Disclaimer: I do not own and am not, in any way, affiliated with the Dark Knight franchise.

"It was not the thorn bending to the honeysuckles, but the honeysuckles embracing the thorn."

― Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

Chapter Eight

The man left standing took a swing at Barsad with the knife, just under where his vest ended. She missed what happened next.

The woman, taking advantage of the lull in activity, shoved her forward. Audrey lost her footing, but managed to fall on all fours instead of eating pavement. A swift kick to her stomach knocked the wind out of her. She rolled over and sucked in deep breaths. The woman reared her leg back again. With what strength she could muster, Audrey wrapped her hand around an ankle as the woman lashed out and yanked hard, seating her on the pavement.

Knife man gave a strangled yell and ran past, cupping one side of his face. From under his fingers, she saw blood and watched as it dripped onto the light layer of white now covering the sidewalk. The woman turned, took one look at Audrey's liberator, and hauled herself up and out. The man's howls echoed in the distance. She spared a glance at the third party who lay unmoving in the snow. Yep. Definitely dead.

Boots crunched through the snow and came to a stop beside her. Audrey managed herself into a sitting position and tried to regain a steady breathing pattern through her nose. She looked up and frowned. Barsad had a busted lip and the visible part of his right forearm was red. "You're bleeding," she wheezed.

He stared down at her, jaw firmly set. Unamused, it would seem. He held out a hand which she used to pull herself up.

She had the good sense, at least, to keep her head down and all gratitudes to herself on the silent trek back to the apartment. It gave her time to think, something she was in desperate need of. This had been her one opportunity; it was clear from Barsad's countenance there would not be another. She had come to terms with the situation if she wanted to survive. The irony of wanting to stay alive with nuclear doom looming on the horizon was not lost on her, but it did not shake her resolve.

Once safely inside, she threw off her jacket and launched into emergency medical mode. "Take off your shirt and sit down," she called as she searched under the kitchen sink for a first-aid kit. The cupboards banged shut as one by one they proved useless. She darted over to Barsad's room, pausing at the door.

"Is there a bathroom in here?" she asked, sticking her head out from behind the wall. He was standing next to the coffee table, grimacing as he peeled off his last layer and exposed his chest. Her eyes widened and she inhaled so sharply that she sent herself into a coughing fit.

To say he was in shape was an understatement. His arms weren't bulging with muscles, nor did he have a playboy movie star's finely sculpted six-pack, but he was incredibly toned. And then there had been v-shaped hipbones that plagued all of Audrey's fantasies. Get a hold of yourself, woman. It was probably just appreciation and post-fight hormones spilling over. That happened after an adrenaline rush sometimes. She'd seen it before in patients who tried to flirt with nurses after having been in bar fights or worse. Besides, he was a highly-trained assassin. Being in peak physical condition definitely had to be a requirement. You're just seeing him through battle goggles. That's all.

"Alright?" he called.

Heat rose in her cheeks and she was glad for the barrier between them. "Great. Is there a bathroom or not?"

"Yes."

The inside of his room was much nicer than hers- or had been, anyway. All the decoration had been taken down and was stowed in one corner covered in horrendous velvet drapery that must have adorned the now bare windows. An unmade four poster bed was shoved unceremoniously against the wall next to a nightstand that held an alarm clock, a bottle of whiskey, and a half-full glass.

Reminding herself that she was on a mission, she rummaged through the cabinets until she found what she was looking for. She paused only once more to take stock of herself in the mirror and blanched. Her nose, while mercifully not broken, was crusted with dried blood. She splashed some water on it and gently, but hastily, cleaned her face. She lifted her shirt. Just under her ribs would bruise, badly, but nothing was broken. With a sigh, she ran a hand through her hair, gingerly touching the spot where it had been pulled. Tender, but nothing some ibuprofen wouldn't cure.

She reappeared in the living room where Barsad was sitting on the coffee table. "Thought you might have changed clothes," he said, eyeing her outfit which was rumpled and still slightly damp from the snowy walk home. "You'll catch a cold like that."

"Thanks, Dad, but I'll be fine."

He stiffened at this rebuke and chose to watch in irritated silence as Audrey laid the kit out and assessed her patient: busted lip and two shallow lacerations- one by the elbow and one to the waist. Nothing that would require stitches but it did need cleaning and bandaging. After retrieving a warm bowl of water and clean washcloth, she set to work.

The silence persisted and so did the tension. It didn't help that the cut on his side refused to stop bleeding. "Okay," she said, kneeling down to look at it directly. "I'm going to have to put pressure on this. It's not going to feel good. You've been warned."

He grunted in response. She pressed gauze to the wound and applied a little force. There was a hissing sound as he sucked in air between his teeth.

"None of this would have happened if you'd stayed put!" he thundered.

That was all it took to ruin her calm demeanor. The stress from the last few hours had piled up enough for her to reach breaking point. "No one told you to come after me!"

"Don't get shirty with me! You should be grateful it was me and not someone else! Jack was livid. He would have let you die or bloody well killed you himself. You've seen, and heard, too much to go free. You're a liability."

"Which isn't my fault, thank you very much!" She closed her eyes and a strangled, frustrated sound escaped her. This was already off to a bad start, but she knew what she had to do next; even if it hurt worse than any physical pain she had endured thus far. When she opened them, she made direct eye contact. "I don't want to fight about this. Thank you for saving my ass," she paused. "Again."

The anger melted away from his face replaced by disbelief. He opened his mouth and closed it again. She turned her attention back to the task at hand so that he couldn't see the few tears that escaped from her eyes even as she furiously tried to blink them away. Stop crying.

A quick look under the gauze showed that the bleeding was slowing down significantly. "Look, neither of us have exactly made this situation… easy. I don't want to be here as much as I'm sure you don't want me here. We'll just treat this as a reset, okay? I promise I'll try to keep my head down and my mouth shut."

A hand cupped her chin, lifting her head so that their faces were within kissing distance. It was a gentle gesture, but it forced her to look at him. God, his eyes are so blue. It wouldn't have taken much to close the gap between them and for one insane second she wanted him to. His brows furrowed and, once again, she felt herself vulnerable under the power of his examination. A thumb wiped her cheek. "What is so important to you that you'd continue risking your life for it?"

Jesus, Audrey, she scolded herself. She jerked her face out of his hold, dabbing her cheeks with the back of her hand, and busied herself with the process of cleaning and wrapping. "My dad. He's been… not well since my mom died last year. Cancer."

There was an awkward pause and then, "I'm sorry."

She shrugged. "She knew it was coming. What she didn't bother to tell me just how bad it was. I wasn't there when she passed and I don't think she wanted me to be. My mom was a tough lady. It would have killed her to have anyone see her that way. She's the one who encouraged me to travel because she didn't get to do a lot of it- any, really. My dad's always been scared of change. Sorry. I'm rambling."

They lapsed into silence.

"You know," she said finally, half-teasing, half-curious. "You could have avoided this if you'd just shot them all."

"Out of ammo. Didn't really have time to pop back 'round here and pick anything up." He paused, fingers tapping once against the scuffed wood of the table. "So, why'd you stay? Guilt, I'd wager."

She lightly laid medical tape over the bandage. "You're done." She stood, picking up the bowl and washcloth as she went, and walked toward the kitchen. He grabbed her arm, not unkindly, and drew her back.

"Your hand looks like shit," he commented as he inspected it. "Who taught you to throw a punch?"

"It was my first time," she admitted sheepishly. He laughed and the sound was so warm and infectious that she couldn't help chuckling too.

"Sit." He shook his head as he went to work on fixing her. With an expert flick of his wrist, he unwrapped the washcloth and found an unused corner. It was almost like a magic trick until the lukewarm cloth touched the tops of her bruised and bloodied knuckles. She jerked her hand back, glaring at him. "Not such a good feeling is it?" He smirked. "You didn't answer my question."

"You really want to know?" He nodded. "Mostly guilt, yes. I spent so much of my time trying to get out of here that I never bothered visiting when I was gone. Not as much as I should have. My dad was a wreck at the funeral. I knew I couldn't leave him like that. So a friend of mine helped me get a job at the hospital and the rest is history, I suppose."

"Do you miss it?" he asked, genuine curiosity in his voice. She didn't need clarification on that one. For a moment she allowed herself to remember the way the sun in Sudan felt on her face, warming her to the core; the way the kids had tugged at her shirt and cried "Miss! Miss!" to get her attention; the freezing cold water that engulfed her body as she cliff jumped in Belize. It was hard to believe that she was the same person who had done those incredible things.

"All the time."

After clean up, Audrey changed into pajamas and collapsed on the couch, pulling a throw blanket over her legs. She picked up the book she had been reading only last night. It felt like a decade had passed since then.

Barsad sat on the other end, feet resting on the coffee table. He glanced over at her before settling in, head leaned back and eyes shut. "What are you reading?"

"Hm? Oh, Flannery O'Connor short stories. Ever read any?"

He snorted in response.

Intrigued, she peeked at him over the top of the book. "You can-"

"Yes, Audrey, I can read."

For the second time that night she blushed. "Only curious."

Silence. He stared at her expectantly.

"Would you- ah, bugger it."

Audrey lowered the book with an audible sigh. "Would you like me to read to you?"

"Might help me fall asleep faster."

"Rude."

"Get on with it."

"A Good Man is Hard to Find. 'The grandmother didn't want to go to Florida. She wanted to visit some of her connections…'"

She'd almost managed to get to the end before she heard the deep breathing of sleep. Not wanting to wake him, she set the book down, nestled further into the blanket, and closed her eyes.

A/N: The good news is... the wait wasn't long for this next chapter! Thank you for the reviews and follows. Until next time, dear readers!