Telltale Bats

Sorry for taking so long! I've been really sick for a long time. A lot of the pain stuff in the chapter is my venting my suffering, so hope it doesn't bother you. Enjoy!

There was a sense of nothing. An absence. Brooke didn't feel anything at all. Like floating down a river, slack body dragged by the whim of the waves, traveling on something other than her own power, held by a force she didn't control. But then, she thought she did remember something about a river. It was a strange sensation to feel no pain or comfort. It felt like being drugged, which she never appreciated, particularly since it usually meant pain later.

The voice, desperate and cracking, was the only thing grounding her, making her put effort into finding the muscles that controlled her eyes. Eventually, she fluttered her eyes to half mast, enough to see John.

His hair was black, stringy, plastered to his head and hanging randomly into his face. His eyes were a storm, watery the way his voice cracked.

"Please, please, please, Brooke! Please, you gotta wake up!" He hovered over her, rocking on his knees like he couldn't hold still. He was half backlit with the light and half in shadow, making him look like two different people.

Her eyes faded back, sinking down into her skull, going black and disconnected right along with her consciousness. A black cold like her cave greeted her and she went inside it willingly, recognizing it for the release, the reprieve it was. When next she woke she knew it would be unpleasant but for now she was allowed to sink away from it for a little while. She knew a gift when it was given.

Gifts never lasted long enough, like happiness. It was swift and fleeing, a short-lived reprieve from the daily anguish and pressing needles of life. Cold, numb, but tingling with needles, thousands of needles. The moment she was conscious the shaking began, violent and uncontrolled, her teeth jarring viciously against each other enough that she bit her cheek and drew blood.

"Shhhh, shhhh, shhhhh!" John pressed his cheek to her forehead, holding her closer as he jostled her. "I've got you, shhhh!"

Her eyes rolled in an attempt to understand, her head and neck almost unresponsive to her desire to move, though her head was exploding. She saw the river, saw the rocks John was walking over along the bank, saw the lights glowing in the city. They were near the docks, she could smell it and it made her gag, but that hurt worse.

John peppered desperate kisses over her face, like he was afraid, "Shhhh, it's going to be fine. I'm going to get you out of here, I promise!"

It was unnerving how distant her ears perceived his voice considering how undeniably close she knew he was. That signified nothing particularly comforting about her current state of being. It might drive others with far less experience with stress than she into a panic but she was accustomed to her body rebelling over her ill-treatment of it. It allowed her to be a little more analytical and distant.

He didn't feel warm and her body was so cold. He felt as cold as she did.

It felt like marbles were rolling around in her chest with each breath, marbles rolling in thickened water. No doubt that was not the best sign.

She wasn't aware she was making sounds but she must have been, she thought she heard a whimper that didn't belong to John, so it must have been hers.

"It's okay," John whispered brokenly, "I won't let you go."

That was the moment she realized he was carrying her. It should have been obvious but she had neglected to notice before. With that understanding came to need to move on her own. No one carried her. She walked on her own feet on her own power.

A choked, garbled, gasped sound of pain escaped her throat when she tried to sit up. A fire burned through the cold in her chest and side. So hot, burning her alive even as the rest of her was icey. The pain flared in her brain like a live wire, bouncing electrical current through her nervous system until it was all she could feel. It felt like gaping holes in her body.

"No, no, no, please don't move!" John whispered fervently, "It's okay, it's okay, it's okay, it's okay..."

A gut-wrenching cough ripped through her, tearing her up inside, wet and sickening, thick, too thick. Her body shook and convulsed, curling in on herself even as John tried desperately to hold her and protect her as much as he could. The distinct metal taste in her mouth was telling, too telling. She swiped her tongue out, trying to catch any of droplets of red possibly dotting her lips to hide the potential evidence. No need to worry John more than he already was.

It could be a punctured lung.

Bullet wounds came to mind but she didn't know-

Oh, that's right. She did know. She remembered seeing guns, hearing shots. John was beside her and she hadn't even thought, hadn't even deliberated, only moved in front of him to shield him from the danger. It hadn't occurred to her to do differently. She was used to playing shield, used to being the protector. Other options held no space in her mind. Honestly, even mingled with the pain and the cold, she couldn't find even a drop of regret for that.

Somehow, knowing why she was in this pain helped to ease it. Knowing John was free of bullet holes untied knots inside her that loosened the tight ball of sheer agony. If anyone had to be shot in that bridge she was glad it had been her. Though if it had been Waller instead, she might have been gladder. They really should have taken her hostage but Brooke was not accustomed to such acts of self-preservation, she was more accustomed to saving hostages than needing to take one. It probably would have made things worse anyway, taking hostages. Things like that made you seem intrinsically guilty regardless of facts.

It did not change the throbbing heat centered around her wounds nor ease the feeling of irrational desperation to flee or thrash to escape the pain. Her mind wanted to claw at her own flesh, rip until the pain stopped while it simultaneously wanted to be wrapped up in blankets, cradled, and never touched again.

Moving had made breathing significantly more challenging. With each breath immerged the need thrumming in her chest cavity to cough but every fiber of her being desired to resist an act she knew would cause her further suffering atop that which already existed. It was harder to breathe now, heightened difficulty, more unpleasant.

Pain made people irrational.

She desperately needed something to focus on other than the sensations trapping her in her own mind of looping, pulsating, endless pain. Each beat of her heart, an involuntary and necessary act of the body to circulate blood was sending a fresh wave of pain with each beat. The faster it beats, the higher her stress, the more pain it would cause. She needed to focus her mind on anything else but she did not feel up to any sort of focus. Her entire world was centered on the agony and she lacked her usual confidence in her ability to center her own mind.

"Tell me where we are, John." She wheeze, strained sounding and thin as stretched glass. It was a struggle not to cough, nearly impossible. Talking added a new intensity and she knew she should endeavor not to overtax that function in her throat lest she find blood bubbling up again.

"Uh... we- we're on the shore. C-close to somewhere safe. Don't worry, I'm going to get you all fixed up, buddy! Just a little farther, a few minutes, tops!"

Brooke could hear the lie even if she couldn't focus on his face but hearing him talk was helping so much. "Where are we going?"

"Well," John swallowed reflexively, "I figure we can't go back to your place... and we can't exactly get to your car right now. So we can borrow the first car we find. There is this doctor I know of, fixes people up. Off the books, off the record, you know. For people that don't want to go to a hospital. Harley told me about him. I figured, since Waller will be looking for us, we'd need someone like that so she doesn't catch us. We can't stick our heads up, you know?"

John wasn't wrong. Waller would be looking for them, would have eyes in every hospital. She had secured control of the GCPD for the most part and even those loyal to Gordon wouldn't have reason to look the other way for Brooke and John, they would have even more reason to report since Brooke is the one that got Gordon fired. Batwoman could ask for favors but Brooke would be persona non grata regardless of who was watching.

They would be charged, might even be labeled terrorists if Waller was in a particular mood. The charges would all stick too and neither one of them could afford that sort of circus. It would mean investigation, GCPD scouring her home even more than they had when her father's ties to the mob had surfaced. She could not afford that.

Before they did anything they would need to know how much the media knew, and thus how much the general public knew. They might need to pick a station, a reporter to turn to their side and tell their story should things be heading inevitably south. Not that she trusted reporters, particularly after Vale, but there were times spinning a story to one was a necessary evil. They had to do something after all if they wanted to survive.

What they really needed was proof of Waller's ties to Lotis, something to dangle over her head in order to stay the woman's hand. They needed blackmail to hold ransom for blackmail; something that would let her hold her own in a tête-à-tête with the director; something just a damning as Brooke's own secret. With that, she could negotiate both hers and John's freedom.

With little warning, she felt a drop of rain splatter against her forehead, a cold shock to her system. Another drop collided with her cheek and then her eyelid as the somber clouds rolled above them with intent. She and John were partially dry from the wind whipping among the rocks but with this new element, the work of the wind would be dashed. Neither of them needed to be drowned a second time. By the increase in John's speed, he must have been thinking something similar.

John's movements were hurried, hasty for someone climbing onto a dock with another body in their hold. It only took a minor slip of his foot to throw him off balance, pitching them both forward; he caught himself, avoiding a crash against the pilings or the smooth planks of the dock but all the sudden motion was enough. Brooke grit her teeth, throat spasming to silence the cry of pain that forced its way into her throat at the intensified motions. Her eyes squeezed shut to block out the ruination of effort her wounds had been making to clot and close over. She felt them rip, reopen whatever had closed, the bloody clothes ripping the dried portion away. The fresh blood was hot and uncomfortable in addition to the horrible burn of fire lighting her severed nerve endings in sadistic retaliation for having the idiocy to be shot. Her body was a roiling mess of angry, vengeful wounds intent to make her suffer.

Pain was only in the mind, she reminded herself, only a way for the body to alert her to her injuries. She knew she was injured and she had no need for the alert. She could take it. It was nothing but impulses and stimulus that could be controlled and ignored. If she endured for a while it would lessen because she would grow steadily used to it. She took a deep breath, trying for relaxation techniques. Pitty in her eagerness to control the pain she forgot about her punctured lung.

A garbled shriek escaped her between the horrible, rattling coughs. She clawed at the front of John's shirt, struggling against the horrifying feeling of not being able to breathe, torn apart by the pain swarming every single identifiable portion of her brain. John took off at a sprint, struggling to hold onto her as she jerked and twisted in his arms. He scrambled under an overhang, a jutted out portion of what could be a loading dock and dropped unceremoniously to the ground. Every one of his movements was frantic and jerky as he draped her legs to the side and angled her back against his chest to support her in an easier breathing position. She leaned weakly against him, head lolling into the palm of his hand as he cradled her as fully as his long, gangling limbs were able. Eventually, she began to breathe again, the coughing dying down from the continuous loop into sporadic, disjointed coughs that still hurt but did not leave her with the feeling of drowning in her own blood.

She knew her lips were coated in red when she felt the liquid warmth run down her chin. That doctor he talked about better be skilled. It slowly dawned on her that they were no longer being rained on. The wind still whipped around them but they were seated on dry ground. John was whispering little assurances into her ear, things she couldn't quite hold onto but knew were soothing and kind, no doubt promises, the sort of bargains people make with the dying to convince them to hold on just a few moments longer. She wished she could still hear them properly but her ears were ringing enough to disturb her normally keen hearing.

Even so, here she was dry and relatively safe with John curled around her generating a little warmth. It never crossed her mind that she would die like this, so pathetic in its lack of explosions, hostages, helicopters, or masked men with automatic weapons. Still, though it was less than ideal, she still had so much left to finish in Gotham, people she would have liked to see again, regrets she would have liked to blot out, but it was not the worst way to die.

She was nearly asleep when he began to move, sliding out from behind her and easing her back against the wall in his stead. A distinct tingling of panic washed over her and she clutched at him, desperate for him not to leave. Had he decided to leave her and take his chances, far better chances than he had with her to slow him down? It almost stung of betrayal, but really, how cold she expect him to stay? As she was, she knew she was helpless. She knew she had lost a substantial amount of blood; she knew the river had facilitated any number of complications likely including shock; she knew she could not make it far on her own.

"I'll be back before you know it, you won't even miss me I'll be so fast," he promised her over and over again before he pulled away and raced out into the rain.

Once he was out of sight she found herself wondering how he would do without her. Hopefully, he did not run into another Harley. Perhaps he would get lucky, find someone that could honestly help him. Avesta, maybe? Surely she would help him, at least on the case, help him with the virus. Maybe Alfred would take John in, the man had a way with lost strays, after all. She wasn't entirely fatalistic, precisely, but she knew that while the cold did help slow her bleeding she would not last long once the shock and hypothermia took full hold. Her gadgets were gone, she'd lost her earpiece in the river, and she was distinctly out of options. She didn't care to fight it. In some ways, she'd been looking for her own end the moment those pearls clattered to the ground in a dark path behind a theater.

Brooke only mildly registered a car pulling to a stop in front of her. The car door was nothing but a distant click, but she recognized John's footsteps any day. She did not resist when his wet arms scooped her up but she also did not stay cognisant long after he settled her very gently into the back seat of a car she had never seen before. Her last question was wondering if he stole it.

"Borrowed," he told her softly, "for a good cause."

She hadn't realized she asked the question aloud.

Brooke is sure she had not closed her eyes or blinked in a while because they feel dry and crusty so she blinks them a little wildly. The feel of a medical table holding her up was a familiar one, though this one is clearly not located in her cave. There is clarity to her mind even though it feels like looking up into the world from underwater. Part of her is surprised she woke at all considering the last moments she really remembers. Her vision begins to clear away from the blurry mass she had formerly been staring at uncomprehendingly.

The first thing she really sees is the shine of a round pair of glasses perched atop a nose and she has a moment to wonder blearily who is behind them when the man smiles with what she might classify as too many teeth, too much to make her feel like he's not snarling down at her and the thin line of a beard along his jaw did not help smooth that illusion.

Where is John?

"Ah, you're coming back around! That's excellent!" He smiled the entire time he spoke, something she thought was intended to soothe her and fell flat, "Welcome back, Ms. Wayne. I am Doctor Hugo Strange and that is my assistant, Mrs. Pebody."

Brooke does not bother to turn her head in order to see the assistant. She is simply too tired to care, a bone-deep sort of weariness that zaps the desire to turn her head or even her eyes in any direction. Expending effort hold a decided lack of appeal. She would close her eyes and sleep if she felt safer around the man and if she knew where John was. Was John safe? Did he at least have dry clothing?

The glasses, they were rose-colored glasses, she realized and she wondered how functional they could really be. Were they really all for show?

He was wearing the clothing of a doctor but something about him, perhaps the shaved head, screamed a lack of bedside manner. Though his tone was inherently relaxed and calming, the undertone feels patronizing, amused, perhaps Machiavellian in nature. She might have only just woken up but she already felt a strong desire to be away from that man, something about him grates all wrong against her instincts. Was he really the doctor John told her about?

Was he a doctor at all? She supposed he must be but considering Harley was the one recommending him it was doubtful he was a particularly good one. Skilled, maybe, but unlikely good. There was a high likelihood that he ran a chop shop in back and peddled body parts. The less time she spent with him the more likely it was that she would walk out still in possession of a liver.

"You have been a difficult patient, Ms. Wayne," he continued in that rich voice, "and I am so glad to see you progressing so well already! You're a strong young woman."

Already? "How," her voice sounds like she gargled glass, and it made her flinch, "how long?"

"Only a day and a half." Strange told her with another smile, "Your friend brought you in during the night and you were operated on immediately. You are still heavily medicated so you should not be feeling any pain for quite some time. Regardless, you will need to take it very slowly. Your lung will also need time to properly reinflate." He chuckled slightly as he told her, "We almost lost you, my dear. It is best to keep that in mind."

"Where is-"

"Oh, I'll inform him you are awake. I know he will be immensely relieved." He cooed at her.

She hated how smugly knowing he was.

"Is he alright? My friend?" She found herself lacking the strength for any sort of eloquence and speaking made her throat tighten.

"Yes, yes, he's quite well. Simply worried about you."

"Whatever the charge is, I'll pay you." She knew this could not have been for free and if she reminded him who she was; well, if she still had all her organs it was probably because he knew who she was; there would be no trouble, "I always pay my debts."

"Of course, of course, I have no doubt." He paused, studying her even more closely, "You might not remember me but I knew your father. We worked together on a few projects."

Her eyes widened, her body suddenly far more on edge, "Oh?" was all she could force out. Was there anyone her father didn't know? Now she really wanted to leave! Knowing the sort of work her father had been involved in, the connection did nothing at all to make her feel any more at ease around him.

The sudden increase in beeping and his eyes sliding to the side of her lead her to realize she was connected to a heart monitor. She had not even considered that and she instantly made an effort to relax.

Those rose-colored glasses gleamed as he turned his attention back on her, "I understand that what you have recently been through has been very traumatic. So much has been thrown into your life the last year, I imagine it must be quite overwhelming."

For Brooklyn Wayne, a rich little trust fund child, it would be. For Batwoman, it was nothing she could not handle. He could not know that, "Yes..." She said quietly, restricting herself to answers she could give easily.

"If you need someone to talk to..." He reached a hand forward and touched her knuckles with his fingertips, "I'm also knowledgeable in that area. Psychiatry is another specialty of mine. With everything that has happened, perhaps it might do you some good to come to see me in that capacity as well. Having known your family, I would consider it an honor to help you through these traumas in any way I can."

"Thank you, " she forced her lips into a smile, "I'll remember that, but right now I've got a lot going on that needs my attention."

He smiled knowingly, "No doubt."

"When can I go?"

He cocked his head, pressing the tips of his fingers together before fanning them out and back in with a little rhythm, "Soon. Now that you are awake we will be able to evaluate your condition accurately. If you pass our tests I see no reason you should not be able to leave today so long as you do absolutely nothing strenuous." That sickly smile again, "We don't want you ripping out all those stitches."

Today? Well, that was something. She might leave with all her parts so long as they were not already missing. They could go-

Oh, yes, they were a little limited on places they could run to. Anything that was obviously in her name was out of the question, Waller would be crawling all over known locations. It would need to be one of her locations that did not identify with the Wayne name at all. She had a few of those spread out under various names for various cover stories.

The doctor walked away while she silently contemplated the next best course of action but moments later there was a high pitched whine that gave her the motivation to turn her head. There, in an open doorway stood Dr. Strange and a very watery eyed looking John. His clothes were rumpled but his hair did look brushed. The purple bruises under his eyes made it clear he had not slept in far too long. He looked an absolute wreck but he smiled bright and excited when he found her eyes staring back at him.

"Remember, John, you must be very careful with her. She's still very fragile."

Brooke bristled instantly at the particular wording but John simply nodded along meekly as he nearly tiptoed closer.

"If she starts coughing, give her the pillow to hold to her chest. It will help." Strange mimicked that bedside manner she still did not believe for a second.

John nodded again, wringing his hands and glancing frantically around until he located the mentioned pillow. Though now that it had been brought up, her throat tickled as if her body suddenly needed to test the doctor's words and she frantically held back that urge. She remembered well how painful coughing had been the last time and she had no desire to go through it again and she would resist that urge at all cost. Drugged or not she did not care to risk that sort of experience.

"H-how are you, buddy?" John asked as he tugged a rolling stool beside her and eased onto it.

"I'm fine. A little tired." That was an understatement.

John's breath comes out shaky, "Thought I'd lost you for a minute there." He smiled like he was trying to make light of it but the dimmed sheen of his eyes dampened any attempts at levity.

She twitched her lips into what she hoped was an encouraging smile, "I'm not that easy."

He laughed but it somehow sounded more like a sob in disguise. "Honestly, what was I thinking, right? All worried about nothing! Nobody can take you down! You're... you know, you!"

"Darn right!" She agreed still clinging to her own weak smile.

His hands jumped from his own lap to latch onto her have, long white fingers linking with hers and cradling her hand like he might have a wounded bird. He slumped forward, laying his forehead on her wrist.

She wanted to reach her free hand out and stoke his hair for comfort but she didn't have the energy. Instead, she used what she had to squeeze his fingers in assurance. The returned squeeze was gentle, he did it three times, like a code. She wondered briefly if three squeezes meant the same thing now as they had in high school. Just in case, she flexed her fingers three times as well.

John shifted, settling his head on her hip and turning her hand over so he could place a long, reverent kiss to the center of her palm.

Something warmed inside her, that is until the coughing started. Pain medication or not, it hurt just as much as she remembered it had. John scrambled for the pillow and placed it vertically over her chest. She hugged it reflexively until the end when she could fall back against the pillow under her head. Hugging a pillow did seem to help, or maybe it was all in her mind.

"Don't ever leave me again, Brookie, please?" John whispered in a watery voice as he climbed onto the table with her, spread out on his side, face buried in her hair, one arm very carefully placed over the top of her.

His closeness made her acutely aware of her lack of clothing and what amounted to a hospital gown in their place, but she shoved the thought to the back of her mind.

She settled her hand on his arm, "I won't."

Perhaps she could keep that promise, perhaps not, but she would make the effort for his sake. He worried about her and she didn't like the idea of leaving him alone. Speaking of worried parties, she needed to find a way to contact Alfred.

"John, is there any way you could... borrow a phone from somewhere? I need to let Alfred know we're both still alive."

"I did that already. I said I was from your internet provider first, to be sure he could talk. Couldn't tell him much but I... told him everything was fine. It- it wasn't really, not then, you were still... But I figured it was better to not let him know that."

Something life gratitude folded her and she tilted her head in order to kiss what she could reach of his face, "You're a lifesaver. What did I do to deserve a wonderful guy like you?"

It wasn't patronizing the way it would have been with any of her old, fake boyfriends. She meant it this time. He was honestly good to her, understood her, knew what she wanted without being told. How could she have asked for a man that would cover for her like that? He needed the praise anyway.

It took a while for him to answer, "If you really think that, how about you just never get shot again so I have to lie, huh?"

"I'll keep that firmly in mind." She offered.

"I like Alfred." He announced suddenly.

"Me too. He grows on you pretty fast."

She could feel him smile against her, "All British people like that or just him?"

Brooke shook her head slightly, "I think he's a man all his own. You couldn't duplicate him if you tried."

"You're not too replaceable either." His hold tightened slightly.

"Neither are you. I guess we'll all just have to stick around, yeah?"

"Yeah." He agreed quietly, and they lapsed into silence, long enough she nearly fell asleep before he said, "I'd do anything for you."

That made her eyes snap open. She had no idea what to reply to such a sweet, drastic declaration, but he continued, saving her from needing to.

"Maybe this doesn't make sense, but where Harley was my lights, you're my new Arkham. You're a deep lake and the grassy hills around it. You're an untouchable forest in the middle of a city. You soften all the loud voices around me so I can hear myself think. When I'm with you I think I'm... okay."

Brooke didn't have any idea what to say to that either. "Joh-"

The door opened and John hastily scrambled off and away for the table as the good doctor entered. John resembled more of a deer caught in headlights than his usual self.

Strange glanced between them and there was a decided smirk hiding under his professionalism, more than before. "Shall we have a look at you to see if you're ready to be moved?" He glanced between them again, "Only a few minor tests, nothing to worry about."

There was always a reason to worry when a doctor said there was nothing to worry about. She did so hate doctors.

Note: So, I brought Dr. Strange into this, basically because she was actually almost dead. (Because seriously! What even were those cops in the game? Were they Clones from Star Wars? Most of them were pretty close on the bridge so why could they not even come remotely close to hitting anything? They were trying to kill John as per Waller's order. Why couldn't they even nick anything?) She took a bullet in the shoulder that nicked an artery near the heart and another that got her lung, add in the river and all the stuff in there (you can't tell me it's sanitary), the cold, plus she'd already been injured so many times in the past. You get the picture. The game beats up Bats so, so bad all the time, I thought I'd stay on the wagon.

I really liked Gotham's Dr. Strange even though I had some issues at first with like, "wait, what have they done to B D Wong!" But I got over that and enjoyed him being evil. I also really liked the twist (spoilers?) that Strange had known the Wayne's for a really long time, which is not my headcanon for this story too because it makes even more sense with Thomas being a criminal!