Chapter Text
It's not like he's a gotten a lot of opportunities to say goodbye to someone, but that one was still shit. He didn't beg for her to stay with him or say that her refusal to believe Gotham could be saved was wrong, so he had that going for him. Still, he shouldn't have followed her. He shouldn't have followed her, he shouldn't have followed her, goddammit he shouldn't have followed her. It took a pathetic amount of control to not turn left and keep going, to follow her lead and leave it all behind. Did she think he would? Was she preparing for that, mentally coming up with some quip for when he kept following? He kept looking in the mirror to see if her head would turn back, expecting him to be behind her, or at least checking. As far as he could tell, that didn't happen. No point in lying, no shame (okay, there's a lot of shame) in admitting he wished she'd at least looked back. But why would she? There was no need. He was behind her, Gotham was behind her. She was going to Bludhaven. Bludhaven would have been easier.
What was that saying? Hate to see them leave, love to watch them go?
Fuck. Fuck him. Disgusting. Pathetic.
If he slept at all before, he doesn't now. Alfred is concerned, but is also only conscious for about eight hours a day. Only two hospitals are functional, and even then all patients have to be air vacced in and out. When he got them to transfer Alfred to Wayne Tower, he saw doctors and nurses turning breaks rooms into places for them to sleep, they had no way to go home. They were happy to release a stabilizing man to free up a bed for the ever growing influx of patients.
So he pays the helicopter pilot over a thousand dollars in cash to hover above the tower and lower him and Alfred into it. The penthouse still stands, not entirely scorched. It's more than what almost everybody has. They go in through the office where the fire started, where Alfred was almost killed. He starts walking again two days later. He begins to worry about Bruce the moment they touch scorched wooden floors.
He doesn't even try to lie and tell Alfred that he sleeps when Alfred sleeps. They don't talk much, because talking means Alfred could convince him to stop for even a moment. A pause means a potential total collapse.
He's been lonely before. It's different this time.
He goes to the parts of Gotham the helicopters can't reach. The seven points where the bombs destroyed the breakwaters each have multiple destroyed buildings, buildings where it's unlikely anyone survived. Rescue operations, somewhat reasonably, focus more attention in places they know have people, and warn him he could be wasting his time.
He goes anyway.
Rescue Operations are mostly correct. Breakaway points one and two have no survivors. The white bricks of a small apartment complex at point two are stained red, and when he stops by the tower to bandage a wound that opened up again (can't stitch it up, that means stopping), he takes a moment to scream in anger. He's better at reacting to the violence. Not so much at processing it.
Points three and six are where he's able to do some good. At point three he finds two teenage girls trapped under their kitchen table, starving but alive. Parents died when the ceiling collapsed, trying to follow their daughters under the table for protection. He gets Gordon to send a medical boat to get them out of there. Paramedics says they'll be fine. As fine as anyone can be after that. They can barely provide complex medical help, at least while in Gotham, let alone psychological help. That will be years down the line, if it ever happens at all, and it probably won't be Gotham who's providing or paying for it.
The girls started screaming as he got them out of there, thought he was going to kill them, or worse. He doesn't blame them. No one looks at the suit and thinks of comfort and safety, that wasn't the point when he stayed up for eighteen hours just to determine the design. Still, he wishes maybe it was a little less ominous while he was on rescue missions.
Selina wouldn't have scared them. Even if she was terrible with people, and she wasn't, she'd still be better at it than him.
Point six has a man in his mid fifties with his left leg trapped under multiple heavy pieces of rubble. He calls Gordon ahead of time and then gets to work moving it. As he does, the man begins to babble out a stream of consciousness, likely to distract from the intense pain he's in. By the end, Bruce knows more about this man than he does about most people. He's a grocer, his wife was shopping downtown that night so she might be dead, he can't get himself to grieve her yet, he's got a daughter in another city and a son who's dead to him regardless of his actual status. As Bruce gets him onto the med boat, he looks at the horrible state of the man's leg. Even with decent treatment and care, that man will be lucky to have his left leg end at his knee.
If that man survives the uncertain future, he'll get him the best prosthetic money can buy.
The route to return from point seven to the tower takes him in the general direction of Selina's apartment and he could go by. Not to take in a space she used to inhabit, he isn't that pathetic (except that he is), but instead for the strays she had taken in. It didn't occur to him until he was about two blocks away that she only left with one cat, that the other strays must have left her after a few days of no food.
He checks anyway. He stays for about fifteen minutes too long.
Pathetic.
Gordon tells him one night that Mayor Reál learned he was the closest link to the Batman and has been hounding him to put her in contact with him. She wants him to speak during one of her daily announcements. Inform the public of his intentions, assure them and dissuade any fears. He likes Reál, as much as one can in this mess that she was thrown into, with no real way to fix it. She at least believes what she says.
"Doesn't really help if you want a decent portion of the people to fear you, now does it," Gordon chuckles.
"It's complicated."
Gordon sighs "It always is." They've forgone meeting on the roof of the same building as they used to. Now it's where they can afford privacy, their communication coming from a device Bruce had already. Gordon called it a beeper. The Batman saw no problem with this comparison. Bruce Wayne was a little bothered by it.
"I'm getting more and more questions about you everyday," Gordon says in a more serious tone. "They ask me about who you are, your intentions, if you're backed by anyone. There's only so long they'll accept 'I don't know' for an answer before they start coming after me."
"Which is why you won't know anything." That's how it should be, he decides. No partners, if they come even close they're an ally and they're kept at an arm's distance. Ignoring the immense danger that comes with his identity being revealed, Gotham didn't need the chaos of learning Bruce Wayne, white privileged heir to a multi billion dollar fortune and recluse with an inability to push his hair out of his eyes is the Batman.
He almost told Selina. Almost. Wasn't until she name dropped him that he decided against it. Hell, he didn't really trust her. Or at least he did, enough to watch his back but probably not enough to keep that secret and he still wanted to tell her. Give it to her as almost a token. That this is who he was, and that he could try to trust her with this. And then he didn't. She also kissed him, which helped to stop him. He's less worried about Gordon kissing him.
"Yes, but... ," Gordon trails off for a moment, before rubbing his temples. "This can't go on forever without becoming a problem."
He knows. He's known that since he started this whole thing.
The parts of Gotham unreachable by helicopter were already parts that Gotham wanted to forget about, but now they've been nearly abandoned. The people there are those that either desperately need saving, or ones who refuse it. It's harder to get those that want saving out. Medics are at constant risk of being shot at by those who saw the collapse of the city and breathed a sigh of relief. Gotham had abandoned them when they needed help, now there was no risk of the city turning it's eye on them when they started trouble.
He coordinates with Gordon and gets survivors out on boats at the crack of dawn when it's light enough for the medics to see but not too bright to call attention to them as all the night monsters recede back into the limited shelters they have.
He's seen people desperate before. But no one could see desperation on an hourly basis and stay sane. One night he thinks of Nashton, chuckling to himself darkly at the thought that maybe someone else will get him, so he doesn't have to suffer the internal torment of trying to not kill him, then immediately the delight turns to absolute disgust. Nashton is horror beyond words, malice and a blight on this city, an insane man who will never repent for what he has done. Bruce understands why someone who grew up in the conditions of that orphanage would go insane. These last two weeks have left him on the cliff's edge.
He misses Selina an absolutely normal amount (lies), which is why he doesn't become filled with an intense swarm of emotions (lies, again) when he sees her in the blown out office of Wayne Tower. Still in his suit, having just returned from an area eight blocks from point seven, he has plausible deniability as he turns to see her pull herself over the ledge that drops six hundred feet to the street. Standing up, as if nothing happened, as if she didn't just walk back into his life and punch the hell out of that part of his stupid brain that's become dedicated to her, she leans into her hip and declares "You look like shit."
"How did you find me?" He steps towards her slowly.
"Your old favorite, followed you. Heard that the Batman was doing something near my apartment. Apparently he's a rescue worker now. Went out. Looked for you. You're a little less subtle now." Three weeks feel likes years, but he shouldn't be surprised to see her getup is still the same. Same jumpsuit, same boots, same torn up hat with the little ears that shows way too much of her face.
"Did you climb the entire tower," he asks incredulously, as this seems to be the part his brain has focused on.
"Only the last three floors. Got in through the lower level fire escapes, climbed about twenty flights of stairs, had to break a window to get up here. No way else in besides a broken elevator. Wayne's really factored in tiring the enemy out as part of their defense."
He refuses to react to that last bit. "That's... impressive," he admits.
She hums appreciatively and shrugs, shifting her weight. "Not too bad. A little cold. Managed to not cut myself on glass. Getting better at not looking down."
"How long have you been back?"
"Two days. Why," she asks, leaning in. "Miss me?" (Past the limit of what he would call sane).
"Why did you come back?"
"You're avoiding the question."
"So are you." They stand for what feels like minutes to Bruce, refusing to break eye contact with each other because at their core they're both stubborn children. She knows he misses her. Looking into her eyes feels almost uncomfortable, exposing. As if she could see right through him, see all the thoughts he's had about her. When he has a moment to breathe from his attempts to stop Gotham from cannibalizing itself, his thoughts are near exclusively occupied by her. He's thought about her and how she would be in Bludhaven, or what would happen if she came back, if they could keep working together. He's thought about her in less appropriate ways too. She knows this. She doesn't know his name, or really anything about him but that look feels as if she's stolen all his secrets. So he breaks the silence first. He's fucked no matter how this reunion goes. No point in lying to her.
"Yeah. Yeah I missed you." She lowers her gaze with a small knowing smile and takes a few steps to the side. It's now that he realizes how close they were, him towering over her, her nose nearly brushing his chin. She's intoxicating, and she knows that. It gives her even more power.
After a moment she speaks. "I was thinking about what you said, about Gotham. This place isn't savable." And that honestly stings a bit because it's probably something he should believe. The facts are pointing to it, everyone believes it. Yet he doesn't want to, refuses to accept this possible reality. He'll stave it off for as long as he can. "But the more I keep thinking, the more of Gotham I kept seeing on the news...". She trails off for a moment and sighs, rubbing at her face. "There's a lot of people who don't deserve to get hurt while this city burns itself down. So I'm gonna help you. And I'll do some of it your way, but some of it's gonna be done my way." She looks at him, but not for approval. "Got it?"
He nods shakily. He's going to tell her. It's no longer just a fact he needs to face, but a want to do so. Instead he lets a small "Yeah."
Her demeanor changes again as she smirks. He's going to tell her, she deserves to know. Her identity and her mask are as tied together as his are, but he didn't give her a choice of anonymity. Whatever trust they have between each other, disturbing in how much and how little of it exists between them, he's going to give this to her as an offering. That this is who he is and she matters to him because she'd be the only one other than Alfred to know who was behind that mask (Nashton knows, maybe, but he desperately doesn't want to think about that). He might as well present his heart to her on a silver platter with fork and sharp knife. He believes that she wouldn't stab into it.
"Good," she says. "I'm back in the apartment. It's been ransacked but it's stable. Place for me and the cat to rest. Should we head there or do you have like... a base of operations somewhere? Or are you turning Wayne Tower into your base?" She chuckles at that, looking to him for a reaction, and in his stupid ways he doesn't give her one. He sees the wheel start to turn in her head the longer she stares at him, the longer he doesn't give her a reaction.
Fucking stupid of him not to assume she could figure it out on her own.
Her eyes go dark and serious, lips parting as that cog continues to turn. "Or... has this been your base the entire time?" Her tone is deadly serious. She wants him to admit it, just like she wanted him to say he missed her. He'll oblige her this time too.
"Selina--"
"If you have any trust or even goddamn respect for me, you'll take that mask off right now." He'll do it, because that's the power she holds over him. Maybe in that partnership she wanted (one he had been thinking-- no, fantasizing about) it would be expected that he'd call the shots, but he'd also probably jump off a cliff if she asked him. That's who he is with her, wrestling for control over each other, unwilling to admit he'd freely give her control. There's an extremely small button on the inside of his glove that requires him to pinch his fingers together that releases the mask, because before they'd met he would probably die before he let anyone other than Alfred know who he was. He pulls it off and she's right, he probably does look like shit. Hair greasy and stuck to his forehead, eyes are probably hooded in dark circles, his lower face he knows is covered in grime.
He watches her jaw shake as it clenches, but she still meets his eyes. She' got something in her hands, twisting it as they stand for a moment, processing everything.
"Selina, please--"
"Fuck you." The statement is perfunctory, but he can hear that tremble of betrayal in her voice. She's turning away, back to the ledge of the tower and he sees that she has one of his grappling hooks in her hands. Whether she took that from him minutes or weeks ago, he doesn't know. It's good that she has it. She attaches the hook and turns back to him. "Don't you fucking dare try to follow me." He wants to, but won't. It's the least he can do. "See you around Batman." She's not crying, but there is a hitch in her voice, like she wants nothing more than to scream at him. He wouldn't blame her. With that, she begins to rappel down the building. He doesn't move to watch her do it.
He should have been smart enough to see this as being the only outcome.
Fuck. Fuck him. Fucking pathetic.