Chapter 8:

Fandom: Gotham

Pairing: Bruce/Selina

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Alfred

Alfred would never tell the boy, but in that first twenty-four hours he had believed she wouldn't make it. He'd kept an eye on her temperature waiting for it to rise to acceptable levels before he'd stitched her up.

Fortunately, he'd found most of her wounds had been superficial all but the one in her shoulder. Whatever or whoever had done that had intended to do some real damage to the girl. The weapon most likely a knife judging by the size had torn through skin and muscle. Whatever she'd been given or more likely taken had done quite a number as well, her skin had refused to mend, her blood to coagulate.

Her heartbeat was strong, but still there was something ominous every time her eyes would close. There was something terrifying about those unfocused pale eyes shutting. Like she was giving up, letting go. Malnutrition had weakened her immune system making her an easy target for infection and her skin had grown impossibly pale.

It had been around lunch time, when he should've been fixing his boy's lunch, when he'd felt the most anxiety. In his first sixteen years of life Bruce Wayne had already seen too much death, had watched life leave too many people he loved. Alfred wasn't about to add the girls death to that bank of horrible memories. It was why he'd kept sending him away, until the boy had grown impatient and refused to leave.

Surprisingly, the moment Bruce had taken up a chair by her side, she'd stopped fighting that invisible monster. Trembling from the stress and fever she'd rolled onto her side and her body had started doing what it should've been doing all along.

Selina

Fear.

It was the first thing she recognized as she was deposited onto the tiny deck.

An all encompassing fear.

Wind cut through the hood they'd forced over face, it burned her round cheeks and hit her ears, muffling a woman's screams and the motor of the boat as it crashed through waves.

She couldn't quite see past the brown haze, images darkening behind it as they shuffled around her. Sea spray sprinkled against her bare legs causing goose bumps to breakout on her skin. She was in her night gown, a plain cotton dress with a popular cartoon kitty on the front.

There was a grip on her arm now, and the woman's shrill scream turned into her name.

Selina

The single word reverberated in her mind as she slid into a squat. The world around her dissolving both time and space. Her leather jacket squeaked and her breath caught in her throat as she recognized the alley around her. Someone was still screaming, a piercing sound that crept along her nerves, but nothing blocked the view of the small terrified boy below her.

Her eyes widened at the sight, a happy family of three reduced to a single orphan in seconds. She tried to move, tried to run away from the image but she stood frozen, like she always was.

She closed her eyes hoping to block the boy, the alley, the memory.

Silence.

The abrupt silence was more unnerving than the either the sounds of the broken little boy or the cries of the desperate woman. Forcing herself, she opened her eyes.

Darkness welcomed her. Darkness and stone and that fucking little bucket!

No! No! NO! She screamed, her voice bouncing back to her off the cold stone walls.

No!

She had to be dreaming. She'd gotten out of here. She'd gotten away from this place. Hadn't she? Or had that been the dream?

On the verge of hysterics she curled her knees to her chest, lowering her forehead to rest against her knees.

"C'mon kitten," purred a warm voice. "You need to get up now."

"Ma," she tried to cry out, but her lips didn't move, her tongue stuck stubbornly to the roof of her mouth.

A weak awareness came to her, pulling her from her nightmares but abandoning her to a half-twilight existence where light and sound and time meant nothing to her.

The bed beneath her was soft, softer than the mattress in her cell, softer than the concrete of a warehouse. It was even softer than the over priced couch in Barbra's apartment. Now that she thought about it, it was too soft, magnifying specific pains that throbbed across her body.

Her head pounded inside and her throat felt sore like she was trying to breathe through a straw. But nothing could compete with the pain in her foot and the burning in her shoulder.

Some part of her knew she'd taken a beating before but that this was different that this had nearly...

Someone tried to kill me.

Panic shot through her at the realization. Someone had tried to kill her. She tried but she couldn't summon the strength to lift her lids much less drag her body up. She could see light behind her lids, could hear shuffling, and feel the shifting of weight coming off and on her bed.

The smell of fresh tended fireplace and warm cotton sheets suddenly broke through her congested nostrils. It didn't make any sense but she felt the tension beginning to leave her body in degrees. There was something familiar about this. There was nothing to support such a feeling, but she felt safe here.

But still…

How did she get here?

Memories danced at the corner of her mind, but she refused to acknowledge them. No, those weren't memories. Those were nightmares. Trying to brush them aside, she couldn't stop the sudden colors that danced through her thoughts.

Red.

White.

Blood.

Snow.

So much snow…

"I think she's trying to say something," said a concerned voice.

The sound chipped at her memories. She knew that voice, that beautifully familiar voice. She just needed a face, a face to put to that warm tone. Images flashed through her memories. Thick black hair. Dark grey eyes. Long fingers. A nervous smile that made her stomach flip.

Eyelids trembling she was only able to crack them open to stare uselessly at the two shapes in front of her.

"What'd she say?" asked a gruffer voice.

Was that an accent?

Wait! Where in the hell was she?

"I couldn't understand it," replied the warm voice and despite the pain that was creeping along her body and nightmares creeping along her thoughts she felt herself relax.

"Well, after this," the Englishman said, holding something up. "She won't be saying much for a while."

Through her lashes she watched the two shapes draw closer, saw the outline of the needle and could do nothing as she was gently leaned onto her side, a tiny pin-prick as she felt it pierce her hip.

Instinct called her to kick out, but she lacked the energy. The burning in her shoulder was now a low simmer, but her ankle still throbbed. The end of the blanket flipped up and she felt rough warm fingers against her ankle, her leg jerked away, but was held steady with a gentle grip.

"Nasty that," said a gruff voice, but the sound was dimorphic like she was hearing it under water. Her cover was pulled back down gently covering her cold feet. "No worries, Miss Kyle, you'll be back to causing trouble soon."

At that comment, she felt the side of her mouth tug up, as the pain began to ebb and the darkness came seeping back.

Wendigo

Sliding down the far wall of his parent's basement, Barty ripped the black knit cap from his head. He could still hear his mother's screams, the sobs that racked her body. Anger didn't slide across his nerves; it engulfed every cell of his body.

What in the hell had his father been thinking?

Tears of rage pricked at the back of his eyes and an unbearable heat ran along his skin. He pulled the blood stained sweatshirt over his head.

It was his fault. It was all his fault. He should've been there with his dad. And he would've been if it hadn't been for that little gutter slut. From the moment that nasty bitch had gotten the jump on him everything had gone to hell.

But he was going to fix it. He would make it up to his mom. He would make his dad proud. He'd find that little street rat. He'd find her alright. He'd find her and peel all that beautiful white gold skin right from her bones.

AN: Constructive criticism always welcome.