Wren and Selina have claws (laminette) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-11-11 13:27:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | batman, catwoman, door: dc comics |
Who: Selina and Bruce
What: Bruce wakes up from the antidote and has all the feeeeels
Where: The nest
When: Immediately after this.
Warnings/Rating: Nope
The only reason Bruce gave no struggle or resistance during the short trip to the apartment was the belief, however misguided, that Selina was right, that Jason was fine and Stark would get him the antidote far faster than anyone else could. His concern was for the boy, not for himself or what he’d done, at least not yet, as that knowledge remained out of grasp. It loomed there, giving weighing with a heavy sort of foreboding, but he was so tired, and it seemed like every muscle in his body screamed in pain at even the slightest of movements. So he went willingly, allowed himself to be carried as he never would have under normal circumstances, and it seemed to him that the entire journey took little more than a second; he closed his eyes on the rooftop, and opened them in an apartment, with the sound of sirens echoing in the distance outside.
He was still too unsteady to bear his own weight properly, and dizziness plagued him with each attempt, so it was something of a relief to find that he was laying down, even if he couldn’t exactly remember if Stark had positioned him as such or if he’d somehow stumbled there himself. As for where he was, Bruce wasn’t quite sure of that either, but in his vulnerable state he trusted Selina enough to bring him somewhere that was safe. His parents were gone, and hallucinations or not, he missed their presence, and he still felt lingering traces of fear as he attempted to orient himself to his surroundings. It was dark, and he was cold on top of everything else, shivering without being aware of it, yet as he fought the rising panic of being alone and weak and still very much out of sorts he managed to force his eyes to remain open.
“Selina?” Bruce knew she was there; he remembered that much. Stark was gone-- to find Jason, yes, he remembered that too. Good. The scent of blood was sharp and tang, and he tasted copper on his lips. “Someone’s bleeding,” he added, almost as an afterthought, and he had a sudden recollection of steel slicing through fabric and skin, which made him flinch. “Are you... are you hurt?”
Selina was hoping she could get herself stitched up before he woke. She was hoping she could take inventory of all the things that were wrong with him, and get those taken care of before he opened his eyes, too. But things just weren't going the kitty cat's way tonight.
She'd managed to get him out of the cowl to pry the gauntlets off his hands and the boots off his feet, but that was as far as she'd gotten. He was just too much larger than he was, and she'd sent the tin man off to find Damian, rather than keeping him around to fight with Bruce's dead weight. But he was lying down, that was true, and she'd changed out of her ruined suit and cleaned herself up. Waking up to find her covered in blood was hardly going to make him feel any better, she knew, and a line of temporary bandages were currently being soaked through under the thigh-length grey shirt she was wearing; she'd stitch later, once things had calmed, and once she was sure he wasn't bleeding out anywhere under that suit of his.
The dark apartment was small, cramped, the typical kind of thing you'd expect to find on the outskirts of Wonder City. And, while there were fewer cats wandering around than there had been before Damian decided that Gotham's youngsters all needed felines in their lives, there were still a fair number sharing the headboardless bed with him.
She returned to the room when she heard him call out, the ends of her hair damp from being scrubbed free of red, and an extensively Damian first aid kit in her arms. She ticked on the light as she walked through the door, casting the room in a bare-bulbed glow, and she set the first aid kit on the bed, sending a few cat's scurrying.
"Good, you're awake. I can kill you now," she said, ignoring his question altogether. But she sounded more worried than angry, despite the fact that she was angry - angry and hurt by his distrust. "My comm is destroyed, and my phone is who knows where," she told him instead, explaining why she had no update for him on things with Jaybird, and she sat on the edge of the bed (amazingly sans hiss or wince) and looked down at him. "Tony will let us know once he's administered the other antidote." She paused. "Last I heard, Jaybird was still in the desert, so he hasn't had a lot of time to do damage here," she added, unsure if that would make things better or worse. She had no idea what either of them had done across the door, but that was another problem for another minute. "We need to get you out of that suit."
Bruce’s reaction to the light was immediate; he winced and brought a hand up to shield the glow, which seemed blinding to him even if it was, in reality, fairly dull. That movement alone brought with it a crackling shock of pain from his fingers all the way to his shoulder, but he bit down on his tongue to keep any pained noises from escaping. He expected her to be angry, even though memories of what he’d done were coming back slowly, and as much as he wanted to forget, it was a flimsy wall keeping what he’d done back; sooner or later, it was going to break. “Too late,” he rasped. “I think I’ve... already done enough.” He lowered his hand and tried to shift into a more comfortable position, but there wasn’t one, and even the smallest effort left him winded. The last time he’d been this weak was after his first encounter with Crane’s fear gas, and then he’d simply slept for days; this was much worse.
“Don’t have my comm. The phone... is in the cave. Can’t remember.” Communication hadn’t exactly been high on his priority list once the drug kicked in; it was still hazy, and his thought process had been far from rational, but he knew that much. Despite his own condition, Bruce’s concern was still for others rather than himself, and his gaze slid over her as she sat, looking for any sign of injuries he knew, deep down, he had been the cause of. “Better here than there. Through the door... not like Gotham. They won’t understand. Here, people can who can help,” he said, sighing at the sheer effort of getting the words out. While most might have thought his concern was for whoever Jason and Jack might hurt, he was more worried about what might happen to them. He could imagine, quite clearly, Jason being gunned down in the streets by the police, and the fear of that possibility coming true made his vision turn spotty as he tried to compose himself. “My fault, Selina. If something happens to him...” Failing himself was one thing. Failing Gotham and all those who knew him, that was something else, but Jason... he’d already failed Jason once. It didn’t matter that it had been another version of him; was history destined to repeat itself?
Her concern about getting him out of his suit was almost ignored entirely, until Bruce realized that he’d been shot at, and while he didn’t think any of the bullets had hit their mark, he might have been mistaken. The drug numbed most of the pain. For a moment he thought of telling her it didn’t matter; if he was going to bleed out, then so be it. He’d brought this on himself, hadn’t he, and didn’t he deserve to bear the consequences as a result? “Yes,” he agreed after a pause, voice quiet. “I can--” He stopped, and reconsidered. “I can’t get it off myself, but I can help.”
He might have bitten down on his tongue, but the kitty cat knew the Bat (hers and this one) too well not to know where the lines creased around his mouth when he was hurt. She probably should have registered that and kept the questions to herself, but that just wasn't like Selina. It was part of what made her her, the fact that she didn't pull punches. One hand lightly on his shoulder, to keep him from moving, and that movement, the lean to keep him still, that did bring a hiss to her lips. "Why didn't you tell me? You told Ivy, didn't you? Why not me?" she asked, and there was a world of hurt wound up in the question, hurt she normally would not have let him see, but they were both beat down, and she was as worried about what came after as he was. "Damian says you don't trust us," she spit out, even as she sat back, once she was sure he wasn't going to move again without help.
"It's Crane's fault if something happens to him. We already knew Jaybird had been injected," she reasoned, but she couldn't disagree with his fears. "He killed at least one person in Las Vegas, but they weren't innocent," she said; she knew what that was like. Hadn't she done the same here? "The baby bird can handle Jaybird. Damian's a much better fighter," she explained, even as she sat back and tried to figure out where to start with this version of the suit. Her Bat's suit, that one she knew how to take off without even looking, but this one was different. Moreover, it was different than the one he normally wore, not that she'd managed to dig her claws into that one either. "I sent Fingerstripes to Metropolis in your suit, and the reporter is doing a story about the Bat being there, while an imposter was here. Blake locked down the cave, and Feathers is watching the manor. Stephanie was helping Damian, and I think Babs is here, though she isn't my Babs." There was a certain amount of regret there. Barbara Gordon was someone that had understood her in her world, even though they'd started off on the wrong foot. But this woman, the one on the comms, had sounded older, too old to be her version of Batgirl.
She let silence drag for a moment, and then she leaned forward, guarding her middle as she reached beneath his arms to undo the latches in the suit that she'd been regarding for the past few minutes. One, two, three, and the scent of blood definitely became stronger the longer she bent over him, but she managed both sides quick enough that there was no loss of momentum, no chance to stop her. "Do the shoulders unlatch, or go over your head?" she asked, because concentrating on the suit made everything stop swimming behind her her dulling green eyes. But the kitty cat wasn't very good at focusing; she was just like any other feline when it came to that, and her fingers brushed his face a second later, her palm bandaged, the edges of the white strips rough against his jaw, the touch somehow angry and caring all at once.
From the moment Bruce had made the decision to keep his infection to himself, he knew the time would come when he would be forced to answer for his choices. In a best case scenario, it would be after he’d administered the antidote, with minimal to no damage sustained, but this had been the very worst of all potential outcomes, and he simply wasn’t prepared for it. He closed his eyes and sank back against the pillows, as though that would somehow make it easier to explain why he’d done what he’d done. Not looking at her, at least, might help, though lack of sight couldn’t erase the hurt in her voice. “I was... desperate, when I told Ivy,” he said, painfully slow. “I knew... made a mistake... couldn’t make the antidote in time. I was getting worse. I thought... if I couldn’t save myself, still might have been hope for Jason. Better she thought it was just me, and not him too.” He found solace in the simple act of breathing, in and out, though he was the furthest thing from calm, and he winced when she spat out Damian’s accusation. “My mistake. I believed I could fix it myself, without... burdening anyone else. By the time I realized... it was too late. Pushed everyone away to keep them safe. It wasn’t about trust... it’s me. Do things alone. Don’t share.” Short, disjointed sentences were easier than full ones, and the pain in his chest seemed to ease up the less he spoke.
He shook his head, despite the dizziness which followed, reluctantly forcing his eyes open again to look up at her. Yes, Crane was the one who’d injected Jason, but he had given his word to help the boy, and his secret had only aided in his failure. “I promised,” he insisted, and that word alone nearly sent him into a coughing fit. “Innocent or not... still murder. Luke won’t like it if he’s arrested.” Which was a huge understatement, but it was likely that she would realize that. The boy, for his part, was fairly quiet, but there was an undercurrent of something that might have worried him had he been in his usual state of mind. He listened to everything she said, about Dick in Metropolis, Lois’ story, and everything being either watched or on lockdown, and it should have reassured him, but all he felt was a growing sense of guilt and shame for achieving the exact opposite of what he’d intended in keeping Crane’s drug to himself. “Babs,” he repeated, because that was something to cling to, something safe. “Barbara Gordon?” That brought a flicker of a memory, a conversation with Ra’s Al Ghul, but no, that had to have been an effect of the drug. Ra’s couldn’t be here. If there was one comfort to be found in the midst of chaos, it was that.
Accepting her help had been a moment of weakness, one of many, it seemed, and Bruce immediately regretted it as the sharp scent of blood grew stronger. He lacked the willpower to make her stop, at least physically, and he simply laid there as she undid the latches, attempting to make it easier without accomplishing much at all. “They unlatch,” he responded on instinct, too busy watching her face and trying to remember what he’d done to spill her blood, but the feel of her fingers against his cheek jolted him from such thoughts. It was real, the touch, not a phantom or a hallucination, not cold or dead, and he brought his own hand up to ensure that she was indeed solid and very much there. “I’m sorry.” It was a quiet confession, raw and honest in a way he usually wasn’t, and likely wouldn’t be again once he was back to full health.
She listened to his reasons, choppy and disjointed as they were. In the end, they all still came down to him not trusting. She'd expected him to trust his little nestful of birds. They weren't even old enough to leave the nest yet, most of them, and the more she watched them, the more she realized they were all tripping themselves up on their own paws. But she'd thought he would trust her somehow. Maybe because she'd trusted him? But it didn't matter now, did it? He'd been desperate when he'd told Ivy, and she'd given him multiple chances to talk to her after that conversation. He hadn't done it, and nothing he said would make her feel that was anything but what it was. He could say everything he wanted to about doing it alone, but he hadn't gone it alone, had he? In the end, he'd gone to someone - it just hadn't been her.
"Don't-" she said when he shook his head. She remembered what that felt like; the horrible feeling that the world was tilting. "It's not your fault the tin man couldn't get the antidote fast enough," she countered. As for the antihero? She was pretty sure he wasn't going to like anything about this, but that hardly needed saying. "Let's worry about everyone getting back on their feet, and then we'll worry about handling Las Vegas." Because she had no doubt they could handle the fallout in the desert, whatever it was. And even if she wasn't sure, she would have lied just then. It didn't do anyone any good for him to worry about that now. There would be more than enough time when they got kicked back through the door. "I had Lois leave once she finished the article to go pick up Blondie's kitten," she added - one less thing for him to worry about. She nodded when he asked about Babs. "Not my Babs, but someone's. She hacked into the comms," she explained.
And all of that had been said with enough forced calm to indicate that she was upset, but she didn't say as much, and she was about to pull her hand from his cheek when he covered it with his own, about to unlatch the kevlar at his shoulders and deal with the fight to get the suit off him. She looked up when he apologized, and her green eyes were tired, her skin too pale. She wanted to stay angry, to rail and scream, and maybe she would once everyone had recovered. Cats reacted badly to things that hurt, and his distrust was like a perpetual thorn in her paw. But, just then, she was unbelievably grateful he was alive, because that hadn't been a given when this all began. "If you ever, ever come this close to getting yourself killed again, I'm going to hang you up by your ankles, and you're never getting loose," she threatened, voice cracking around the edges; she meant it. He'd been stupid. Unbelievably, impossibly stupid. Stupidity like that was usually reserved for her, and she didn't like how it felt to have those tables turned. "And you don't trust me? Fine, but you trust someone. Someone who can actually help you, because this isn't your Gotham, and you can't make it in this Gotham alone, Bruce." She might have kept going, but she was too tired for it, too pained and exhausted, the blood starting to seep through the grey fabric of her shirt. So she just leaned down, a pained whimper accompanying the movement, and she kissed him - quick, angry, and with a muffled whine that she would deny come morning.
His decision to ask Ivy for help had absolutely nothing to do with trust. Bruce might have been able to explain his reasoning better later, when his mind was clear, but even so he never intended to offer justification. Explanations, yes, insight into why he’d done what he’d done, but he knew now that he had made the wrong choice. Striving to do the right thing and doing it were different, and in this case, his intentions had been good but ended up skewed and backfiring on him in the end. Desperation had led him to accept Ivy’s deal, a reason for the antidote, and considering her skills he’d thought she might have the best chance at making not only a correct dosage, but one that would have been completed in time. It was a risk, yes, and not at all guaranteed, but at that point he had truly believed he’d had nothing left to lose. Either way, time was running out, and he felt it was too late to turn to those he had withdrawn from. They had already known about Jason; he would have the help he needed. As for himself, however, he had chosen his silence, and so he would bear the consequences on his own... yet still, he had plans in place. A warehouse to keep himself isolated, specific instructions for each individual, all carefully organized; unfortunately, he simply hadn’t had a chance to put any of that into effect.
This time, he refrained from shaking his head, too wary of the dizziness and the looming prospect of losing unconsciousness again, but Bruce was still no more inclined to agree with her than he’d been before. “I couldn’t complete it in time either. Thought... I could. Thought someone could. Even Ivy... didn't trust her, but by then, couldn't make things worse. Already too late. Happened faster than I expected,” he explained, not that it mattered now. As for Las Vegas, what Luke had done was a blur, but he hoped the boy hadn’t killed anyone. Not for his own sake, but for Luke’s, his child’s, and even Wren’s, though he had no concept of what their relationship was any longer. “Blondie’s kitten?” It took him a moment to understand, and when realization sank in, he gave a weak nod. “Yes. Good. Needs to be looked after.” At least until he crossed, or Selina did, though he didn’t like not knowing what awaited them on the other side. Perhaps if he’d told Luke the truth, at least, some of this could have been avoided... but he hadn’t, and there was no way to change the past. “Never knew any Babs,” he sighed quietly, absently, not really registering the presence of yet another that came from a world not his own. What did one more matter? After this, they were all sure to turn their backs on him, and he deserved--and expected--no less.
Her threats didn’t surprise him, but the way her voice cracked, that did. The prospect of someone caring for him was an unfamiliar one; Alfred had been around for so long that Bruce simply accepted his presence, even if he still didn’t understand why he’d stayed when most others would have left long ago. The older man’s love was unconditional and defied explanation. As for Selina, however, he had given her every reason to abandon him, to give up hope. They kept things from him, her and Damian, and he kept things from them, and it was a hopeless cycle he didn’t know how to break because he wasn’t accustomed to depending on anyone else. He’d always been solitary, a loner, and the few allies he had managed to make in his world weren’t here; he wasn’t good at starting anew. Why, then, did she still care? Why was she even here? "Getting killed wasn't my intention," he began, trying to keep up with her anger, but the kiss caught him off guard, quick as it was, and he responded without thinking, without over analyzing every little thing, as he normally would have. "I trust you. Would be... out looking for Jason and not here if I didn't. This... was not about that. My mistake, my fault Crane got too close. Didn't want to... burden anyone else, make them worry because of my... failure. It's how I am. What I do," he said, unusually honest, a combination of exhaustion and the lingering effects of both the drug and the antidote taking its toll. "But... I was wrong. Made the wrong choice." He made another failed attempt to sit up, which resulted in a pained hiss. "You're bleeding. I did that to you... shouldn't care about me. No one should." He said it like it was fact, and to him, it was. All he ever seemed to accomplish was to hurt those he let himself care about, those he tried to help; a sentiment he and Luke shared. Perhaps they both deserved to be alone.
She didn't know his thoughts, but she had her own guilt about the antidote. She should have put things aside herself and gone to Ivy, but she hadn't, and that had been stupid. The kitty cat knew that Ivy, murderer or not, villain or not, would have come through for the right information and the right request. Oh, she hadn't known about Bruce, but she'd known about Jaybird. She'd known how Ivy felt about Jaybird's counterpart in Las Vegas. Ivy would have helped for that reason alone, if she'd just reached out. But she'd been angry, and she'd been jealous, and she hadn't reached out at all. But that was her own guilt to bear, and she would learn from the mistake. The kitty cat had always known who her allies were, and she'd started to forget along the way. Too much time walking on the good side of Gotham, and she'd learned her lesson. Once a cat, always a cat.
"The antihero didn't know?" she asked, but the question was unnecessary. Of course the antihero didn't know. He wouldn't have kept the kitten with him, had he known. And while the antihero was fond of lying to Blondie, she was pretty sure he would have told her something was wrong during the conversation they'd had, the one where the antihero was too drunk to hold something like this back. No, Bruce had even kept it away from the one person he absolutely should have told. She hoped nothing had happened in the desert to make them sorry, and she realized, sitting there, that she might not get to come through to Gotham for a while after this. He might not either. Blondie wouldn't keep her out, but the antihero's temper was unpredictable, and even she couldn't deny he would have good reason to cut them both off this time. It had been too close. Bruce could have been gunned down, and he could have gone for a thrust with his sword, instead of a slice, where she was concerned. Babs' arrival seemed unimportant in the wake of all that thinking, so she didn't pursue it. "Lois will make sure the little boy is fine for as long as she needs to," she said, and she was sure of that. It didn't mean the antihero and Blondie were going to happy about abandoning the boy to the care of a babysitter in the meantime, but that was the least of their problems.
She didn't bother answering his assertion that getting killed hadn't been his intention, because she knew that much. Instead, all the anger she felt was pressed against his mouth, the kiss as unforgiving as it was raw, and she didn't hold back just because he was hurt. It was quick though, fast, and she was sitting back by the time he said he trusted her. "You wouldn't make it out the door, Bruce," she said of him going to look for Jaybird. Trust or not, the antidote was hard to handle, and she remembered the exhaustion that had come after the searing pain and terror it carried with it. "I'll go check on the baby bird once I get this off you, and once you're resting," she said of the suit, as if she hadn't just kissed him at all, as if she was in any shape to go anywhere. "Stop trying to move before I need you to." She leaned forward, and she undid the shoulder snaps, and she pulled the front panel off and let it drop off the side of the bed. She didn't have patience for the fabric beneath, and she pulled a pair of scissors from the first aid kit and cut through the fabric from neck to stomach, cautioning him not to breathe in advance. She didn't look for injuries, not yet. Instead, she stood, knowing she would need his help (and as much force as she could manage), to get him on his side. "I'll stitch myself up once everything is taken care of," she told him, glancing down at the spreading stain on her shirt. Oh, the antihero was going to be such a problem. "I tried to kill you when I was under the effect of the toxin, and you stuck around," she said, not arguing about the fact that she cared about him, but not acknowledging it either. "Anyway, you still owe me a ballroom and a backless dress," she teased, the kittenish facade not quite seamless. "Let me get to your back."
Bruce often overlooked the fact that others might share his guilt, and this instance was no different. Ivy had been a last resort, one he expected would have come with a price higher than mere information, but it had gone nowhere, and perhaps time had simply run out; he would never know if she would have kept her end of the bargain. Regardless, he wouldn’t have wanted anyone else making deals for his sake or Jason’s, and that was part of the reason why he hadn’t told anyone that he’d been infected. Jason had already suffered, having made a deal with Crane for Selina’s safety; who knew what the others would have done for him. He didn’t want that, anyone sacrificing themselves for his sake, even though he would have done the same for any of them in a heartbeat.
He closed his eyes before answering, guilt and shame motivating the action. “No. He didn’t know.” Oh, he was bound to incur Luke’s wrath later, and the boy would undoubtedly refuse to let him cross for a long, long time, and he deserved all of it. “I should have told him. I know... I know that now. But at the time, I... thought I could protect him. Fix it before he had to know. I was a fool,” he muttered, his voice fading, going quiet, as he let out a long exhale. No, Luke would not at all be happy to leave his son in the care of another yet again, because of problems through the door, but there was nothing to be done for it now. “At least he’ll be looked after, even if... if not by his parents.” He knew, more than anyone, how important parents were to a child, and he had only good memories of his; it saddened him, the fact that the same might not be true for Gus if things continued on this way.
“Perhaps not,” he said, after considering the amount of effort it took just to sit up, and the pain that accompanied each attempt, “but I could try.” He’d probably collapse after a few steps, if he could even get out of the bed at all, but concern for another person was a powerful motivator. As much as he wanted to know if Jason was alright, even he could see that she was in no shape to go anywhere, and he began to shake his head as she undid his shoulder straps. The dizziness made him stop, however, and instead Bruce lay obediently still, holding his breath when she told him to and only letting it out once the scissors had sliced through the fabric over his chest. “No,” he said, mustering all the strength he had in order to object. “You need to stitch yourself up as soon as possible. You’re in... no condition to go anywhere. Take care of yourself first, then... then check on Damian and Jason, or I’ll... drag myself out of this room and follow you.” The threat might not have carried much weight, considering his condition, but like hell would he just lie there and let her leave while she was still bleeding out. He couldn’t quite argue the fact that she had tried to kill him under the toxin as well, because she had, and he simply sighed instead of insisting that this had been different. “I think, after this, I owe you much more than that,” he said, a faint hint of humor in his tone, albeit weary, and his jaw tightened painfully as he fought to maneuver himself onto his side. Weak he might be, and tired as well, but no amount of drugs or antidotes could take his stubbornness away.
She wanted to stay angry with him. Like a cat with an injured paw, she wanted to nurse the hurt and hiss whenever it stung. But it was hard to stoke those flames when there was so much self-recrimination in his voice. It wasn't that she was a nice and sweet kitty cat, no, and she could kick someone when they were down as well as the next Gotham street-kid. But he was different, he was a soft spot, and she hated that shame in his voice. He should never sound like that; it didn't suit him. The muttering fade of his voice was the final dousing of cold water on her ire. Oh, it would climb again, later, when she was alone, when she remembered, but right then she scoffed. "Don't worry about the antihero. I'll leave Blondie notes telling her how bereft I am that you aren't here, and she'll convince him to let you through." There was certainty in the scheme, because together or not, the antihero would cave to Blondie' whimpering - he always did. "Blondie won't want the kitty cat to be sad," she explained, a machinating little smile just making it onto her tired lips. The hesitation when he spoke of parents made her wonder if he was thinking of his own. She'd never actually heard him talk about them like he had tonight, and she wondered if it was like losing them twice. She'd never had parents, not real ones, and she brushed a hand over his brow, the touch sympathetic and surprisingly gentle for her.
"You couldn't try," she said, his claim that he could try to get to Jason breaking the silence of her thoughts. "I wouldn't let you," she with conviction. She wasn't in any shape to stop anything, and even still she was fairly certain she could bring him down right now, should the need arise. She looked up at his face as he said he'd drag himself out of the room and follow her. "Bruce, you aren't going anywhere," she assured him, all intense green gaze and a fierce protectiveness that said no. "Once you're back on your feet, you can go back to scowling and bossing me around and ignoring me all you want, but right now? It's my house, my rules." A cat leapt over his arm and nipped at one of his fingers, as if it was validating the claim.
She considered his statement about owing her, thought about it as she rolled him onto his side and leaned over him, the grey fabric of her shirt damp and leaving red along his ribs. But she managed to get the fabric and kevlar removed, managed to do it without paying attention to any sounds either of them made with the effort it required, and then she started assessing damage. She began with his back, his kidneys, fingers pressing hard against his skin. The kitty cat knew it would hurt, but the pain of something ruptured, something bleeding from the inside out, would be worse than just surface bruising and damage from claws. She moved on after that, cleaning any skin that was covered in red, hoping that no bones needed setting and concerned that he'd dislocated a shoulder, given his response to his attempts to sit up. But none of that was as worrying as potential bullet injuries, since she was fairly sure nothing had gotten close enough slice him, but she'd gotten so much of her own blood on him that it was hard to be sure. "You don't owe me anything, Bruce," she said seriously, quietly, by the time she had him back on his back, fingers pressing against his stomach and side. "We're even. We danced this dance before, remember? The roles were reversed, but I haven't forgotten." Her hand on his stomach stilled, more soothing than assessing, and she watched his face for a few seconds. "I won't let anything happen to you, and I'll stitch myself up before I go find a phone," she added, agreeing to his request from earlier, if only to keep him quiet and still. She didn't tell him to sleep, because he'd fight it. He was stubborn that way. She just reached forward and ran her fingertips along his jaw soothingly instead, and she tried to fight her own desire to just curl up beside him and lick her wounds.
As Bruce was currently of the opinion that Luke had every right to be angry, he was almost surprised by Selina’s assurance that Wren would somehow manage to convince the boy to let him cross. He doubted this, since he knew the two of them would have similar sentiments about his deception, and perhaps Selina overestimated how much Wren cared about her state of being, but he kept quiet. Some time away from Gotham might not be such a bad thing, after what had happened... he hardly felt worthy of wearing the cowl just then. He had not only failed himself, but the symbol he found so hard to create as well; the only silver lining was that Batman would not be held responsible for the night’s massacres. “Luke will do whatever Wren asks,” he agreed faintly. As for her being bereft without him, he doubted anyone would be, but then again, he had always underestimated his own importance when it came to others. He glanced upward sharply enough to send waves of pain throbbing through his temples when her hand brushed over his brow, the contact no less surprising than her kiss, but in the aftermath he thought he might have begun to understand something he hadn’t before, even if he had no idea what to do with such realizations.
Normally, he would have been able to get past her with ease, but right then he was fairly certain a child would be able to hold him down without much effort. “You wouldn’t let me get out,” he amended, a flicker of something like a smile, albeit a pained one, appearing on his features. “But no one can stop me from trying.” After a moment of meeting her fierce gaze, however, he relented, because as stubborn as he was Bruce realized that he was only going to make things worse for himself if he tried to get out of bed. “You wouldn’t... like me so much if I didn’t scowl and... and boss you around,” he wheezed, having shifted into a position that made it a little more difficult to breathe. “Only ignored you once... my condition worsened. Keep you safe, for all the good it did.” He had, in the end, done exactly what he’d hoped to avoid; she was still alive, but it was little comfort. The cat earned a frown, as he’d never been overly fond of animals in general, nor had they of him, but in a way it was almost comforting to have warm, fuzzy bodies around him, to remind him that he wasn’t alone, and after a moment he scratched behind the cat’s ears almost thoughtfully. “Alright,” he conceded. “I’m not going anywhere.” Not yet, at least.
He couldn’t help the pained noises that escaped his lips as he turned over onto his side, and the only thing he could do was try to keep them as quiet as possible. Pain was something he could tolerate, but now all his defenses, all those walls, were lowered and vulnerable, and he felt everything as though it had been amplified numerous degrees. He hissed through his teeth, groaned, and even whimpered--much to his chagrin--a few times, but none of her touches or presses of fingers hurt enough to make him scream or shout. No bullet wounds either, only a few scratches of close calls; thankfully, none had hit their mark, and while his shoulders ached something terrible, neither were dislocated. There was a particularly sharp, stabbing pain in his right side, but other than that, everything simply hurt. “No,” he said quietly. “I owe you... so much more than I’ve given. You, and the rest.” He sighed, knowing she would disagree even before he finished his sentence, and he tipped his head to the side as he looked up at her, attempting to discern whether or not she truly intended on stitching herself up before going anywhere. After a moment he nodded, a slight, almost imperceptible movement, and managed another attempt at a weak smile. “I know you... won’t let anything happen to me.” He wanted to stay awake, fought to keep his eyes open, but he was so tired, and the feel of her fingers along his jaw only lulled him further, nudging him towards sleep. Still, he struggled for a few moments longer, eyelids drooping and flickering as he began to lose the battle, and it took a supreme effort just to lift his hand and place it on her shoulder. “Tell Jason... tell him... I’m sorry,” he breathed, "and that I... I..." Whatever else he might have said was lost in a quiet exhale of breath, however, and then he let his head fall back, and he let his eyes close at last.
As much as the kitty cat liked the idea of licking her wounds where no one could see, she didn't think hiding in Las Vegas in the antihero's head would fix anything, and she had a feeling there was going to be a lot to fix after this. "Blondie has a soft spot. She'll give in if I give her fake kitty tears," she assured him, though she was fairly certain he wouldn't actually consider that a good thing. That shame and guilt, it didn't fit him anywhere near as well as the kevlar, in the Cat's opinion. Another woman might have crowed at the idea that he would possibly take some time off, possibly settle down, but she wasn't that woman. It made her think of the woman in his movie, the not-her of the future, who would have liked a quiet life with no one hissing in her ear. Maybe someday, but she wasn't that woman either. The kitty cat wanted something in the middle, even though she knew she wasn't going to get it. For now, she'd take some clean stitches, and she'd let all of this serve as a reminder of who she was, of where she belonged.
"Stubborn," she purred, his statement that he would try to get out, regardless of whether or not she let him, drawing her from her thoughts. "And I'm perfectly safe. I'll walk away from this. I'm not one of your tiny flock of feathered children, Bruce. I don't need protecting. I don't want protecting. You scratched the kitty cat's back when she needed it, and I'm returning the favor. That's what we are. Don't forget it again. The next time you lump me in with your little family, we're going to have words - you, me, and my whip." The words were determined, but not as harsh as they could have been, because she was watching his fingers behind the cat's ears, and who could resist a man with a cat? Not her.
She was glad when he gave up the fight to remain awake, even if it meant that heavy weight of his hand on her shoulder slipped away. She let herself sigh then, face turned up to the ceiling and all the dread of the evening finally crashing down. Because no matter how she painted this picture for him, she knew it was going to be bad. Gotham's villains would know the truth, even if the press believed the Metropolis story. Unlike him, she knew Ra's was around, and she had seen him on the journals. The fact that Damian hadn't brought Jaybird back to the nest, that was a bad sign too, and even the tin man hadn't buzzed by. And the woman in the bathroom had mentioned the Pit. Combine all that with the fact that Blondie might take more convincing than she'd let on, and the kitty cat knew they were in for a long haul.
She finished cleaning him up, and then she stitched herself up as cleanly as she could given the angle. She didn't want to leave the apartment, but the silence was killing her. She wrote a note for Blondie, and she kept it clutched in her fingers as she walked through the door. Walk right back through once you find your phone, the note said, along with a short addendum explaining that Bruce was out of danger, but resting, and no real indication of anything that had gone wrong. Blondie would come back through because Bruce (and, therefore, Luke) was here, Selina thought, and she could use the phone to contact Damian and the tin man once she had it in her paw.
It never occurred to her that Blondie wouldn't be as resilient to the pain of the injury as she was, or that she'd go check on her kitten first.