Title: Sickbed
Fandom: Gotham
Pairing: Bruce/Selina
Rating: T
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Alfred
The décor of her room had not changed much, not even with the knowledge that she was not the sugar and spice type.
Soft pastels, blonde wood, white mosquito netting and a dainty four-poster bed made up most of the room. There was even a dusty vanity and an empty wardrobe. It looked like something made for a princess.
When he had given Alfred instructions on what to buy Bruce had been very particular under some misguided notion of what a girl's room should look like.
'Everything nice and all that.'
It had taken him little more than an afternoon to order and organize the room to the boy's specifications and it still amazed him what the name Wayne could accomplish.
The young man had been very pleased with himself, as he had stood in the middle of that room hands clasped behind his back as he gave the décor an appraising look.
"Do you think she'll like it, Alfred?" he had asked in the same voice he had used when he had wanted his parents approval and already knew he was going to get it. It was a mix of confidence and concern.
"I couldn't say sir," he replied, giving the boy a sidelong glance.
"I hope she does," he answered.
Something in Alfred had suddenly become very alert at the boys tone.
Bruce had met the girl all of five minutes and already seemed much too eager to spoil her. A pretty face like that was probably used to dragging boys around. Like a cat with a mouse, she would bat and strike fore she put him out of his misery and moved onto her next victim.
Alfred shook his head. Two years and his opinion of Miss Kyle hadn't changed much if anything it had only grown worse. He just was not quite sure what the appeal was. She lacked all the things Bruce should have been looking for in a companion much less a female.
Balancing the serving tray on one hand, he opened the door to her room.
It was dark. The fire in her grate needed rousing, but he easily made out her form in the bed. Her back was to most of the full bed, her bandaged hand out by her side reaching for nothing in particular.
Following her arm, past a few large books, he noticed a dark lump at the end of her bed. Like a napping kid in class, Bruce's black head was cradled against his folded forearms. Out of habit, his dark grey sweater had been pushed to his elbows contrasting against the pale skin of his arms. The books around him had been left open, the majority textbooks human anatomy, geology, and possible psychology all taken from his father's study.
However, closest to him, too small and too old to be read for anything but enjoyment, was a leather bound book. Alfred could not make out the title but from his position, he could guess that Bruce had most likely spent most of the night reading to her.
He resisted a sigh. If anything did happen to the girl, he wasn't sure what Bruce thought he was going to be able to do about it. Alfred kept a keen eye on his patient. Physically she was doing well. She just needed time to rest. Nevertheless, there Bruce sat keeping vigil.
He chuckled to himself at the thought.
He had seen them like that before, the roles reversed when the young master had somehow come down with the flu last Christmas.
It had been right after the 'Children's Ward Incident' at Gotham General.
Bruce had been there because 'making health care available for the less-fortunate' had been one of his mother's more passionate causes. It did not hurt that Wayne Enterprises had thought the publicity would help after the whole Viper debacle.
Free flu vaccinations were going to be available to anyone, but like all publicity stunts Wayne Enterprises had wanted to start with the young. Bruce was only there to smile and demonstrate the new shot. That it was nothing to be afraid of, that it was even good enough for the 'Prince of Gotham.'
It was supposed to be good press that turned into a personal relations nightmare and a nightmare for thousands of Gotham's youth rich and poor alike.
Tampered flu vaccines had caused an epidemic, mutating an already contagious disease. Antibiotics were scarce and expensive, becoming more expensive as both mob and legitimately run pharmacies had begun to price gouge medications. Supply and demand they claimed as hundreds of children had begun to sicken beyond help.
Bruce had been lucky, at the time Detective Gordon had been close to someone with antibiotics and a PhD. Despite his dangerously high fever the boy had refused to stay in the hospital arguing that he didn't want to be a drain on the hospitals limited resources, but that above all he wanted his own bed, in his own room, at his own house. Reluctantly, Alfred had conceded.
He had not noticed her when he'd first come into the room, his eyes immediately seeking out his young master. Then he had noticed a black heap on the floor made up of overused leather jacket. His gaze had quickly trailed up to find Selina curled in the boy's captain's chair by the fireplace.
Her knees had been curled to her chest; her blonde curls a stark contrasted to the dark navy upholstery. She had not moved an eyelash at his heavy footfall or when he laid his tray down, but the moment his master stirred her green eyes were open watching them both.
She yawned and unfurled, stretching her lithe limbs with a lazy grace before grabbing her jacket off the floor.
"He okay?" she asked, against another yawn.
Ignoring her inquiry, he gave her a questioning glance. "Haven't seen you in a while."
She merely shrugged, leaning against one of the bedposts, looking down at his young master with a look of lazy apathy.
"Not proper for a young lady to be in here this time of night," he noted, rearranging the items he had brought from the kitchen.
"Good thing I aint a lady," she replied, smirking at him in a way that made him want to both grin and thump her.
Suddenly Bruce murmured something unintelligible, grabbing both of their attention.
"He still hot?" she asked, her voice betraying her concern as she uncrossed her arms.
"Fever must've broken last night," he answered, turning his back to her as he went back to his tray full of medicine and tools.
He could feel those pale green eyes watching him, and he pretended to be absorbed by the task of cleaning the glass thermometer and rearranging the master's antibiotics. He glanced up in the mirror to see she had slinked onto the bed, her weight barely registering against the mattress.
Anticipating her glance, he quickly averted his eyes, his hands busy with nothing at all. She was good, he had always known that about her, but he was better trained at surveillance.
When he felt it was safe again, he glanced up to see her pale fingers pushing at the shorter black locks that had plastered to his forehead from fever. Her pale brows were drawn together, her lips in a thin line, as her nimble tips gently traced down the side of his cheek. Unexpectedly his pale face turned into her palm and she jerked back as if he had been on fire.
His brow furrowed at the loss of contact.
"Cat," he mumbled his voice barely a whisper.
Her pale eyes widened as she backtracked her way off the bed.
"It's just the flu," he said.
Her shoulders shifted her eyes wide as she looked at him as if she had completely forgotten his presence.
"He's seen a doctor," he continued, careful not to embarrass the girl. "He has antibiotics and-"
"I know-" she snapped, bringing the cotton hood of her jacket up to cover her pale curls. "I just-"
He watched her exhale quickly. Her cheeks beginning to blush. He knew. He understood. In her world, kids who got the sick probably did not survive very long. Not for the first time did he wonder at exactly how much pain this girl must have seen in such a short life.
"Look," she interrupted his thoughts, moving the two short steps it took to get from Bruce's bed to the wall of windows. "I gotta go,"
"Don't-" she began, but he held up a hand to stop her.
"Don't tell him you were here?" he asked. "Yes, I know the routine, Miss Kyle."
Lifting a single brow at him, she opened one-half of a window.
"Wouldn't you rather take the front door?" he asked, walking toward the bed, Bruce's medication in his hand.
"Nah," she shrugged, straddling the boy's windowsill, "Where's the fun in that?"
He watched her casually lean out, before halting as if something had just occurred to her.
"Gordon catch the douche bag that did this," she asked, nodding to the boy in the bed.
"I believe he did, yes," he answered. "Apparently, it was a couple of doctors."
"Doctors?" she asked incredulously, her lip curling unattractively.
"Yes, it's a bit confusing but basically a few well placed people planned to make a lot of money off loads of sick people."
"Course they were," she mumbled looking down. "And I bet not a single ones gonna sit more than a minute for killing all those kids."
"I couldn't say," he said, watching her.
Something crossed over her soft features, a ruthlessness in the set of her jaw that made him pause.
"Miss Kyle, at this point I should tell you to not go looking for trouble but I'm guessing that's a futile request," he said, halting her exit once again.
"You know me well," she said.
"But it wouldn't do you, or him," he said, nodding to the unconscious boy, "or any of those kids any good for you to go and get yourself killed."
"Ah," she said, giving him a smile that did not reach her eyes. "You know what they say about us cats don't ya'. We got nine lives.
"Heck, I figure I still got a couple left," she said, dropping form the window as if it was only three feet to the ground and not three stories.
Alfred moved more fully into the room. Placing the tray on the nearest available surface careful not to disturb Selina's breakfast. She had still failed to fully rouse. Never awake for more than a few minutes before the morphine had rendered her unconscious again.
He'd already started to wean her off the medication. He had no way of gauging her pain, but from her injuries he guessed that she was probably somewhere in the five to six range on the ten pain scale. And a little discomfort had never really hurt anyone.
He understood the weird twilight she was in and thankfully she wouldn't remember a thing.
He moved to tend the dying fire in her grate. The great house had central air and heat, but there was something calming in the familiar orange glow, the sudden pop and crackle of a genuine fire.
Finished with the fireplace, he moved back to the patient. Pulling the covers down to her waist he checked the sutures he had laced in her shoulder. They weren't pretty, they weren't the work of a surgeon, not even a medic. They were ugly and would definitely scar. But she hadn't caught a fever and the wound looked good, no swelling, no signs of infection. He flipped the bottom of her blanket up to examine her ankle. The injury was still tender, but it appeared to be healing well. Hopefully, he and Master B had been wrong and it was not broken.
Pulling the cover back over her feet he felt Bruce beginning to stir. The master had a graceful way of rousing, his dark lashes fluttering lazily over equally dark eyes. His hair was even charmingly messy as if someone had come in and finger combed it perfectly.
"Good morning Alfred," Bruce slurred lazily, his voice gravely from sleep as he sat back in the chair he had pulled up beside her bed.
"Morning Master B," he sighed, standing fully.
Covering a yawn with the back of his hand, he asked, "How is Selina?"
"You'd know better than me sir," he answered, not keeping the censure from his voice.
Bruce looked back at him, his thick brows furrowing in confusion.
"I'd ask if you've been here all night, but-" he gestured to the half-read books and Bruce's rumpled appearance.
"I must've fallen asleep," he apologized, blinking still half asleep.
"Obviously," he answered. He sighed, watching the boy widen his eyes. Bruce was still too sleepy to understand his disapproving tone.
"To answer your original question, Miss Kyle's in good shape."
He nodded his dark head in understanding his half-lidded eyes landing on the breakfast tray.
"I don't take sugar in my tea any more," he said, even his sleep-hoarse voice sounding imperial.
"Good thing your tea is downstairs with your breakfast then, sir,"
Suddenly his chin jutted up as he clasped his hands on top of his books. Dark grey eyes narrowed over a pursed mouth as he physically acknowledged Alfred's mood.
'Out with it then.' It was an unspoken order.
'You shouldn't be in here,' he wanted to say.
It was not proper and it was not healthy but Bruce would only want to have a very analytical debate with him and he had too much to do so instead he said, "The phones are working."
Bruce's eyes widened but his face remained impassive.
"We should notify the authorities, sir," he said, one hand drifting behind him to cuff the wrist of the other.
Bruce's gaze drifted to the unconscious girl propped against her pillows.
"She'll run if we do that," he said firmly.
He snorted with disbelief. "A dozen stitches, concussion, busted up ankle. She won't get far."
"Doesn't mean she wouldn't try," Bruce snapped, his dark eyes flashing. "She could hurt herself worse before we found her."
He exhaled, his eyes moving back to Miss Kyle. "Besides, it could've been anything," he said, his voice growing soft with doubt. "Car accident-"
"Car accidents don't leave knife wounds or fingerprints on your throat," he said, his hands falling back to his sides.
He watched a muscle in the young man's jaw tick, his chest rise and fall with an uneven breath.
"We'll ask her first," he said calmly.
"But-" Alfred began.
"I've made my decision, Alfred," he snapped, his voice steady with finality.
"Well, Master Bruce," he said, his tone betraying his sense of fatalism. "Like I said your breakfast is downstairs."
"I'm not hungry," Bruce answered, his head bowing to the book in front of him.
"Shocker," he replied, turning to leave the room. Selina's breakfast forgotten.
Selina
Biting her lip to stop the sudden whimper, Selina pulled her hand free from the deep coat pocket. Shards and slivers of glass stuck out of her right hand, quickly staining red from her blood.
"Try again Cat," drawled the voice of her foster mom. "With the other hand this time."
The other hand. Her left hand. Her weak hand. If she couldn't pull the dummy swag free with her right hand it would be damn near impossible to do it with her left and her foster mom knew that.
Selina suppressed the glare and the biting retort on her tongue as she flexed the fingers of her bad hand. She could not show anger. She could not fear. There was something scary about her foster mom's eyes, the way they glittered every time Selina failed.
The woman had taught her everything she knew: how to mark, how to lie, how to lift, how to snip, how pick a lock. Locks had been Selina's favorite. All a person needed was a couple of tools and a good ear and she had mastered that skill easily.
Like all the younger kids, Selina had started as a diversion. On the nice side of Gotham, people were eager to help a well-dressed girl with golden curls. But Selina had hated the crying. Hated the way her foster would pinch her until her bottom lip would pout, her chin would tremble, and Selina had proven to be a terrible diversion. Her pride had proven to be too much of a hurdle. It had proven harder and harder to get her to cry and until even a slap couldn't draw a tear. But thieving. Thieving she was good at. She was quick and quiet, nimble and dexterous. She was able to move through crowds, snipping and stroking with little to no notice. Those had been the first traits her foster mom had praised her for.
It had taken her nearly a year to pass the bells test and even though she was the youngest to pass it, still she wasn't sent out like the older kids. Her foster had wanted more, wanted perfection. So she had handed Cat's training to a person with a thick accent and no patience and even less kindness. Razor and glass laced pockets sliced her questing fingers scarring up her hands but she had quickly learned not to jerk her hand out too quickly.
Pain was an amazing training technique, she was learning quickly, and soon it would be her turn to earn her own slice. They would shadow her the first few months but when she had proven herself bringing home nearly twice as much swag as most of the other pickpockets, she would be set free to work on her own. And once that figurative collar was gone so was she.
Looking back at the half-dressed mannequin Selina rolled her wrist. She could do this. She could do anything.
A soft voice drifted to her sleep-addled mind, warm and soft and inviting.
"Qui es-tu?" dir le petit prince. "Tues bien joli…"
She had no idea what those sounds were but they were so nice, so familiar. Her pain was still there, the aches seething below the surface, but it didn't throb didn't make her want to jump out her body. She struggled to lift her eyes, taking in the room around her through her thick lashes.
Light streamed in through a single window illuminating a dark head. Fighting her exhaustion and her endless state of confusion, she tried to focus on the dark and light person sitting so close to her bed. It was a boy. There was a boy in her room.
"Viens joer ace moi," lui prposale le petit prince. "Je suis tellement triste."
His warm foreign voice washed over her. It was a boy… And he was reading to her. Where in the hell was this place? She thought feeling her lips curving at the impossibility. Struggling against her heavy lids, she momentarily widened her eyes as someone else entered the room. It was an older man, dressed ridiculously formal.
The boy didn't look up at the sudden intrusion, his dark head still bent to the book in his hands.
"They must know each other," she thought, letting the drowsiness pull her under.
"Je ne puis pa jouer avec toi," dit le renard. "Je ne suis pas apprivoise."
"Your dinners getting cold," fussed the familiarly gruff voice.
"I will be down in a moment," replied the formal but warm boy.
She felt her bangs being gently pushed aside as something warm and soft brushed her forehead. All she could smell through her stuffed up nose was the mild scent of someone she knew. Someone she…
She didn't get to finish her thought as she tumbled back into dreams.
Bruce
As hours turn into days, the snow began to slowly disappear. The pure white landscape that had stretched for miles was now tainted by muddy tracks and peeks of dark green as coniferous trees poked their way through. Like always the sky was overcast, but it was a brighter shade of grey.
His chest hurt from the cold air, it slithered into his nose dully aching and giving him a throbbing headache. He took another turn, each step bringing him closer to the manor. He did not notice the bare limbed trees or the footprints he had left earlier.
Pain sliced through him, the wind chaffing his cheeks, the muscles in his legs burning. Is this what it had felt like for her, pain, cold, and nothing but woods between her and home.
Had she been scared?
He could not bring himself to really wrap his mind around that one. Despite the bruises and blood, fear seemed so foreign to him. No, he imagined that she had felt more annoyed than scared.
She also would not like him sitting by her bedside watching her sleep. When she woke up, she would probably call him a creep and maybe she would be right. He was wasting his time trying to wake her up. Selina always did things in her own time and this would be no different. He had to constantly remind himself not to do 'weird' things, to remind himself how important it was to push down his basic reaction and to seem 'normal,' but Selina made that hard. He felt natural around her, felt as if he could be a closer version of himself, weird habits and all.
He fought the urge to sigh, it was nothing more than a sign of agitation and would accomplish nothing but throwing off his rhythm.
Alfred was right. The phones were working and soon the roads would be clear they were going to need some answers. He just had not figured out exactly how he was going to do that.
He could go back to Detective Gordon, back to the GCPD. Bring the evidence he had collected, but say it was for a science project. School projects were the greatest excuse to use. People always had a kind of fear that you would suddenly ask for their help. They made themselves scarce and it had been his greatest excuse to get inside the GCPD.
Even hardened cops often pitied 'the little orphan boy' as he had heard himself called and Bruce was not going to start correcting them. Even the forensic scientist with his sad eyes behind his coke bottle frames had looked at Bruce with a sad sort of expression. Bruce assumed that pity was why he had given Bruce some kind of brain tease to solve. The patronizing stumper had been easy to crack oddly enough to the delight of the man.
He could send it to Wayne Enterprises but that would only get back to Alfred.
He would have to do the tests himself. But for what? He was not even sure what he was looking for. Where had she been? What kind of rocks were those? Where did they come from? It was not gravel that he was sure of. They were small and jagged like they had been eroded over time, like the rocks at the bottom of a rough streambed.
Moreover, what kind of knife had done that to her shoulder? Alfred had not told him, but he had watched the older man sew her up, watched him knot the crude sutures. That was not a bullet hole. While he had seen evidence of an exit wound on her back, the wounds just did not match up. The incision had been relatively small, whatever kind of knife they had used, had been sharp and exact. Something sharp enough to cut through skin and muscle and had it hit it, probably through bone as well.
Whatever had happened to her, he was not sure how she had survived it. Or why she had come here. She could have gone to the city. Went to the Detective Gordon or even Barbara Keane they would have taken care of her. They would have gotten her to a real hospital with trained nurses and doctors and a limitless supply of antibiotics and painkillers. Nevertheless, she had ended up here on his doorstep bleeding and half frozen to death. She had chosen to come to him.
Bruce was not arrogant enough to believe it had anything to do with him. So why; why come all this way? And where had she been? A month she had been gone. A whole month doing whatever it was that kids like her did, stealing and cheating and surviving.
He had offered her a place to live. He had offered her all the comforts his life could provide and she had refused him so why now? Why when she was clearly in a great deal of trouble would she choose to come here to involve him?
She wouldn't, he answered.
Besides that one night, she had brought him traipsing around the city; Selina had made a too conscious effort to keep him out of her 'business.' If he demanded an answer, she would simply shrug and leave the room, the alley, the restaurant wherever they happened to be at the moment. That is what it was to her, the people she dealt with, 'just business.' She executed most of her schemes like most people did their laundry or washed their dishes.
Sometimes it was like seeing someone after a long day of work; wordlessly she would throw her jacket on the nearest surface and slip to the floor beside his legs. Her back to the couch, her eyes on whatever television program he had been watching, she would steal his dinner, her nimble fingers grabbing whatever Alfred had served him. Broccoli, chicken, potatoes it did not matter, she almost always ate with her fingers. The unhygienic habit should have revolted him, but somehow it did not. It made him feel… aware.
Aware at just how different she was, how elemental and primal and… Female.
He could not be thinking about that right now. He was supposed to running to clear his mind not muddle it up with inappropriate thoughts. The girl was upstairs recovering from what he could only imagine was a harrowing experience. In addition, his mind, albeit unintentionally was down here objectifying her. What kind of man did that make him?
His legs felt like jelly, his lungs burned and the skin of his face was itching from the cold. He'd run too hard. Recognizing the signs, he slowed his pace to a jog and then reluctantly to a walk. He breathed deeply through his nostrils as he lifted his hands to clasp against the top of his head. Rounding a bend in the trees, his house came into view, its brick façade rising out of a sea of white. It was a beautiful home, he admitted to himself something that generations before him had worked hard to preserve. He felt his eyes narrow as he saw a figure waiting for him on the veranda outside the French doors of his study. Dread filled him as his legs started to move of their own accord. The pain that had engulfed him moments before was vanishing as he approached.
Alfred was standing there a peculiar look on his face. Something between annoyance and resignation.
"Selina?" he panted between breaths.
"Yes, Master Bruce," "Settle yourself, I've just come down to tell you, she's awake."
Constructive criticism always welcome.
Author's Notes: A huge thank you to claire3loves3music (thank you so much), Byzinha Lestrange, (I hope you post soon), and Guest (wow, thank you so much. I'm definitely working on making them longer). You really do keep me writing and give me tons of inspiration. Also thank you to anyone who fav/followed.
Sorry for not updating sooner. I had it all typed up but have been super busy and then finally caught up on Season 2 last week and after 'the slap' just didn't have the motivation to post it much less write. I understand I might get some backlash (since it seems a lot of people didn't see a problem with it) but I found that scene to just be wrong. Writing in Alfred's POV just went from being hard to capture such a great character to being… Moving on.
For any batcat fans: I just wanted to rec Dark Corners by Kiara Gray.