call it," she countered. "But let's not talk about that now. I want you to rest, not that you're going to be able to do anything else, the way you depleted your body."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome, Bruce. About Alfred..."
As Leslie's voice trailed off, Bruce realized she was inferring something, but the epiphany never came. His memory failed him, and he was unable to draw a single conclusion as to why he'd wanted himself dead to the world.
"I hope you remember what you forgot, Bruce. Soon. I don't think we need to talk anymore now."
He nodded once, the weight of his situation suddenly exhausting. Leslie's footsteps had all but diminished from the room when his memory relinquished the image of a woman, alluring eyes wide and hopeful, pleading with him.
"Selina." He desperately needed Selina. Why, he couldn't remember, but it was as if she were part of his plan, even though he didn't remember having a plan in the first place.
"Selina?" Leslie's footsteps came nearer, and Bruce heard her breathing, hovering over him again.
Selina. Bruce had lost her, but he never had her to begin with. If he was here, and it was...
"How long...have I...?" he mumbled, eyes fluttering open.
"Four days, Bruce." Her smile was sad, but he didn't know why. "You've been here four days."
Four days. He'd come back to Gotham. That much he remembered. That and his intention to ask her for her help. But he still couldn't remember what his plan had been. Had he actually asked her to help him? Had she agreed? She wouldn't stick around, that much Bruce remembered about her. That...and her seductive beauty. She'd forced him from that first pit he'd been in, the wretched pit of self-pity that he'd wallowed in for eight years, by stealing the only possession on this earth that meant anything to him.
Why did it hurt so much that the thief was gone? He tried to muffle groan, sparing Leslie his frustration, but it escaped his throat as a low growl. "Selina."
"Bruce, do you mean Selina Kyle?" Leslie hesitated. "Was she the woman who helped Batman procure the bomb? The masked woman?"
He knew only one masked woman. It had to be her. She'd stayed?
"I...I don't know, but she knows who...who I am…"
He'd laugh at the absurdity at that statement, if what felt like a hammer wasn't doing its best to pound and destroy his skull. Both he and Selina had tried to be but shadows in this world, replacing relationships with either crime or crime-fighting.
"Bruce, I know where to find her," Leslie said breathlessly. "She could possibly help you sort through your memories of what happened."
"I believed there...was more to her...but..." Bruce slowly exhaled, unsure if he should even bring Miss Kyle into his mess. "Be careful, Leslie. She may not be a friend."
Strangely enough, his heart squeezed painfully at the thought.
He hoped that he wasn't putting Leslie or anyone else at the clinic in danger. It was the last thing he wanted to do.
"I'll be careful, Bruce, but if you're willing, I'll bring her here." Leslie squeezed his shoulder.
He had no choice. "Yes," he agreed. It was a risk, but no other answer would do.
"You're certain?"
"But...don't force her to stay. And...and if she decides to leave, I'll be fine," he said hoarsely. "I wouldn't want to clip her wings."
He paused, reveling in a vibrant memory of holding her in his arms, dancing with the woman who'd charmed him with her natural elegance and confidence. It was a magnificent image, the only clear one he had of her before the betrayal which had damned him.
"You know her well, Bruce," Leslie observed softly.
Know her? He'd only spent five months in a desolate pit, imagining that he'd been right about her all along, only to come to this point where, ironically, he couldn't even begin to know her the way he'd wanted to.
And with a chance that he never, ever would.
"...after which, I'll let you rest," the woman was saying.
He blinked several times, her voice warbling in his ears along with everything else.
Was she talking to him? Where was he? He knew those sounds around him. Was he at a hospital? How'd he get here?
Why did his head feel like it was being smashed to smithereens?
He closed his eyes and groaned. "Where am I?" he whispered, thinking twice about speaking at all when what felt like nails scraped the sensitive lining of his throat. "Wh-who are you?"
The woman sighed, her breath catching at the end, as if she were stopping herself from crying out. "Oh, Bruce," she whispered.
It didn't take a genius—or even a well man—to sense that she was sad. Had he said something wrong? Was it his fault?
"Don't try to talk," she insisted. "You must rest. I'll tell you everything again—"
Again?
The woman brushed his forehead, her touch gentle, reminding him of someone.
"—once you've slept off the migraine. I promise."
And not know where he was? Or what had happened to him? Or why he felt so helpless?
His panic took his breath away. "No—" he protested weakly.
But it was too late.
"Shhh, Bruce," she breathed out, deciding his fate on his behalf.
Her name came to him and he held onto it, ready to speak. But the shroud of sleep had already taken hold, slowly and heavily, thickening his tongue and muddying his thoughts. He fought it, but it was no use.
The steady sound of the machines around him diminished into nothing, and all went dark.