Summary: He was Bruce, and she was Selina, and one day, when they were children, they shared a kiss. It was their first kiss, and perhaps their most significant, for that kiss brought them together, and together they were prone to cause quite a stir.

Chapter One

- Firsts -

Sometimes, she thought that if she stopped fighting, she would disappear.

He wanted to fight, but was still learning how.

The shadows were her greatest ally.

One day, they would be his too.

She wanted to be safe.

He wanted to abandon his safety to make the city safer.

She wore apple on her lips.

He loved the taste.

She was terrified all the time.

He had long since abandoned terror, yet knew he needed to be feared.

She was a thief.

He was a knight.

She was Selina.

He was Bruce.

And one day, when they were children, they shared a kiss. It was their first kiss, and perhaps their most significant, for that kiss brought them together, and together they were prone to cause quite a stir.

The whole thing started, Selina would later reflect, with a demand – disguised as a question and complete with the unpleasant consequence if she chose not to comply.

The whole thing started, Bruce would later reflect, with a punch. The simple, glorious motion of Mickey van Low's ring-laden fist as it flew through the air and smashed against Bruce's nose.

- The Punch -

Bone snapped with the crunch of gristle, and blood spurted thickly. Bruce hit the ground with a heavy thud and gasped for breath. The heavy balaclava, now damp with his blood, choked him.

Through, blurred eyes, Bruce saw Van Low loom over him, scowling and rubbing his red fist. "Get him up."

Thick arms gripped Bruce's shoulders, hauling him roughly to his feet. Van Low just looked at Bruce, frowning. Bruce knew Van Low's face as well as he knew his own. It had been a good face. Once. The man's bright blue eyes sunk into his face. His cheekbones were sharp and angular, and his jowls were two thick lines curving around his mouth – all likely from years of suffering one addiction or another. Van Low opened his mouth to speak, and Bruce caught a glimpse of the man's yellowing teeth.

"You know who I work for?"

"I've heard," Bruce grunted. His broken nose made his voice sound nasally and thick. A sharp knife of panic slid into Bruce's spine, when Van Low pulled the balaclava over Bruce's head. He sought the man's blue eyes for any hint of recognition, but Van Low's eyes remained hard.

"Fucking kid," Van Low said with an incredulous shake of his head. "What did you think was gonna happen?"

The bar's door burst open and one of Van Low's thugs came in in. Blood tricked from a gash above his right eyebrow, and his eye had swollen shut – a gift from Bruce's left elbow. "Girl's gone," the thug breathed heavily.

Van Low swore and rounded on the thug. "THEN GET BACK OUT THERE AND FIND HER!"

Bruce couldn't stop the corner of his mouth twisting into a smug, half-smile. He hid it quickly, but not before Van Low saw. Van Low's fist struck, and Bruce's head snapped back. "Do you even know what you've got yourself into, kid?" Van Low said in Bruce's ear, voice barely louder than a whisper. He struck again, burying his fist into Bruce's stomach. If it wasn't for the thug's tight grip, Bruce was sure he would have fallen.

Van Low lashed out, again and again. Bruce tried to keep count of the punches, but soon the pain was too much. His legs were buckled and his head hung limply, dripping dark blood onto Van Low's polished floorboards.

"What do we do with him?" one of the thug's holding Bruce said, when Van low finally stepped away, breathing heavy, ragged breaths. "Leave him for the boss?"

Van Low spat on Bruce. "Take him to the pier and put a knife in him."

"You sure? The kid smells like rich blood."

"No one with any money to their name comes to the Narrows at night," Van Low said. "Put a knife in him and feed him to the sea."

0.0.0

Bruce's boots caught on the roughly hewn planks before the thug dragging him pulled him away. The motion and the pain that came with it drew Bruce away from the loving darkness and into the throbbing, aching, waking world by the moonlit docks.

He kept his eyes closed and tried to remain limp. His body moaned in protest, and it took every ounce of willpower not to grit his teeth or hiss in pain. His left arm was the worst, worse than even his nose. Every jolt sent waves of pain flowing through him. He tried to wiggle his fingers, even slightly.

Dislocated, he concluded. Badly. It was already going to be hard enough without dragging his dead arm with him

"You have to get 'em right between the ribs. Right here. Severs the aorta – bloke's dead in seconds. Works every time," one of the thugs said conversationally.

"We should cut his throat," the other thug countered.

Bruce heard a heavy glob of spit crack against water, and the heavy hand released his hood. "Throat cutting's too messy," the first thug said. Blood goes everywhere, 'specially if their scared. And they're always scared. You know how hard it is to wash someone else's blood out of your clothes?"

If Bruce strained his ears hard enough, he could hear the soft sounds of the sea in the gaps of the thug's conversations. It seemed so close.

"What're you waiting for?"

"You're the one who wanted to put it in his chest. You do it."

With a heavy sigh, the first thug pulled his knife from his pocket and took a knee. "You're an ornery son-a-bitch, aren't you?"

Now!

Bruce's eyes flew open so suddenly the thug jerked back in surprise. "What the–" His knife flashed wildly, but Bruce was already moving. With his body burning with fresh pain, Bruce rolled towards the edge of the pier and hit the water with a loud splash. The impact seared, but Bruce let the darkness swallow him as he descended. Keeping his dislocated arm tight against his chest, he struck out, swimming as fast and as hard as he could until his lungs burst for air.

The pier was far behind him. He could only just make out Van Low's thugs. In the darkness, there was no way they could see him.

Breathing deeply and ignoring the pain, Bruce struck out, kicking softly and dragging himself through the water with one arm.

It was a long way home.

And he was running out of night.

0.0.0

"What the bloody hell happened to you?" Alfred exclaimed when he appeared in the kitchen just before the crack of dawn. The old butler had thrown a robe over his pyjamas and had forgone slippers – it was one of the few times Bruce could remember seeing the man without his suit.

Bruce took the bag of frozen corn-kernels away from his nose and said, "Would you believe me if I said I fell out of bed?"

"And off a two storey building too?" Alfred quipped back. "Look at you – you're a mess!"

"It feels worse than it looks," Bruce said.

"I bet it does. Come on then, turn around properly. Let me see." Hot air squeezed through Alfred's teeth as Bruce gingerly turned and let the kitchen light fall on the full impact of Van Low's assault.

"Who did this?" Alfred demanded. He took the frozen bag of corn from Bruce and pressed it against Bruce's swollen nose. Bruce winced. "And this time don't give me any of your bullshit jokes."

Bruce sighed loudly and said, "I went after the fence."

"Mr Van Low?"

"That's the one."

"And I take it the visit didn't go as well as you imagined it would."

"Not quite," Bruce admitted. "But it was worth a few cuts and a dislocated shoulder

"A dislocated shoulder?" Alfred asked.

"The left one."

Alfred retrieved a pair of scissors from a draw and began cutting away Bruce's blood-stained hoodie. When it was pulled away, Bruce heard Alfred breathe in sharply. He looked down and winced. His torso was a mess of purple bruises and cuts, and his shoulder had become so swollen it looked like a balloon had been blown up beneath his skin.

"You need to go to a hospital, Bruce," Alfred said.

"No!" Bruce said sharply, catching Alfred's arm. "No doctors, no hospitals."

"Master Bruce, that nose needs to popped back into place, and that cut on your temple will need a dozen stitches – probably more. And your arm . . . putting an arm back into place is a painful thing, you'll want some drugs for that, I assure you."

"I can handle pain," Bruce said.

"Maybe so, but why would you want to?

"Alfred, going to a hospital means answering questions."

"We can tell them you crashed your dirt bike on the track. Went right into a tree."

"Do you think a doctor will really believe that I got these," Bruce gestured widely at himself, "from crashing a bike?"

"We'll tell them some other story, then."

But Bruce was already shaking his head. "If we see a doctor of any quality, they will deduce that I was attacked. The last thing I want is a headline saying: 'Bruce Wayne Attacked', or some other printed garbage that will inevitably come. So no, Alfred. No hospitals."

For a moment it looked like Alfred was going to argue, but the old man just shook his head and pulled up another stool in front of Bruce. "No hospitals," he agreed, although a little rebelliously.

"Good," Bruce said. "Now let's patch me up."

Alfred shook his head again, and retrieved a half-full bottle of spirits from a top shelf in the kitchen. "You said you could handle pain?" he said, opening the bottle. The smell of whiskey drifted out of the opening.

Bruce realised what was coming and braced himself. Alfred poured some of the amber over the gash on Bruce's face. The whiskey burned fire inside the wound and seeped down into the smaller cuts and scrapes until Bruce's face was an inferno of pain. Mouth clenched tightly, Bruce allowed a groan to break through his teeth.

"That was the easy part," Alfred said, taking a swig from the bottle. "You sure you don't want the doctor's painkillers?"

"Get on with it," Bruce said tightly.

"Right. Well the nose is simple enough. Come now, head up, look at me." Alfred placed his hands on Bruce's face, thumbs cradling the abused nose. "Ready? On three . . . one . . . two."

Crack.

Fresh blood escaped from his nose and dripped down his mouth and chin. Alfred quickly picked up a tea towel and gave it to Bruce. "Give it a moment, it'll stop bleeding soon. I'm going to get a needle and thread. And put that corn on your shoulder!"

Bruce grimaced as he moved the frozen corn bag to his swollen shoulder. When Alfred returned, sewing kit in hand, he gestured for Bruce to move the towel away. "Nice and straight, just like your father's," he commented. "Sometimes I wonder if my skills are wasted being your butler."

Bruce smirked.

"Tell me about your visit with Mr Van Low," Alfred said, as he readied the needle by pouring a dollop of whiskey over it and his hands. "Did you get your hands on his ledger before he got his hands on you?"

Bruce shook his head, frowning. "He was in there with three of his goons. I was going to come back another night, but . . ."

"That girl you mentioned." Alfred sat on the stool and leaned in close to Bruce, threaded needle held ready. Bruce winced as it pierced his skin.

"They were beating her, Alfred." Bruce felt his fists clench. "Punching her, kicking her, dragging her by the hair. I couldn't turn my back and walk away. I took the first one down before the others noticed I was there. The girl caught on quick and was out the door as soon as Van Low and the others turned on me. Three-on-one, the fight didn't last long. I need training against multiple opponents."

"I dare say you're right," Alfred agreed. "How'd you get away?"

"Van Low ordered his men to kill me and toss my body from the pier. I took advantage and jumped in the sea before they could stab me."

"And you swam all the way here?"

"Walked too. Couldn't go back for the bike."

"I'm amazed you could even swim in the condition you're in," Alfred grumbled without sounding the least bit amazed.

"The girl is alive, Alfred," Bruce said. "If I hadn't gone out tonight, Mickey van Low and his gang would have killed her. Or worse."

"That's all well and good, sir. And I'm glad you saved the girl's life, but if you saving people means coming back like this every night . . . I'm not sure its worth it."

"Christ gave his life to save humanity – I can handle injuries like these to save one."

"Comparing yourself to Jesus Christ now, are you? And I thought you had the shrinks convinced you didn't have delusions of grandeur."

"You know what I mean," Bruce said. "But you're right. These injuries can't happen every time I go out."

"And have you any thoughts about how to achieve that?"

"They fought back, Alfred. They weren't afraid of me."

"Well that's what happens when you hit a man – he tries to hit you back."

"They weren't afraid," Bruce stressed. "People are afraid of criminals – they're scared of what they'll do. They lock and bolt their doors, they don't go out at night. Their fear makes the scum of this city seem bigger and more terrifying than they really are. It gives them power."

"And were you afraid, Master Bruce?"

"No, I wasn't afraid – I wasn't. But they weren't afraid of me either. Until they are, I'm never going to make any real difference in this city."

"And how are you going to do that – make them fear you?"

"I . . . don't know."

"Certainly not by letting them pound you into the ground every night."

Bruce snorted. "It is a bit counter-productive." Alfred tied off the final stitch and drenched the wound in whiskey again. This time it didn't hurt as badly. "It all comes back to fear, Alfred. If I'm going to do this, then I need to become more than just a man."

"Delusions of grandeur," Alfred repeated. "Stand up and lean over the table. Let's get this arm sorted out." He picked a fresh tea towel and threw it at Bruce. "Ball that up and bite down on it – don't want you biting off your tongue." He took hold of Bruce's arm and jerked it towards him. Bruce gasped.

"That wasn't so bad," he said, voice muffled from the cloth.

"That was for getting blood all over the kitchen," Alfred said. "We're not done yet." He held Bruce's wrist tightly. "Scream, if you need to. No one will hear.

"On three?"

"Right . . . on three."

Alfred pulled, and Bruce screamed.

- The Demand -

Selina always thought Mickey van Low's bar was a scummy piece of shit. There were better fences in the city, with much, much, better (cleaner) fronts to hide their under-the-table business. Selina's favourite was the florist a few blocks outside Gotham CBD. The elderly couple who tended the shop were sweet, and always gave Selina food when she came to visit. They paid well too, and could move most pieces, regardless of the heat on it at the time.

Mickey van Low's joint was not like that – not at all, but the creep had underworld connections outside of Gotham and occasionally, that made all the difference - especially when the infamous fence asked for her directly. That usually indicated a big payout was on the cards.

One of Mickey's thuggish men was waiting outside. Selina prided herself on knowing everyone in the business by name, but this time it took her a while to recognise the man underneath his swollen, bruised face. "Hey, Rod," she said, flouncing up to him. "Trying a new look?"

"Mickey's downstairs," the thug Rod grunted. "Better hurry, he's got company."

"Who?"

Rod didn't reply, but Selina could feel his eye on her as she pushed open the door and walked inside. She was used to men staring at her, and as long as they knew not to try anything with their hands, she couldn't care less about where their eyes went.

The bar was empty, aside from a nervous looking barman wiping down the bench with a dirty rag, and another one of Mickey's goon squad on his knees attacking a dark red stain that looked suspiciously like blood. Selina ignored them both and hurried through the back. When she reached the stairs, she froze.

"Hello, kitty-cat, we've been waiting." Victor Zsasz's voice oozed at her. In the summer heat, he wore his sleeves rolled up, exposing dozens of self-inflicted scars. He had carved several more into his flesh since the last time Selina had seen him. The worst one though, was the single scar slashed on his bald forehead. That was his trophy, and it meant that there were four more people walking around somewhere with Zsasz's target on their backs.

Selina breathed through her nose, and tried to hide her discomfort. If Zsasz is here, that means . . .

As if sensing Selina's discomfort, Zsasz grinned at her and opened the door leading down.

"Thanks," Selina muttered and squeezed past him. She could feel his eyes on her back, in a way not at all similar to how Rod had looked at her. She shivered, despite the heat.

The basement was filled with crates of alcohol, all carefully categorised and organised for easy access. An old computer and ledger sat on a desk near the staircase. A nervous looking man Selina didn't recognise was sitting at the desk, flicking through Mickey's books. He caught her eye and nodded deeper inside the basement – behind the stores of alcohol. Selina tilted her head to the side as a tense voice sounded, confirming the suspicions Zsasz's presence had given her.

"That girl was a precious commodity," the penguin snapped, "and you should never have laid a hand on her! She was to be delivered to me undamaged. I was very clear when I expressed that, wasn't I?"

"Yes, sir, but. . ."

Behind Penguin, his giant shadow Butch Gilzean shifted and cleared his throat. "The cat's here," he said, pointing.

Penguin turned and smiled, anger suddenly disappearing. "Cat!" Penguin said, sounding genuinely pleased to see her. He limped over to her, took her by the shoulders and kissed her cheek. "How are you? Are you well."

"As well as ever," Selina shrugged, smiling her small, fake smile.

"I'm glad to hear," Penguin said. "Can I offer you a drink? Mickey's shout."

It was almost tempting to take Penguin up on the offer, just to see Mickey's face twist at the thought of someone giving away his booze for free. "No, thanks," Selina said. "Quite a lot of blood upstairs. Exciting night?"

"You remember what curiousity killed, don't you?" Mickey said tightly. Seline smirked at him - smirked at the cliche.

"Oh, that?" Penguin said. "That's Mickey's doing, I believe. They had an unwelcome guest last night who took something very valuable from him. Mickey could do nothing but watch helplessly, as his prize fled through the front door."

"What was I supposed to do?" Mickey protested, arching up.

"You could have held onto the man, instead of having him killed and thrown into the sea," Butch said. "You're lucky we don't send you down to join him."

"The girl ran off on her own, keeping him alive wouldn't have helped us find her."

"I am trying not to dwell on all the mistakes you made last night," Penguin said, whirling on Mickey, "but you make it so very hard when you KEEP TALKING!"

Mickey recoiled and settled into bubbling, mutinous silence.

Turn that frown upside down, Mick, Selina thought. Or the penguin will cut it off and put it on a plate.

"So, why am I here?" Selina asked.

"Straight to business," Penguin said to Butch, who grinned. "I like that about her, don't you?" He turned back to Selina and said. "I need you to find someone for me."

"Someone?" Selina emphasised, eyebrows rising. "I'm not really in the business of finding people. I'm really good at stealing things, though."

Penguin laughed politely. "I'm sure your skills can be adapted to suit the need."

Selina wasn't so sure. Things tended to stay in one place, while people were likely to move around without any reasonable logic or pattern – especially if they were on the run. "Why me?" Selina asked. "Surely you have people who can search."

"I do," Penguin said, as if reassuring her, "but, alas, this poor girl has recently experienced some . . . ill treatment, and I believe she will be far more likely to trust a pretty young girl her own age – for that, you are infinitely more able than any one person under my employ."

Selina bit her lip.

"My dear, Cat," the penguin said, smiling his oozing, slimy smile, as if sensing her doubt. "It is imperative that we find this girl. You will do this for me, won't you, Cat? You'll be amply rewarded, of course."

And there it was, the penguin's classic question. Selina had learned a long time ago to spot the demand hidden beneath that smiling query, and the consequences if she decided not to comply.

Don't got a choice, do I? The look on penguin's face told her she didn't.

She sucked her lips together and nodded. "All right, I'll put the word out – see what I can do. You got a picture?"

0.0.0

Author's Note: It's been ages since I've posted anything to fanfiction, but I started watching Gotham recently and really, really liked the Selina/Bruce relationship. Anything Bruce and Selina is gold, anything Bruce and Alfred is gold, and anything Jerome is gold.

This story is set a few years after the current season of Gotham. Bruce is around seventeen and Selina is eighteen. I wanted to write about Bruce's journey towards becoming Batman, and I feel like that could only really happen to the extent I want it to when he is older. Unnecessary explanation over. Hope you enjoyed!

If you want more, please review. I'm more likely to write faster if I know people are looking forward to a new chapter. Just affirmation things.