Hmm, I'm trying to think of what I want the relationship between Bruce and Amy to be. It's occurred to me that perhaps she'd be too prideful and/or afraid to receive any sort of help, so she might not accept him as a mentor. And Bruce wouldn't think he could provide much anyways, since this is before he can control shifting to the Other Guy and thinks he's a danger to everyone he gets even remotely close to. He only puts up with Smoke because the guy can render himself intangible and can't get hurt even if the Other Guy tried.

Anyways, that's just me musing. Right now, they've barely even met, and don't want anything to do with each other. I'll just move on from there. Tell me what you think :D

Chapter Thirteen

Prima Facie

The Giants were beating the Patriots.

I knew this, thanks to the voices filling the space I was in. Was I at a football game? I had never been to one before – I thought it'd be louder.

Opening my eyes proved to be one of the hardest things I had ever done. Drowsiness pulled on my mind, weighed down my body, made me feel like I was breathing through a straw. Images flashed in my mind, too quick for me to catch them, and I was left wondering what happened.

I tried to focus on my surroundings, what my other senses could tell me. My radar was taking longer than usual to boot up, despite the fact I had been awake – half-awake, sort of sleeping – for about ten minutes now? Maybe twenty. I didn't know. My internal clock was completely out of whack.

There was a blanket over me. Wool, if the itchiness was anything to go by, but very warm. I was lying on something soft. A bed? It felt too wonky – so not my bed, then. Where was I? In my apartment?

I could smell food. Food being cooked. Chicken noodle soup.

Suddenly, everything just fell to the side. I couldn't remember the last time I had chicken noodle soup – when I was sick? When was the last time I got sick? Whenever I was sick, I got to stay home, in bed, and Mom made me her special recipe and even though I felt like crap, the soup made me feel amazing...

I heard footsteps, echoing off the walls of the room, the squeaky sound as a chair cushion was sat on. I turned my head in that direction, the person (Mom? Mom, is that you? Why aren't you at work?), in the room with me. My neck protested against the movement, but I had to know I had to see –

The light burned my eyes. I winced, shied away from it, but the light didn't fade. Eventually, my sight adjusted and I could open my eyes a smidge without experiencing pain.

I was so ready to see Mom there, in our cramped little living room, watching the game as I rested nearby.

Because of that, I was completely unprepared for the sight of the unfamiliar room before me, with its green-painted walls and dark wood furniture, the strange couch I was on, and the man watching me from across the room.

I jumped, startled by his presence. My instincts kicked in and I tried to get up, to get away – but as soon as I tried to move, my right shoulder exploded in pain.

I gasped, fell back and looked down, saw my arm in a sling – when did that happen?

Confusion mounting, I started to hyperventilate, looking around in all directions, trying to find an exit, a way out; maybe this was a dream, a nightmare, what the hell was going on? Who was he? Where was I? What is this place? How did I get here? How did I get hurt? Where's Mom –

I didn't realize I was saying any of this out loud until the man got up, hands raised, saying, "Whoa there, slow down! Breathe, kiddo. Just take deep breaths."

I listened to him because I didn't really have a choice. But when he drew closer, I sunk deeper into the couch, wanting to leave but having nowhere to go. Seeing my fear, the man came to a stop by the coffee table, raising his palms as a sign of goodwill. It took me a second to find my voice again, "W...who are you?"

"I'm a doctor," the man replied, an answer that was both correct and completely useless. I could've figured that out on my own. "You've suffered from severe blood loss. Confusion, muscle weakness, and nausea are typical responses during recovery. Do you remember what happened?"

I shook my head, not even pausing to scan my most recent memories to know they weren't there.

"All right, that's fine," the man sighed, running a hand through his hair as he sat down on the corner of the table. Now closer to eye level, his face was easier to see, and I had to admit I was rather underwhelmed by his appearance.

Although not quite middle-aged, the man had a tired, slightly scruffy appearance that added a whole decade to what had been a handsome face. It seemed as though he was under a lot of stress, but maybe that just came with the territory; Doctors didn't have it easy. With messy hair, a wrinkled shirt, and bags under his bespectacled eyes, the man seemed almost out of place in this nice house of his. He was also vaguely familiar, but I couldn't remember where I last saw him if my life depended on it.

"Do you remember your name? Who you are?"

That I did know, but there was no way I was going to tell him. "Yeah. Where am I? Did you –" I raised my left hand, the uninjured one, only to discover that it was attached to something. A bandage covered the inside of my arm, a small red tube emerging and carrying up over my head. I followed it until I saw the blood bag handing from a coat rack behind the couch. "You're giving a blood transfusion?"

"Didn't you hear me say about the blood loss?" there was a wry tone in the doctor's voice, earning an irritated look from me. But what was scary was that he was right – I was having a hard time keeping track of this active conversation. "You lost almost a liter and a half of blood. Do you know how many liters a human body only has?"

"Five," I replied, not appreciating his patronizing attitude. "I lost blood, not my brain, thanks."

"Well, then," the man almost smirked, looking mildly impressed. "And how much blood loss needs to happen before it becomes fatal?"

"Forty percent," I said , then took a second to calculate the unasked question. I didn't like him asking me questions like a teacher – like, what, was there going to be a quiz later? "Which is two pints, so I lost about a third...? Oh."

"Yeah, 'oh'," the man repeated the word, pleased to see that I finally understood the gravity of the situation. "You wanna tell me how you ended up with a knife in your back?"

"I already told you, I don't remember," I snapped back, but the memories were starting to trickle in now. I remembered fighting Goliath, pulling the blade out of my shoulder – why the hell did I even do that? That just made everything worse. How could I have been so stupid? "How did I get here? Who are you?"

"Your friend brought you here," the man replied, getting up with a small grunt. He kept talking as he walked out of the room, presumably into the kitchen. "Apparently you're not allowed to go to hospitals, although he failed to explain why. I was hoping you might fill me in, considering I turned my house into an operating room just for you."

I rolled my eyes, getting a little annoyed with this interrogation that I couldn't escape. "Does it matter? I got into a fight and it went about as well as you think it would. That's it."

"And why were you fighting?" he asked, as if that somehow effected the quality of my injury.

"Because I'm a stupid teenager, and like all teenagers, I think I'm invincible," I snapped back, now thinking of ways of how to get out of here as quickly as possible. "What do you think?"

"I think you're not going anywhere so long as you've got a six inch hole in you," the man replied in an even tone, unperturbed by my attitude. He raised his eyebrows, saying, "So I hope you haven't got any important plans, because you're going to have to cancel."

"No, I don't," I replied, unable to think of a good excuse. I guess that was one drawback to being an asocial freak – no club meetings to attend, no games to play, no competitions to be in. "But I can't stay here. I just – I can't, okay? Bad things might happen."

Of course the guy completely misunderstood me, and said with a smirk, "I don't think your social life will be ruined by a brief hiatus. I'm sure you'll be able to salvage it by the end of all this."

I just snorted. "There's nothing left to salvage, Doc. Besides, that's not what I'm worried about."

He didn't ask me what that was. I didn't think I'd have to explain myself, anyways. We both knew what I did – I was still wearing what was left of my suit. Anyone living in New York would know who I was, with or without the helmet. This guy, at least, seemed to have the decency not to make a big deal about it.

My back felt lumpy, and not just from the ice packs I was lying on. Whatever surgery had taken place, my body reacted accordingly, and the place of trauma had swelled at least three times its size, from the feel of it. The cold numbed it out, but every once and a while I could feel jolts of pain, phantoms of what I had been through.

Even though my torso felt so stiff I could barely move, I still tried getting back up. I couldn't stay here. Who knows what could happen while I'm down for the count. I couldn't even remember what happened last night – memories I desperately needed to recover.

Then it hit me. "I have a date!"

Sharp laughter burst out, startling me and making the Doc jump in surprise. Then Smoke materialized from the shadows by the staircase, a look of absolute glee on his face.

"You," he said, pointing at me. "Have a date?"

"Yeah," I replied, defiant. Never before would I have been so glad to have met Dorian, just to have this as an excuse. "I do. And because of you guys, I'm going to miss it."

"Oh, come on!" Smoke threw his arms out, disbelieving. Not that I blamed him, but he could've been less of an asshole about it. "I saved your life! But you'll never admit that, will you? This is just another lame excu –"

"Smoke," Doc interrupted, casting the thief a disapproving look. He seemed peeved to have this unwelcome guest show up in his home. That'd make two of us. "That's enough."

"What? Don't tell me you believe her," Smoke complained, looking at him while waving his hands over at me. The Doc kept a neutral expression, saying he wasn't necessarily biased against me, so Smoke said, "Trust me, I've known her way longer. She's about as friendly as a cactus. She hates talking to other people, how could she have managed to get any decent guy to like her is beyond me."

"It's easier," I muttered, but speaking loud enough for everyone to hear. "When the guy isn't you."

His words hurt, even though it shouldn't have bothered me. Still, I had to hide it somehow. He called me a cactus – and as it turned out, being prickly was what I was best at.

My retort had the desired effect. Smoke looked offended, angry, and was about to fire back his own response, but it was the Doc who said, "I don't believe her, Smoke, because it doesn't matter. She's in no state to be moving – it's going to take at least a week or more until her shoulder is fully healed. So, you're grounded," he said to me. "Unless you prefer legitimate hospital care. They may be able to speed up the process."

"Great idea," I said, not pleased with the option at all. I wasn't an idiot – I knew the Doc didn't want me here and was probably trying to get me anywhere else safe to recover. To be honest, I wasn't ecstatic by the situation either, if my scramble for excuses was anything to go by. I would love to be anywhere else right now. Unfortunately, that wasn't going to happen. "But I don't have healthcare insurance."

Smoke uttered a snort, but did a double take when he saw the serious look on my face. "Wait, you're not joking?"

"If I went to the hospital for every time I got hurt, I'd be in debt for the rest of my life." I said, satisfied to finally get one up on him. Then I said to the Doc, "I don't want to stay either, but you're the expert here, so I guess I don't really have a choice."

The man heaved a sigh and nodded his head. It was pretty clear none of us were happy with this situation but I had no idea why the Doc was helping me if he didn't want me here. It wasn't like I was forcing him or anything – I definitely couldn't hurt him and I didn't see anyone holding a gun to his head. Was there something else here going on that I didn't know about?

Before I could ask, the Doc walked out of the room, Smoke following him. A few seconds later I could hear a hushed conversation taking place, but as with everything else, my hearing had been greatly nerfed. Still, I tried to eavesdrop, but the effort was tiring and I could feel myself starting to drift.

I fought against it, but only half-heartedly. Sleep was so much preferable to pain.

OoOoO

"As entertaining as your arguments are," Bruce told Smoke, who looked unhappy he didn't get a chance to have the last word with the girl. "I'd appreciate it if you would not antagonize the patient."

"Tell her that," Smoke replied, jerking an arm towards the other room, but his indignance faltered at the stern look on Bruce's face. "I just want some respect, man. At least a thank you."

"And you sought to achieve that by laughing at her?"

The boy huffed and crossed his arms, but turned away so he wouldn't look Bruce in the eye. "You don't get it by asking –"

"Did you try?" Bruce said, knowing Smoke hadn't. "You know, I thought you two had a closer relationship than...that."

Smoke threw him a strange look, confirming the theory that he had no idea how his behavior was coming off as. "Uh, ha-ha, no. What gave you that idea?"

"Hm, I don't know," Bruce decided not to dig any deeper. If the kid couldn't figure it out on his own, then Bruce shouldn't be the one to tell him. "I guess I just assumed."

"Yeah, well," the boy sniffed, chin raised in an air of superiority. "She's cute and all, but the way she acts won't get her anywhere."

"Right," Bruce decided not to remark on how Smoke's own behavior got him into trouble plenty of times in the past. "Well, at least I won't have to worry about her getting too attached to anything, then."

"She won't come back if she can help it, I can promise you that."

Unfortunately, Bruce should not have taken his word for it. By the time he realized his mistake, it would be far too late.

Smoke disappeared shortly after their conversation and Bruce went back to check on the girl – she had fallen back to sleep and he considered it a good investment in getting the analgesics...although, he had to admit, seeing the girl so lucid, even if only for a few minutes, was rather surprising. He hoped her body wouldn't adapt too quickly to the drug, or accidentally get her addicted to it.

He could only solve so many problems.

With little else to do but wait for the broth to cook, the man sat down in his armchair and watched the game playing on the TV. It was a convenient way to keep an eye on the girl's condition but not get too bored with the stretches of inactivity. Normally, Bruce would spend time volunteering at the local health clinic; it passed the time, and apparently he couldn't live anywhere without unnecessarily placing himself in dangerous social situations.

But the man couldn't help himself. He felt useless if he wasn't helping people when he had the opportunity. Once a doctor, always a doctor.

With the girl in her condition, he couldn't leave her alone for long stretches of time, as working at a clinic would require. As he watched the Patriots wrestle the pigskin over the scrimmage line, it occurred to Bruce that he didn't know the girl's name (aside from Smoke's long, and sometimes unflattering, list of nicknames). It didn't bother him too much, not knowing this seemingly trivial piece of information. The less Bruce knew about the girl, the better – the same could be said vice versa. She knew as much as she needed to at the moment.

Bruce hoped he could hide the address of his house, the neighborhood they were in, from her in case she got any funny ideas. But he couldn't put any faith in the thought. If the girl was a native New Yorker, she could probably pinpoint her location with a glance out the window.

He was also concerned by how lucid she seemed upon waking. It took a bit, but clearly the girl had a hold of her mental faculties, as well as intelligence – a minor surprise, especially considering she was a mere teen, subject to the government's less-than-stellar education system. Did she even go to school? That might be a problem, especially if she had a good attendance.

But Bruce would wait until she brought it up first before he considered making it a problem.

The girl didn't stir again until around seven at night; by then, the game had been replaced with a line of sitcoms. The tinny laughter was starting to grate on Bruce's nerves and he was almost glad to have something else to think about.

The girl first mumbled something in her sleep, before a sharp bang from the show brought her back with a small jolt. "Gh!...what? Where am I?"

Her breathing was fast for a few moments, and Bruce leaned forward in his seat, making to get up and perhaps replay their last conversation, but the girl looked around and heaved a sigh. "Oh, I'm still here. God dammit."

Bruce had to suppress a smirk, falling back in his seat. "Had a nice nap?"

The girl's eyes flicked to him, hard gray and impenetrable. Bruce didn't know a lot of teenagers. He could count the number on one hand, and Smoke was the only one he knew well enough to call an acquaintance, maybe even a friend. He had little understanding of the teenage psyche, but he imagined that kind of unfriendly poker-face took a certain level of experience that, if considered, would be alarming to any sensible parent. She said, "And you're still here. Afraid I might go into cardiac arrest while I'm asleep?"

He didn't want to think about what she had been through to get that look. He tried to mimic the same level of disinterest she had, but in his position of reluctant caretaker, it didn't really work. "I'm watching for any bad reactions to the infusion or medication. You said you were O-negative, right?"

"Yeah, I..." the girl frowned. "Wait, when did I say that?"

"When I was operating on you. You out of it for the most part, which is pretty lucky. I wouldn't want to remember being awake while someone's digging around under your skin."

"Ugh," the girl closed her eyes, her head falling back on the pillow. "Thanks, man, I really needed that image in my head."

"Sorry," he winced inwardly. Bruce regretted using too-specific descriptions on a patient who could only imagine it too well with the help of hallucinogenic sedatives. "I hope it didn't ruin your appetite. You're going to have to eat something soon, if you feel up to it."

"Mm," the girl mumbled, settling back into the couch. She looked ready to fall back asleep. Still, she said, "Chicken soup sounds good."

He didn't find it surprising she already knew what it was. The smell was obvious enough, and she still seemed capable to make sense of her surroundings. Getting up, Bruce returned to the kitchen, where the broth was still steaming. It was kept warm by the stove beneath turning on and off at regular intervals.

Opening a cabinet, Bruce started reaching for a bowl, before reconsidering and going for a mug instead. The girl had no strength to hold a bowl and use a spoon at the same time, and Bruce was of the mindset that spoon feeding her would be unpleasant for the both of them. He also doubted that the girl would be able to even eat a whole bowl of soup without throwing up; he'd better start small, see how she handled it first.

He ladled the soup into the mug, filling it mostly with broth. Going back to the living room, Bruce thought the girl might've fallen asleep again, but she shifted at the sound of his approach. She opened one eye, glanced up at him, focusing on the mug in his hands. Then, with stiff slowness, she withdrew her uninjured arm from beneath the blanket, holding her hand open to receive the beverage.

Setting it gently in her hand, Bruce sat on the coffee table, watching her as she tested the soup against her lips. The girl seemed to be making a point of ignoring his presence. So he said, "Do you go to school?"

The girl closed her eyes, tipping the bottom of the cup upwards as she continued to drink the broth. Bruce wondered if he should repeat himself or just give up, when she pulled back the mug and spoke in a soft voice, "Yes."

"So you understand you won't be there for most of the week, right?"

"Yes."

"And that doesn't bother you?" he asked, finding her behavior dubious. Surely this was just an act. There had to be more to this than she was letting on. "Isn't your family going to be worried when you go missing for a whole week?"

"Not really," she replied.

Bruce expected her to elaborate, but when she didn't, he had to ask, "So you're telling me that when I wake up tomorrow, there's not going to be a special on the morning news of a little blonde girl gone missing? There won't be interviews of your parents asking for their daughter to be returned, safe and sound, and there won't be policemen, knocking on every door in this city, looking for you?"

The girl blinked again, and for a second, Bruce thought he saw something flicker across her face, but he couldn't identify it fast enough.

"No."

Bruce couldn't help but laugh at the girl's bravado. Who was she kidding? The media loved focusing on the disappearance of missing kids; it made for great ratings, and the fact that she was young, Caucasian, and female on top of it all – she could be the next Elizabeth Smart, or Madeleine McCann. And being an alleged kidnapper was not something Bruce wanted to add to the list of convictions the government wanted him for. "Somehow I have trouble believing that."

"Believe what you want, it's not going to happen," was her curt reply.

"So no one's going to worry about you? No one important?"

The girl paused, the cup hovering a few centimeters from her lips. Then she rest the mug on her stomach and, still without looking at him, said, "Okay, maybe there's one guy."

"Who?"

The girl frowned a little. Bruce doubted she was going to give him any names, so wasn't surprised when she didn't. "My cousin."

"You think he'll go to the news stations?" Why was her cousin the first person she thought of? Why not her mother? Her father?

"No. I think he might do something stupid," she replied, sounding more annoyed than concerned about what her cousin might possibly do. Bruce also wondered what could be more stupid than putting out nationwide search for a girl who wasn't even kidnapped. "Do you have a phone?"

"Why?" Bruce asked, drawing back a little. The request immediately had him suspicious. Least to say, he didn't trust the girl, and couldn't count on what she might do next.

The girl finally looked at him, rolling her eyes and making a face. "I'm not going to rat you out, if that's what you're thinking. I'm just going to tell my cousin not to do anything stupid, that I'm fine, okay? And to tell everyone that I just have the flu or something and so my best friend doesn't tell her dad about me."

"What would her dad do?"

"Well, a lot, considering he's Chief of Police,"

Bruce stared at her, surprised. "You know Captain Stacy?"

"Didn't you just hear me? I go to the same school as his daughter. I've known them for years. And you better believe they'd go all out if either one of them had the tiniest inkling I was in trouble. So can I have a phone, please?"

Well, that didn't give him much of a choice now. Grumbling under his breath, Bruce got up and looked for the nearest house phone. It wasn't on its dock where it should be, so it took him about ten minutes before he could find it again (in his office, under the desk; he had no idea how it got there).

The girl had finished her broth by the time he came back, looking a little better. Her cheeks had turned a rosy pink, which was a good sign. She reached for the phone and Bruce reluctantly handed it over. Without a word she punched in a number and brought the phone to her ear, waiting as it rung.

And rung and rung. The girl huffed, muttering to herself, "Come on, idiot, pick up the phone. You better not have gone to the Bugle already or I swear..."

Bruce sat in his chair, a distance away, yet he could still hear the sudden burst of noise as the other end finally picked up, and shouting came out from the other end. A boy's voice, from the sound of it, but too garbled to make it out clearly.

"Dude, dude, calm down," the girl said, her voice straining with the effort. Her hand went to her forehead as she closed her eyes. "I'm all right, I'm alive, okay? Please tell me you didn't go the police all ready? Oh, good. Because I'm fine, really."

There was a pause as the boy started asking a flurry of questions. The girl tried speaking several times, but kept getting caught off. Eventually, she snapped, "Peter! No, I'm not at the apartment, but I'm safe, let's just leave it at that. No, I...I can't tell you that. No, I can't! Sorry, but it's one of those situations, you know? I'm just trying to keep my identity intact."

There was a silence. Then the boy said something, so quiet that Bruce almost didn't hear it. The girl sighed, shifting in discomfort on the couch. "Um, just tell them I'm sick. Like, really sick. The flu...I don't know what I'm going to do for a signed note, since Aunt May can't sign it, she doesn't know anything. I'll, um, I'll think of something. I've got like a week to do that. Don't worry about it."

"Oh, and, um," the girl added after a moment of thought. "Can you ask my teachers for any homework? I can't fall behind, and if they already think I'm sick beforehand, it won't be hard to convince them later."

There was a reply, then an exchange of goodbyes. The girl seemed hesitant, but eventually she pressed the end-call button, and her hand fell limp onto her stomach, still holding the phone. Her eyes shut, breathing labored. "You don't think you could sign a doctor's note for me, would you?"

"Sorry," Bruce replied without a moment's hesitation. "But you're not the only one trying to protect their identity."

"Yeah, that's what I thought," the girl didn't sound so much angry as tired. Her breathing was starting to become labored with the effort of staying awake, so Bruce got up to retrieve the phone. When he picked up, the girl gave him a bleary look, her words starting to slur a little when she said, "Got anyone to worry about you, Doc?"

Bruce had been about to walk away when she asked that. He halted, frowning down at her. What in the world had brought this on? The girl's eyes were glazed over; it seemed as though the drugs were heavily influencing her thoughts. Yes, that was it. She acting under their affects and had lost whatever veneer of teen coolness she had been going for. It was almost satisfying to think about.

Knowing she probably wouldn't remember this later, Bruce gave her the truth.

"No."