Chapter 2: A Date to Remember
Sharp pain made Bruce gasp as his eyes snapped open. His body tensed involuntarily, readying itself to fight for his life until he realized he was gazing at the vaulted wooden ceiling of his own bedroom.
A familiar hand was placed gently on his shoulder. "Bear with me, Master Bruce. I have to get these broken ribs bandaged as quickly as possible."
Bruce's sight swam as he dragged his eyes down to see Alfred with his suit blazer removed, his white dress shirt's sleeves upturned to his elbows, and in the process of unwinding a long roll of tan compression bandages. With tentative fingers, Bruce slid his hand along the side of his bare torso until he encountered the unmistakable knots of stitches. His hand jerked reflexively away from them.
As Alfred swiftly and expertly began to wrap his chest, Bruce's light breathing grew even shallower as the broken bones grated and grinded against each other. He knew Alfred was barely moving him, but he felt like his rib cage was on verge of collapsing in on itself. When he reopened his eyes white holes in his vision blossomed in fuzzy starbursts, but the pain was muted now—still there, still throbbing, but not unbearable.
"How did this happen to me?" Bruce asked, watching as Alfred disposed of bloodied towels and swatches of gauze in a garbage bag.
His brow furrowed as he tied the bag up and dropped it at the foot of the grand bed. "I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say. I was hoping you could tell me." Alfred shrugged his blazer back on, then absently brushed microscopic dust off the lapels. "I got the emergency signal roughly three hours after you left last night. I received your coordinates, and immediately left to retrieve you." He looked curiously at Bruce for a second, and stepped forward to inspect numerous freshly sutured wounds running down his neck and across his right shoulder. "But when I arrived at the location, you were already gone."
Bruce's eyebrows knitted together in confusion as Alfred withdrew from carefully wiping away dried blood from a lesion's edges. "The last thing I remember is...the Joker—I was going after him, I was chasing him. But he took me by surprise. He had a—"
"I think you need to try to remember what happened at a later time, Master Bruce—you had a slight concussion when I finally found you."
"…Where was I?"
"You were sort of hidden, in an adjacent alleyway. I saw blood—blood everywhere where you were supposed to be—"
"Which was where exactly?" Bruce was hoping some detail would trigger his memory.
"It was in Crime Alley."
A muscle in Bruce's jaw jumped. "What?"
"Yes, I was just as shocked as you were. I supposed you were merely paying your respects, but I doubted you would run into trouble while doing that. I was at a complete loss. I followed the transmitter in your belt though, and found you partially covered by trash and debris one alleyway over on the other side of the theatre."
"Someone placed me there."
"No doubt. But I think whomever they were, they were trying to help you. When I got you home, I found that someone had improvised several tourniquets, and had used your cape to temporarily secure your broken ribs."
Bruce squinted against the setting sun as it shined brilliant rays into his room. Who had helped him? He immediately suspected Dick, but he was at the University. He couldn't have been there—he would be here. "Did you contact Dick?"
"Well…I did this morning. He was extremely concerned—he dropped everything, and was coming over, but I told him I needed his help fabricating a cover story." Bruce raised an eyebrow suspiciously at Alfred who impassively plucked up the garbage bag and tattered batsuit, and turned to leave. "While I am off to burn your DNA, if anyone asks, you were innocently joyriding in your luxurious Ferrari this morning on the Gotham Freeway—"
"No, Alfred, you didn't—"
"—when a reckless driver caused you to run off the road, and over the side of the Gotham Harbor Bridge."
Bruce closed his eyes. "That one really hurt."
"Yes, well I figured it needed to bring real tears to your eyes," he said with a knowing smile.
After Alfred clicked his door shut, Bruce caught sight of himself in the large gilded mirror suspended on a side wall. He looked like hell.
It took almost all of his determination and last remnants of his strength to pull himself up into a sitting position. He stuffed several ridiculously large pillows behind him, then leaned back. If he was going to be limited to a bed, he would not look like an invalid.
From far below, he heard the deep tolling of his doorbell. That would probably be Dick. Maybe he could help him fill in the blanks. Bruce started to take a deep breath, but the air was robbed from him when sharp barbs pinched his side. He'd broken ribs before—there either must be several pulverized bones, or something was getting punctured because he had never had anything hurt like this. He resignedly leaned his head back on the bed's high headboard, and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to adapt his body to the spiking pain.
A couple minutes later, soft fingertips lightly touched his cheek. He didn't have to open his eyes to know who it was. "Why are you here Selina?" he asked, taking her hand in his own, engulfing it completely. He was always so careful with her hands—they felt so small, so fragile like they had the bones of a bird inside them.
"I heard about the accident," she said, perching herself on the edge of his bed.
He smiled. "Really? News travels fast."
Selina cocked her head at him in sarcastic disbelief. "Especially when you are the world's most eligible bachelor—billionaire Bruce Wayne!" She grandly threw a hand in the air, then suddenly leaned forward so that her long velvet lashes brushed his cheek. Her sweet breath slid over his neck as she spoke. "But to me, you're just Bruce."
Just as he raised an arm to encircle her waist, she lithely drew back—a tease to perfection. She hooked her short raven hair back behind her ear, and allowed an amused smirk to slightly lift her sultry lips.
"Missed me that much?" he asked as a rare smile flashed upon his face.
Alfred suddenly flung open the door. "Miss Kyle! I politely asked you to remain in the foyer while I inquired Master Bruce if your presence was wanted."
Absolutely unruffled, Selina rolled her magnificent dark brown eyes, and murmured under her breath, "believe me, old man, he always wants my presence."
She stood, smoothing down her short black mini dress, and bent down to adjust some charcoal panty hose that bunched up around her stiletto heels. She felt Bruce's eyes on her, and turned to smile suggestively at him.
Selina gathered her small purse and bent down next to his ear. "Like you wouldn't believe, Bruce," she whispered, lightly kissing the edge of his lips.
When she backed away, she caught sight of the long gashes on his neck and shoulder. One of her hands involuntarily reached out to trace its way over the angry red lines…a perfect fit. Her eyes widened as she snapped her dark eyes to Bruce's crystallized blue. In that one moment, Selina considered the impossible—but quickly dismissed the epiphany out of pure spite. No, it couldn't be feasible. She forced herself to smile at him once more, then quickly stalked past Alfred. By the time she reached the front door, Selina was flat out running.
As she got into her silver Porsche convertible—a gift from Bruce—she shook her head in utter disbelief. Last night, she had given those scratches to the one man she truly loved—the Batman. She vividly remembered it the exact moment it happened.
The gunshots were loud, close, and were followed by insane laughter as they embedded themselves into Batman's chest. She was on the other side of the roof, trailing him until now. He staggered back in surprise, two roses falling from his hand and over the lip of the rooftop into the alley twenty stories below. With an inhuman shriek, she launched herself towards the dazed man, but to her horror, he followed the roses backwards off the roof. Her stomach slammed into the side of the building, and she nearly cried in relief when her claws managed to sink into the flesh of his arm. She grappled desperately to hold on to his shoulder, but the rain was making it impossible. Her hands raked frantically for secure purchase, but she just couldn't lift double her own bodyweight. She could feel it as her claws tore his flesh open. At that moment she cursed God her making her so weak. She screamed his name numerous times, but realized that he was totally unconscious. With a final cry of pain and self loathing she let go, and helplessly watched as Batman slammed into the garbage-filled alley below.
Her knuckles on the car's steering wheel were glaringly white as she turned out of Wayne Manor. Crime Alley…that's where they had been. Right next to the old Opera House where…Selina's heart skipped a beat. His parents. That was where his parents were shot to death in front of him. Common knowledge enough in Gotham.
But what about the roses? she asked herself. He had had two roses in his hand…one for a lost mother, one for a lost father? Maybe, but it sure as hell was a strange thing to bring along on a crimefighting patrol.
Bruce never talked about his parents' death much, at least not to her. But then again when they were together talking was not their main priority.
She did recall that he once told her that he missed them, missed them terribly. And that he blamed himself for their murders; however, this was said a couple hours after she had finally coerced him into drinking with her. He never drank, and now Selina understood why: he poured his soul out to anyone who would listen. That would no doubt be a major problem if he were trying to keep a secret identity under wraps. The rest of that particular evening was a swirled jumble of hard liquor, conversation muddied by her stupor, drunken laughter, and desperate sex.
A shiver jarred up her spine when she thought about what she was going to do to get the answers she wanted so badly—she would have to get him drunk again. A bitter taste filled her mouth as she comprehended how heartless she was. Last resort, that will only be a last resort.
"Bruce Wayne is my Batman," Selina said to the wind, testing the words on her tongue. Could it be him? That shallow, materialistic playboy? Be her elusive Dark Knight?
"His body type certainly fits the bill," she mused mischievously, sliding her cell phone out of her purse to speed dial Bruce's number.
There was just one way to find out for sure, she thought as Alfred answered the phone. "Yes, can I speak to Bruce for a moment? Hmm, I can't? Then tell him he has a date Friday night…"
