Chapter 9

2009:

He had been tired. That was not an excuse, it was a fact. A fact that should not have factored into why he found himself in his current state. Blood poured down one arm as the rain washed over him, stinging the open the wound. It was supposed to be simple. A heist downtown, one of Thorne's men trying to make a cut. He didn't count for the ten Chinese gangsters that had shown up and the ensuing war between them. It would have been easy for him a few years ago to dodge the crossfire, but then his leg had acted up, again, and two bullets had bit into his shoulder. Careless, very careless. He had held out long enough to prevent a complete bloodbath, but now his shoulder was throbbing so much he could barely see straight. Or perhaps he could attribute that to the blood loss, or the fatigue.

Where was he? Batman clenched his teeth as he hoisted himself up the side of the building. He was a considerable distance from the shootings. The Batmobile was only a few blocks down. No need to worry Barbara, or Alfred, and no need to go announcing his presence in the neighbourhood crawling with would be henchmen. It wouldn't take long. He just had to... figure out where he was. Blinking to try to stay conscious, he stared out blearily to buildings obscured by the heaving downpour. This was not a good night. He tried to stand straight again, but only succeeded in toppling his balance further, sending him staggering into the balcony doors with a thud.

"What in the..." he heard a voice say from inside. A short while later one of the doors slid open and he heard a gasp. He knew that gasp. Mother? No. Not her.

"Selina..." he ground out before passing out entirely.

When the loud bang had woke her up, she thought immediately of prowling thugs outside her door and jumped out of bed into a defensive crouch, still hazy from sleep. As the last eddies of it cleared she realised that the sound had come not from the door but the balcony windows. That was strange. Selina was on her guard instantly, as a silent Isis watched from the kitchen counter top. A fruit knife sat gleaming on it, and Selina grabbed the hilt in her hand as she crept towards the balcony windows. If some depraved person were to be trying to break into her apartment, they didn't know what they were in for.

She did not expect to see the pointy ears of the cowl. She took a short intake of breath. There was so much blood, soaked through the uniform, running over the cape, pooling at his feet. Selina could not even pin point where the wounds started or ended. Or was that just her imagination? It was hard to tell the way the rain darkened as it sank into the weave of the suit in the dim light. He was slumped over now, her name dying on his lips. Oh, Batman, why this now? Taking as much care as she could, Selina slipped her hands under his arms and dragged him into the bedroom, staggering under the deadweight.

"You just had to pack that much muscle on your frame, didn't you my love," she muttered under her breath as she laid him out prone just beside the bed over the rug. Puffing slightly, she now sat with his head cradled in her lap. "As lovely a position this is for me," she said, "I don't seem to be doing much for you." She took stock of his injuries as she recovered her breath. It was near impossible to under the caking blood. That would not do. Grabbing the comforter off the bed, she bundled it quickly into a makeshift pillow which she rested his head on as she got up, then headed to the medicine cabinet to retrieve the first aid kit.

Scissors first, to cut away that infuriating mask of his. She made quick work of the mask after ensuring that none of his more creative devices designed to stop the unwary from removing it were in place. The face was covered in blood and dirt, caking in parts near the temples. 'Breathe, Selina,' she told herself, 'if it was truly serious, he would not have made it this far.' The many blood vessels along the brow were the cause of it, that was all. She would leave the face for later. Snipping through the uniform, Selina could barely control the urge to simply rip the cloth in half. It would not do to worsen any injury through her rising panic. There. Two metal pellets imbedded in skin and flesh, mercifully not too deep.

"You're a lucky man, Batman," she said, staunching the flow of blood and stitched it up the best she could. His chest rose and fell steadily, and she took comfort in the fact that it wasn't erratic and shallow. Exhaustion more than anything, by the looks of it. Minor cuts and bruises were scattered all across his torso and back as she heaved his body up slightly to get a better look. She cleaned those up, then rested him again on the floor, reaching for a new piece of damp gauze to dab at his face. Till now she had been so concerned with ensuring that his injuries were not fatal that she had not paid his face that much attention. Now she did, and her brow furrowed. Something about the bloodied face seemed so familiar, and yet, it couldn't be.

One swipe around the chin revealed the soft lips of a gentleman. She'd kissed those before, always marvelling at the contrast between them and the harsh demeanour the Batman radiated. Dabbing around the brow and the eyes, Selina knew no one would be able to deny that the person who had been bleeding over her carpet was Bruce Wayne. Her stomach clenched even as she tenderly stroked his now clean forehead. One thing was certain, it wouldn't just be him who would have a throbbing headache that night.

"Oh, Bruce..."

2041:

Would that be the sum of the reactions he elicited from the women in his life? 'Oh, Bruce': two interjections, used for the increased emphatic stress they held. The long drawn emotions the use of the vowel provided, the harsh fricatives in his name that could crack through the air if they needed to, and the sibilance at the end that could end in an enraged hiss or soften to the point where he would have to turn his heart to stone, if only to bear the voice if it continued in that strain. How was he expected to respond to those two words? He understood Martian technology, but women? They were an entirely new, complicated species in themselves.

"This is good soup," Diana said as she sat across him from the small kitchen table. He raised an eyebrow at her.

"I can only make soup," he replied.

"I see." He noted that she was careful to avoid bringing Alfred up into the conversation. That had been the last time they spoke, at his funeral. The past, it crept on him so easily, leaving a sour taste in his mouth even the broth would not wash away.

"Your successor is... impressive." Changing topic, talking about the present, with a darker Gotham and a darker knight. He could deal with that. Terry was good, he could admit that to himself, or rather, Terry was not letting himself get chased away as so many others had before him.

"He's been learning," he said.

"He is almost as driven as you were, are," Diana commented. Her amendment at the end was not lost on him, and he allowed himself a small, grim smile.

"Touché, Princess."

They made their way to the living room after, Diana carrying in a tea tray with her. Bruce was grateful for the walking stick in his hands. It made it easier to think where to place at least one of his hands. The other reached for the armrest of his chair as quickly as he could, and he made to sit down, then noticed that Diana, having placed the tray on the coffee table in front of them, had knit her fingers together as she sat down on the edge of the couch opposite. Perhaps he should have sat beside her instead. Though it wasn't too like the Princess of Themyscira to be nervous. Then again, it wasn't too like him to be nervous either.

"What is he to you?" Diana said, breaking the silence of the past five minutes.

"The boy?"

"The young man, yes Bruce." Young man. Terry was growing up. About the age Tim had been when he forcibly removed him from his life. What was Terry to him? A partner in crime? A protégé? The boy, no, the youth, had proved himself time and time again, risking his life for what he perceived to be absolution. He thought about himself, falling apart in the darkness that was Wayne Manor if not for the company of Ace. Terry had brought a vigour he didn't know he had any more. Three years ago he would not have imagined that he would be trooping down each night once again to the cave, putting fear into the hearts of criminals, albeit through Terry. Absolution. After the Joker had been put to his final rest, he had told Terry that he made Batman worthy, not the other way round. He never mentioned that Terry made him somehow, worthy too.

But to what end? Of course he'd let him get close. Sooner or later it would come to sneer in his face, that this would be another mistake, like so many before him. And it was a foolish man's dream, wasn't it? A selfish one at that. To think that he, Bruce Anthony Wayne, could ever attain it.

"Absolution."