Chapter 7: Homecoming: Part 2
Fandom: Gotham TV
Pairing: Bruce/Selina
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Rating: M
Bruce
Even before his parents death Bruce had never slept much. His mother had teased him about how as young as three she would often find him wandering the halls in the predawn hours. The first time, convinced he had been abducted, she'd nearly screamed the house down searching for him, only to find him sleeping under the desk in his father's study. It wasn't unusual to find him in the green house or the wine cellar, or wherever he could wander off to.
And he liked to wander. A lot.
His house was old, one of the oldest buildings in the incorporated city limits. It hadn't always been, but cities needed to grow and change and saving a few old buildings wasn't high on the city councils priority list, so they were demolished and their property redistributed to dummy corporations for "warehouses" and "factories."
Researching his family home hadn't brought up much. The blueprints to the main house had been destroyed long ago, probably in one of Gotham's many natural or unnatural disasters, and the few historians he'd contacted couldn't give him any more information than what he had already known. Anything he wanted to find out, he was going to have to dig it up himself. Which wasn't really a problem, curiosity came naturally to him.
It was that tendency toward inquisitiveness that impelled him to explore his cavernous house, finding nooks and crannies and servants passages forgotten by people and time. Behind the walls of his family home was a labyrinth of channels and secrets and he was perfectly content with discovering them on his own. One of the many sentiments, Alfred did not share with him.
It wasn't that Alfred didn't support him per say, it's just that their ideas on testing one's limits differed… Greatly.
Sighing, Bruce paused in the stairwell, his gaze landing on the snow covered pool below. Between the predawn light and the heavy snow, his gardens were a mix of lavender and grey an ethereal world that was unfamiliar to him. Perfectly pruned hedges, massive sculptures, even the brick wall that encompassed the property was unrecognizable, just a solid blanket of white.
He knew he should tell Alfred what he had planned, but he knew it would only lead to a fight. Alfred tolerated his training to a point. Only a point.
How was he supposed to conquer his fears when in the back of his mind he knew Alfred would always find him, always find a way to save him.
His exploits into self-discipline had only grown in intensity over the last two years boxing, fencing, linguistics. No, two skills were alike and if Alfred couldn't teach him it didn't take long to find some instructor willing to take Wayne money. Diverse stimulation was important, and he didn't want any part of his training found wanting.
He was still hesitant when it came to firearms. Researching the different types, how they worked, how they didn't, still made his throat tight so he wasn't sure if he would ever be able to hold one, much less fire it.
He went elsewhere when it came to more unconventional skills though that conduit took a little more than cash. Selina Kyle had her own unique skill set and unfortunately she had never been impressed by his name or his wealth, but she liked to wager and she liked to play games. All kinds of games.
He clamped his jaw at the thought of her, his eyes roving over to the banister, before they moved back to the window. He didn't have time for any stray thoughts, the wind was beginning to pick up, the ice and snow making harsh sounds against the glass. If he waited any longer he might talk himself out of it, or more than likely he would let Alfred talk him out of it.
The idea had come to him in the middle of the night; there in that in-between his mind had been drifting, hazy images and half-remembered conversations floating past his inner-eye. At some point his mind had conjured the idea of cold and ice and the places it could push the human body.
Winter always settled in Gotham like an unwelcome house guest, but unlike the previous year he refused to give up his runs. At first his body had rebelled against the treatment, his head aching, his muscles itching from the different training But he knew his body was acclimating, he could feel it growing accustomed to the freezing temperatures, to the weight of the snow at his feet.
So it was inevitable that he would need to take the next step.
Bruce stared down at the pool below him. Cold shock could kill within two minutes, cold incapacitation around fifteen. If he broke the ice and slid in how long could he handle it? Would he need oxygen or comfort first? Could his body uphold such torment?
He didn't want to do this. It was going to hurt, probably worse than the times he had cut himself, worse than the times he had burnt himself, but it had to be done. There was nothing for it. He could train his way around this problem.
Or you could freeze to death mocked a drawling female voice. Like a little billionaire Popsicle.
If she was here he was confident she'd have something derogatory to say about his training methods. And maybe she would be right. Maybe this was all for naught, but he couldn't think about that now. He couldn't think about her either. Not today. He needed to keep his head clear.
Maybe Detective Gordon and Alfred were right. Maybe, she really was fine. Maybe she really did just want her space.
Maybe she really was 'just shacked up with some bloke' as Alfred had offered during his boxing lesson, an opinion that had left Bruce on the ground after he'd thrown an overzealous but easily blocked right hook. Alfred had only chuckled at him as he'd fumed on the ground and reminded him 'to keep his wits!'
Turning from the window he descended the staircase. Getting through his run was going to be hard enough this morning without the anticipation of coming home to pain. Sighing, he took the last two stairs, his trainers whispering across the wood floor.
A growl from his study caused him to pause, his eyes reflexively squinting at the unfamiliar sound. Curiosity pulled him and he turned in that direction, his feet stopping short at the threshold to his study.
The overwhelming smell of blood and cold wet earth assaulted him, the sudden temperature drop like a slap in the face. Wind whipped in from the open doors carrying ice and snow into the study like a white hurricane, growling like an injured beast.
Vaguely aware of the two people hunched together near the fire, he rushed to the double doors, pressing his weight against a single panel, his sneakers slipping against the icy floor. The door barely wavered under the roughly one-hundred and thirty-five pounds he pushed against it and he heard an all too familiar voice yelling behind him.
Changing tactics, he turned his back to the door, hoping to gain better leverage and acknowledge the two beings on the floor. A part of him instinctively registered Alfred, but something warned him against looking at the thing in his arms.
Breath caught in his throat as he stared down at the person. Dark ice clung to her hair her clothes even her eyelashes. Her ears and her eyelids were tinted blue, the small expanses of skin peeking out from beneath the frozen mud and dried blood was impossibly white.
One eye was swollen shut, snow having caught on her eyebrows and eyelashes. Small crystals clung to her sharp cheek bones. Her lips were black and blue, dried blood seeping through the cracks. They didn't tremble, and some lingering thought told him that wasn't a good sign.
Selina. The name made his vision blur, the edges darkening dangerously.
.
Her eyelashes fluttered, head swiveling from side to side, as she made a disgruntled noise.
"Come take her," Alfred growled, his voice rising above the howling wind.
He felt like a robot as he abandoned the door and crossed the room. Alfred was still holding her upright, providing him a place to sit between her and the couch. Carefully, he lowered himself letting his legs stretch out the outside of her thighs brushing the inside of his own.
"Take her," Alfred repeated.
With trembling hands Bruce grabbed her by the arms, the cold from her jacket seeping through his gloves. It felt like time was beginning to slow as Alfred stood and ran behind him. He could hear him struggling to close the door, but the sound was beginning to fade like someone slowly turning the volume down on a radio.
Trying hard to even his breath he stared at the back of Selina's head. Her usually blonde curls were stiff and dark. The grey hood of her jacket, splattered with something the color rust that smelled suspiciously like decay.
"Bloody freaking white-out!" Alfred's hoarse voice boomed through the study causing him to jump. He kneeled in front of them his hands immediately going to Selina's cheeks. "Five more minutes and she would've been a goner."
"What's wrong with her?" he asked, surprised to find his own voice sounding so far away.
"Loads," the older man murmured, and before he could object, Alfred snatched the knit cap off his head placing it over Selina's slowly thawing curls.
Suddenly, Alfred raised moving over to Bruce's desk, shuffling around his papers and books, and opening the drawers.
"What are you doing? Why are we on the floor?" he asked, trying to keep the panic and confusion from his voice.
"You're on the floor, Master Bruce," he explained pausing to open another drawer. "Because a hard surface makes it easier to resuscitate," he answered, sliding the drawer shut with a snap. "And I was looking for something sharp," he finished, holding up a pair of scissors.
Bruce felt his eyes widen as he looked at the older man, but Alfred ignored him as he squatted next to them. He reached for Selina grabbing the lapels of her jacket, when suddenly Bruce felt her squirming under his grip. Her left leg was trying unsuccessfully to kick at Alfred, her arms trying to break free. She briefly reminded him of an animal, something wild and cornered and unaware that they were just trying to help.
"Selina," Alfred said gruffly, and between the tone of his voice and the use of her given name she froze as if it was the first time she was really seeing him. "I'm gonna take your jacket off, if I don't, you'll likely get worse."
She didn't blink or nod her head, but Alfred took it as an invitation none-the-less.
"Master Bruce," he said, very slowly pulling her arm from the sleeve of her jacket. The material made a sickening cracking sound as it pealed away from her dark hoodie.
"How long have you been wearing that?" he asked, gesturing to the black sweatshirt he was wearing.
"I just put it on," he answered numbly, watching as Alfred unsuccessfully tried pulling the frozen zipper down.
"Take it off.," he ordered, grabbing the scissors he brought. "All of it. Shoes too."
Modesty and hubris had no place in an emergency, so trying not to disturb the girl between his legs; Bruce grabbed the collar of his sweatshirt pulling it over his head. He handed it to Alfred, but the older man just threw it onto the pile with the remains of Selina's jacket. .
Alfred removed her boot, seemingly deaf to the grunt Selina made from between her teeth. He pressed the nail beds on her toes and was seemingly satisfied at her reaction as she tried to pull away from him. His fingers grazed her heel, avoiding her ankle which was red and black and swollen to the size of a grapefruit.
At once, Bruce recognized the injury.
"Broken," he mumbled to himself, all too familiar with that kind of pain.
"Seems so," Alfred replied. "But no frost bite. That's good."
Bruce felt himself nod as he bent each leg pulling off his shoe. Selina was sitting obediently as he began cutting away at her black pants. Despite the freeze firming it the usually fitted material didn't cling to her skin and slid off her legs easily. But the more Alfred removed the worse it looked, blood fresh and dried covered most of her legs, her knees a mixture of cuts and bruises. Bruce watched as he began peeling at her dark sweatshirt, but the material suddenly caught on something.
"Forget your socks and hold her still," Alfred ordered.
Bruce quickly wrapped an arm around her middle; her camisole was wet and cold causing his arms to break out in goose bumps. His eyes moved back to the man in front of them. There was a crease between Alfred's eyes, his concentration on the bit of sweatshirt at her shoulder.
Exhaling, Alfred grabbed the dark sweatshirt and without warning swiftly pulled it away. She cried out, her voice hoarse and anguished and like nothing he'd ever heard before. She jerked against his hold her blunted nails digging into his arm, her legs flailing, like she was treading water but Bruce held her tight. Exhausted, she fell back, the back of her head landing painfully against his shoulder and collarbone.
Her helplessness made his stomach clench and he couldn't help himself as he looked away. His attention drifted from the floor splattered with tiny puddles of melted snow, to the fireplace with its dying flames, to even the stupid shiny suit of armor he had insisted on keeping, it drifted everywhere and anywhere but at the nearly unconscious girl on his study floor.
He'd never seen her like this.
Bruised? Yes.
Bloody? A couple of times.
But this… This was…
His heartbeat had grown uncommonly fast, the drumming beginning to drown out the sound of his quick breath. He pulled at the collar of his thermal undershirt, the thin material feeling like a noose against his throat.
Darkness was beginning to creep around the edges of his vision again. Panic tinting everything…
He felt something bracing his arms.
"Take a breath," a calm voice ordered.
Unaware that he'd closed them, Bruce opened his eyes. Alfred was merely inches from him now, his grip holding Bruce by his shoulders.
He could feel his cheeks beginning to burn as Alfred stared down at him but he could ready only concern in the older man's expression. Blue eyes watched his face, waiting for some signal that Bruce couldn't contemplate, before Alfred nodded and let him go.
"Just sit there and keep her up," Alfred ordered, his voice restored to its typical rough and thick tone as his attention returned to the nearly unconscious girl. Looking down, Bruce could see he'd cut away her dirty camisole revealing a yellowing sports bra and pale skin covered in old filth and fresh bruises. Littering her back were fresh cuts mixed with small jagged stones that had not been knocked loose by Alfred's less-than-gentle bedside manner.
From under his black cap, pink rivulets streamed across her wounded cheeks and down her pale throat. Selina had never carried much weight, what little she did was constituted of lean muscle, but that seemed to have been shaved from her bones. He could feel the outline of her ribcage against his forearm, the dotted bones of her spine brushing his chest.
She's only been gone a month, he thought, biting into his bottom lip.
Alfred climbed to his feet again, growing quiet as his movements became very efficient. He walked through the room gathering all the throws Bruce kept on the back of his couches and began trying to cocoon the two of them. He started layering the blankets, leaving the room only to return with more some he left rolled by the fire, but most he added to the mounting pile he'd started on them.
Bruce watched him with an unnerving sense of detachment. He hadn't been born a leader, but one cold night in a dark alley had irrevocably changed that. Training and study was slowly helping to mold him into someone else, so he would never let himself feel that powerless again. But it was a slow process, it needed time, a lot more time than the two years he'd been working toward it allotted.
Naturally he was a problem solver, his first instinct to contain and resolve. It was that intuition that compelled him to follow Alfred on this. There was nothing he could do for her on his own. He couldn't fix this.
"What can I do?" Bruce asked, adjusting his hold on her middle.
"Just sit with her. Talk to her. Keep her conscience," Alfred said, tucking the ends of the blankets around their feet. "But don't try and rub her arms or her legs. Don't try and move her."
Bruce looked up at him as he stood and moved toward the study's door. "Why not?"
Alfred sighed as he looked over his shoulder, "It could stop her heart."
The only sounds were the crackle and pop of the fire beside them and the wheezing girl in his arms. She slumped against him, and he was thankful for the couch behind them or they would've sprawled onto the floor. He knew it was an involuntary reaction, her body instinctively seeking out his warmth, needing his body heat.
He should talk to her. Bruce knew that, but his throat felt tight his tongue too heavy to move. He could barely swallow much less speak. He inhaled deeply, the smell of cold and blood causing bile to creep into his throat. He fought the memories that tried to creep up on him, images of white pearls against asphalt and the shiny barrel of a gun.
Lifelessly her head titled away from him, the tips of her dark curls cold and wet against his throat. One of her arms fell to the floor; somehow escaping from the nest of covers Alfred had wrapped them in.
He gently gripped her wrist, his intention to place it back against her stomach. But something caught his eyes. Past the dried mud he could see a thin bruises forming along her skin as if something had been torn around them. Had her wrists been bound?
Immediately, he gripped her opposite hand bringing it to eye level for inspection. She moved against him, her back pressing into his stomach as she roused. Her skin felt like ice, he could feel it through the jogging pants he still wore.
Lowering her arms, he clenched his jaw, his eyes closing out of frustration. This was the closest he'd ever been to Selina Kyle and he could barely keep himself from being sick.
She titled her head in his direction. One of her eyes was nearly swollen shut. Her usually generous lips, tinted blue and striped black, were parted just enough for him to see the edges of her teeth. Her good eye was impossibly green as she stared back at him, small flecks of dried blood caught on her eyelid and brow.
His stomach felt like it was flipping over as he watched her eye dilate. He couldn't say why, but he knew there was no recognition there.
"You're going to be okay," he explained, his voice low and rough. He tried to swallow and failed, nerves having robbed him of saliva.
"B?" she breathed through chapped lips.
"Yes, Selina," he said, feeling the side of his mouth turn up at her voice, at her recognition. "It's me."
She nodded her head quickly as she stared ahead. Her fingertips lightly gripped his forearms where they rested against her stomach, the weak touch barely a graze before her eyelids fluttered and lowered over her unfocused gaze.
"I don-don-don'twanna die," she mumbled, her lips trembling around the words. He inhaled sharply at the sound of her voice so thin and weak.
"You're not going to die, Cat," he answered, trying to speak over the lump in his throat. "You're too stubborn for that."
"Promise," she asked her voice barely above a whisper.
"I promise."
He pressed his cheek against the top of her head, an image of her frightened eyes making him want to punch something.
She tried to draw her knees up, but remembering Alfred's warning he quickly wrapped a single leg over hers forcing them back to the floor. She started to tremble, her body shaking violently against him. Instinctively he pulled her tighter, one hand cuffing the other wrist as he locked his arms around her middle.
He could hear her teeth chatter, the noise magnified by the silence. He could feel the underside of her breast the fabric of her sports bra stiff and cold against his forearm. Unconsciously, he pushed his chest into her back.
"Selina, you have to stay still," he explained, his lips against her ear.
She didn't respond, her body sagging against him. Immediately, he lessened his grip placing the palm of his hand over her chest, the other against her belly. He held his breath as he waited for his hands to move, to feel something living beneath them. He felt himself smile, as he felt her lungs expand and the faint but steady beating rhythm of her heart.
Sweat was beginning to pool at his temples and the top of his lip. He felt his eyes beginning to unfocused as he stared over her shoulder. He thought he'd stopped asking the universe how and why a long time ago, but as he struggled to stay grounded, to stay in the moment, he couldn't stop the questions racing through his mind.
Where had she come from?
How had this happened?
His eyes drifted to her forgotten clothes. Alfred had cut through most of them and the ice had melted leaving a brown and black puddle of leather and dirty water on the floor.
That was her favorite jacket, he thought absently. She is going to be so angry.
Bruce shook his head. He needed to stay connected to the moment. He needed to know where she had been, who she had been with. Could this have been one of her schemes gone wrong? Had she been double-crossed and left for dead? If so we're they still looking for her.
His forearm against her belly was beginning to warm, and as he turned his head to look around her. He breathed a sigh at the pink tint to her lips. The covers slipped down, baring her shoulder. Automatically he went to readjust it when his fingers brushed something warm and sticky. The mere feel of it causing his stomach to roll.
He didn't need to see it, didn't need to smell it to know what was coating his fingers. Gritting his teeth he slowly pulled the blanket from their bodies. A rivulet of red ran down her arm, her chest, her side, coating her bra and his undershirt.
"Alfred!"
Despite his haste the sun had risen by the time Alfred had made it back a silver tray in his hands and an old leather bag tucked under his arm. Sunlight filtered through the French doors, spilling grey light over the floor, briefly reminding him of the snow storm that continued to blanket the city.
"She's bleeding," he blurted, ashamed by the shake in his voice. "Her blood isn't coagulating."
"Yes, I've noticed," Alfred said calmly. Slowly, he set the tray down on the sideboard and Bruce could see the steam rising from one of his mother's teapots, only two of the matching cups beside it.
Confused, Bruce felt his eyes narrow at the response. "She needs stitches," he continued, the tone of his voice beginning to rise.
"I've noticed that as well," Alfred replied, nearing them.
Kneeling, he peeled back the blankets and lifted Bruce's hand from her wound. He stared at her injury, at the blood coating Bruce's fingers, a single grey brow lifting at the damage.
Bruce blinked rapidly as Alfred walked away. Reaching the sideboard, he began methodically pouring liquid into one of the matching cups. Finished, Alfred opened the bag he'd been carrying leisurely rummaging through it.
Bruce wasn't sure what he'd been expecting from his butler, but it hadn't been nonchalance.
"Well, what're you going to do?!" he asked, not hiding the crack in his voice. "We can't just let her bleed to death!"
"Steady Master Bruce," Alfred said, combating Bruce's frustration with composure. "If she was going to bleed out, she would've done it already."
Bruce exhaled, trying hard not to let his temper get the better of him. He watched Alfred walked toward them, a tea cup in one hand and a small vile of something in his other.
"Her body temperature has to come up, before I can do anything for her," he explained, showing Bruce the things in his hands. He knelt down, placing the teacup beside them before he broke the vile beneath her nose.
The next moment happened so quickly Bruce wasn't sure how he didn't walk away with a black eye. Her head shot back so quickly he felt her curls brush his cheek as he moved out of her path, his chest and shoulder taking the brunt of her assault.
"Whatha?" her breath wheezed out.
Suddenly, Alfred raised the cup to her lips. "Drink," he ordered, tipping the delicate cup forward.
Bruce watched her mouth part around the lip of the cup, taking the smallest of sips.
She doesn't like tea, he thought absently. His mind trying to pull away again, but somehow he managed to watch Alfred and Selina to stay present in the moment.
"More," Alfred demanded as his blue eyes met Bruce's. "Take this."
Without question, Bruce reached around grabbing the cup Alfred offered. His hands shaking as he tried to bring the cup to her lips.
"Get her to drink as much as she can before she faints again."
The girl in his arms inhaled deeply, the sound a cross between a wheeze and a snort, at the accusation.
Alfred turned from his grandfather's bag at the sound.
"You can understand enough to get offended," he said good naturedly, checking Selina's eyes with a penlight as he held her chin. "That's good," he said encouragingly. "Very good."
Author's Notes:
Sorry, for the short and somewhat uneventful chapter and that Selina was unconscious for most of it. I had to rewrite this chapter from snip-its and it kind of came out a complete mess, but hopefully I'll be able to get the next chapters out quicker. Also if anyone is interested in proofreading, betaing for me please let me know.
To: Guest, Byzinha Lestrange, Claire3loves3music, Meg323234, and Fanficguy94 Thank you so much for the condolences, your compassion truly meant a lot.
If you haven't already I recommend for any BabyBatCat supporters: "Bloodstream" by Byzinha Lestrange, "Mama Cat" and "Everybody Hurts" by Shadystar. Also, no Bruce or Selina, but "I'll Be Holding Your Shoes" by metawohoo is simply amazing.