Bruce pressed himself farther into the corner of the GCPD holding cell, extending the distance between himself and the guy sitting across from him on the bench. Far beyond the fact that the man smelled simply awful, having been brought in for a drunken disorderly and not helped to clean the vomit off of himself, he was not a man that Bruce wanted to be sitting next to. The tattoo on his shoulder of five spades, the kind you would see on a playing card, marked him as a fairly low ranking member of the Royal Flush Gang, one of Gotham's local groups of 'talent', if you could stretch your definition of the word that far.

The Flushes weren't exactly organized crime, being better known for petty theft and intimidation tactics. That, and Bruce just couldn't get over their fucking name. He could see how Royal Flush was almost clever, what with the built in symbology that a card motif gave you, and how it let their leaders call themselves things like King without sounding entirely megalomaniacal, but did they really have to shorten it to Flushes? He couldn't count the number of times he'd seen a fight break out because a member of some rival gang had said the word in the wrong tone of voice. Hell, some of those times it'd actually been unintentional. At any rate, it was hard for Bruce to really respect the group, and disrespect tended to result in broken jaws in Gotham.

It was of great relief to him when the door to the cell finally swung open and one of the boys in blue told him he was being let out. He tried to straighten his jeans, shirt, and hair before stepping into the precinct's lobby and saw exactly what he'd been expecting. Namely, a very irritated looking young lawyer. He put on his best 'charming goofball' smile as he pulled his friend into an embrace, "Harvey! Knew you'd come through."

Harvey Dent paused before returning the hug, "You're paying me back for this Bruce. It's bad enough just knowing that you'd convince me to get you off on self defense again pro-bono if you had been actually charged for assault."

"It was self defense, and you're a public defender Harvey, you're not exactly making bank on paid cases."

"Ignoring that last part," Harvey said with a warning tone, "And you broke the guy's wrist."

"I broke that dangerous hooligan's wrist," Bruce corrected, "as precaution to keep him from punching me in the face. Again."

"You provoked him."

"He was a gangbanger."

"Was he committing any crimes at the time? Did you document them? Did you attempt to contact the authorities to deal with the situation? Did you do any of the numerous things that any sane human being would have been before, according to the report that you filed with the police, calling him an inbred asshole?"

"Who's lawyer are you?"

"You don't pay me! And you were hardly helping your case by giving them that level of detail."

"That's what happened!"

"That's not the point Bruce!" Harvey yelled suddenly. He took a moment to calm himself down, "You can't keep going around acting like there aren't consequences for this kind of behavior. Sooner or later you're going to get yourself stabbed, or put in prison and then stabbed. Either way, you're going to get into trouble I can't talk you out of. So the least you could do is use your right to remain silent until I get there."

Bruce opened his mouth to respond, but didn't find any words coming forth. Harvey was right, of course, and he knew that. It didn't change that he felt right. He couldn't just let a guy pass by when he knew that he had done so much evil. Proof or no, he knew that guy had been responsible for a break in down the road from Bruce's favorite bar a few nights previous. He'd practically been bragging about it. Guy like that would have had a rap sheet too: the same list of assault charges as Bruce had, but likely armed robbery and gang offenses as well, maybe even rape. Maybe muggings. He shook himself from that line of thought, "Sorry Harv."

"I'm just glad they kept you in a different cell from the guy you were fighting this time."

"Yeah… those cops really didn't like me last time. Probably shouldn't-"

"Don't. Don't even finish whatever boneheaded thing you were about to say just then Bruce. Let's just get out of here. I'll give you a ride back to your apartment."

The trip from the precinct to Bruce's building was tense. He was lucky to have Harvey, even when their personalities started to clash. They'd grown up together after Bruce's parents had died, a few doors down from each other in the same apartment building. As time had gone on, Harvey had managed to put himself through law school and accrue a mountain of student debt while Bruce never managed to hold on to any job for very long at all. For a while he'd thought he was meant to become a police officer, but that dream was qualshed when he failed the psych portion of the academy's entrance exam. Even that sad attempt was enough to get him a bit of a reputation with a lot of the people he knew as someone who might squeal to the police, a reputation he worked hard to get rid of. It was hard to get close to people when they didn't think they could trust you, whether your heart was in the right place or no.

As a result, Bruce's circle of friends was a rather small one, and he wasn't particularly close to all the people that he did count as a part of it. So it was a small miracle that he not only knew a lawyer, but knew one that would put up with his shit and actually help him out when he was in a bind, which was more often than he'd like to admit. It had taken him some time to realize that, even though he thought he was in the right in most cases, it was still almost always a good idea to just not get arrested in the first place. It had taken him a while after that to get good enough to actually escape arrest, not just resist it. Still, he would now and again wind up in this exact situation, and it was at these times that knowing Harvey was a real blessing. Which would all be well and good if he could articulate it in a way that didn't make him sound like a bit of a wimp.

Instead he just thanked Harvey for the ride, making a quick quip about the way he was dressed that he couldn't even remember a few moments later, and began to bog his way up the stairs of his apartment complex. It was fast approaching one in the morning and he had had a trying day to say the least. He wanted nothing more than to tear off his clothes in a blind stupor and fall asleep before he had even hit the surface of his bed, but it would seem that the universe had something else in store for him, since he had barely passed the door of one of his neighbors from down the hall when the shouting that he'd gotten used to ignoring from that particular apartment gave way to a loud crash.

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and turned around and made his way back to the door in question. He paused, willing himself to just ignore all this and go to bed, before finally giving into his instincts and rapping on the door. The noise from inside the apartment went quiet for a minute, and nobody came to the door. When he was sure that they were trying to ignore him, he knocked again, harder. After a few more seconds, the door swung open and a girl yelled out, "What the hell do you- oh, hey Bruce."

Selina Kyle leaned against the door frame. She was dressed in torn jeans and a white tank-top, her black bra clearly visible underneath. Bruce was fairly confident that Selina made a conscious effort to dress that way, as if to make a statement. The jeans weren't pre-torn, but those weren't regular wear and tear either. If he had to bet, Bruce would say that she'd took a pair of scissors or something to them herself. Her black hair was cropped short, a messy style likely done with the same pair of scissors as she was using on the jeans. What really stood out in her appearance, however, was a fresh looking bruise on her clavicle.

"Hey, pervert," Selina snapped her fingers in front of Bruce's eyes, "My eyes are up here. What the hell do you want, banging on our door, do you know what time it is?"

"I do, which is why I was surprised to hear so much shouting. Is Thomas in?"

Selina unconsciously reached up for her shoulder, brushing against the bruise, "Huh? Oh, yeah. We were just… talking."

"Sounded pretty loud for talking."

"Yeah? Well why don't you mind your own fucking beeswax?"

"Listen, Selina, if you need help, you can tell me. Or just blink twice, if it's that sort of situation."

Selina stared at him for a second, "What the shit are you talking about Bruce? Get the fuck out of here. Nobody asked you to butt into other people's business okay?"

"I just want to make sure that you're alright."

"Hey!" A voice came from deeper in the apartment as a tall, broad shouldered man stepped into the doorway behind Selina, "The lady said to fuck off." Thomas Blake, Selina's boyfriend, was dressed almost identically to his girlfriend. He had a tight white t-shirt, that a less in shape man would never dare to put on, and a pair of jeans. Aside from the obvious lack of bra and the relative intactness of his pants, they couldn't have synchronized their outfits better if they had tried. Hell, maybe they did, but they didn't really strike Bruce as that kind of couple.

"Technically, the lady asked me to get the fuck out of here, but point made," Bruce acquiesced, putting his hands up in defeat, "I heard a crash, and I wanted to make sure everything was alright. If I'm not needed, then I'm not needed. God knows I don't need another excuse to go and get some sleep."

Before they could retort in any way, Bruce turned and made his way back down the hall to his own apartment. He heard the door shut at about the time that he started to dig around for his keys. He found them pretty quickly, one of the benefits of having had your belongings returned to you less than an hour ago, and stumbled into his apartment. He had his shirt off before he had even gotten to the bedroom, and caught a whiff of himself. Maybe he should take a shower before going to bed. One, or one plus however long that exchange had taken, wasn't really that late anyway. Then again, it had been an irritating day and he just wanted it done with. He raised the shirt to his nose and sniffed. Okay then, definitely going to want to take a shower.

He headed into the bathroom and began to run water through the showerhead. The heating in the building was shit and it'd take a minute for it to reach a temperature he was comfortable stepping into, so he began running water in the sink as well and splashed some on his face. He had one shoe off and the other in hand when he heard a second, larger crash come from the hallway. He didn't even stop to turn off the running water before running into the hallway.

He made his way down the hall and began to bang on the door to Selina and Thomas' apartment again, to no avail. He slammed his fist against the door even harder as the shouting continued. When he heard the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor, that was the last straw. He began to throw himself against the door with all of his weight until the wood around the lock finally splintered and he half ran, half fell into the apartment.

The scene that lay out before him was not exactly what he had been expecting. Well, it was almost what he's been expecting, but there was one major difference. He burst into his neighbor's apartment, shirtless, shoe in hand, being wielded like it was some sort of weapon, to see Selina holding a broken lamp and standing over the prone form of Thomas Blake, who was holding his hand over his eye.

The room was quiet for a second as both the apartment residents and Bruce took in the unexpected sights before them. The brief pause seemed to stretch on into infinity before being broken by Selina's cry of "What the holy fucking shit Bruce?! Did you just break down our door?"

Bruce didn't know how to respond, eventually going with, "I… I thought that you were…"

"You thought what Bruce? We told you to screw off!"

Thomas, by this point, had partially recovered and was pulling himself into a sitting position, "You're going to have to pay for the door man."

"She was just! And I thought!"

"I can take care of myself Bruce!" Selina shot back at his half formed protests.

"Can he?"

"Why don't you butt out Wayne," Thomas said from his spot on the ground, "Stop trying to play the hero and mind your own goddamn business." He began to pull himself to his feet and walk to the kitchen, or rather kitchen area.

"Seriously Bruce," Selina picked up the lecture where her boyfriend had left off, "When people tell you to let them alone, actually fucking do it for more than, what's it been, like ten minutes?"

Thomas returned from the kitchen with a sizable slab of steak being held up to the eye he'd previously been cupping on the floor, "Is he still here? Go home Wayne." Bruce nodded slowly, then began to head out the door, pulling it as shut as it would stay with the broken lock, "And I'm sending you the fucking bill for the fucking door!"

Bruce got back to his apartment, realizing with a start that he'd left both the shower and the faucet running while he'd been gone and quickly shut them off. With the cost of the broken door, he could hardly afford a huge water bill that month, or the next few. He almost wanted to not pay for the repairs, so Thomas would call the cops and he and Selina would have to explain the situation, but that wasn't really how things worked in Gotham. No, if he didn't pay Thomas back, Thomas would get some of his buddies and come to beat Bruce up.

He was tempted to call the police himself to report the pair for domestic violence, but he'd been shaking that impression for years now. Besides, he wasn't even sure how they'd handle this sort of case. Didn't make a lot of sense to put both of them in prison, and if neither of them agreed to press charges there was no way there'd be a restraining order involved, for either party. Really, this was honestly and truly fucked. Yes, seriously fucked enough to justify three different synonyms for truth. Plus those two just then.

A shower was no longer a reasonable goal. He was going to pass out and wait for tomorrow to decide what to do. Or rather, wait to decide whether he was going to do anything. They had, after all, asked him numerous times and in numerous ways not to involve himself. If he did decide to ignore their wishes, which he probably would, then it would be time to figure out what exactly he could actually do about it, which then might prove to be nothing.

That was an awful lot of thinking to look forward to, and thinking about all that thinking was enough to keep his mind busy as he drifted off to sleep. With any luck, that would be enough things to think about to distract him all day tomorrow so he wouldn't have to worry about looking for a new job. Turns out that when you punch a customer, you get fired, even from your favorite bar. So today had been a learning experience, and with any luck the lesson would actually stick the forth or fifth time that he was taught it, cause it sure as hell wasn't going to stick this time. Maybe it was less a matter of punching customers at work, and more a matter of having the wrong job in which to be punching customers at work. That sort of behavior may have lost him his job as a bar back, but if he had time tomorrow after all that thinking he had to do, maybe he'd head back to the bar and apply as a bouncer.