Chapter 25: Bleed Well

"You had demons to kill, within you screaming.

With a gun loaded with guilt, you opened their eyes.

Love preys the living, and praises the dead.

In the heart of our hearts, by death we were wed."

His car's wheels shredded, harsh against the asphalt as they screeched to a halt, his foot slammed against the brake. Three hours of sleep over four days wasn't enough. The thump, the hard force on the bumper of the car had slammed him into the steering wheel, billowing the airbag forcefully against him, shoving him back and pinning him to the seat briefly. He felt the split skin on his forehead stinging numbly, blood trickling down his brow. Blinking away the black spots before his eyes, his hands fumbled against the seat belt latch as he released it, stumbling out of the car. Excuses already bounced around his brain. There were witnesses—that girl, whoever she was, she jumped out in front of him—they would confirm that, surely.

They had accumulated around the car already, shrieking in panic and worry, shouting indistinctly to one another, to him. He tried to tune in, but heard nothing past the surging blood sound in his ears. As he shut the door behind him, he tried desperately to walk straight, rounding the car with his hand trailing against the hot metal of the hood.

A nightmare with the weight of a freight train crashed directly into his last hope. He'd found her. He'd certainly found her. She lay on her back, bleeding profusely from a wide open gash that stretched from her thigh to her hip. It had missed her femoral artery, a fact for which he was thankful, though it may have made no difference. Bruises had formed around the gash and against her hip, up her side and stomach where they stood out harshly on her tan skin. Jonathan heard nothing but the horror of white noise and blood as he fell to his knees beside her.

Her white blonde hair shone silver under the overcast sky, fanned out around her head like a halo. Hands shaking, he undid his belt, fastening it tightly around her upper thigh to cease the bleeding. Her eyes fluttered open in response to the contact, gaze settling on his face with equal shock and relief. She could hear his quiet mumble separate from the cacophony of the crowd, his rushed repetition of "please don't die." She could feel, through the electric throbbing of her skin and bones, her warm blood as it stuck to her skin, pooling around her. If her pain hadn't laced itself into every nerve in her body, she would have guessed she was dead.

He was there. He was there, above her, with his pale eyes and dark hair, his high cheekbones and barely discernible freckles. He looked like a panicked angel, thrown into overdrive as he begged her to live. She nearly choked on her words, gasping against the pain as she tried to sit up. His arms held her steadily, trying to save her from the possible peril of muscle use. She smiled slightly, nearly drunk from the raw pain in her side. She winced, struggling for words, clasping a hand onto his shoulder. She felt desperate relief, hoping to herself that if she did die, she would remember this feeling as her last. She hoped that the golden, glowing feeling of relief she felt in his arms would alleviate the pain.

"Missed you." She whispered painfully. Jonathan's relief choked him into momentary silence, drawing all the words from his mind. He brushed her hair back, barely noticing his hands were stained by her blood. She seemed barely conscious.

"I missed you too." He whispered back. "An ambulance is coming. You're not going to die." He carefully stroked his thumb along her cheekbone as a siren's wailing crawled nearer. Ava's hearing faded with her vision.

I guess I forgive him for all those things.

Her loss of blood was putting her to sleep, turning the hard asphalt into down beneath her.

"I forgive you." She said tiredly. "I'm awful."

An exasperated, delighted, relieved, pained grin crossed Jonathan's face, cutting through the worry in his eyes. Whatever he said next fell on deaf ears as she passed out.

The hospital bed felt endless. Tilted to recline and armed with what seemed like an infinite amount of soft, white sheets, it was made even more comfortable by the morphine drip slid into her arm. That, and the man beside her bed.

The drug from the IV flowed freely through her blood, carrying with it lightness, and calm. Ava's long lashes fluttered open drowsily. They must have given me more. Good. The thick, raw throbbing in her leg was missing. She let her head roll lazily to the side, her gaze falling on something that mad her smile. As she shifted to look at him, there was a hard stab of pain in her ribs. They feel cracked. She groaned, settling on tilting her head to look at him. Somehow, she wanted to thank him for hitting her with his car.

He was in the chair beside her bed, forehead resting on his balled fist, asleep. He looked uncomfortable, like he'd been there for hours. The sounds from outside the room were dull, toned down. They were the quiet murmurs of people accustomed to being quiet. It's nighttime.

Ava took a moment to assess herself. Gently pulling up the pale blue hospital gown, she looked at the ribs on her left side. Heavy, sensitive looking bruises, splotched across her skin in solid shades of purple and blue. Stoically, she poked at one with her index finger. Her teeth clenched in response to the contact as she gave a small, choked groan.

Jonathan's eyes opened suddenly, in surprise and concern. He blinked slowly before his brow creased once more. She'd frozen, still holding up her gown to expose her ugly bruises. She bit her lip, smiling at him with a look between pain and amusement.

"Hey." She said. Her voice was soft, timid from disuse. Jonathan stretched over the arm of the chair to get his glasses from where they'd fallen to put them back on. His eyes flickered over her face in an attempt to store an image of her smiling away in his mind. He swallowed slightly.

"I love you." He said bluntly. He was worried, though he found his relief outweighed it. He watched her as she glanced down, dropping her gown to toy with her hands. She smiled, brightly, nearly hysterically spontaneous.

"I love you, too." She said. Her smile radiated the first genuine joy she'd felt in weeks. It was vibrant, warm inside her chest. Her fingertips tingled with it, warm through her bones. I never thought he'd be the type. She chewed her lip. "Why do you say it? I mean, why now?" She asked. The distance from her bed to his chair felt like miles as she waited.

"I realized it was true." He said, surprised, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. She noticed, then, that it was. If she had known him before she'd come along, she would have seen it in a second. It was as though Jonathan Crane had been transformed into someone with feelings. The sickly, nauseating grief that had hovered around her since her sister's death felt alleviated. She was replaced with the golden light of relief—it mixed with the medical delight of the morphine to bring her to a place where, for once, her nerves could settle.

"Can you come here?" She asked, surprised that it had taken her quite so long. He nodded, stiffly getting up from the chair to sit on the bed beside her. He was careful not to touch her, afraid she would be in pain. She spared the same concern to grab his shirt and yank him closer, pulling them both to lie down facing each other. She passed off her pained groan as a slight cough as she dropped off of her elbow. Her pain abated in a moment, replaced by the purest satisfaction she'd ever imagined as he wrapped his arms around her. She shut her eyes for a moment to breathe in the content silence.

"I was trying to kill myself." She said hesitantly into his chest, waiting for a response. Jonathan fought through his muttering mind for words.

"I won't…insult you by asking why." He said tightly, spreading his fingertips across her back as his heartbeat thumped close to hers. "I'll just…ask that you never try again. I know that if you did…you'd get it right." He said.

"I do love you, Jonathan." She whispered. "I've been wanting to tell you for so goddamn long. I was just…worried."

"Worried?" He asked, genuine shock in his voice. "Why?"

Ava smiled, shaking her head slightly.

"You're intimidating, dummy." She said softly.

"To you?"

"Of course. I…you're everything that I didn't know I wanted. You're older, smarter, you…you don't operate like other people. It's the first time I'm not in control of a relationship and it is terrifying." She laughed. Jonathan. In the silence of his own surprise, listened to her quiet breathing.

"You know, I've never loved anyone before. Never even said it out loud. The words never even occurred to me." He said. "You have nothing to be afraid of. Not anymore than I do."

"I have lots to be afraid of." She muttered after a long pause. "It's just that you aren't one of them." She closed her eyes, focusing on the feeling of his fingertips against her skin.

"I suppose you do." He sighed. "I'm sorry for that. A fair amount of it is probably my fault."

"Yeah. It probably is. But we both know it'd happen one way or the other." She grinned and curled an arm into him. "I mean, if it isn't you, it's me—starting bar fights and committing crimes. Really, it's all part of the lifestyle."

"The lifestyle?"

"Yeah. The lifestyle often pursued by people with my emotional problems."

"Mmmm. Sure."

There was a pause, relaxed and easy, aided by morphine and reunion.

"I'm not staying here." Ava pointed out, daring him to challenge her.

"I can't stop you from leaving, but I find it shocking that you wouldn't take advantage of the morphine drip." He said pointedly. She hesitated.

"Maybe I'll steal it."

"Or, we could just stay, like normal people."

"I have some earth-shattering news for you, Jonathan, but we aren't normal people."

"Thank you for the insight. I would never have known." He muttered in sleepy sarcasm. "My point is that the people who work here are already suspicious, and leaving with their morphine isn't going to make us look any better."

"Wait, why are they suspicious?" She asked in surprise.

"Well. You're, er, famous, and I ran you over, and I've been in your hospital room for two days waiting for you to wake up—"

"Two days?" She interrupted, shocked. "I've been unconscious for—oh my God."

He faltered, unsure of how to continue.

"Two days?" She asked again. He nodded in confirmation and she rolled herself onto her back. He remained leaning on his elbow. She chewed her lower lip in thought. "Alright. We're leaving." She said decisively, forcing herself to sit up with a slight groan.

Jonathan checked his watch, following suit to sit up.

"It's two thirty in the morning." He said. "They're going to notice us."

"Let them." She mumbled. "What're you, my mom?" She asked sarcastically. He raised his eyebrows in surprised amusement.

"They're going to attempt to stop us." He emphasized.

"That may be, but we're both murderers." She said, wincing as she drew the needle out of the crook of her arm. She tugged off the pale blue hospital gown and began to pull on her own clothes, having found them folded on a chair. "If you're so adamantly opposed, maybe we should jump down from the window."

"We're on the third floor." He said. "We could do that, if we wanted to both get injured. We could be hospitalized together this time." He said.

"Romantic." She affirmed, tugging down her sweater. Amused, Jonathan leaned against the wall.

"You have a very skewed perception of romance." He noted.

"That would certainly explain a lot." She mused, rising from the bed to walk over to him, bag over her shoulder. "Ready to leave?" She asked. He nodded reluctantly as she eased the door open, walking confidently into the hall. A passing nurse looked quizzically at the pair as they shut the door behind them.

"What are you doing here?" The woman asked. She was short, motherly looking, with dark skin and warm eyes. She looked tired. For a moment, Ava felt bad for lying to her.

"Oh, we were just waiting for her to fall asleep before we left." She said sweetly. The woman's brow furrowed slightly in confusion.

"But you're—"

Ava faked a moment of confusion for their improvised miscommunication, before acting as if the clouds had parted to bring her understanding.

"Oh, no, love, I'm sorry—I'm her sister." She smiled warmly. The woman's eyes brightened as she nodded slowly.

"Oh, okay…" she hesitated.

"Have a nice night, ma'am!" Ava said, walking down the long hall. Jonathan followed, amused.

"What happens when she goes to check on you and you're gone?" He asked conversationally.

"She doubts herself and her life spirals downward?" She suggested. They walked down the back stairs, slipping through illuminated exit doors in easy silence. Finally, stepping into the dark nighttime, they could breathe easier.

"So," she began shyly, "how have you been?" She asked.

"Just, ah, ran over my girlfriend." He murmured. "The usual."

"I always told you you're a terrible driver."

"You never said that." He pointed out.

"I thought it."

"Before or after I hit you?"

"During." She said haughtily.

He smiled faintly, unable to glance back away from her. There was a very limited list of things in the great miracle of the universe that had managed to capture Jonathan's attention. Even fewer of them had managed to hold it for any length of time. She had not failed once, and it perplexed him beyond words. She wasn't, so to speak, unheard of. She was eccentric, she was a murderer, she was attractive. She was unique in these things, but she wasn't an anomaly. She fell within a bell curve, however narrow. One usually reserved for people he had no interest in. (Though, until recently, that had been everyone.) But now, where they were, the bell curve did not matter. It was a waste of time, psychoanalyzing himself to find and answer he didn't really need. He had felt what being alone was now. With a basis for comparison, he saw the difference between solitude and loneliness.

Scarecrow was finally waking up from his pill induced slumber, in the far corners of his mind. Jonathan was glad that he'd missed the internal monologue. He didn't need to be berated. He'd already had to face his repressed, rash, sick subconscious. It occurred to him that he was staring.

"What?" She asked, catching his gaze.

"Nothing." He hesitated. "I was wondering why it had to be you." He said. It didn't occur to him that his statement could be construed in any other way. She put a hand to her chest in mock offense.

"Rude." She said with a smile.

"I meant—" he started, before she stopped walking and grabbed his shirt.

"I know what you meant." She said, laughing and gently tugging on the shirt. "I think about it, too. You don't seem like someone who cares about people, really. I'm not special. I was a coincidence." She shrugged. "I don't regret…ninety-five percent of it." She said.

"Which five percent do you regret?" He asked skeptically.

"Well…Naomi dying…and, er, the few days before you hit me with your car."

"You don't regret me hitting you with my car, then?"

"I'd rather think of it as a growing experience."

His eyes, if for a moment, were warm. He bent to her height to kiss her, and tried to show her his regret, unprecedented adoration. He hoped it made it through.

From the roof of the apartments across the street, he watched. They left the hospital like normal people. Like a couple. They spoke in soft, conversational tones. Beneath his cape and cowl, Bruce Wayne shivered. The little adopted girl he'd met at fundraisers when she was fourteen was with Jonathan Crane. It had taken him more than a confrontation to recognize her in the woman she'd become. That night, when he'd shoved her to the car and demanded answers, he did not recognize her. It was much later when he did. It was when she was on TV. When the younger sister died at his home. She was not who he remembered, who she once was. She wasn't jumpy, frightened, she wasn't a wary child anymore. How could she look so much older? Her eyes were darker, somehow. Her gaze met you dead in the eye, unwavering. She was strong. She was intimidating. Something, whatever it is that makes someone approachable, was gone. Now, he understood why.

He'd seen it in court, heard it from Rachel: Jonathan Crane had no morals. He was interested in self-preservation and made no effort for anyone else. But yet, here he was. It occurred to Bruce that, perhaps Ava was a victim of some sort. Stockholm Syndrome, maybe. How happy she looked. Why were they at this hospital to begin with? They spoke easily, more easily than either of them did to anyone else. From his place on the roof, he could see Ava laugh at something. Something, something was permanently changed in her. Her eyes, demeanor—even when laughing, she was icy. The doctor kissed her, and even at his distance, sunk into the shadows, Bruce could see the honesty in it. Ava's hands were clenching his shirt, his hands delicately laced into her hair. Bruce Wayne's brow creased. Things were changing.

A/N: "Bleed Well" by HIM. Yeah. Sorry for the wait, all!