Alfred was always a whiz at stitches. I watched him work hoping by looking over his shoulder I'd pick up a few pointers of my own. God knows I've done just as many half-assed jobs piecing myself together as Bruce has. His hands moved too quick for me to follow. So when I lost interest in trying I looked at Bruce instead.

I shied from how dark he looked. He was sunk over in the chair. Face ghoulish and dim in the lowlight. He cast his eyes on the floor and didn't flinch as Alfred's fingers went red with blood working on his side. It was as if he didn't even feel it anymore. Gotham had dealt him such darker blows in his time that flesh wounds ceased to faze him. I wondered if he could feel wounds of the heart anymore - or if that was also a thing of the past.

Alfred finished in minutes. He nodded to me in passing and collected his first aid supplies on a platter. His footsteps echoed up the long stairwell and he left Bruce and I in peace. I felt naked in my dress. I'd always felt more comfortable around him in costume. He tasted like metal when I kissed him with his cowl. Our reinvented selves fit together perfectly. When we were without masks we were entirely too human for each other. It was beautiful and hot and wild and sweet, but it was never comfortable. We both had to let down our armor and hated it. But the rewards had been worth it. Once upon a time.

"Thank you," Bruce suddenly spoke. His voice spun gravel. It was hollow and faint, almost like I was hearing him through glass.

"I know I've said it before but I'll say it again," I shoved off the counter and stood in front of his reclined figure, "You look like shit."

He didn't say anything. His gunmetal eyes lowered to the floor. Overcome with the need for his familiarity, I crossed the distance between us and lowered myself against him. I felt his body tighten in response but he didn't shove me away. And I took that as an invitation. I kissed the corner of his mouth and then his vulnerable lips. He tasted soft and destroyed. His hand trailed up my side. My ribs quivered in response to him. But his palm stopped at my waist and he used it as leverage to push me back. It was a gentle movement, but his intention was clear.

"Selina," he sighed my name.

I hung close to him, my cheek against his.

"We can't do this," he whispered in my ear.

"Who says?"

I kissed him again and he didn't resist. I felt his weakness trying to break through his chest. It just wanted to be acknowledged. Bruce had neglected it for so long. I tended to bring it out him.

"Everything says," he whispered when we parted to take a breath.

His other hand came up to cup my waist but he didn't use it to shove me off. He drew me closer. I could feel the heat of his skin. Old desires. One hand left my waist to run up the slit of my dress. His warm palm smoothed over my skin.

"Please," I breathed into him. I hated how pathetic it sounded.

He kissed me in response. I felt the bones of his face and his thick hair through my fingers. I was wary of his injury. This was hardly the first time we'd gotten intimate and had to be mindful of injuries. Sometimes it was him, sometimes it was me –more often it was both of us. It felt good to be in pain together back then.

Currently? It was just unnerving. Our pain went much deeper. I drew back from him for just a moment to try and find emotion on his face. There was nothing readable unless one looked deep into his eyes. Which I always had a habit of doing. And there it was –the gem, the rarity, the pain. It mirrored my own. The pain of a lover who wasn't allowed to love.

"Just tonight," I murmured.

It wouldn't satiate either of us for long, but I thought if I gave him a way out he'd agree to it. And he did. For I think he needed me as badly as I needed him.

"Not here," he whispered. Always such a gentleman.

It was an unnecessary act of chivalry, for we'd made love in far darker places. But he insisted. He let me help him out of the chair and the two of us slowly ascended from the depths of his sanctuary to the façade of his home. He led me to his bedroom, or at least the one he pretended to sleep in the nights where the city was quiet enough to let him, and we did a tango glide to his bed. He removed my dress like he was unveiling a work of art. I pulled his shirt from his shoulders, half-afraid I'd break him. We made love with all the lost tenderness in the city and remembered each other. It was hard to remember why we'd decided to call it off in the throes of passion but once our breath quieted and sheets settled we were reminded. The silence scolded us.

Frankly, I didn't give a damn. Screw everything that told us we couldn't. We did. And it was amazing. Nothing bad happened. No one got hurt. But I knew he resisted it. Regretted it. He didn't leave my side and held me but I could feel him a million miles away. I didn't care. We were together. And I could pretend that the heartbeat I heard under my ear beat only for me, and that the city outside didn't matter, and that the man beside me wasn't so dark that he was swallowing himself up. Snow started to fall outside the window. It settled quiet over Gotham. I lay awake staring at it and knew he was awake watching too.