Selina fought it all for as long as she could. When, on Robert's very questionable sleeping surface, she had flashes of another Gotham, she blinked her eyes and clutched her head and refused to let it in. For a day, over and over, and she could only assume the good doctor got very, very tired of her screams. Because she didn't want to go back. It was like something trying to drag the kitty cat into water, and the pervasive feeling that Hell waited at the bottom of that bath wouldn't desist. Whatever was there, whatever that life was, she didn't want it. Wasn't it enough that she knew? Alright, so maybe knew wasn't the same as knowing. But she knew all the important parts, didn't she?
Most of all, she knew that she was very, very alone.
Oh, no one had come out and said the words, but she knew. She had read between every single line, and she had heard it in Bruce's voice. If she went back to how things were, it would be the same as going back to nothing at all.
So, she fought it. She fought it until it exhausted her, and then she slept, and in dreams the deluge came and drowned her.
She woke sweating, a scream on her lips, and it had nothing to do with a fever or an infection or the little bomb that was no longer there. Oh, no, the doctor had taken care of all those things. She felt fine. No, the screaming was something from deep in her gut, and she didn't stop until her voice gave out.
That was fine, because she didn't want to talk about it. She'd thought, foolishly, that talking the hurt away would take the hurt away. But, no, there it was, sharp as a knife and just as cutting. But there was knowledge too, and she couldn't forget, no matter how many times she tried to. It stayed there, stubborn as fleas on a cat. And she wasn't sure if it made things worse, and she wasn't sure if it made things better.
But it was what it was, and there was nothing to do about it.
She didn't want to talk. She wouldn't talk. She closed her eyes, and she feigned sleep. She was sure the good doctor knew she was pretending, but she took him for the kind of man that let a person lick their wounds and ignore their demons. She saw things now that she hadn't seen in the past few weeks. She saw someone who understood.
When she left, it was without warning. A thief in the night (and wasn't that fitting?), out the bathroom window and down an escape. Chinatown felt like home, but it wasn't home.
She found the door out, and then she found the door in.