Disclaimer: I don't own any part of the Batman franchise- but I wish to hell some talented artist wanted to turn this baby into a comic. Molly is all mine, suckaaaaahs! (Oh, and no profit is being made.)

AN: At long last, chapter 17. More action is on the way in the next chapters. I hope you enjoy this puppy after its long absence! Thanks so much for your patience. :)


Bruce lay next to Molly, listening as her breathing evened into sleep, thinking about how beautiful she was, and how much he shouldn't have slept with her tonight.

Thinking about how he was in love with her.

It hardly seemed possible, but he knew his heart. After all this time, after years of grief and regret, it was beating again, for someone other than Rachel. In barely three weeks she'd awakened something in him that he'd thought he'd never see again. Hope. Alfred had been right. But it was still too early to say anything- he couldn't spook her, and he couldn't endanger her. Which was why he shouldn't have slept with her this soon. Getting emotionally involved would only put her in more danger.

Except it was technically too late for that.

She sighed and rolled onto her good side, tucking her face against his shoulder. He smiled down at her and pulled her close. It was no use regretting it now, after it had happened. He'd just have to hold on to her and hope it didn't change things too much. Didn't change how she felt about him, or the dynamics of their fledgling relationship. And even though he really hoped it wouldn't change the amount of danger she was in, he knew better. Loving Bruce Wayne meant loving the Batman, too, and that always came with a price. He only hoped he could deal with the first threat before the next came along…because there would always be another threat.

He held her to him and looked down at her face, which was peaceful for now. There was no point in rocking the boat anymore than he already had, he supposed. Perhaps for the night he could rest beside her…pretend there was nothing to worry about, nothing to keep him up all night. Leaning down, he kissed her forehead and then laid his own head back on the pillows and closed his eyes.

Tomorrow he would get her out of the city, to his estate. Once she was safely ensconced there, then they could consider what it was they were doing. Then he wouldn't have to worry about her quite as much. He let out a soft breath and turned towards her, ready to follow her into sleep.

It didn't come. His sensitive hearing was alert in one second and in the next the alarm in the penthouse went off, sending out a high-pitched keen that steadily grew in volume. He was on his feet in the ensuing moment, but it was too late and the thugs spilled down the hallway and into the bedroom. He caught the first and tossed him against the nearest wall, heard the satisfying thud of his head hitting the floor. Another followed the first, but while he dealt with him a third slipped past and was at the bed in a flash. Bruce only had time to hear Molly cry out before there was a gun under his chin and another at his back.

All the lights came on and Bruce could hear the sound of Alfred struggling elsewhere in the apartment. He grit his teeth and started to think hard. What could he do? What did the men want? Molly? The Batman? They wouldn't have the latter without him risking the former and he couldn't do that. The second he disappeared to suit up they would either kill her or take her hostage again- and this time she wouldn't come back. The guns pressed harder against him and he heard Molly whimper.

"What's-" she began, only to receive a backhand to her mouth.

"You will speak when we want you to speak," came a raspy voice. Bruce tried to twist about and the guns clicked menacingly.

"Do not move, Mr. Wayne. Not if you value your life."

"I don't give a flying fuck about my life," he bit out and the men laughed, then began to drag both of them from the room.

"Leave her alone!" Bruce yelled as he heard Molly's cries of pain, heard the thud of her weak limbs against the floor as she was dragged. His blood rushed through his ears as his heart rate increased, fueled by a rage that he would never truly be free of. He'd known it his whole life, after all. It was what had kept him going for a long time…and now that Molly was becoming the thing that kept him going, what did that mean?

It didn't mean he was losing his reasons, his focus. It merely meant a restructuring of that rage. A refocusing on what was important to him. He would do anything for Molly. Anything. Including taking the beating the thugs seemed intent on giving him with every struggle, every word of protest from his mouth. But with every rough tug of rope over his wrists, every backhand to his face, every glimpse of the similar abuse being heaped on Molly, he took the rage it created and stored it away. He would need it later…soon.

If he didn't make a move soon they would both be dead. But he had to wait for the perfect moment. The absolute perfect…moment…his vision blurred and he tasted blood in his mouth, but he didn't feel the pain from the blow. That was probably a bad sign. He screamed for Molly again and heard only a scared whimper.

"Molly! Don't you touch her, you bastards- Molly!"

Another backhand to his face and his shout ended in a grunt. He tried to gather himself, to stay alert, but it was getting harder. His heart raced in fear and anger.

From her position in front of him, being dragged towards the front of the apartment, Molly could just twist her head enough to look over her shoulder at him. She couldn't make a sound, not because she was too frightened, but because the pain their rough treatment of her had reawakened was too much. She had to grit her teeth to keep from crying out and as it was tears were streaming down her face. She caught a glimpse of Alfred somewhere behind Bruce, their figures lit up by moonlight streaming through the wide bay of windows. There were at least half a dozen thugs in the space with them, three covering her and three covering Bruce. Alfred, she assumed, had already been dealt with to their satisfaction. That, or they didn't think he was a threat. Of course, the way his mostly still form kept mysteriously moving across the floor, she thought the thugs were probably very stupid. She decided to risk talking.

"What are you- doing?" she hissed brokenly and the men ignored her. She let herself fall into a dead weight, making sure she was more difficult to move, not helping them at all. One of the men grunted and she would've smiled triumphantly if she'd had any energy to spare. She looked small, yes, but she was all- or mostly- packed muscle. She was heavier than she looked and she was going to use that to her advantage, damn it.

"You're twice as big as her, Leon," one of the men said. "Stop complaining! We have to have her ready."

"Ready for what?" she managed to ask again. "What do you want? What good can I possibly be? I don't know-"

She got a hand across her face for her efforts and felt her head whip back from the force. If I'm not careful, she thought, they'll snap my neck.

She grit her teeth and spoke again.

"What do you want-"

"Shut her up, now," one of the men covering Bruce growled from across the room. Tape was being pressed over her mouth a moment later and struggled against it, but it was too late. Chest heaving, she felt her captors accidentally groping her- or perhaps they weren't bothering to make it appear accidental, it was hard to tell- as they pushed her into a chair.

No, not this again, she thought desperately even as they wound the rope about her shoulders. She felt them bind her ankles to the legs of the chair and a small bubble of panic crept into her breast. He was coming. She knew it. And he wanted her this way, accessible and helpless and she was seven years old again and terrified. Eight years old and tortured. Nine and silent.

Ten and resigned.

Eleven…and resolved.

She was a victim. She had been a victim, would always be a victim. Would always have suffered when she was just a child who could do nothing to protect herself. The difference was…she was an adult now and when she was made to be a victim this time, she could defend herself. She would defend herself. She was no longer only a victim. The years had made her a survivor too.

Lifting her head, she felt her tears dry upon her cheeks and smiled beneath the tape over her mouth. She would survive this and none of her captors would. Because whether this was a trap or not, whether the Batman showed up or not, this time they'd picked the wrong woman, the wrong man, and the wrong penthouse.

And they really, really should have made sure the butler was dead, she thought as she watched Alfred's shadow from the corner of her eye, saw how he reached up the wall…the wall where she'd cornered Bruce only a few nights ago, when he'd behaved so suspiciously. Something was rotten in the state of Gotham, but she wasn't about to care or point it out to the thugs. If Bruce Wayne had some sort of connection to the Batman and it would insure their safety now, she wouldn't say a word. At least, not until she was out of reach of the gunfire again. Then there was no telling what would happen.

The thug inspecting her ropes leaned over her and gave her a sharp shake.

"Is the princess paying attention? Huh? Enjoying your last moment of peace?"

She glared at him and he laughed in her face. She jerked her face away from his foul breath and he only shoved himself closer at her, saying lewd things with his eyes and vile words with his lips. She felt bile rise in her throat and shook her head again, attempting to escape the barrage.

"Molly!" she heard Bruce shout again, his voice hoarse with anxiety. She waited for the sound of fist to flesh, or worse, a gunshot, but none came and she twisted about some more as the man before her stilled and suddenly began cursing. There was the quiet sound of a door sliding open, followed swiftly by the thuds of bodies to the floor and finally the men surrounding her began firing wildly.

The silence had been broken in seconds- less than- and there was action all around her. Glass broke, more bodies hit the floor and she could hear the men scrabbling about in the debris. The acrid taste of gun smoke and electricity filled her nostrils and she gagged harder. Something grazed her shoulder- another bullet, she thought- and she cried out as best she could before she felt her chair knocked to the floor. She would have been grateful for the reprieve, but she knew that the thugs moving her out of the gunfire was only a sign that she was wanted alive for something far worse than being held captive in a penthouse.

"Miss Molly!" she heard Alfred hiss from across the floor and she craned her neck, unable to take part, unable to be of any help. Her arms prickled from the glass all around them and she writhed against her ropes, rubbing them into the shards, wriggling free from the frayed ends finally as it became harder and harder to breathe. Alfred's hands found her face in the semi-dark and she moaned as his fingers touched her bruised cheeks.

"Oh, Miss Molly. I'm so sorry. I'll take the tape off?"

She nodded violently and a second later she could breathe easily again, gasping in huge lungful of the polluted air.

"What's happened?" she managed to ask just before the pandemonium around them renewed. Alfred only shook his head and covered her body with his, keeping them still and close to the floor and Molly didn't ask anymore questions, understanding that now they needed to wait things out. Now came the surviving.


AN: If y'all would leave me a cookie, that would be *great*.