'Batman' and certain characters belong to DC Comics and Warner Bros., respectively. No profit is gained from this writing—only, hopefully, enjoyment.
He makes it back to shore, and then he's out. When he next opens his eyes, the sun is gone, and he decides that for now he's simply going to believe it's only been an hour or two since—everything. If it's been longer, he doesn't want to know right now.
He pulls off the cowl and cape, wraps the former in the latter, and then he sets about trudging farther inland. He'd managed to swim part of the way, stay on his back for the rest and let the tide do the work, but even now he is completely wiped out. He's felt exhaustion before but nothing like this emptiness. It's all gone—the desperation, the rage, the conviction that he would do what needed doing. He's hollow.
There should be people in the streets, and he sometimes catches snatches of what he's almost certain is the sound of cheering, but wherever he hobbles, the way is generally clear. He comes close to encountering only three people on the way to the apartment, and it's a long walk from the shore to Oldtown.
It's also extremely depressing. The city has never been especially pristine, the cracks in its glamorous façade only growing more pronounced with time, but it's never looked like this. It's post-apocalyptic in the purest sense, and just imagining what's in store for the reconstruction makes him want to cry. He probably would cry, if he weren't so numb.
The lock on the building's main entrance was suspect the last time he was here, and it's long gone now. On the stairs leading up, he has to watch out for all manner of debris and garbage. His eyesight's lasted this long, but it's fading fast—blacking out and returning slower each time. His legs feel like jello, and the left is about ready to buckle under the combined weight of his body and the armor. The brace must have malfunctioned at some point, but with the adrenaline it's no surprise he didn't feel it sooner. What's most bothersome is the fire pulsing out from his side with every heartbeat, the stab wound—well, that and the possible radiation poisoning he might soon start feeling the effects of. He wasn't that far from the blast, after all. It's a distinct possibility.
Finally, he reaches the right landing. The doors on this floor are all thrown wide open, save one, and he hopes. . .
It's not cleared out but plainly ransacked, likely unoccupied for months now. Maybe she'd left it behind before he'd even–
He's then down on the floor and thinks, really, this is just fine. He's made it. No one will check this area for days yet, weeks perhaps. He releases the bundle of mask and cape and simply collapses onto his back, the fall jarring his side. His breath escapes in a short hiss, and then he's out again.
This time, the light is still dim, but his hand is wet, and there's a strange, irritating sound in the room that he vaguely remembers has been around for awhile. It was a scratching in his dream, bats at the windows of that old place in Hong Kong he shared with Ray and Nikolai. He looks down at his wet hand and is met with a pair of luminescent eyes and the unrepentant expression that is purely and unequivocally cat, as though it were his own fault for leaving such a tasty treat as his hand exposed to the world. He blinks; the cat stares. Slowly, he turns his hand over so that it's palm down, and then even more slowly does he set hand to fur. Gently, he runs it back over ears and neck, and that's as far as he can reach, but the cat doesn't seem to mind.
The world seeps back in, sounds outside like engines and distant shouting. The building he's in is still silent, and he's unable to judge by the light coming in through the windows whether it's sunup or sundown, but it doesn't matter which, in the end. He's thirsty and stifling in the armor, but just moving his hand, and by extension his arm, has winded him. As he swallows heavily and closes his eyes again, the furry creature beneath his hand seems to relax further into his petting, and he thinks, "Purring," before drifting away once more.
No bats this time, but he keeps missing the ledge. Only, he doesn't fall. Instead, it's like slipping on ice or even treading water. He reaches up once more, and eyes look back at him, light and dark, taunting and filled with the fervor of righteous destruction. A hand reaches out and slaps him across the face, and he can't get his feet underneath him, can't stand up, and he'll never reach that ledge, never heave himself up.
Why do we fall, Bruce?
" –stupid, son-of-a-bitch! What the hell were you thinking, coming here? The whole city, and you pick this shithole to crawl up in and die?! Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, you moron! Not a lick of sense, is there? Just come on in and keel over– "
He wants to laugh, but his head hurts too much to even think about moving his face. He knows who it is, but he can't think. It's okay, though. It's okay.
He can feel her hands fumbling at the catches on the suit and wants to tell her not to worry.
" . . . look," he manages to get out, and the hands stop suddenly, "what the cat—dragged in."
Silence, and then there's breath ghosting over his face.
"You're lucky there's blood all over the floor, or else I'd gut you myself," she whispers, and there's another sound, a lighter scratching, and then he feels her hair brush across his cheek in a cascade. "What is wrong with you?! I thought– we all did. Do. You– "
He sucks a breath in and then flings his arm up, catching one of her shoulders and holding on. He'd pull her closer if he could, but–
Her lips are dry and thin, no doubt compressed into a tiny line of anger and worry, and he certainly doesn't manage much on his end, but he feels better now. He made her feel better.
"It's okay," he says, and it's Batman-low, an unintentional rumble. He should drink something, eat something, get out of the armor and bathe and sew himself up. He'll make a mess of it because he hasn't the patience to do it slowly and with care because it's his own body, and who cares if it scars or not, but. . .
"You died," he hears, and it's far away, and it's not his Cat. He's warm, still—hot. There's fire roaring in his head, and he has to get out because he can't stay here, but he can't leave them behind. Why can't he get to both of them? Always a choice, and always the wrong one.
The only way is the wrong way.
"Many times," Bruce says back to him. "Always. I never make it in time, not even—the dreams. I never get to. Just let it burn," he pleads finally, and in response something cold and wet is placed on his forehead. "Can't make it, too far. Wait," and he reaches out and manages to grab an arm close by, "Alfred! What– what is i– ?"
"He's fine. The city's open again—reconstruction, aid, all that."
The arm under his hand flexes, turns, pulls away, and then his hand is being held in turn, the calluses noticeable along the index and thumb and palm, from a gun.
He squeezes that hand. "Good shot?" he asks.
"Too good. I see your reasoning now. No guns—makes it hard afterwards."
Bruce opens his eyes, and the light is blinding. He's in a bed, under a sheet, and he's gripping Blake's hand.
"I didn't see it coming," he tells him. "It was already too late."
Blake's frown deepens, but he nods like he understands. Maybe he does. Maybe he does, at that.
"Could be," Blake responds, "but I personally believe it's never too late." Then he leans even closer, and his eyes are so dark. . . "You saved us. You did that. Do you hear me, Bruce? You saved all of us."
"Can't save everyone. . . " he whispers, pulling his hand back and rolling away. He shuts his eyes just as Blake reaches over to take away the wet cloth on his forehead.
"You have a fever. 's what happens when a stab wound gets infected."
"Wasn't the right one, I guess," Bruce jokes, but it's not funny at all. Those eyes. He'd watched her die, those eyes staring right into him the whole time. Maybe if he'd looked closer earlier, he would have seen her there, would've caught sight of that fire burning inside her.
Maybe.
"You should rest some more," Blake tells him. "Hopefully, it will break soon, and then you're in for a real treat." He's quiet for a couple seconds, and then he adds, sarcastically, "Your girlfriend's a real peach."
"I should," Bruce starts to say, "be so. . . "
Lucky.
". . . you think this is bad—I knew a guy, got knifed by some gangbangers, ripped right up the side. In the hospital for almost a year. Barely walks now, and his wife left him, but, boy! That disability check sure is swell. Cops are just full of money, right, Miss Kyle?" There's a pause, and then he adds, "Tried to kill himself a couple times."
Silence, and even Bruce picks up on Selina's disbelief.
"What a lovely story, Officer Blake," she drawls after a moment. "Please, do continue with the heartwarming tales of 'Life on the Force'. Does the next one have shooting in it? Those are my favorites."
"Detective," Bruce corrects, interrupting before Blake can no doubt respond with something equally as baiting. He opens his eyes to the sight of the two of them facing off, sitting on opposite sides of the room—Blake by the door, Selina of course stationed at the window. Both are now turned to look at him, and he just blinks.
"Well, hello, Sunshine," Selina eventually says, her tone sarcastic as ever, but her warm expression relaxing something in him, some coiled-up part that was dreading finding out this was all a dream, maybe another fever dream. "Decided to stop mooching off me and Officer Chuckles here?"
Bruce summons up a smile for her, for them, and it's not much, but at least he's capable of that much now.
"It's Detective now, isn't it?" he asks, looking over at Blake and meeting his eyes. "I seem to remember a suit and tie. . . "
Blake raises his eyebrows before shifting his position on the chair a little. "Actually," he begins, and when he brings a hand up to rub at his forehead, Bruce thinks he already knows where this story is going, "it's not anything anymore. I, uh– I quit," he finishes, staring at Bruce intently as if challenging him.
Bruce doesn't respond, though. He waits, knowing there's more to it than that, knowing Blake likely wants to get it off his chest. Selina, however, has no such compunction in saying her piece.
"Well, that didn't last very long, did it? And here I thought I'd at least get the chance to call in a few favors, maybe even some minor blackmail."
Blake turns to her with an unimpressed look on his face. "Favors, huh?" he repeats, to which Selina just smirks. "What do I owe you that gets you favors?"
"It's not so much what you owe as what you've given away," is her cryptic rejoinder.
They eye each other for a moment, looks serious and insinuating, and he knows there are things they're deliberately hiding from him, but he's still too tired to put much effort into pondering what those things might be.
"Hey, now," Bruce says instead, quietly, "none of that." Blake is the first to break eye contact, looking over again. Selina takes awhile longer, no doubt relishing her minor victory over The Man, even if Blake no longer really fits that description.
"How are you feeling?" Blake asks him, and, honestly, Bruce is amused it's taken this long for one of them to ask.
"Better," he responds. Then, he starts taking stock of the situation.
Selina's apartment—or former apartment. Property rights in Gotham are probably a nightmare these days.
"What day is it?" Bruce then thinks to ask. Selina's just staring at him, that look that's a mixture of anger and fear all over her beautiful face. He turns away and meets Blake's eyes.
"Three days since the bomb," Blake offers. "Well," he adds, looking out the window and correcting himself, "closer to four, actually. But, uh, it's been two since we found you."
Selina pointedly clears her throat, and Blake just as pointedly rolls his eyes back at her.
"Excuse me," Blake amends, "since she found you. I wasn't– we, uh, weren't really looking—before that." He doesn't look away, doesn't duck his head or grimace, but Bruce can still see the guilt there.
"You didn't know," he tells him gently, smiling a little to make it go down smoother, but that's apparently not the best tack to take with John Blake, and, really, he should've known better.
"You don't have to do that," Blake says, and it's almost a rebuke. It's certainly more than a little confrontational, but Bruce isn't up to playing that game right now or fighting that fight. He's not up to doing much, truthfully.
He feels weak and stupid and tired.
"What am I on?" he asks.
"Just started you on some good ol' Percocet," Selina finally contributes. Bruce shoots her a look, and she shrugs. "Earlier today, as a matter of fact. Couldn't risk anything for awhile. We didn't know if your head was. . . Well, who knows what all you got up to the other day, hmm?"
"I hate painkillers," he murmurs, closing his eyes for a second before bringing a hand up to rub at his face. There's the expected stubble but also a bandage on his cheek.
His eyes pop open, and Blake says, "From the debris, I think. It's just a cut, not too deep. Shouldn't scar. At least, that's what he said– "
Selina loudly coughs again, but it's too late.
"Who told you what?" Bruce asks very carefully, and he deliberately keeps the pitch up, but he can't help the cadence. It comes out clipped and heavy, and he's surely not the only one in the room who now suddenly feels like the ground has turned to quicksand. "You brought someone else here—to look at me?"
Blake lifts his chin stubbornly and says not a word, and it's a good poker face, but he can guess the truth easily enough. He turns to look at Selina again, and she's actually smiling back at him.
"I have all sorts of friends," she says.
"Friends who know how to keep their mouths shut, I hope," Bruce responds.
"Of course," and it's easy to see the defiance there, but there's more too. There's more to her than defiance and self-interest.
After another moment of silence, Blake tosses out, "She's being modest."
Bruce raises his eyebrows, but Selina's reaction is priceless.
"What?" she says, and it's low and completely startled—barely sounds like her at all.
"This friend isn't just a doctor," Blake continues, now smirking his fullest. "He's one of the city's best surgeons. I remember him from when the Commissioner was. . . "
Another pointed silence. Gordon.
"Now who's being modest?" Selina says, and it's Blake's turn to react.
"What am I missing?" Bruce asks.
"Nothing," Blake responds, eyes shooting daggers across Bruce to where Selina is all but posing in her satisfaction.
These two are like vinegar and oil or—cats and dogs. The thought makes Bruce smile, which in turn causes Blake to do a double-take.
"Former Detective Blake here," Selina says, "went all out in order to retain the fine doctor's services, and I do mean fine."
Blake ducks his head, which is bewildering, until Bruce realizes it's amused embarrassment.
"What'd you do?"
Finally, the kid looks up, and he smirks at Bruce and shares an actual friendly look with Selina before saying, "Well, I sure didn't wave my badge at him."
"Just everything else you've got," Selina immediately retorts with a grin.
Blake doesn't deny it, merely meets Bruce's eyes with that same sarcastic flippancy he's fast becoming accustomed to.
"She tried her best," Blake offers, nodding at Selina, "but, uh, he wasn't interested."
"Doc's gay," she states bluntly. "Between John-boy here batting his lashes at him and being afforded the chance to molest your unconscious bod, I'd say his payment for services was more than fair."
Bruce takes a moment to digest that, deciding not to examine it any further. Of course, that's when Blake has to add, "And he was the Commissioner's doctor too. . . " in that insinuating tone, and that sends both Blake and Selina into peals of laughter.
"How is he?" Bruce asks, taking the conversational thread and tugging on it. Blake's reaction isn't what he'd expected.
"You going to ask about everyone?" he suddenly demands, and that's about as angry as he's seen this guy get. "Maybe your old friends and partners at your company? Maybe the kids down at the shelter and the little old ladies and everyone else, right? Just keep distracting us from the point."
Bruce just sighs and blinks, turns his head away to stare up at the ceiling.
That doesn't stop Blake, though. Seems not much does.
"I get it, okay? You can do something, so you do it, but how can you not care?" His voice cracks on the last part. "They all think you're dead. They know you're dead. And Bruce Wayne? He's just some flake who blew his entire fortune and, oh, yeah, helped build a nuclear bomb that nearly leveled the city. They hate him." He waits a beat then says, "And you're just fine with that, aren't you."
"You don't get it, or you wouldn't even need to ask," Bruce answers.
"Our hero here," comes Selina's voice from Bruce's other side, "likes his privacy. He prefers to remain—anonymous."
"But it's over now," Blake insists. "Bane's gone, and so's the bomb. I mean, they took everything from you—not just the money but. . . Don't you want to stand up for yourself, your family? People aren't stupid, you know. They deserve to know who really saved them. You lied once. . . "
Bruce waits a few seconds, tries to gather what wits the narcotic has left him, finally settling for, "I did what I could. Bruce Wayne—he was never real. He was– he was the mask, the costume. I was always Batman." He opens his eyes and turns his head, and Blake's face is open wide and spilling over with emotion. He feels as though he could reach out and touch it.
"And you didn't even hesitate," Blake adds. "Selina says you didn't waste a second after that lying bitch died—just hooked up the bomb and took off. You just—gave it all up."
Bruce turns to his right when the bed suddenly dips beside him. It's Selina sitting down. She doesn't reach out and take one of his hands like she would if this were a dream or a fairytale, but he thinks this is better by far. This is Selina, not some damsel, and he's no knight, never has been.
"She betrayed you," Selina says, and her voice is thick, "then literally stabbed you in the back. I should've cut her eyes out of her lying head for what she did."
"It was my side actually," Bruce replies, and he's the one to reach out and make contact. He lifts his hand and gently pulls at the ends of that hair. "I'd do it again."
"You won't," she declares. "Batman is dead just like Bruce Wayne. And you're here, and in my house, and it's my rules." She takes a deep breath, and he can see the shift as she switches gears, tucks her emotions away. Then she's smirking and leaning closer over him. "Now that I've got you in my bed, you don't think you're getting out so easily, do you?"
Bruce feels his lips twitch, and Blake chuckles from his seat a foot away, and Selina keeps her eyes on him.
There's passion there and a certain unmistakable wildness. Selina's dangerous, all right, and she can burn with purpose, but she came back, and she stayed and fought. When nothing was in it for her, she showed her true colors.
Black isn't for everyone.