AN: This chapter has some more emo Bruce but will be picking up speed shortly. I definitely underestimated how much ground I had to cover before I started bringing the Joker into Mary and Bruce's twosome dynamic. Honestly I want to get to the action but having completed three chapters in three days has to be good enough for me! Let me know if you enjoy the chapter or if there's anything you think I should work on in particular. Mary is based off of one of my best friends and I'm pretty attached to her. But hey, if you want to see what I have pictured for her in my mind, let me know and I'll make sure to include an image or a description in the next chapter. Like I said before though, I don't have a lot of time to write so it's pretty rare that I'm updating on a weekend.

But honestly I've been pretty possessed with this. After I found this in my old docs I've been fiending over it. I already have a pretty good idea of where it's going- and definitely an idea of a prequel that I will pitch later. I hope those who have read so far are enjoying it!

~(+)~

After returning inside, Mary seemed to contemplate what he said in some dreamy silence. He didn't know what to expect from her and continued to watch her wearily. The problem was her lack of reaction was relatively ambiguous. It could have been an absence of attachment to her current life, or perhaps a hidden-but-volatile reaction that would make her less likely to want to come along—therefore untrustworthy. So he watched her. He felt that he was on the edge of the building of Gotham as he normally was during the evenings, forever vigilante, watching, protector. But no, instead of an open city's night skyline—he had an outdated cozy kitchen. And in place of his protective instincts he was both a guest…and a guard.

His mind spun with the plans he knew he had to put into place, but couldn't' figure out where to start. If the Joker was loose but silent, there was very little reason to expect that it was without purpose. Or perhaps… Maybe the Batman no longer had an appeal. That thought left his insides still. The idea that the Joker might have believed that he had won that the incorruptible figure of justice had been brought down to petty revenge. The Joker may have lost his other half. In which case, he might have lost his steam. Or suddenly have become much less specific in his demands for the city. Bruce doubted that man could ever do anything but destroy. So then it would be only a matter of time. On the other hand, perhaps the Joker knew, and was waiting to reveal? Bruce couldn't tell which scenario would be worse. It was the pessimist in him that refused to believe that the Joker could possibly be too injured to continue—or possibly have moved onto another city. The man had shown a deranged attachment to the conceptual idea of a Grand SuperHero that it was doubtful he could so easily abandon the city that had born him. Once again Bruce, the Batman, the fallen millionaire—felt himself wound up in the confusion he felt for the Joker.

Meanwhile, Mary didn't seem to know what to do with herself, she was pulling out dishes in the refrigerator and scooping them into dog bowls. Bruce hadn't seen both of them together and it was easy to see that one of them was larger than the other. But they barely glanced at him now that there was some beef-stew-looking concoction in their large metal bowls. Immediately their slobbering tongues filled the silence of the small kitchen and she stood up slowly to wash her hands. Looking back just enough to keep her in his peripheral vision he observed carefully for a reaction.

"I will have Alfred drive my car here so that it can transport us. You strike me as someone who wouldn't want the contact of the motorcycle…Plus you would be exposed." Bruce left out the fact that this conveniently meant he didn't have to control the motorcycle with his broken ribs and broken figure. Yes, the car was a good idea. "My motorcycle can send out a locating signal so he can find me..." It could work both ways actually, and more than likely the lack of the bike's motion in its presence of the narrows; Alfred had probably assumed it was an abandoned vehicle and not just shown up.

Still… Mary wasn't paying him any mind, she hadn't even turned to look at him. She was bringing the rest of the muffins out of their tray and putting them on the plate. Then she was scrubbing the pan. Then the other two dishes she had to wash were all stacked up. Then she was drying. But all the while, completely ignoring him. He let the silence hang and watched for tension in her shoulders, but he couldn't see any sign of stiffness that wasn't usually present in the anxious creature.

Finally; "Where will we go…?"

Bruce looked to his hands now, able to see her feet shift as she slowly turned to face him. The question hung with heavy concern in the air but she said it with that lightness that relayed she'd been practicing it in her head before she spoke.

"My home. Just on the outskirts of Gotham…" He trailed off, clenching and unclenching his long fingers. She watched him with an unreadable expression.

"Do I have a choice?" Once again, the lack of stutter, but this time he'd glanced up to observe the motivation for the question. He found a resigned expression and realized that she didn't expect a choice. This girl seemed to have very little fight in her at all.

"No."

The curt answer felt so harsh in such a soft kitchen, so he elaborated. "It is an imperitive of your safety… and since the Gotham PD will view me as a fugitive, I couldn't turn you over to them without assuming that you will be arrested for harboring me. Besides…" He shifted slowly forward before extending himself to his full length and looking her over with a clinical expression. "I'm not sure I can trust you."

As stark as the statement seemed, the words were soft, and even as they left his lips he could taste the lie. After all, it wasn't about him trusting her, it was about the facts. If he went on gut and his emotional response to her he would have to grudgingly admit that, even if she was strange, she was honorable. Someone who lived outside the law and helped those who had fallen out of society's favor without any sort of distinction… Well, let's say that he could at least sympathize with the girl. Then again, he'd been wrong before. So he left her in her silence, holding her arms across her body like a shield, before he silently turned and made his way toward the shower.

...….

Bruce shook his hair out and gingerly attempted to dry his body. The water had burned but soon relieved the sting as he washed away some of the dried blood. The stitches spit out hardened bits of skin that had begun to scab over and he observed them with a frown, even going to far to pick at one to see how far along he'd come. For the first time, still in the light of the day from the small window over the toilet, he saw the impeccable care she had taken. Acerbically, he offered a smile at the image of her trying to stitch him up by the light of those damn candles. It might have been a rightful image. His smirk slid down with a rather depressing observation that he could remember none of it. True, she hadn't been kidding when she said she'd given him too much morphine. He wondered if there were moments of consciousness that he couldn't recall. Afterall five days was an incredibly long time for his injuries.

He put his face in his hand briefly and tried to rub away the epiphany that she'd no doubt have already had to help him to the bathroom… Or had to clean him up in a much more personal matter. Yes, he was about ready to get out of this tiny house. Wondering if he should even bother on being shy, he tied the towel at his waist and was unsurprised that she was still in the kitchen. Now, both of the dogs were next to her as she leaned her back on the counter from her seated position on the floor. She was writing, though he didn't care to look closer or to ask what about. She glanced up at his feet though her eyes went no higher than that on his body.

"C-c-c-clothes ar-rrre in your room… Er my r-r-oom uh the room…"

Her mouth pulled down into a deep frown and he didn't press her. Deciding that closing the door behind him would feel rude, but to leave the door open was weirdly inhuman, Bruce went inside and picked up the clothes laying over the back of a chair. Though he left the door open a crack, he stayed away from her having a visual of him unless she actually got up for the show; which he highly doubted she would. Once again he was struck with an amusing thought of her peeping through the door, it was amazing how little could entertain him after a stint of complete in activity. It was the bite on his ribs from the Joker's dog that hurt the worst. The one from the mob dog on his upper arm had barely healed and he was feeling a bit like a rag doll. This feeling was not assuaged by him pulling on the clothes. Though he was incredibly gracious to feel clean, even slinging the sweatpants low on his hips still left them about two inches too short. The t-shirt, however, was long enough to at least cover his exposed abdomen. He wondered if it was a boyfriend's that he was now going to have to worry about...

" I am bringing my dogs."

The authoritative voice caught him off guard from behind; he hadn't heard her move and the sound was much stronger than her normal speech. She'd probably been running over her line since he'd gotten in here. When he turned she was looking at him with her chin pointed up and full eye contact. Had she gotten more confident now that he wasn't walking around half naked and dirty?

"Yes… I assumed you would." She immediately lowered her head with a soft oh but also nodded while looking at him once more. This time the glance was slightly more reproachful.

"…When…?"

Bruce gave half a thought to crawling back into the bed and telling her not until tomorrow. Now he knew it was no longer the morphine, but rather, a statement to how broken things had actually become. He doubted that he'd really stopped crying over Rachel. And then Harvey's fall from grace, and his own literal fall… Yes, things were a mess. And the Joker getting out pressed on him heavily. But then again, where would he be without these stressors after Rachel's death? Would he have been able to stomach past her for anything other than revenge? Maybe… No. He had to go back. He had to fix things. He had to do something. And he definitely had to get pants that fit better.

"…You can get ready. Bring whatever you'll need. I'm going to call Alfred."

Instead of questioning who this Alfred figure was that he seemingly answered too, Mary was too busy chewing on the inside of her cheek and then left without a word. He went out and back into the garage just as she was quietly shutting the bathroom door.

...…..

Mary finally returned, appearing much more red in the face than she had before she went into the bathroom. Her wet hair hung limply around her features, heavy as it dripped onto her shirt. She had consistently worn loose clothing with intricate patterns that he hadn't seen match yet. His memory supplied that Alfred said she'd gotten a scholarship for track—but she didn't much look like someone who was athletic.

Then again, she did look like someone who was used to running. Instead of asking that he politely inquired, "Who will miss you when you're not here?"

She shrugged, as if it wasn't relevant. And perhaps it wasn't. But from his experience, people would elaborate if you left them to stew in silence. Unfortunately this didn't seem to work with her and she was back in her room, seemingly packing when he finally came up behind her.

"Did I hurt you…? The other night…" He hoped she knew what he was talking about. Neither Bruce or that Batman was in the practice of hitting women and then asking questions later. Despite his haze, it was easy to recall the sensation of jamming her against the door and jamming her back into her own doorknob. She flitted her attention back to him, smoothing her clothes down into the suitcase before pulling out a backpack. Both the suitcase and the backpack were different florals.

"…Anyone who-who comes b-by knows that I l-l-leave a –uh lot."

The vigilante pursed his lips against her deliberate evasion of the question but let it go. Feeling out her mood cautiously, he sat on the bed as she went to the vanity that he hadn't paid much attention too. Alfred made it perfectly clear that Bruce's social skills left much to be desired. Often, Bruce Wayne himself was more of a mask than Batman was. But it hadn't always been a mask, once upon a time, Bruce had been the only person in his own skin. Slowly but surely, all who knew him before that time had evaporated like condensation caught on the pavement.

She'd watched him awkwardly, not fully comprehending why some billionaire wanted to witness her bedroom. And she was hoping, praying out a mantra, he wouldn't look too carefully. They didn't need batman anymore, not right now, and not the way that he was before. But Bruce Wayne was something different. He was a provider for the city, an image that needed to be upheld. It was time he left.

"Why do you keep candles lit?"

Busying herself by trying to put the items of her vanity so they fit neatly into the backpack, she didn't look at him "I t-t-try not to use electricity."

He nodded. Didn't make sense to him but he'd pretend otherwise. It wasn't as if it was a pressing concern of his to know the in depth reason.

"….Where is my suit?" The switching of topics seemed to frustrate her, and the change was refreshing in his eyes. At least she was reacting. But he had a feeling that it was genuinely difficult for her to be consistently caught of guard even if she was admirably trying to stick it out. He reminded himself that he was not the easiest person to socialize with unless he was pretending. Maybe she needed a little bit of that Bruce Wayne façade for her?

"I didn't kn-kn-know wwwhat to do with it so it uh is in the r-rafters of my garage? I th-th-thought you'd want it hidden…"A thoughtful pause and she looked at him with almost a spark of interest. " I can get it if you want…?" She'd said it with an unexpected levity. Like it was an honor instead of a weapon of mass destruction. Perhaps, to some eyes, it still was honorable.

"The men that tried to get to me… Did you kill them?" His tone, to his ears, belayed that he didn't much care what she said; as if it made little difference to him.

But already she was shaking her head insistently.

"I couldn't k-ki- kill somebody." N

ot 'I couldn't kill somebody for that reason' nor 'I couldn't kill somebody who didn't try to kill me' or any sort of justification.

"…Not all people are so concerned with that little dose of morality. Especially when at least one of them was armed." He folded his hands together on his lap, intending to appear as small as was possible for his 6'2'' frame while she continued to purposefully pack her was impossible to not recognize the intimacy when he allowed himself to reflect for even a moment. And he knew, now, that maintaining this cool distance from her was not going to get him anywhere. If he was going to trust her enough to not basically keep her prisoner, then he must give her the chance to be an ally.

Besides, he thought to himself as she went to the stack of three candles on her vanity and lit them one by one, I think she will like Alfred… and her dogs will definitely love the yard.

...…

She watched him out of the corner of her eye. He was a bit like a bird of prey, and she was much more of a songbird. Mary didn't feel comfortable swooping in on anyone, much less likely an undeniably attractive man. He looked so ridiculously large on her twin size bed, and so ridiculously dark against the blush tones of her walls. He was consistently different than anyone she'd treated before. Then again, they were all so different from one another. Many of the people that Mary brought into her tiny home were people who had seen little kindness in their lives. Occasionally this lead to those who would burst into gracious tears almost immediately upon realization that she genuinely wanted to help. Some were as non-verbal or more as Mary currently was… But she wasn't always like that.

There was a time, not long ago when she would bring them into her home in all sincerity. The Batman was the first one that she'd brought home since going to prison. The Batman seemed to be an exception to most rules. Her lips practically split at their seams from attempting to hold back the questioning she longed to release. Thoughtfully, her blue green eyes traveled to his profile. Yes, before she would have been more present, more insistent to watch over him and play doctor over his wounds and maybe the heart the so obviously needed mending. But now, she was out of practice and so thoroughly exhausted just by waking up in the morning and the few words she had given him that she couldn't even find the energy to ask him if he would be okay with her dressing his wounds.

"…The last woman to know who I was, both of me, is gone now. Not even two weeks ago."

He'd informed her silently causing the makeshift nurse to blink. The sudden intrusion of an intimate fact and she was back to twisting her hands and rooted to the spot.

"Wh-wh-what was she like?"

From most people, Bruce would have expected a condolence or an inquiry on how the last woman died but he didn't have to take long to respond to the unexpected question. There were few things that he didn't remember about Rachel and her image came to him swiftly with the kind of conviction that only true familiarity did.

"She was so…I don't know. Warm. And smart. She had these big blue eyes and the softest hair… But so driven, so sturdy…" He swallowed. "She died, you know. I didn't save her…couldn't save her. I chose something else that was more important."

He was amazed at the that flamed up forcefully behind his eyes. His low voice was a distant rumble, and she watched him, transfixed on this astounding person so deep in his grief he was hardly recognizable. But this was not the sort of man who would shed tears out of grief, and perhaps it was guilt that stemmed them. "I can't help but feel that I chose wrong..."

If he had been trying to manipulate her into being more open with him, it failed completely. His confession seemed to strike her dumb and frozen as if she could escape his notice. The weariness seemed to fade and finally, with such determination she reassured him with one of the few things that could possibly make the Batman smile.

"I am nothing l-like that. And y-y-you d-don't nee-need to s-s-sssave me."

After this confession she took a sharp breath and offered a hesitant smile. Which he willingly returned.