Author's Note: I don't own anything. This was a spur-of-the-moment thing that kept going for as long as it did. It takes place three years from the murders of Thomas and Martha Wayne. It is not strictly canon, because I don't know what will happen in the rest of season 2, but it won't be good, so I'm estimating it. It doesn't need to be canon, as this is more for my own mental welfare than anything else (the damn thing kept prodding.) So as such, this is canon-but-not-quite, just in case the show screws up some parts of it. More than anything, though, it's just a look at a likely scenario in the near future of "Gotham." And yes, I do drop a few mythology gags. The title is a song by Frank the Baptist, off of their 2015 effort, "As the Camp Burns." The lyrics are sort of parallel, but not explicitly - I picked it over a few others, 'cause I suck at titles, and this fit nicely.
"How Low Are We"
Selina gracefully slid down the stairs of the fire escape, barely making a sound. She loved how her new jacket fit her. It was a navy blue number, stiff, made of wool that she had lifted half an hour ago from a Salvation Army; the second shoplifting incident of the evening. It was snug and warm, and it went with the rest of her scrounged-together outfit. It also had epaulets, which she liked. The only problem it had was a lack of inner pockets, but it wasn't like she had a wallet or anything; then again, it just meant she had to chuck the wallets she lifted a bit faster. Not a problem, really. She had never really been into fencing wallets anyway.
Presently, she sat down on the cold, metal steps. She popped the cap of the bottle of milk she had stolen from a nearby deli. It was a good hour, evening but not quite night. The air was chilly, but somewhat dry. It wasn't going to be cold enough to to make her get up to find some empty apartment to hole up in anytime soon. So, she leaned back and took a giant gulp. Good stuff. This must be what alcohol feels like to most adults around the Narrows, she figured - only milk never made her a slobbering mess.
The bottle was halfway to her lips once more when a kid darted around the corner and dashed into the alley below. Selina raised an eyebrow her interest slightly piqued. The kid was an unremarkable mess; drowning in an oversized, worn out hoodie, a black, nylon parka, ripped jeans and sneakers that, she guessed, used to be white. Faceless in the masses of downtown Gotham.
Her interest was piqued proper when a man followed him in. Selina put the cap of the bottle back on and shifted to see better. The man was one of the dime-a-million mooks that seemed to pop up everywhere since ever. You got yourself a bad, cheap-as-hell Italian suit, a fedora, invested in a gun, knife or brass knuckles (and the man had that last one, she saw, already adorning his ape-like hand), learned some lingo and there you were, underling to an underling to an underling to an underboss.
The boy stopped at the far end of the street, facing a brick wall. Selina couldn't help but smile. Dead end. Anyone worth their salt knew that Crime Alley was a dead ever since the Waynes had been gunned down there three years ago.
"You little shit." The mook said with a faked Italian accent, cracking his knuckles as the boy turned, "Now. Tell ya what – give me my wallet, and I'll let you go with just a broken arm. Promise I'll break it nice and clean."
"If I don't?" the boy took a solid stance. Legs shoulder-width apart, arms at his sides, "What happens then?"
Selina rolled her eyes. Come on. Nobody was this stupid. Either the kid knew some crazy martial arts thing going for him, or was slicker than her, which was impossible... or he was just plain crazy.
You're aching for a beating, kid. Cruising for the bruising.
"There's lots of bones in your body. The legs'll go first."
"Alright." The kid reached into the side pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a wallet, "Here it is."
With a swift move, he chucked the wallet to the side.
"One of us should pick that up." he said.
Selina couldn't resist another sip of milk. This was gonna get good. The gorilla was easily twice his size, had the brass knuckles, and could easily make good on his promise to break his bones. The kid looked like he knew how to fight, but brute strength was going to get him in the end.
"Fine." The mook growled, "Remember, kid – I was nice."
The mook advanced, the kid waited. The mobster swung, a solid right, the kid shifted to dodge it and went under him. He threw three punches, right to the mook's side, but couldn't dodge the elbow coming his way. It hit him squarely in the head, and the kid spun. He stumbled, but didn't fall. He skipped a few steps, away from the mook, but his opponent was there in a second.
Selina watched, her heart beating a little faster, as the kid started dancing circles around the mobster, ducking and dodging and side-stepping, landing a punch or two whenever he could, but avoiding and evading otherwise. What was most impressive was, he could take it more than he dished out – the mook wasn't relying solely on his mass, she saw, he knew how to fight, too. So every few moves, the kid wouldn't be fast enough, and would be punished by the brass knuckles.
"Stay still, you son of a bitch!" the mook shouted as he swung once again. The kid ducked, but the knuckles found his side. He grunted in pain, and the mook rewound the blow – this time aiming for his head.
Selina almost couldn't watch... but then, something strange happened.
The kid turned and went under it, spun, and landed a kick right to the back of the gorilla's knee. His left leg buckled, and that's when the kid spun the other way, leapt on top of the mook, slammed his elbow onto the top of his skull, and followed it up by ramming his knee to the mook's jaw. The gorilla went down and fell onto his back, unconscious.
The kid managed to land on his feet. After a moment, he stumbled, one hand moving to his side, where the last punch had landed. He wobbled, and managed to stumble his way to the wall. He put his back to the bricks and sat down.
With one hand, he reached for his hood and pulled it down, breathing hard, teeth clenched. His face was contorted into an expression of strain and pain.
His familiar face.
His dirty, pale, but still somewhat cute face.
Selina's eyes widened.
Bruce?
Bruce's whole body was tingling with pain. Every breath caused more of it to course through his torso. His hand was on his side just to ease his mind – he didn't think he could touch it even if he wanted to. By the way it felt, he guessed that the mook had cracked a rib or two. His right side, for the third time. He really needed to learn how to watch his right.
Grunting with pain, he stood up. He limped over to the wallet and picked it up.
He stood there, his teeth tightly clenched, he tried to slow his breathing down, maybe enough to get moving. The mobster wouldn't be unconscious forever, and he needed to get the hell out of there. He knew an empty apartment a couple of blocks down Avenue West; a crime scene, a domestic homicide, just that morning. The place would still be covered in yellow tape, but would also be unoccupied. He could rest a bit, take care of his business, and then find a place to sleep for a few hours before he had to get back home before it was time to go to school... and in time to take a shower and wash off the grime of downtown Gotham.
Almost there. As his heart rate slowed gradually, the pain seemed to lessen by an insignificant amount. Bruce decided that this was as good as it was going to get. He'd most likely be limping, but nobody gave a second glance to a scrawny kid. Nobody cared where he had gotten his torso kicked in.
He pulled his hood back up, and that's when he heard the voice.
"Bruce?"
His turned, and there she was, in a National Guard dress jacket that she had probably lifted from somewhere, goggles firmly on top of her head, bottle of milk in hand. As if no time had passed, as if she had just blinked into existence, bringing with her things he hadn't the time or energy for.
Bruce would feel a mix of emotions, if the pain wasn't keeping everything else out.
"Hi, Selina." He said as cordially as he could manage, staining to move his jaw as he spoke, "How are you?"
"Better than you." She said, and he sensed a bit of annoyance in her voice.
"Mind if we get out of here?" Bruce asked, "I don't think he's going to stay down forever."
"No kidding!" Selina said, rolling her eyes, "God, I swear, every time you come down here, I have to chaperone you around."
"There's an empty place down the avenue." Bruce said, almost ignoring her, trying desperately to keep himself from squeezing his eyes shut and screaming.
"One of your downtown apartments?"
"...I don't have downtown apartments."
"So who lives there?"
"Nobody. Not anymore. There was a double homicide this morning. It's a crime scene."
"If it is, cops will be there, genius. They tend to hang out in crime scenes, you know."
"Not now. CSI left hours ago. I just need to rest for a while, so please, just- let's go."
"Fine." She said, "But if there are cops there, you're on your own."
Selina was bothered. She was walking down Avenue West, milk bottle still in hand, next to a badly limping Bruce who was exhaling hard out his nose with every step. A few people gave them sideways glances, but otherwise, nobody noticed them.
But she noticed him.
His normally impeccable hair was wet with sweat, clinging to his forehead. There were dark circles under his eyes, and a solid coating of dust all over his face. She watched his jawline flex with every step forward.
But it was his eyes that bothered her the most. The clueless, pure, innocent baby blues were gone. They were now replaced with something she had seen before – a razor-sharp focus, intense and volatile. She had seen that look in the eyes of Victor Zsasz once.
As if there's nothing else in the world but what he's after.
His clothes were something else entirely. No wonder she couldn't tell it was him – a Salvation Army tag was peeking out from behind his hoodie. Freshly lifted.
So he's shoplifting, too.
I wonder if that was him back in the store I got the jacket from... no. Some things are just too ridiculous to be true.
Too screwed up to be true.
It made her angry. He had no want for anything - being the sole owner of his ginormous company, he had everything someone like her only dreamed of having, or coasted on while staying with an insane, would-be killer with cool taste. Even the wallet he had bled for felt like an insult: for her, it was a matter of finding a bite to eat, or finding a rundown motel that'd only let her in if she paid, so she could shower and wash her clothes. For her, a stolen wallet was medicine for Ivy when she got sick, but wouldn't admit it.
And what's it for him? Fun? Is this how he gets his kicks? Playing pickpocket games with mobsters 'cause he has something to fall back on? Unlike the rest of us?
She thought about asking. But he looked like he'd collapse on the street if he walked and talked at the same time.
They slipped under the yellow tape X, and Bruce shut the door behind him. The apartment was nice, all things considered. There was electricity. Selina wondered if there was food in the fridge too – they weren't going to need it anyway, and she was hungry. That was the one thing she hated about milk: it always served as an appetizer, even when she couldn't find food afterwards.
Bruce moved to the living room. There were two moth-eaten couches with blood splattered across them, a coffee table smashed to splinters, and not much else. The white-tape outlines of the bodies were still on the ground, as well as the yellow, numbered markers for evidence. Selina noticed that one of the outlines belonged to someone who couldn'tve been old enough to be gunned down in the streets instead of her home.
She wondered briefly why she thought every dead kid was a girl.
She pushed back a shudder and headed into the kitchen as Bruce sat down on one of the couches. She scanned the fridge. The father was a construction worker, she noticed. Three sandwiches, cut into triangles, wrapped in stretch film and cradled in paper plates were waiting, next to a thermos. She sniffed it. Beer.
Against her better judgment, she called out:
"You hungry?"
"If there's enough for the both of us, yeah."
Selina felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. If it was enough for her, too? What was this, charity night?
"Whatever." She said. She closed the fridge and got back to the living room. She carefully avoided the outlines on the ground and found herself a comfortable spot on the spare couch that wasn't stained with dried blood. She passed Bruce one of the sandwiches.
She dug in. Lettuce, tomatoes, something that tasted sort of like chicken but wasn't. It wasn't anything special, but she hadn't eaten since yesterday; so maybe there had been only enough for her. Like he needed it anyway.
"So, is this how you have fun these days?" she couldn't keep a sharp tone from her voice.
"Fun?" Bruce chuckled, but immediately grimaced and stopped. It was obvious that he was in pain, "No. I don't do this for fun."
"Why else? 'cause you desperately need the money, right?"
"I need to learn." He said.
"How to pick pockets, or how to get beat up by mooks?"
"Both."
Selina raised an eyebrow. She then took the last bite of the sandwich half and moved onto the next.
"Why?" she asked, her mouth full.
"It's a useful skill."
"I'll bet you'll need it to swipe keys out of the pockets of the people who work for you."
"Among other things."
Again. What was up with him? He seemed unfazed, countering with ease. He had something to say to every something she had to say, it seemed. Sure, he was in pain, and his responses were short, but just the general feel of him was so much... something-or-other.
She decided to take a crack anyway.
"Must be your first night, if you picked a mobster type. Or since the mook noticed you, of course. It's not as easy as I made it look, is it?"
Bruce dug into his pockets and put the contents onto his lap. Selina felt the sandwich grow tasteless in her mouth. With the mook's included, he had six wallets.
"One out of six is better than last week." He said, "Then again, I haven't picked six before."
Selina stuffed the rest of the sandwich into her mouth and chewed her shock away. She was sure that he hadn't noticed. But the question she had didn't go down with the last of the milk; instead, it came up and out of her mouth:
"...how long have you been doing this?"
"About five months." He said. He began to pull the money out of the wallets.
"Is this part of your 'training'?" Selina said, choosing to mock the final word rather than letting herself ever acknowledge it, "Is that stuck-up English guy waiting in a car somewhere to pick you up? No, wait, let me guess – it was his idea, right?"
Bruce set the wallets aside. He licked his thumb and began to count. The mobster would make a nice contribution tonight, with the two-and-a-half grand he had had on him.
"Alfred doesn't know I'm here." He said.
Well, a bit short of three, but still a good sum. The wallets themselves were in good condition. The credit cards would be worthless in a short while. Driver's licenses were good – he knew a few fences that faked those. He slid the wallets back into their respective pockets and folded the money in half. He stuck the wad into the inner pocket of his parka. He then noticed that Selina, now perched atop the arm of the couch, was staring at him with a surprised expression on her face.
"What?" he asked.
"Bruce..." her voice was fragile, concerned even, "...what are you doing?"
He missed the point.
"I know a fence who can get something out of the driver's licenses. I'll throw the cards away, they'll be cancelled in the morning anyway. A vendor out on 5th sells wallets," Willie, she thought, but no, it can't be. He doesn't know the Middle Bazaar. "...so that's where they go. You can have some of the money..." -the memory of her stating, defiantly, that she didn't do charity resurfaced- "...I mean, if you want it. I'll drop off the rest at one of the shelters my parents owned. It was a good turnout tonight."
"That's not what I'm asking."
He missed it again.
"Oh, the clothes? Are they too much?" he checked himself and found that the parka's tag was out in the open, "I took these from a Salvation Army. I'll put them back when I pick new ones out tomorrow."
"Bruce!"
Selina clapped for emphasis. Her expression had changed. If he could read her, which he never could, he would say she looked angry. Very angry.
"What are you doing?" she repeated.
"I don't understand."
Well, what do you know, some things haven't changed.
"This isn't your world, so why are you trying to come down here? So you learned to pick pockets, big deal! Why do you even need to? You're rich! Why don't you just write a check or something? You know that mook in the alley was going to kill you if you hadn't gotten lucky, and he almost did. You got a death wish now? You have everything you can ever want, and what you want to do with it is to play petty thief in downtown Gotham?"
Selina wanted to tear her hair out. Bruce was just sitting there, taking it, without the slightest hint that her little speech had done anything to faze him. Without a single word but with some difficulty, he stood up.
"So, do you want some of the money or not?" he asked.
Selina's jaw dropped. Really? That was all he had taken away from all that?
No. Looking at him, she saw that she had, as she could, hit the mark. His eyes had changed, his whole demeanor had shifted, but he wasn't going to admit it.
Or, worse still, he wasn't going to admit it to her.
"I don't want your money." She said, "I never did."
"Then I guess I better get going."
He got up and headed towards the door, still limping badly.
"Wait!"
Bruce opened the door, only to have it be shut by Selina's hand.
She looked at him. The razor-sharp focus in his eyes had died down, but just by a little, replaced instead by the weariness she knew all too well. A sign of oncoming exhaustion. That feeling at the end of a long, desperate day, of wanting just a warm and preferably soft place to sleep, but knowing that there were blocks and blocks and blocks of monsters lurking in between.
Nobody spoke for a few moments.
Selina didn't quite know what to say, or what had compelled her to not let him be on his merry, self-destructive way. But looking at him, she couldn't help but wonder: whatever had happened to that clueless boy she used to know?
He had changed. She had to admit that it sort of became him, too – the confused, naïve boy she had stolen a first kiss from, doing things that he thought was training... the boy played for a fool by whatever that blonde's name was (it was Silver, and she remembered it, but she'd rather die than admit it), where had he gone?
Five months, he had said. Five months, he had been right under her nose, and she had never known it. Hell, maybe she had even seen him, or rather he had seen her and had moved on without a word.
"You're a danger to yourself, you know." she said, "So I need to know a few things. Just to make sure."
Just to make sure you're not out to get yourself killed.
Bruce nodded.
"Why haven't you told..." his name was Alfred, and she would never say it, "...your butler?"
"I can't learn anything if I always have an easy way out, if I know he's there." He replied, "It's like the Flying Graysons – no safety net."
Selina remembered a few posters of Haly's Circus here and there from time to time, but the reference was entirely lost on her. So she went with what she knew.
"So if anything happens to you, he's gonna die of a heart attack, wondering where you are."
"Not exactly. I left behind something for him to explain everything. He'll only find it if he goes through my things."
"Doesn't he do that already? He's your butler and all."
"No he doesn't. Not like the way he would if."
"You get beaten up often?"
"Yeah." He said with a sheepish smile, "I'm getting better at fighting, though."
Another blow. Him, fighting? And winning? If she hadn't seen the way he had handled himself back in Crime Alley, she wouldn'tve believed it.
"You go back home once you play Robin Hood?" she continued.
"I can't, not right away. Alfred knows not to expect me at night, and he wakes up at six. I just need to be home after midnight, but before six. I usually make it back around three, four."
"So where do you sleep?"
"Here and there. Ivy kicked me out of a cardboard house once. Said it was her home."
And of course she didn't say boo about it to me, Selina thought.
"You're hurt." Selina said, matter-of-factly, "I'm coming with you."
"Are you sure?"
"Somebody's gotta make sure you don't die in an alley tonight. I mean, no offense to your 'training' and all that."
"...thanks."
The walk was a strange blur to Selina. She mostly just followed him, looking around for the mook, or people who might be buddy-buddy with him, as well as the usual types she watched out for. But the strange thing was, there was nobody around tonight. She didn't get the looks, the lingering leers, the cat-calling jeers, the odd punk trying to cop a feel. She didn't get anything other than a friendly nod from a few of her... well, they weren't close enough for friends, but she'd settle for it.
The thing was, he had gotten a few friendly nods too, plus one punk that had yelled "matches" at him. He always cocked his head up in response, nothing more than the (admittedly very successful) imitation of the way some gangs gave each other a what's up.
This frustrated her. What he had done in five months, she knew some never quite got the hang of. Those were the pariahs, the unfortunate little losers nobody wanted any part of, except the occasional chump change they might come into, of course.
He wasn't a downtown socialite, but he wasn't an unknown either.
Selina shook her head and shrugged it off.
After a few blocks, Selina saw where he was headed: The Gotham Middle Bazaar. That was the unofficial designation, of course. In reality, it was just a long street, closed for traffic most times, with counters lined up on both sides of the curb. It was a bit high up from downtown, but not enough to get into uptown. It was the street to go if you were looking for anything legal, or at the most borderline, for relatively cheap.
Selina remembered a night when Jim Gordon had torn through the place, but had decided to let it stand – one condition, no drugs or weapons. She remembered him fondly that night, stumbling around, clueless to the fact that those things were never sold in the Middle Bazaar anyway.
Bruce got a few greetings, she got a few adoring whistles and a lot more hellos than the walk there. She stopped to chat at a few spots, asking about their health, their business, all the while watching him out of the corner of her eye. If he was bothered by constantly having to stop so she could flap jaws, he wasn't showing it.
Yes, she was showing off, and she knew it. She wondered if he knew it, or if he was, as he always had, assuming the best.
Eventually, she ran out of polite conversations and had to let him, once again, take the lead. He went further down, and the further he went, the more certain she became of who he was seeking out.
Oh God. It is Willie. It's Willie Nelson.
Willie Nelson, whom had the habit of telling people he could've been the Willie Nelson known, not the Willie Nelson nobody knew, had a small counter made of plywood, balanced atop two heavily duct-taped cardboard boxes. He had semi-decent, pale red tablecloth over it, and had his merchandise on display. Wallets, scarves, a few fake watches that you would swear was the genuine article if you were drunk.
Willie himself was one of the nicer fences, Selina knew. Teeth yellowed from his enduring smoking habit, a scraggly beard permanently attached to his face. His skin was heavily lined, but he was also one of the kindest around – he had helped her out more than a couple of times.
Bruce lowered his hood. Selina's heart leapt to her throat. He was Bruce Wayne, anybody could recognize him, despite the make-up and-
"Well if it ain't Matches Malone." Willie said with a yellow grin. Selina was beyond curious now, "You gotta visit me more than once or twice a month, kid, you're the only regular I've got."
That's a lie. I know two off the top of my head, Selina thought.
"Sorry, Willie." Bruce said, "But I got you some good stuff to make up for it."
"Yeah? Well, let's see it."
As Bruce began producing the wallets, Selina couldn't help but ask.
"Matches?"
"Yeah." Willie said, grinning, "He has a box on 'im, don't ya?"
Bruce nodded.
"So?" Selina said, unimpressed.
"Good for many things, matches, but not too many." Willie said, "So's he. Still can't fight worth a damn, can ya?" Bruce shook his head, "Plus, he was teachin' some of the kids tricks with 'em when I first saw him. Neat tricks. They loved it. He kept comin' back, you see, and they started callin' him Matches."
"There. That last one." Bruce said. Selina saw that it was the wallet he had taken a solid punch for.
"I can't sell that one." Willie said, "That's too obvious. But I know a guy."
"So long as they're good." Bruce nodded.
"Oh they're good alright. The others are good."
"Knew you'd like 'em."
Selina crossed her arms. She felt like she had stepped into a different world altogether. She had known Willie since she was little - he had taught her about how wallets told you a lot about the people carrying them. She had sold him a few from time to time, but nothing as regular as Bruce was, apparently, doing. The way he, even if clumsily, bantered with Willie, and the man's warm reaction to him... it was surreal.
...and who the hell was Matches Malone?
"So, what do you want for 'em?" Willie asked.
"The usual. As usual." Bruce smirked.
Oh, so now you have a usual price? Selina thought. She watched as Willie took out a handful of crumpled up bills and proceeded to pay Bruce ten bucks apiece. She thought about it. More or less the price for which one could buy stolen wallets, she knew; most of those went anywhere between 15 to 30 a pop, depending on the quality, how old it was, et cetera. What pissed her off was that she often haggled to squeeze out an extra dollar or more if she could, and he was just taking whatever Willie gave him... and stuffing the bills into his pants' pocket, where almost three grand sat, folded in half.
Then again, he looks like he's just starting out, so if he doesn't do it, Willie's gonna think he doesn't know how to haggle.
That's actually... smart.
"Watch yourself, Matches." Willie said, "And watch out for that one."
"I know." Bruce said.
Selina couldn't help but let out a surprised ugh.
"And what's that supposed to mean, Willie?"
"They don't call ya Cat for nothin', do they?" Willie responded with a crooked grin, "Bless ya, Selina."
Selina huffed noncommittally. She heard Bruce chuckle. She clenched her teeth and let her blood boil quietly. Five months had nothing on what she could show him.
Then she remembered the driver's licenses he was going to drop at a fence. No matter the fence, she knew he'd drop off the mook's with them. Rookie mistake, but she could make sure he'd feel it.
He didn't talk much as they went on their way. She felt weird following him around, instead of the opposite. Her anger, as subdued as it was, just wouldn't subside. Who had died and made him the king of Gotham's dark side?
He was still limping, but she hadn't heard a single complaint. Sometimes he grunted, and the beads of sweat running down his face made it obvious that he was forcing himself to go on. She knew the feeling. How many times had she gotten her nose bloody, her lips split, her sides bruised; how many beatings had she taken before she had gotten hold of her knife and had learned to use it if she pulled it out?
There was a little scar right below her belly button. It was small, and that was because the knife hadn't gone in too deep. It had bled like hell, and she imagined now that she must have looked like him, trying to get to some kind of shelter.
He didn't give the fence the mook's license; right at the door, he flipped through the six and pocketed that one.
She was sure that aliens had abducted the boy she used to know by the time they had gotten out of there, and replaced him with a halfway crook.
With the last fencing of the night behind them, Bruce felt the night itself roll off of him. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his parka and sighed. Selina eyed him curiously. He looked beat. Judging by what he had said, he was managing two lives on two, maybe three hours of sleep a night.
He looked pale under the street lights. Almost dead.
"Tired?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"Going home?" she couldn't help but inject a little mocking undertone.
"Too tired for that." He said with a chuckle, "I know a few places."
Her arm snaked around his and she smiled at him. He managed half a smile back.
"Bet they're not as nice as mine." She said, "So c'mon."
Selina opened the door. She reached for the switch and turned on the single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling to reveal the room.
The room wasn't actually a room. It was the basement of a double-sided five-story building, the owners of which let her stay - given that she wouldn't turn it into a crackhouse, deal drugs from there, or solicit from there. It was a concrete box of bare walls lined with fuse boxes thad fed the apartments above. The far end of the room was a line of water heaters, their exteriors and pipes covered in rust. There were vents on the ceiling; six grills that kept the air fresh enough.
There was a king-sized mattress smack in the middle of the room, complete with navy blue sheets, six pillows of various sizes, and a gray blanket that was large enough to cover the mattress twice over.
Bruce clocked a duffel bag next to the bed. Large, and full, with clothes sticking out of it. Hers, he guessed.
"See?" she said, "Home sweet home."
Selina sat on the bed and took off her boots. The jacket went next, then the hoodie, and finally, the goggles, leaving behind jeans and a white t-shirt that once might have had some graphic on it. She crossed her legs on the bed and cocked her head at Bruce, who was just standing there, one hand on his side.
"I promise I won't bite." she said.
"There's only one bed."
"This isn't a bed, exactly, but – your point?"
"You don't mind?"
Selina smiled.
"You're here, aren't you?"
After a moment's hesitation, Bruce took off his parka, wincing with every move it took do it. He slipped off the hoodie over his head. It pulled on his undershirt, revealing to Selina a fist-sized purple bruise on his side. He came up to the mattress and sat down. He took off his shoes and laid on his back, wincing again.
Selina playfully clacked her tongue.
"You forgot to turn off the light."
A moment's silence.
"Fine, I'll get it."
She got up. She hated walking around in her socks; the ground was rugged and she wouldn't wanna step on it without a solid barrier in between, but she just didn't feel like putting her boots on again just to turn off the light. She flicked the switch. The bare bulb died, leaving behind only an after-image. Her eyes adjusted easily, and she found her way back. He was still awake, she saw, but knowing how even the floor itself would feel after a day like his, she knew it wouldn't be long.
It took some adjusting. She wasn't used to having someone else in her space, he was beyond caring who was there or where he was. But in the end, the blanket was distributed somewhat evenly, and all that was left was a bit of time and some silence.
"You know, Willie's ripping you off." Selina blurted out. She mentally kicked herself as soon as the words left her lips.
"I know." he said, "But I had to start somewhere."
"Is any of what he said true, or was he just messing with me?"
"It's true. Just not the way it happened, exactly."
"What did happen?"
"It was my first week. One wallet, and I had to pick the one that was empty. I just followed him for so long that I got lost getting it. I wanted to go back to where I had come from, the Bazaar, but I couldn't find it. I had the empty wallet, and the box of matches I had taken with me."
"Why did you take matches?" a smart person would've taken a phone.
"In case it got cold."
Still smart. Again.
"I found a bunch of kids. I asked them if they knew a place I could sleep. They wanted to know what I had to give in return. I said I'd teach them a trick with matches if they told me. Spent half the box before they let up. I kept doing that whenever I needed something from kids – not the type that'd stab me for the money I didn't have on me, of course."
"Alright, fine. You've got cred, good. But who's Malone?"
"Oh." by the tone of his voice, she knew it would be something good – it was shy, the "oh", embarrassed. Sort of how she remembered him, "James Malone." He said.
"Who?"
"Actor. Played the Mad Bomber in The Gray Ghost."
Selina smiled.
"Some things never change."
"Hm?"
"You're still a dork."
"...I guess I am."
Selina's ears perked. Had he choked up a little?
Don't tell me... did that actually hurt?
Great. On top of everything, now she felt a little guilty. It had been impossible not to feel the barest hint of it every other time, but she lived in a world where feeling anything got you killed. But they were relatively safe now, sheltered in the bowels of a rundown apartment; warm, not hungry, tired but with somewhere to sleep without keeping an eye out for whoever, whatever.
Comfort, or what she knew to be comfort, allowed her to let her guard down, just a little. Maybe just this once.
"Bruce..."
Regular breathing answered her. Selina looked. He was fast asleep, finally spent. But she was wide awake. It wasn't that she wasn't tired, she definitely was, but in that moment, she allowed herself the smallest leeway and settled to think about the last few hours. Not that she cared much, she was quick to remind herself, but something she had seen was bothering her more than him.
In her mind and in her life, she was Cat and Cat was her. There was no separation between Selina Kyle and Cat; some called her by one, others called her by the other, but when they did, they were always addressing the same person. She preferred either for whatever a situation may call for.
She couldn't say the same for Bruce Wayne and Matches Malone. They were two different people, parts of a double life; so separate, that she wondered if Matches would mug Bruce if they met, or quietly lift his wallet and sell it to Willie. She knew that both were him, of course. There were some things he hadn't managed to get rid of (and she'd never tell him what they were) but still, it was... scary, to say the least, to see how the line was drawn between either.
You'd think Bruce Wayne was his day job.
She imagined that if he was still going to that stuck-up rich-kids school, and if Alfred didn't suspect anything, he was still the same Bruce she knew during the day. Come night, that Bruce was left behind. He was probably put on hold in a Salvation Army somewhere; in went Bruce Wayne, out came Matches Malone. The way he carried himself was different, the way he moved, the way he spoke... things that would not go unnoticed in a prim-and-proper chokehold environment that he had brougt her into a couple of times.
But what happened to you..? It's more than just your parents. More than what went down with (no, I don't remember that slut's name.)
She knew that scars could (no, that they would) change you. The one below her belly button was the only visible scar she had, but others, she knew she would carry around with her. She thought of Ivy - her mother and father were better off dead, by her admission anyway, but the way she had been twisted hadn't died with them.
Part of what she had... dare she say slightly (just a little bit, just a tad) found amusing (funny, alluring) about him had been that it looked like he could pull it off - stay with it, and not change because of invisible scar tissue. He wore it on his sleeve, didn't hide it under borrowed clothes and playing the silent type. If he was playing.
But you've changed, Bruce.
Selina closed her eyes.
...and I don't know if I liked you better when you didn't know anything about my side of things. Because, when I think about it, I wish I didn't know anything about my side of things.
Selina woke up to an empty mattress. Groggy, she looked around. Bruce wasn't there. Instead, she found a small page, torn from a notebook, strapped to a wad of cash with a rubber band. She took the band off and counted the money. Six hundred.
She glanced at the note. In very neat cursive, it read:
Eat it, burn it, throw it away – whatever you want. It's yours. - Bruce
Selina slipped the bills into her pocket. She wouldn't have to worry about finding food or a place to sleep for a while. She still didn't do charity, no, but she wasn't about to turn down a gift from someone who was once maybe a friend, either.