Leslie Thompkins was an early riser, and had always been – at least when she slept.

That Sunday, as usual, she woke up before the alarm in her cell phone buzzed. She opened her eyes lazily and rolled over her bed, wondering if it was six A.M. already – time when the bakery on the corner of her block opened, and where she could buy the bagel she indulged herself with before mass.

It was only 5:20, though.

She sighed and left her bed, going to the kitchen to prepare her coffee. She liked it black and very hot, an old habit she had picked from her night shifts at Gotham General, back in the day when she was a nurse. She remembered those long nights, surgery after surgery, and it seemed that hours just passed by her like a breeze. Oh, she would come home a wreck, no doubt, but boy, did she have fun…

There was no doubt she missed those days, but now less than she used to. When she lost her clinic, oh, that was bad… and soon she was also fired from Gotham General – they didn't want a nurse that would never deny treatment to people, even to a person that had no health care. Before, they had Thomas Wayne; he thought just like her, and he would perform surgeries even if the person didn't have a penny to pay for gauze. But Thomas was a doctor, a member of the hospital's board and a very, very rich man… he could afford to be disobedient. Leslie, on the other hand…

Memories. The past. She would more and more find herself thinking about it. The Wayne boy coming to the orphanage had certainly brought reminiscences to mind. He probably had no idea, but she was the nurse that helped him that night, that awful night, when Thomas and Martha were gunned to death… No, he wouldn't remember. He was just a boy, a scared little boy. Paramedics had brought him from the police department, a boy in shock, trembling and unable to speak a word. She took him to the exam room to wait for the doctor to come, and helped him change his clothes… he had Thomas's coat around him, she recalled. The very coat he had worn that morning, when he left the hospital after his shift.

She remembered what she had wondered then: could that boy ever live a normal life again? Would he be able to just keep going, doing what regular kids do? She found that hard to believe.

It seemed she was wrong, though. The boy – man, now – was fine. Perhaps he had fallen too much on the playboy's side of the spectrum, but still; he was a rich heir, and it was not his fault that his parents had left him a generous trust fund for him to enjoy. And shouldn't he? Maybe in a few years, when he finally settled down, he could make a contribution to the world. If he found the right woman, oh, that would help. Selina Kyle was certainly a good choice; or even Talia Head. They seemed to have lots in common, Bruce and Talia. Both from families that had money, both had travelled the world and walked among influential people. It could work.

Leslie was lost in thoughts as she walked around her kitchen with a mug of hot coffee, drinking it slowly while going to the front door of her house. Sunday paper usually arrived before five, and she opened the door hoping to find it on the stone steps of her house. She looked down and didn't see it. What she saw, however, where the several crimson spots of blood spread over her mattress, and a shadow that approached from the left:

"Leslie", she heard a familiar voice, "I need your help."

"Ouch", Selina flinched as Leslie cleaned the wound in her arm.

"Okay, explain it again", Leslie asked. "You're Catwoman…"

"There isn't much explaining I can do besides that", Selina sighed.

Unfortunately, that was the truth. She had come to Leslie's house for good reason: she needed someone to help her with her injuries. Compared to Bruce – Batman, she had to always think of him as Batman -, she had been very lucky. But she had been shot, had had her shoulder dislocated, had almost drowned, had been through a lot. She was also very aware that there was no way she would be able to deal with those wounds alone, by herself, and she also wasn't willing to risk going to a hospital. Too many questions.

The unfair thing about all that, of course, was that she had to keep Leslie in the dark. She had already taken a very risky step by reveling to the former nurse she was Catwoman. Telling her about Bruce – Batman – was something she would never do. It wasn't her secret to share.

The whole ordeal with Deathstroke and also her unpleasant date with Tommy Elliot also weren't good conversation topics. Especially about Elliot; who knew what that bastard was planning, and how far he was willing to go to keep pretending he was just another eccentric millionaire?

For Leslie's sake, she was better out living in ignorance. At least for now.

"You come to my door dressed like that, bleeding from ten different places, asking for my help… and you're not even going to tell me what happened to you?"

"Trust me, you don't wanna know… most boring story ever."

"Hm-hum. I'm sure it is…" She turned the small reading lamp she had placed over the kitchen's table to better illuminate the bullet wound in Selinas's arm. "Was it Batman?"

"Batman?! Like, the vigilante? Oh, no, no… nothing to do with him…"

"Oh, don't patronize me, dear… You want me to believe that something happened tonight that left you like this and Batman was nowhere near the place?" She smirked. "Here in Gotham we have a new saying: whenever there's trouble, there's Batman…"

"That's pretty unfair, don't you think?" Selina wasn't able to hold her tongue.

Again Leslie laughed. "Yes, I agree, dear."

There was silence for a moment, with Leslie attentively tending Selina's arm. "Almost done", she commented.

"Thanks… that's fantastic. I had no idea where to go, Leslie, you literally saved my life…"

"Yes, I understand you couldn't go to a hospital dressed like that." She pondered for a moment, finally saying: "By the way, do you need to borrow clothes? I take donations for the Home, as you know, and I guess we can find something that would fit you among the clothes I didn't take to the girls yet…"

"I guess that would be good. I mean, it's already morning…"

"Your dark outfit certainly causes the wrong impression under the morning light, dear."

Selina laughed. "Oh, Leslie… I can't believe this… seating here in your kitchen, with you stitching me up and joking about my very secret double life… it's surreal."

"I agree, darling. Surreal indeed… Who knows? Maybe I'm still dreaming."

"Maybe you are." Selina turned her head to stare at the nurse. "Dream or no dream, Leslie… I know it's too much to ask, but…"

Leslie stopped what she was doing, returning Selina's anxious gaze. Her eyes, however, where placid light blue pools, not a hint of fear or shame. "Your secret is safe with me, Selina."

"Leslie…"

"Listen", asked the old woman. "I know you are, by all standards, a criminal. And I don't approve that. But you're also the person that has helped my girls and done wonderful things for them. I can never thank you enough for that; that's why I will, for now, keep my mouth shut."

Selina looked down to the ceramic tiles of the kitchen's floor. "Thank you, Leslie."

"You are a good person, Selina." Leslie smiled, her beautiful, wise smile. "And, someday, you will discover that."

It was the end of the morning when Selina found Alfred, who was quietly drinking coffee in the waiting room of Gotham's General surgical floor. She had finally been able to change her clothes and take a quick shower, given her a more civilized appearance, but she had no problem admitting her exhaustion.

"Miss Kyle", Alfred greeted.

"Hey, Alfred." She waited for him to keep talking, but that didn't happen. Alfred merely took another sip of his coffee.

"How is he?", she finally asked.

"Out of surgery", the butler declared, much to Selina's relief. "It seems all went well."

"So, he is…?"

"Out of danger?" Alfred completed. "Oh, no, miss, not just yet. He still has a few tough hours ahead of him…"

"God", she mumbled, allowing her body to fell on the seat next to the butler's, then resting her head on both her hands. "How long until we know for sure…?"

"He's in the ICU, miss, under the best care possible. These things", Alfred whispered, gently tapping Selina's knee, "we can't rush."

She breathed heavily, feeling the fatigue taking over her body. She hadn't rested for a single moment since God knew when, certainly not in the last twenty four hours. She was hurt and exhausted, confused, angry. It wasn't enough all that had happened to her and Bruce – there was more than that to worry about.

Hours before, when they were still at Batman's secret refuge, after Alfred had managed to insert the chest tube in Bruce's thorax – gruesome thing, by the way, she wouldn't want to be there again to watch that -, Selina had decided that she needed to look for Deathstroke's body. Alfred had showed her how to use one of Batman's COM link, even how to access the police frequencies, and she heard many different calls for the strange fire at Gotham's Botanical Garden. That caused her to wonder – she presumed Deathstroke was dead, but… was he? The man had proved he was much more than an ordinary person; what if that included something that had helped him survive that fall?

"I'll meet you at the hospital", she had told Alfred. After they had removed Batman's armor, the plan was to take Bruce to Gotham's General Hospital for much needed medical procedures. They had yet to come up with a convincing story to explain what had happened to a shallow playboy that would have led to him getting shot by restricted ammunition, but that was secondary – Bruce might not agree, but Alfred's verdict was that he needed surgery and, with luck, most of his left lung could be saved.

"Miss Kyle", Alfred had tried to remind her, "you are seriously wounded yourself."

"Well, I can still breath and walk", she shrugged. "Guess that means I'm ready for more – at least in Batman's book."

Alfred had no time no argue, fortunately. He merely showed her the motorcycle in a corner of the room and pointed the exit. "Do you really need to be doing this now?", he asked.

"Gotta take advantage of the dark", she answered, lowering her goggles and accelerating the bike.

It took her a few minutes to reach Robinson Park, approaching it from the opposite side where the Botanical Garden was located. She left the bike in an alley close by, and walked her way through the trees and out of sight. It was almost five o'clock in the morning, and the first lights were visible in a purple sky. That was too much light for her taste already, especially if you added the presence of at least fifty firemen and policemen – an uncomfortable situation, to say the least.

She took a moment to consider how to approach the Garden without being seen. There was a thick curtain of smoke clouding everybody's vision, and the fire hadn't been completely put off; that could provide the camouflage she needed, if not for this: the old building that used to be the greenhouse, now little more than a pile of ember and ashes, was completely surrounded.

Goddamned, she cursed. There was no way she could cut through the security line without being seen, either going in or out. Besides, the huge greenhouse was now an unrecognizable thing, a huge stack of twisted steel and burned plants. The firemen tried to search it, the ruins, looking for both survivors and signs of what had caused such destruction. According to their radio, though, they had found nothing. No one.

No one, she mused, already making her way back to the bike. If you were worth of anything, Selina berated herself, you would go there and you would search… search until you found him. Or not. Because, maybe, he wasn't there.

Maybe Deathstroke wasn't dead.

"Miss Kyle?" It was Alfred calling her. He had a cup of coffee in one of his hands, offering it to Selina with a kind smile.

"Thank you, Alfred…" She rubbed both her eyes. "I must have dozed off."

"Yes, you did. Just for a few minutes, though."

Drinking from the plastic cup, Selina discovered the coffee was sour and warm. Still, it was what she had to help keep her awake, and she gladly drank it all.

"Did you find what you were looking for, miss?"

Alfred's voice also sounded tired and hoarse.

"No", she answered, looking at the empty cup in her hands. "It was all for nothing."

"Well", the butler pondered, "not for nothing… you got someone to help you with that bloody wound you had in your arm, didn't you?"

She thought of Leslie, and how she had, recklessly, involved the gentle woman in her messy life. That hadn't been planned, but Selina wondered if there was a better option: she needed help with her wounds, Leslie lived close to the park, and she just couldn't risk piloting a motorcycle around dressed as Catwoman and still bleeding from a bullet wound. It had been a judgment call – perhaps not the best one, but it had served her purposes, at least for the moment.

And if nothing happened to Leslie, maybe things would be just fine.

"Mr. Pennyworth?"

The inquiry had come from a man that had entered the hall in confident, firm steps. He halted while still a few feet away from them, hands inside his jacket's pockets. He was in his mid-forties, slightly overweight, his messy hair cut short. That, and his clothes – dark grey, worn out suit, cheap tie, ruffled white shirt – denounced who he was.

"Oh", Selina spoke, smiling politely, "you're from the police, I assume."

The man nodded:

"That's right." He took a few more steps towards them and reached his right hand. "Detective Gerard Stephen."

"And I'm Alfred Pennyworth." Accepting the handshake the detective offered, Alfred rose from his seat. "What can I do for you, detective?"

"Well, sir", Stephen said as his face turned from gentle to grave in a split second, "you could start by telling me who shot your boss."

He opened his eyes to find out that everything hurt.

There were bright lights all over, strange, distant sounds around him. He tried to raise his hand to his face, only to find out he couldn't.

He tried to speak, and then he was aware, very aware of the tube inside his throat.

Ruffled voices around him.

"… waking up already…"

"… should be sedated…"

"… too soon for him to be extubated…"

"… call the doctor…"

There was movement around him, and he realized he was lying down, wrists strapped, pain in several places of his body. He struggled, struggled against the slowness of his mind, the dizziness, the thing in his throat. His limbs were heavy, his head weighted a ton, his chest on fire at every breath… and he fought, he fought those restrains, he gagged from the tube in his mouth.

"… hold him down…"

"… tighter! These restrains have to be tighter…"

There were cold hands pushing him down, the unpleasant touch and unfamiliar voices. Memories, thoughts, images: he heard laughs, coming from far away… a pale clown's face. Fire, fire that burned, Rachel's screams, the sounds of shots, his dead mother… Not real, he told himself. It couldn't be real. It couldn't be true.

It was all true. It had happened, it had all happened, and bats flew around him, and he felt fear and comfort. And pain.

He wanted to scream, and he wanted to throw up, and he wanted the thing in his throat out, out right now, and he pulled his arm until he heard the sounds of something breaking, the bed under him shaking violently, shocked screams around him. Let me go, he wanted to say, I must go, I've to go, let me go, let me out…

He felt his face wet, sweat and tears, his eyelids forcing themselves shut… but he would not allow. No. Not the darkness. Not again. No…

And then, there were warm, gentle, soft palms on his face.

"Bruce", he heard. A muffled sound, a whisper traveling from far away. "Bruce, listen…"

That was his name. Bruce. Yes, he was Bruce, and also someone else…

"Please, calm down…", asked the voice. Her voice. A familiar, lovely sound.

There it was: her face. Blurred and unclear, a shadow, nothing but the brightness of her emerald green eyes burned into his mind. Her smell. Sweet, sweet scent, her hand over his chest, and he was aware of his beating, pounding heart.

Alive. He was alive.

"It's okay… listen to me, listen to my voice…"

She was close, so close, right there, and he did what she asked: he focused in her voice, following it through the dark, spiraling tunnels of his mind.

"They can't take you out of the ventilator, Bruce, not just yet…" Sorrow. There was sorrow there, in her voice, in her eyes, in the way she seemed to apologize and ask, beg to him:

"Just let go, Bruce… Just… sleep…"

She was holding his hand now, hissing sounds and beepings, other voices, all fading away as he watched her come closer, closer to him, the warmth of her body over his arm, her soft cheek brushing his…

Her lips lightly kissing his forehead.

And then, darkness.

Doctor Thomas Elliot was having a bad day, and he eagerly wished someone would pay for that.

He hadn't slept for a single second the whole night – Talia's visit had upset him to no end. Invading his house, decapitating his prisoner, disrupting his life. Trying to bossy him around. Hiring mercenaries to deal with something they had agreed, agreed to deal in very, very different manner…

"If Batman can't deal with hired guns", she had explained, "he is not worthy of my attention."

Fuck your attention, he wanted to tell her. To hell with your plans, and your schemes, and your craziness.

If not for that whore Selina Kyle, he would be in a better position to do to Talia what she deserved. Oh, how sweet if he could just take the scalpel she had used to kill the girl and turn it against her… How delightful if he could just slowly peel her soft skin from her flesh, if he could just cut her tongue off and make her swell it…

Someday.

Not that night, though.

That night, he had to simply watch her while she spoke, he had to endure her insults and orders. He knew little, almost nothing about Talia, and he was pretty sure that most of what she had told him was lies. That woman had secrets and tricks, resources, skills. She had aces in her sleeve, and he wouldn't risk any moves before being sure of his victory. That was his game style; it had always been.

After Talia had left his house, Tommy had went to the bathroom and taken a cold shower, screaming in rage while doing it. That had helped – he felt lighter and calmer, able to deal with the most pressing matters in his life. Before morning came, he had already sutured his thigh – over thirty stitches, thanks a lot, Selina, you bitch – and went down stairs to deal with the girl's body.

What a fucking mess, he thought to himself as he started to chop her limbs. He would have to change his beloved modus operandi this time, much to his dismay. There was usually a very pleasing moment when he placed the body in a certain way, and looked at it for a precise amount of time, and then, when he heard the news about the police finding it, he would be able to picture it and rejoice about it. Now? Now it was all gone. Talia ruined it, ruined it completely, and he had to dispose of the body quickly, before it started to smell bad and rot…

He had finished with the girl around seven A.M., and felt completely exhausted. He called the hospital and said he wasn't feeling well, and that he shouldn't be disturbed. He hated that, hated giving his patients to those stupid residents and imbecile colleagues, hated that he had to tell people he was sick – such a mundane, dumb thing… he never got sick, and he loved that. It made him feel powerful and infallible, untouchable, more than human.

But he was human, too human, it seemed. Those whores had reminded him of that, and now he wished nothing more than to get rid of the both of them, in very painful and torturing ways. But that was for later. After he had slept for a few hours.

And so he did, in the darkness of his room, feeling safe under the thought that no Batman and no Catwoman could venture outside in the daylight. They were vampires, creatures of the night, aberrations, unable to walk the real world like ordinary people… and that was his advantage. Because he was still Thomas Elliot and, as far as the world was concerned, he had nothing to hide.