~Author's Note~

First venture into the Gotham fandom, and since batcat is angsty in the show, I, of course, have to write a few angsty fics. So this story takes place right after the events of 3x14 with an alternative ending. Like I said this is my first time writing batcat, so I hope I did them justice, and I'd love to hear your thoughts down below! :)

Note: I put Bruce at 15 and Selina at 16 in this, because I'm not sure what everyone's agreed on for their ages throughout the series.

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you could break my heart in two
but when it heals, it beats for you
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Alfred wants him to go home.

"Master B—" he starts, already on his fourth attempt at persuasion, his knuckles pinched white over the steering wheel as the car rolls to a stop in front of the last place Alfred wants him to be.

"I'll be okay, Alfred," he assures as his hand hovers over the door handle. Alfred meets his eyes in the rear-view mirror. He doesn't look as mad as Bruce thought he would be, but maybe he knows what Bruce needs better than he does.

"Of course you will."

There's still a tremor to his fingers as he climbs out of the car—he feels as though his hands have been shaking since Jerome's last laugh—and he takes a deep breath before making his way down the abandoned alley.

Bruce wants to go home. He wants to go back to the manor and hide under the bed covers until he wakes up in a world where his parents are still the ones bidding him goodnight, but he knows those nights are long gone. He wants to go home, but for some reason his heart had pounded and thrashed when Alfred had suggested home, and a distant part of him had screamed for here instead—for her, because it always came down to her—and after a lot of pretending and convincing that he was okay enough to be on his own, Alfred had driven him.

The car stays idling behind him for a good minute before pulling away, and Bruce turns the corner expecting drunken lowlifes and meeting no one. The streets are unusually silent tonight, and if Bruce had to guess why he would put his money on the GCPD's increased nightly patrols for the time being.

He reaches the fire escape he needs to climb and begins the trek, ignoring the ache of his arms as he lifts his body up, up, up, and the last staple still embedded in his skin pinches as he bends and twists. He's noisy in his climb—after all that's happened, he can't find himself to care about being quiet—and the railing rattles as he slips on a step and catches it hard. His injured wrist slams against the metal, and he bites back a yell, tears stinging his eyes. Anger hits him in a sudden wave; he shouldn't be this weak. He shouldn't be this fragile. His skin shouldn't tear so easily.

He shouldn't be this desperate.

Her place is easy to get to yet hard to reach.

He enters the building at the fifth floor through a half-open hallway window and after checking that there's still no one around follows the stairs up to the sixth. The bottom floors were caved in, and he remembers a time when he had told her that this was one of her poorer choices in a home, and she had thrown an, "Worried about me?" over her shoulder.

He had taken a breath before saying, "Always," and she hadn't turned towards him after he had said it, but he had seen the way she was looking at him hours after. He swears that's how she had looked at him up until he had lied, and then she had looked at him like he was no different than her mother.

"What are you doing here?"

Her voice startles him, and when he looks up she's sitting on the window ledge, her head turned towards the city.

Bruce stills a few feet away. His left arm hurts, and his right hand shakes. All he can smell is cotton candy and blood, and he would give anything to smell must and mold instead.

"Selina."

He always says her name like she's something else. Something special, something eternal.

He always says her name like it's something meant to be held close to the heart.

But the way he says her name this time, his tone low, almost a whisper, his voice a step away from not existing, distant, sad, hurt; her stomach turns from worry at the sound.

"I—"

His voice catches and Selina notices.

Her head still doesn't turn. The memories of the night play over again in his head like a broken record stuck skipping. He wants it to stop.

He tries again. "I—I'm—"

"Cat got your tongue?"

If they had never fought like they did, Bruce would almost say she was making a joke. But that fight happened, and his cheek still stings like she's just hit him again, and his arm won't stop throbbing. He almost wishes—

"Honestly Bruce if you were just gonna come here to apologize, you could at least do it without stuttering." She finally turns her head, and all Bruce can do is watch as a million different emotions cross her face, and in less than a second she's closing the distance between them to run her hands over his cheeks, his mouth, his shoulders, over any part of him she can reach to check for injuries.

Her thumb finds his wounded wrist before her eyes, and when she gently flips his arm over to investigate, she has trouble keeping her expression neutral.

"Bruce," she whispers, "what happened?"

"I'm sorry."

The way he says it is like it's the answer to everything she's asking, even though the two lonesome words give no explanation at all, and if he's apologizing for what he did or for showing up here unannounced Selina sure as hell doesn't know and she sure as hell doesn't care because all that matters now is cleaning the make-up from his face and the blood from his arm.

"Come on," she says, leading him over to the half-demolished bathroom. "We have to get you cleaned up."

The bathroom is small with a toilet and sink that actually work, though there's bits of ceiling and insulation where the tub used to be. The walls are peeling, curled pieces of yellowed wallpaper tugged down like petals of a flower, and the smell of mold is generally overwhelming.

Selina guides Bruce to the toilet with a soft grip over his uninjured wrist, and gently tugs him downwards once he's close enough to sit. Her movements are careful and calculated as she reaches for the first-aid kit tucked behind the sink, and when she pops it open Bruce flinches from the sound.

She doesn't look at him as she asks, "How many staples?"

Bruce shifts, his right hand coming to fall overtop the final staple left. His gaze flickers from his wounded arm to Selina's hands working at the kit and then to the floor. Selina doesn't push him to answer, instead busying herself with cleaning the tweezers she has with an alcohol wipe and separating some gauze and antibiotic cream from the rest of the supplies in the kit.

When she turns towards him, tweezers in hand, she catches him off-guard and he flinches again. Her heart aches, and she wants nothing more than to tear apart the bastard that did this to him. Bruce doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve to have something like this happen to him, to have some lunatic smear blood and make-up across his face and put staples into his arm until it bled.

She's only brought back to the present by Bruce answering her question.

His voice wavers even as he tries to keep it steady.

"It was Jerome, Selina." Her eyes meet his. "He ambushed Alfred and I at the manor. He was going to kill me. He was going to kill me and Alfred. So I did the only thing I could think of to stop him." He swallows hard and Selina's hand twitches, her fingers aching to reach out to him. "I played to his ego. He thinks he's a showman . . . so I gave him a show." He breaks eye contact and ducks his head. There's silence for a short while before he speaks again.

"Three staples." He says, his voice low. "It was three staples."

Glancing back down at his arm again, she notices that there's only one staple left, though there's enough blood there to equal that of three separate entry points.

She doesn't ask what happened to the other two.

It's a split-second decision when she reaches her empty hand over to grab at one of his. Of course it was Jerome. Of course it was that sick son of a bitch that did this to him. Though it doesn't seem possible, she feels angrier than before, angry at that clown, angry at Gotham, it's everywhere and nowhere all at once, and the only thing that brings her back is Bruce. He must notice something shift, maybe the way her expression darkens, or how tightly she holds the tweezers in her other hand, but either way, he's the one bringing her back with a thumb running over her calloused knuckles.

Her gaze is locked in a stare at their clasped hands as his thumb runs back and forth, and the words come out unconsciously, fleetingly.

"I'm sorry I attacked you."

The words feel too direct. Bruce is already hurting, and Selina doesn't want to hurt him anymore. But she's never been good with words, and blunt is the only way she knows how to go. She lifts her head when she feels Bruce staring and his face is indecipherable.

"There's nothing to be sorry for. I deserved it."

"No you didn't." Selina exhales, "I overreacted. I was blindsided and I took it out on you." Their hands are still interlocked as Bruce's expression softens. He opens his mouth to interrupt but Selina doesn't let him. "I shouldn't—I shouldn't have let her back into my life so easily. She left me years ago because she was always looking for something better and of course she would only come running back because I—"

Her voice abruptly cuts off. Bruce's thumb is still tracing a pattern over her knuckles. He's got that look on his face, that look she knows so well but can't describe. It washes over her in a wave that look, that look he only uses on her. The words tumble out.

"Because I found something better."

There's a lump in her throat now, the feeling heavy and thick, "I found you."

The movement over her knuckles stops, but Bruce doesn't pull back. That look doesn't once leave his face as he smiles and says, "I'm glad I found you too."

Selina nods and directs her attention downwards. There's some type of feeling bubbling in her gut but she can't figure out exactly what kind of feeling it actually is. She holds tight to Bruce's hand. Nearly a full minute goes by before she lets go. "Alright kid, enough with this mushy stuff. We gotta get that staple out." Bruce says nothing but he seems less tense after, and though his smile wavers, his hands stay still. They hadn't stopped shaking once, until now.

Selina kneels, instructing Bruce to turn his wrist over so that she can access the injury. Carefully she locks his arm into place by cupping her forearm over his, because him jerking away as the staple pulls from his skin is inevitable, and the last thing she wants to do is accidentally tear his skin more with the tweezers. With her dominant hand hovering above the metal, she glances up so that she can meet his eyes.

"Ready?" She asks, her voice determined. Bruce nods, and Selina looks back down, grabbing at the staple with the tweezers. "On the count of three," she mumbles, getting ready to pull, "one, two—"

She yanks the staple free as Bruce's arm lurches, her own arm absorbing the movement. A hiss of pain escapes him as fresh blood begins to pool, and Selina stands, tossing the tweezers back into the first-aid kit before exiting the room. Bruce is confused at first, stuck wondering why she's left him alone and bleeding when they were getting along so well, until she returns with a tattered rag that's already slightly damp.

She smiles crookedly at his questioning look, "Rainwater's safer than whatever comes out of that sink."

She begins to wipe at his arm and after all the blood's cleared she rests the rag on the side of the sink before applying some antibiotic and wrapping the gauze around and around. After she secures the three layers of gauze with one of the metal clips she snaps the kit shut and leaves the room again, expecting him to follow.

He lingers instead, and only stands when she calls his name from the other room. When he returns to the living room, she's over by one of the cracked windows, grabbing another rag she has hanging from one of the jagged panels.

It's raining now, the droplets a steady hum as they slip down the sides of buildings, and Gotham is lit in it's usual dreary glow. The neon light of the building next door catches Selina's cheek as she turns around and Bruce's breath is nearly taken away because he never thought someone could ever look so beautiful.

Selina either doesn't notice him staring or doesn't care as she makes her way over to the ragged couch in the middle of the room, flicking on the small light sitting on the floor beside it. The lamp plunges half the room in a yellowish hue, leaving the other half shadowed by the rain trickling down the window panes. She takes a seat in the darkness, rag in hand, and then pats the couch cushion bathed in light beside her.

Bruce makes his way over and takes his seat in the light.

Selina sits facing him with her legs crisscrossed underneath her and without waiting for his okay she reaches the rag up and gently begins to dab at his face. She starts at his chin, swiping up and over, as the rag fills with color. There's a concentrated knit to her eyebrows as she works, the rag rough against his skin, her movements tender, and he finds himself lost in her eyes.

There's fire burning there, as there always is, but there's worry there too. It's the slight tilt of her mouth that gives her away, the barely noticeable tic of her lips as they try to frown, and he feels guilty that he's even placated by the fact that she's worrying about him. He never wants her to worry, but a part of him thought she would never worry about him again, so it's reassuring in a warped sort of way.

The blood smeared over his lips is dry now; it's difficult to wipe away. Almost like how Bruce will never be able to fully wipe away Jerome from his memories. The rag stills near his lips suddenly, and Bruce blinks, brought out of his thoughtful daze.

"What'd he do to you?"

She whispers the words so quietly that they're nearly inaudible, but Bruce hears them all the same. When he focuses on her face, he finds that he can't seem to get any of his own words out. She stares a moment more, motionless, before returning the rag to his cheek.

A few minutes pass by and Bruce almost zones out again, exhaustion weighing heavily over his shoulders, the comfort of Selina nearby like a softly-spoken lullaby, but then her cold fingers are at his chin, her touch gentle and feather-light. "C'mere, B," she murmurs as she lifts his chin up, her nails grazing at an almost invisible scratch. "Does that hurt?"

Bruce doesn't have the energy to shake his head. "It's okay."

Selina glances up. His chin stays locked in her loose grip.

"I'm okay, Selina." He wants to smile to show her just how okay he is when she's around, but he can't bring himself to do it.

"Are you really?" Sarcasm drips from her tone, because she knows she just caught him in a lie, and lying around Selina, lying to Selina, well, it never sits right. She's lied to him plenty of times, and probably will continue doing so in the future, but he finds that whenever he lies to her it just feels wrong. His stomach twists and turns and there's always a hollow feeling left behind after. Lying about her mom was one of the hardest things he's ever had to do and he still wishes he could take it back.

Selina's over by the open window again, hanging both bloody rags over a serrated piece of glass. Bruce didn't even hear her stand up. He brings his hands to his cheeks, running his thumbs over smooth skin, and when his fingers don't come back smeared with musty smelling make-up, or smelling of blood, he feels like he can finally breathe properly.

He exhales softly, and when he inhales through his nose, the fresh smell of mildew assaults him, and he's never been so thankful to smell mold in his life. He doesn't think he'll ever eat cotton candy again. Selina shrugs her jacket off and tosses it by the window, leaving her in a navy blue tank-top that's ripped across the collar. When she flops down beside him, the smell of leather still clinging to her skin, her lavender shampoo that she's never gone without filling his senses, his heart skips a beat.

"I'm sorry for lying."

Selina tries to act nonchalant. "I thought we were done with the mushy shit."

"I shouldn't have done what I did, even if I thought it was the right thing to do, because it wasn't. It never was. As soon as I had figured out what she was up to I should've gone to you with the truth. Instead I withheld it, and hurt you, and I'm sorry."

He pauses, taking a breath. The rain's picked up a little, more pellets hitting the windows with more speed, pop-pop-pop-pop.

"I would never do anything intentionally to hurt you. I would never. You," he shakes his head, "you mean too much to me." Selina's gaze is burning a hole through him. He doesn't back down. "I just want to protect you. I just want you to be safe, and happy, and you. And I don't want anything to jeopardize that." You've been on your own for too long, he almost says, you never deserved to be deserted, but he knows those are words he'll never speak.

"I can take care of myself, you know," her voice is quiet but strong; steady. Firm.

Bruce half-smiles. "I know you can."

She moves closer to him, their knees bumping together. "I can protect myself." He doesn't know when it happens, but he can feel one of her hands slowly wrapping around the back of his head, her fingers lightly tickling the nape of his neck.

In a way that's almost instinctive, he moves closer to her, their lips barely inches apart. One of his hands slides cautiously around the curve of her hip, and when she doesn't swat him away, he takes that as a sign that's it's okay to continue. His other hand finds her empty one that's resting in her lap, and he takes the time to intertwine their fingers.

His voice is nothing but a low murmur as he says, "I'm never gonna stop trying to protect you anyways," and then his lips are pressing against her own. It's slow and soft, slightly guarded from her end and slightly nervous from his. They never have a problem finding a rhythm against the other's lips however, and soon her hands are tangling into his hair and his are pulling her as close as she can get.

Bruce feels as though his heart is beating a mile a minute, and he wonders if she feels the same. Her eyes flutter shut but he can't do the same with his, instead he keeps blinking, because this doesn't feel real, being here with her; what if it's just another ploy by Jerome? They've never been so open with each other, never so intimate. This could all be one big twisted lie—

She catches on to the hesitance in his lips faster than he can play it off. She pulls back, her eyes searching his, one of her thumbs grazing the sharp bone of his cheek as her hand glides to his face. "Bruce," she whispers, and his eyes flicker from hers to her lips, "Bruce I'm right here."

Her thumb swipes at the corner of his lip before she gently presses her forehead to his. "I'm right here." She repeats, softer, and he hates that he can't shove his uncertainty back to the dark place it came from.

"You're here?"

In his mind he angles the words as a statement, but outside they fall out in a wobbly question. Selina nods, never once looking away as her hands fall to his chest, gripping at the material of his shirt and tugging gently. "I'm here. You're here. We're here."

And as she pushes her lips against his once more, he knows he's not a part of some horrible trick. He knows he's not a puppet to Jerome's every whim, no, right here, right now, it's just him and Selina and the desire burning deep inside him.

They don't untangle as Selina readjusts and falls back against the couch, Bruce's body caging her in. His hands never wander too far, nor cross any boundaries like the gentleman he was raised to be, and if Selina wasn't already preoccupied she would make a smartass comment about it, but she can't find herself to care too much. Just the feeling of his lips on hers and his hands wandering over the small expanse of bare skin he can access from where her tank-top is riding up is enough.

He's always been enough. He will always be enough.

As her hands get lost somewhere between his shoulders and his chest, Bruce realizes he wants to be good for her. He wants to be good for her, and Alfred, and all the other runaways and kids the world has forgotten about in Gotham. He just wants to be good, and to be good, you have to have something to build on. Something to stand by.

He detaches his lips abruptly, cutting her off mid-kiss, and just as Selina's debating on saying something passive-aggressively, he meets her eyes, and the seriousness settled there is enough for the unspoken words to die on her lips.

"I want to be good, Selina." He takes a breath before continuing. "I want to be good for Gotham. I want to be me, but I want to do good. People like Jerome deserve justice, no matter how horrible the crime. That's how you keep the good, by not crossing the line, or going by your own agenda." Her hand finds his and squeezes tight, prompting him to keep going. "I won't kill."

Selina stares at him for a second too long, and Bruce worries that maybe this was something better kept inside, but then she smiles and brushes her lips against his.

"You are good, Bruce. You are so, so good." Her whisper is all the assurance he needs as he kisses her, full of affection and happiness and a feeling of this is where he's meant to be.

The words are on the tip of her tongue as she loses herself in him, the words she's so afraid to speak because if they're spoken aloud they might take him away from her permanently even though she knows they're nothing but the truth because he is the hero Gotham needs, he is the good Gotham needs.

But, right here, right now, the future nothing but a speck in the distance, all he is Bruce.

Her Bruce.

Her light. Her good.

They kiss for a while more but then part soon after, their lips equally swollen, their breaths heavy. Bruce smiles that lopsided smile of his like the goofy love-struck teenager that he is, and Selina makes a few offhanded comments about his kissing skills and how they could be improved (which is a lie; she's never been so breathless after a kiss in her life, but of course she has to heckle him somehow, who would she be otherwise?) to which he responds by tackling her into another kiss. "Since you dislike them so much," he had joked, and she had swatted at his shoulder, struggling to hide her blush.

Her squat didn't have a TV, let alone a working one, so instead they ended up talking for a while, and soon the drumming of the rain had made the both of them feel drowsy, the brightly lit moon casting shadows across both of their faces. The couch was short but wide enough that they could lay beside each other comfortably, and though Bruce's feet hung off the other side, he insisted that he was fine as Selina snuggled in beside him, her head resting between his shoulder blade and his chest.

Her hand grips his over his stomach.

"Thank you," Bruce murmurs quietly to the top of her head, "for patching me up."

"Anytime kid," she mumbles, already half-asleep because he's just so damn comfortable, and she thinks it's the end of it, but then he's whispering her name.

"Selina?"

"Yeah?"

He's quiet for a moment.

"You're good too. Probably one of the best things in Gotham."

"Did you just refer to me as a thing, Bruce?"

A soft scoff escapes him. "I'm serious Selina. You're good. So, so good."

And as he echoes her words to him from earlier, she can't help the way that her heart feels just a little fuller, or the almost involuntary squeeze she gives his hand.

The rain continues falling.

The world keeps spinning.

Their hands stay intertwined.

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if i could do it all again
i know i'd go back to you
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