Hey there, me again! So, I have to give a thousand and one huge thank you's to every single one of you who favorited, followed, and commented on my fic. I can't even begin to explain how that makes my heart feel. And so on behalf of you guys, cause I wasn't gonna do this yet, here is chapter 2.

DISCLAIMER: I, unfortunately do not own TDKR, Bane, Gotham, or even the sex-god that is Tom Hardy. I do, however, own all rights and capabilities that make up the fantastic Israel Smith.

A Night At the Newman's

For the first time in a long time, Israel had nightmares of him, of the man who stole her childhood, her innocence. And the dream was always the same. She was always under him, her small hands pushing against his chest as she cried. But he never moved because was living stone. His breath was putrid, a hot constant steam of alcohol and something sickeningly sweet as he uttered, "Come on and be a good girl. You're always such a good girl for me." And then his hands, clammy and hot and shaking, would undress her, and she closed her eyes to the look on his face and the way his greedy, glassy orbs devoured her body. He moved to touch between her legs and she tried to seal her thighs. "Please, no! Daddy, no!" She tried to reason to him, her own tears blinding her, but his hand was over mouth. He pried her legs opened, moved between him, took her, tore her open for his own sick pleasure. From behind his mouth she cried, screamed, "No! No, no, no!"

Israel jerked, convulsed awake, and in the aftermath of her nightmare she clawed herself from the beneath the covers, kicking them away as she fell from the bed and moved along the floor until her back came against the wall. She panted, her body covered in a clammy, cold sweat that had the hairs on her arms raised and the hair in her head damp. Her eyes darted around the room. It was dark, and damp, and she was sure that this was a place she had never been to.

Bane had been out of the room most of the time his guest had been asleep, and when she had stirred and started to scream, he had only stopped in to check on her. He didn't wake her, he only sat in the nearby chair and watched as she tossed and turned, pushed the covers off of her only to pull them back for safety. He listened to her talk, begging for her imaginary captor to stop, to not touch her there. This quirked his eyebrow, and when her cries grew higher, when her pleading became overbearing to him, he rose to wake her but she awoke herself. He sat back down, watched with inquisitive eyes as she convulsed and shook, scrambled from the bed and didn't flinch when she fell from the cot with a sound thud and a scratch and backed herself into the wall. Even in the dark he could see how impossibly wide her eyes were, how they darted from place to place as she mapped out her surroundings. He didn't stand, only leaned forward in his seat, rested his elbows on his knees while he clasped his hands together. "You are safe, child."

His voice was like distant thunder and Israel pressed herself back. She could just make out his silhouette. She waited a beat, wanting to see if he would advance on her, but he stayed still, and she could feel his eyes on her. She found her voice. "Where am I?" It came out louder and stronger than she thought it would, for she felt so small, so weak. "What is this place?"

She was stronger than he had first thought, and Bane moved, stood to his full height and turned on the florescent light above. It was the only light in the room and it illuminated the small space in a sickly pale green light that caused the minerals in the stones around them to slightly shimmer and shine. Her eyes widened, and she realized that her nightmare, the one from the alley, that it had been real. She took him in. Tall, every ounce of him pulled taunt with muscle, and his presence exuded, demanded attention and power…and grace. But now, in the light, she could fully see his face and the mask that covered it; dark and metal and hard rubber. The tubes that covered the mouth piece resembled something animalistic, some kind of hideous, gaping maw, and faintly she noted that the nose she heard, the soft rasp of mechanical breathing, was coming from him. He was covered in some kind of vest that left his arms bare and there was something around his waist, a brace of some sort. His pants were green, his boots large and thickly soled. She noted all of this before she made his way back to his face, flinched at the intense stare he was giving her.

"You are in the underbelly of Gotham." His voice came filtered through the mask. All the while she had stared at him, he had been busy assessing her. She was a small thing, and he had known that when he'd brought her down to his room, but looking at her then, the way she cowered against the wall… She had somehow made herself look impossibly smaller. Altogether, she was quite a creature to behold. Now that he could see her in the light, he admitted that she was nothing if not an exotic beauty. Her skin, though blemished with scratches and cuts and bruises, still looked like milk chocolate cream stretched over the human form. But it was the hair and the eyes that he could not tear his eyes from. Together, they were striking features. Her long mane of rich black curls made her chartreuse eyes, specked with yellow, stand out even more.

For a moment they stared at each other and then finally Israel asked, "Are you going to hurt me?"

The question took him aback, not because of the words themselves, but because of the way she had asked, as though she would prepare herself for his onslaught. It made the corners of his lips twitch. OH, but she was interesting…

"No." His answer was plain, firm. "I have no interesting in hurting you."

She moved up the wall, planting her feet firmly beneath herself. She wanted to get out of there. "Am…am I your captive, then?"

His mouth twitched again. "Are you, indeed…" He could see that she didn't like his answer.

"If you're worried about me telling someone…or going to the police…it's not something to concern yourself with. They wouldn't believe me anyways…" She trailed off.

"And you expect me to take you at your word?"

Israel didn't like the way his voice had dropped. "I think lying to you would be a mistake so, yeah, take me at my word." She licked her lips nervously, and she didn't miss the way his eyes dropped to them, lingered on them.

He actually did chuckle then. "Interesting." He moved toward her then, and she panicked. Her eyes looked for an escape, but the door was too far away, and there was blood running down her thigh and leg. He would catch her before she would make it out, so instead she stood there, eyes wide, watching as he towered over her. "But know this," he leaned in close, "I know this city well, and if you do not hold true to your word, this is nowhere you can hide where me and my men cannot find you."

She was shaking, but she couldn't make her eyes tear away from his. She nodded, "Yeah…yeah I understand."

He lingered before her a moment, fought the tingling in his hand that made him want to reach forward and touch her face. Her lips, he told himself, were too full, too distracting. "You will shower, and then I will tend to your wounds. And then you will leave." He reached beneath the bed to retrieve her bag and tossed it at her. She didn't bother to try and catch it, and that made him smile as it was further evidence that she was not the stupid little girl he'd thought her to be. She didn't dare take her eyes off of him.

"So, where is your shower?" She asked. She followed his line of vision to the corner of the room where a circular shower head dangled from the ceiling and a pipe with a knob at either end protruded from the wall. "Of course there's no shower curtain… Can I ask you to leave while I do this?"

His eyes wandered over her again, from the crown of her head to her dirty bare feet, but he didn't say a thing, he simply walked through the opening in the wall. Israel stared after him for a moment, silently wishing that there was a door to shut or a shower curtain to hide behind, but wishing wouldn't make one appear. So instead she turned her back to the entrance and began to slowly shed her clothes. Though her captor had been generous enough to remove her boots, he'd left the remainder of her clothing on her person. Her shirt was in tatters and was barely hanging onto her torso. She removed it easily, wincing at the pain that shot through her. Her bra went next, and she removed her pants and panties at the same time. She was covered in dirt and grime, and blood, and she had so many wounds…wounds she did not remember getting.

She removed her soaps from her bag and then began to tamper with the archaic shower. The knobs that protruded from the pipe were labeled clearly as hot and cold as one was red and the other blue. She turned them both at the same time, listening as the walls around her seemed to moan and groan until cold water was finally produced from the shower head. She winced, shivered, but didn't move away. She patiently waited for the water to heat up and then adjusted the knobs accordingly until scalding hot water rained down on her and steamed up the entire room. She relaxed underneath the water, and didn't mind that her scraps and cuts stung and sang underneath the heat. It had been so long since she'd had a real shower and she didn't want to ruin this one. She lathered herself up, scrubbed herself down, and even took care to condition her hair. Once rinsed, she turned the water off, watching as the last of the dirt and the grime washed down the drain. She didn't see a towel, but she had a small, dry washcloth in her bag and she used that to dry as much of herself as she could. She bent at the waist to pull her hair up into a messy updo and moved all stray hairs from her face with a worn headband. She had just managed to fit herself into her bra and panties when she heard his heavy footsteps echo around her. She had enough time to get a plain white t-shirt over her head before he stepped into the room.

They looked at each other as he came in, a small metal box in his hands. "I see that you have finished." He sat in the chair and beckoned her to come over.

She didn't want to. They were both aware of that. But she went anyways, stood before him and waited. She was small compared to him, even while he was sitting her head only came a few inches above his. And she contributed that to the fact that it was a low seating chair

Bane didn't look at her, and instead began to pull astringent and bandages and cotton balls from his box. He would do this quick so that she could be on her way. It was bad enough that the smell of her soap, eucalyptus, was filling his room, buzzing around his head, no doubt imprinted on his sheets. He glanced at his bed warily. "You will need to remove your shirt," he instructed. When she didn't move he looked up at her.

"I can do this on my own," she insisted. "I'm not crippled or anything." His hard stare made her throat constrict. She didn't want to take off her shirt in front of him. His gaze…it penetrated her, hurt her.

"You can remove your shirt of your own free will…or I will remove it for you." His tone was low, dangerous, and she found her hands moving to the hem of her shirt, lifting it overhead. She couldn't bring herself to look at him, but she could feel his eyes wandering over her. "Overall," he started, "your injuries are not bad." He drenched a cotton ball in alcohol and began to smear it over the cut on her stomach.

She hissed, but didn't move away. Instead, she watched his steady hands. He had done this before. "It's not deep," she uttered.

Bane made a noise in his throat and then tugged at the waistband of her panties. "Lower these."

Her eyes widened, and she went to move back only to bump into the bed. "No," she rasped out.

His eyes hardened, a dark grey storm, the fury of which all turned on her. "Girl," he warned.

But she shook her head. "It's just a scrape. It'll be fine, I don't need to take my underwear off for you to clean it."

His fingers flexed. Did she think his intent was to rape her? Her eyes were frightened, but hard and set, and it made him want to reach forward and rip the flimsy material from her body. But he didn't. Instead he carefully reached forward, pulled her to him by the elastic of her panties and before she could struggle, he slipped them lower on her hip to clean the scrape. He faltered only a moment when he noted her tattoo: a dog's paw print. Despite himself, he leaned forward, cleaned the wound, but his eyes didn't leave the tattoo. He traced over it, let his gaze drink in every line, and the shading. It looked more like the bottom of a dog's paw than an actual paw print. The urge to touch it struck him, and he tore his eyes away, paid more attention to the scrape he was cleaning, but the tattoo wavered in his peripheral, taunting him.

When he was sure it was clean he pulled a bandage, covered the scrape, and slid her underwear back into place. Neither of them missed the tremor that rocked through Israel as Bane's fingers glided across her skin. He frowned beneath his mask. She was just as soft, if not softer, than he had expected. In silence, he tended to the rest of her injuries, and when he was done he left to put his metal box away. When he returned she had dressed herself in black knit harem pants that were tucked into her boots, and her white t shirt. She was putting the rest of her things into her bag as he came in. Her eyes shot up.

"Am I still free to go?" She asked.

"You are." His words were weighted, a reminder of their deal. "Barsad will show you the way out."

The lithe man from the alley appeared in the doorway and Israel didn't bother to linger. She gave Bane a soft thank you and then followed the smaller man out. She kept her head down as they wound through the tunnels. She didn't want any memory of this place and thought it better if she looked at her feet instead of looking around. Barsad stopped at a latter beneath an open man hole.

"Up you go," he smiled. She didn't smile back, but up she climbed, watching as the light of day grew nearer, and the darkness and nightmare from below fell away.

The first place she went to was Old Navy. Paul spotted her the minute she walked inside and he immediately gripped her arm in a gentle embrace and led her to the office. He shut the door after them and his had went her face, turning it towards the light to better see the bruise that marred her left cheek. "You were supposed to open this morning. What the hell happened, Izzy?"

She gently pushed his hand away. "Gotham City happened, like it always does." The worry he felt was plain on his face. "I'm fine, Paul. I am. You don't have to worry."

"The hell I don't!" He let out. "You…I can't let you sleep on the streets anymore. If you won't come stay with me, at least for a few days, then you at least need to go to a shelter or something. I'm begging you-"

"I've gone to shelters before. You don't know what it's like for women in those places. They don't get any kind of respect. The men there gang up on them…use them…beat them. I'm better off on my own."

Paul was steadily shaking his head. He'd never actually been to any of the homeless shelters in Gotham, but if what she was saying was true, then she was indeed better off on her own. But this couldn't continue. This wasn't the first time he'd seen her with a few bruises and cuts, and if he wasn't careful it wouldn't be the last. He contemplated the idea of letting her sleep in the store for a few weeks, but until he could find another arrangement for her, and just as he was about to bring it up, Camilla, the supervisor beneath him, barged into the office in a panic.

"You've got to see this!" Her voice came out shaky, breathy. "This shit is crazy!" She turned on the television, turned it to the news, and all three of them grew silent as they watched the events unfold.

Israel recognized him immediately. After all, he stood out like a sore thumb. He was there, in the middle of Gotham, at the stock exchange, and he didn't look happy. There were men with him, a dozen of them, and then the camera cut to the news reporter, a very pretty woman with brown hair and wide eyes, even though she was babbling on about what was happening, it was clear that she was terrified. He was holding the building hostage, and he had gotten into the computers, was doing something. The police had the place surrounded, their guns aimed, and Israel had sunken into the nearest chair as she watched the doors open and the hostages began to move out slowly, gathered together tightly. She knew was about to happen, she didn't know if the police knew, but she knew. Now that she had met him, she didn't exactly see him as the type to be foolish enough to get caught, and when an engine sounded and the hostages dispersed, she knew she was right. Motorcycles erupted from the building, carrying men in suits tied to the fronts and the backs of some of the bikes. They made their escape quickly, and once they were out on the main road, she knew that catching them would be next to impossible. She was going to tell them to turn off the television. She didn't want to see anymore, but before she could open her mouth to say anything, Batman's image filled the screen. She was standing before she knew it, inching closer to the screen as the watched him ride his tumbler through the streets of Gotham. She frowned as the watched the scene play out, even noticed when her masked savior wasn't on camera anymore. By the time Batman had taken to the air in yet another weirdo contraption, she was shaking, trying desperately to pull herself together. This was too much. It was just too much, and it was too similar to how things had gone before the Bat had taken 8 year hiatus. She was visibly shaking her head. She couldn't do it again, wouldn't go through it again.

The room grew quiet as the television was switched off. "Camilla, from here on out the employees who wait for rides will wait inside, and the ones who walk home," Paul's eyes fell on Israel who was took stuck in her own head to realize he was looking at her. "We'll start footing the bill for cabs. Maybe we can start taking up donations at the registers."

Camilla nodded absently. "I've got to call Larry…to make sure he's on time tonight…"

Paul nodded. His eyes hadn't left Israel. "Do that. And could you please print up what I just said and post it in the break room? And make sure that everyone here today comes to see me before they clock out. Thank you."

Camilla left the room and Paul shut the door behind her. "Izzy…" He called her name softly.

"I've got to get out of Gotham," she commented softly. "I can't…I can't go through this again." She couldn't make herself face him because she knew the moment she did, she'd start to cry.

Paul understood, but he said, "It won't be like last time. These guys, they're entirely different people." He was behind her then, made her face him and the moment she did, tears stared to scald trails down her cheeks.

"Oh Paul…you don't know."

"Israel, he's not the Joker."

She flinched as his name. "They're both crazy." The images of that night burned behind her eyes. "You didn't see him, you don't know."

Paul hunched, looked her in the eyes. "What? What don't I know? Didn't see who?"

The words thickened in her throat and she bit her lip. "I can't tell you."

"Tell me what? What is going on?" He was so worried and upset that he wanted to shake her. The Joker was in Arkham so she couldn't have seen him. He was locked away so tightly that it was literally impossible. And the light bulb clicked on over his head. "That…that masked man?! Him! You…you saw him?!"

Israel couldn't get enough air into her lungs. "Paul…Paul you can't say anything. Anything to anyone, do you hear me?"

He had released her, was raking his hands angrily through his hair as he paced around the room. "Did he do that to you?" He pointed at her face.

"No." She zipped her lips suddenly. She couldn't say anymore. She didn't know where or who this masked man's men were, or what he could see or hear, but she'd said enough. "Paul, you can't tell anyone."

"Go to the police." He said suddenly.

"What, no!"

"Israel, you go to the police. Talk with Commissioner Gordon. After today he'll listen, he'll hear what you have to say."

She was shaking her head then, horror filling her eyes as the sewers and his overbearing eyes and face filled her head. "I can't. I can't, Paul! And you can't either!" She stopped him from pacing, made him look at her. "He…he isn't like…the Joker." She swallowed hard, hating the bitter taste in her mouth. "He, he would at least toy with you, maybe give you a chance to escape. But this guy, Paul, he's…direct. I don't think he'll wait around, and I don't think he'd send someone to do his dirty work for him. If I go to the police, it's over. He'll come for me, and for you before the we'll see the sun rise. Do you hear me?" She knew that was she was saying was the truth. It had been in his eyes, it had all been in his eyes. "Just, please, don't say anything."

Paul was absently nodding. "Fine. I won't, but you're staying with me tonight."

"Paul-"

"No. I'm not taking no for an answer. You're staying with me and that's final. Understand?" His gaze was hard, and she could only nod.

After work, after they waited around for cabs and cars, Israel joined Paul in his car and they drove in silence until they reached his apartment. She'd never been to his place, had never even been to that part of Gotham, the luxurious part. She stayed on her part of town…in the Narrows. She started up at his luxury townhome and internally she winced. This place was too nice, much too nice for to step foot in. She was about to tell Paul that it was alright, that she would just make do somewhere, but he was already out of the car and opening her door.

"Come on. I'm sure Kristen already has dinner on the table." He smiled.

"Did you even tell her I was coming?" She mumbled.

He pushed her ahead of him. "Of course I did. She's excited to meet you." Paul produced a key and let them both inside. She immediately felt sick. The floors were tan colored hardwood and the entryway was all white walls with black accessories. Israel felt like she'd just stepped into a contemporary version of a Martha Stewart catalogue. She wanted to bolt, to get the fuck out of there, but she didn't. She simply followed Paul into the kitchen where a very thin, modelesque blond was standing over a cutting board chopping up lettuce. She looked up and smiled as they came in.

Blue eyes and bright teeth, Israel thought. Fucking Barbie…

Paul went to kiss her on the cheek and wrap his arm around her waist.

Barbie and Ken, Israel amended.

"Izzy, this is my fiancé, Kristen. Kristen, Izzy."

Israel forced a smile. "Nice to meet you."

Kristen smiled even wider. "So this is the famous Izzy. I beginning to think we'd never meet." She rounded the island in her 5 inch platform heels and right before she went in for a hug, Israel caught the unfriendly gleam in her eye. "Paul talks about you all the time."

"I think he talks about you more," she countered.

Kristen pulled away and, since she was sure Paul couldn't see, frowned in Israel's face, a very clear warning. "No, no I'm sure he hasn't." And then her face changed again, happy and light. "Come have a seat. I made steak and potatoes and asparagus for dinner." She went back to fixing the salad, gave Paul a light peck on her way, and Israel was left standing there feeling angry and out of sorts.

Paul ushered her into the dining room and made her take a seat. Before he left she caught him by the arm and made him lean down. "I want to leave." Her voice was tight, low. She didn't want Kristen to hear. She'd spent more than her fair share of time around mean girls and around women who thought themselves higher that she was, and she had also spent of enough time making sure to remove herself from those situations. "She doesn't want me to be here, so I'm going to go." She went to stand but Paul stopped her.

"Don't worry, she loves you already. I can tell." He winked then. "Besides, there's enough of me to go around. Be right back, I'm gonna go change my shirt."

She watched him leave, closed her eyes for a moment in an effort to clear the tension from between her eyes. It was going to be a rough night. She could already tell. She was startled when Kristen was suddenly in the room and talking to her. "Rough day at work?" She asked, setting the large bowl of salad down on the table. "You look tired."

"You're awfully quiet in those heels," Israel commented.

Kristen shrugged. "I guess you could say I grew up in them. My mother, always the socialite, bought me my first pair when I was 7. What about you? Were you close with your mother?" There was a glint in her eye that made Israel uneasy.

"I'm not one for games, Kristen. If you don't want me here just say so. I'll be happy to leave."

Kristen wasn't surprised, and the smile on her face didn't fade. "Well aren't you mature. Okay, I don't want you here." She let the sentence linger in the air but as Israel made to get up, she stopped her. "But if you leave now it will upset Paul, and I like to keep him happy. Even if that means putting up with his…toys." She eyed the younger woman. "And I have to say, that out of all the toys I've allowed him to have, you are by far the most interesting. He tells me everything, you know. I know all about your past and your junkie of a mother…your abusive father…how your mother and sister died…how your grandparents wouldn't take you in because, well let's face it, you're mother was a loose woman. How were they even to know if you were really your father's daughter?"

Through the entirety of Kristen's speech, Israel had remained quiet, unwavering, even remained eye contact, but inside, she was a storm of fury and rage, and hurt. How dare Paul share any of her personal life with anyone?! She wasn't some charity case to be dissected and picked apart, and she had feelings, real feelings, just like they did. She stared at the woman before her; pretty blond hair, deep blue eyes accented with dainty eyeliner on her upper lid, but none on her lower. She was gorgeous, and Israel couldn't help but smirk, because she saw through the beauty to the ugliness that was underneath, and then her mouth began to move of its own volition.

"Man, he must really talk about me a lot for you to feel so threatened, huh?"

Kristen shut her mouth, stared in shock.

"Not what you were expecting? What? Did you just expect me to sit here and take your criticism? Did you expect me to cry?" She was shaking with rage now, but she did her best to remain seated, motionless. She thought to herself, that the entirety of the words she was about to speak would be all the more menacing if only her mouth moved, if only her eyes watched. "I bet you were expecting me to cry. I get that a lot. Genetics…it's gifted me with a very soft appearance. But do you really think that what you're saying is going to hurt me? I lived that shit. Lived it and survived it, and I've got the scars to prove it. I can show them to you if you like." Her grin was feral, animalistic. "Women like you…you make me feel better about myself. You're so caught up in your own world, in all of your material things, that you have no idea what life could be like for you. Do you know what men do to women like you on the street?" He was leaning forward now, pleased that Kristen's eyes were as wide as saucers, and that genuine fear was creeping into her face. "You couldn't even to begin to imagine the things they'd make you do…the things they'd put inside of you because it made them hard to see you in pain, to see you cry, and plead, an beg. So go ahead, lady, look down your nose at me, find comfort in yourself when your husband tells you my sad little story. But know that I'm stronger than you, in every way that I can be, because I'm more secure with myself and who I am. More secure than you'll ever be."

She looked up then, watched as Paul came back in the room, but Kristen couldn't remove her eyes from the younger woman. She was too stunned at what had just come from her mouth, stunned and aggravated. Paul went to her, kissed her on the head.

"So did you two bond?" He peered at Israel from where he had his chin planted on his fiance's head.

She smiled. "Your wife is funny." She looked at Kristen. "I thought I was going to cry from laughing so hard."

Paul laughed. "What? You were busting out the big jokes while I was upstairs?"

Kristen made a noise in her chest and forced a smile. "I'll…I'll go get the plates."

"Need some help?" Israel asked.

"No! Uh, no. No I've got it." She hurried to the kitchen, her heels clomping as she went.

"Wherever did you find her, Paul?"

He knew it was sarcasm. "Okay, okay, ease up, missy."

But she didn't. "And I'm guessing that this apartment is her doing too, huh? No, no wait, it's her parent's money that bought this place. Nice going, pal. Ya know, my mom always told me to marry rich…"

He was smiling, but now it was forced. "Okay kiddo, stop. What's gotten into you, huh?"

She just looked at him, memorized that perfectly handsome face that held lies and deceit and betrayal beneath it. "Nothing," she finally answered. "Nothing, I'm just tired."

All three of them got through dinner just fine, and when all the dishes were washed and put away, Israel had protested when Kristen suggested that she stay in the guest bedroom. "Really, I would feel better sleeping on the couch."

Kristen frowned. "It pulls apart too easily. And I know that both Paul and myself would feel much better if you were upstairs and sleeping on a bed for once." The comment earned her a scowl from Israel. But Paul backed his soon-to-be wife up and Israel soon found herself in a very nice room with a plush bed and her own bathroom. She said goodnight to them both, made sure to lock the bedroom door before she climbed into the shower and scalded herself. It was there that everything caught up with her. She voluntarily sank to the floor of the tub and hugged her knees to herself while she cried. The tears were soft at first, falling slowly from her eyes, but as her brain replayed the day's events, the words that had been spoken to her, her chest heaved and her shoulders shook, and she silently cried harder. Her past was hard, tough, and it was something she was constantly trying to shake, to escape from. But it always seemed that just when she had buried, had distanced herself from the pain of it, it would rear her ugly head one way or another. Kristen's words had cut deep, too deep, and though Israel was too proud to show herself as weak in front of a woman such as Paul's wife, that didn't mean that she hadn't felt every blow that Kristen had dealt. And then there was Paul. The man that she had been confiding in for the past year and half only turned out to be like the rest of Gotham, clean and unassuming on the outside, but dirty and hurtful at the core.

That night she went to sleep making two solid promises to herself. The first was that she would never again open up to anyone the way she had opened up to Paul. It was obvious that, if she were to survive this world, thrive in it, she would have to keep to herself. Experience had taught her that people only came into her life with the intent of hurting her, wearing her down until she was nothing, using her own weakness and throwing them back in her face. She gripped the plushy pillow and closed her eyes telling herself that never again would she let that happen. The second promise she made to herself? Easy. Get the fuck out of Gotham. And she would start on that promise as soon as her eyes opened the following day.

Israel had a nasty habit of rising before the sun did. She opened her eyes, watched as the darkness in the room gave way to a pale blue light. She rose onto her elbow, looking around to gather herself. Right, she had spent the night at Paul's. Her mouth contorted into a grimace.

She'd slept on the floor. The bed had proved to be too soft, to…nice for her to sleep on. But she had taken the covers and pillows with her and had ended up making a very nice pallet by the largest window. It had been the most comfortable, most peaceful she had slept in a while considering that she'd only managed to sleep for maybe 5 to 6 hours. She pulled her cell phone from her pocket. It was on and she couldn't dial out. She mainly used it as an mp3 player and her alarm clock. The time read 5:04am. She needed to get moving. She had a plan and she was going to stick to it. She made the bed, showered, and clad only in her underwear, she silently carried herself and her things downstairs. The kitchen was empty, and she delighted herself in making a cup of black tea, Earl Grey, with lemon and honey, just the way she liked it, and then wandered into the laundry room. She dumped her clothes into the washer, piled in some detergent and started it up. She figured washing her clothes wasn't that big a deal since Kristen had insulted her the way that she did. Besides, they had new, state of the art appliances. Her clothes would be done in under an hour, and then she could leave, be out of their way. She was coming from the laundry when she stopped in her tracks. Paul stood in the doorway in a hoodie and sweats. She wanted to bring her hands up to cover herself but she was too stunned, and a little frightened, to make her limbs work. Paul's eyes went over her quickly, a flicker of lust in them before he discarded his hoodie and held it out to her, turning his head in the process.

"Sorry," he murmured. "I didn't think anyone was up yet."

She took the jacket and put it on, zipped it up tight and was thankful that it came down to mid-thigh. "Yeah, me either. I'm kind of an early bird."

He nodded absently and moved awkwardly into the kitchen. "Want some coffee? I normally have a cup before I go running."

She lifted the mug of tea that she'd made, immediately feeling awkward about not asking if she could even have it. "I hope you don't mind…"

"Not at all. Help yourself. I'm sure there's plenty to eat in here." Paul busied himself with the coffee, but every now and then he'd glance at her, linger on her exposed legs. "I feel like last night didn't go as well as it should have."

Remember your promise, she chided herself. "It was fine," she said happily. "Kristen's great. You're lucky to have her."

He laughed. "She's a bitch and we both know it."

Israel's lips quirked unhappily, but she didn't say anything. She stuck her face into her mug and took a sip.

Paul pushed a little harder. "She's nothing like you."

"No, she's better than me."

He looked confused. "If you're saying that because of her money-"

"Paul…what are you doing?"

He raked his fingers through his hair. "I'm just saying that had I met you before I met her-"

"Then you would be a pedophile because I'm 21 and she's 24 and you're 26." The washer sounded. She set her mug down. "Don't do this. It's too early to do this." She recognized that look in his eye, that sick lust that he would tell himself was misunderstood longing. She knew how this worked, how men like him worked. She'd fallen prey to it more than once. He'd talk her up, make her feel special, but once he'd had her, really had her, the infatuation would disappear, he wouldn't want her anymore, and she'd be left feeling empty, useless…suicidal. Paul took a step towards her, and she took a step back. "No." She said firmly. "I won't do this with you." She went into the laundry room, closed the door behind her and as she went to retrieve her knife she noted that it wasn't there. It wasn't anywhere. It wasn't with her. She looked at the door, waited a beat. She didn't think Paul the type to be like the rest, but he wasn't exactly the man she'd thought him to be. She stared at the door handle, dared it to turned, to move, but it didn't. And then finally she heard the front door open, close. She peeked out. The kitchen was empty. She closed the door again, put her clothes in the dryer, and then sat in a corner, her eyes steadily on the door knob.

I'm becoming quite pleased with where Israel is going. Mind you, I didn't start this fic with any sort of set standard or any kind of direction. All I had was Bane, and Gotham, and Israel for a name.

I'm taking this time to tell you guys how this is gonna go down from here on out. I tried to think about it from a reader's standpoint, because let's just be honest, when we start to like a fic and it's not updated on a regular basis or just left hanging, well it drives you nuts. That's not me presuming that any of you will get addicted to this fic. I'd like to think I'm not that conceited. This is just me keeping communication open with you guys. For me, school starts back on October 1st and my new job starts on October 4th, and so I'm going to write, write, write all I can before then. But, once all that starts, I think I'm only capable of putting out a chapter a week...or every week and a 1/2. So I'm gonna do my best to do that because I think I'm more excited about this fic than anyone else. Yeesh, I'm writing a lot here. So yeah, there's that, and also if you want to follow me...or keep up with me, as a person, personally (lol) my contact and social networking junk is below.

...Sorry for all the words...haa.

Twitter: (slash) TheWriterMegan

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