Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1

Bruce awoke before the alarm, his body instinctively attuned to the early hour despite the restless night. Sleep had become a luxury he rarely indulged, but it hardly mattered; his routine demanded discipline, and his body had learned to obey, fatigue or not. As the days in Gotham blurred into weeks, his physical resilience adjusted to the punishing cadence of his morning ritual. Yet, while his body thrived under Gotham's unyielding demands, his mind and heart lingered far away, still tethered to Florence.

Bruce rolled over, his hand brushing the cold, empty expanse of the bed beside him—the space that should have been hers. It could have been hers if he hadn’t insisted she stay behind. He pressed his fingers against his eyes, rubbing until bursts of light danced behind his closed lids, a futile attempt to ease the ache that lingered there. Regret gnawed at him, relentless and sharp, for every second of their last face-to-face.

Her voice was a ghost in his mind, but it was his own words that haunted him most. He could still hear them, heavy and unyielding, tumbling from his mouth like stones: telling her he didn’t want her in Gotham, that he didn’t need her here. That she would only be a hindrance if she came. That she’d be nothing more than a weakness for the Joker to exploit.

He had told her he had Blake now, that he didn’t need her help anymore.

The words had landed like a blow, and her reaction was immediate. Selina’s gaze snapped to his, her expression stunned, as if he’d physically struck her. In truth, he practically had. With that single statement, he had dismissed everything she’d been to him—everything she’d been to Gotham. He could still see the hurt in her eyes, a mix of betrayal and disbelief, etched so deeply it would stay with him forever.

She’d been sitting on the light blue duvet that covered the bed they shared in Alfred’s guest room, wrapped in a white robe, the damp remnants of her rain-soaked run still clinging to her skin. Her hair, half-dried from the towel she held, framed her face in dark waves. She had argued her case with measured determination, her voice steady despite the frustration lacing her words, while he focused on packing his small carry-on for the flight back to Gotham.

But her strength had faltered when he delivered the final blow.

She tried reasoning with him, then negotiating, and finally resorted to outright demanding that he relent and agree to let her accompany him back to the city. She had fought with everything she had to keep them together—until those words left his mouth. After that, the room plunged into an icy silence.

Bruce watched as her face hardened into a mask of calm control, her defenses locking into place. But they had come too late to shield her from the sting of his words. The damage was done; he had already hurt her.

The realization hit him like a blow, and he dropped everything in his hands. In two quick strides, he intercepted her as she moved toward the door, pulling her tightly against his chest. His arms encircled her, holding on as though he could undo the pain he’d caused.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice thick with regret. “I didn’t mean it, Selina. It was desperation talking. None of it was true.”

She stiffened in his embrace, her head turning slightly as she responded in a voice cool and measured, “I know you didn’t, Bruce.” A beat passed, her words sharp enough to cut. “But I’m not going to stand here and listen to this shit.” She took a deep breath, steadying herself before speaking. “I know what that bastard did to you, Bruce. I know what he took from you. I get it.” Her hands slid from his chest to his arms, reassuringly squeezing his biceps as she stepped back. “I get it.” The words carried a quiet certainty, but her eyes betrayed the emotions she kept tightly in check.

At the doorway, she paused, glancing over her shoulder with a look he wouldn’t soon forget—regret mingled with resolve. “But knowing all that, Bruce, knowing exactly what he’s capable of… can you blame me for wanting to go back with you? Can you blame me for wanting to stand beside you when you face him?” Her voice softened, but her determination remained unshaken. “I understand why you want me to stay clear. I do. Just don’t expect me to be happy about it. And don’t expect me to stay on the sidelines for long.” She straightened, her tone sharpening with conviction. “I know how to handle myself. I’ve been the difference between your success and failure before, Wayne. Don’t forget that.”

Those were the last words she spoke to him before he and Alfred were in the air, bound for the States.

Midway across the North Atlantic, Bruce found himself wishing he’d left Alfred behind as well. The older man had been unusually quiet during the flight, his disapproval evident in every measured glance. Quiet, that is, until Bruce made the mistake of trying to explain why he had left Selina behind.

Alfred set his tea down with deliberate precision, reclining in his seat with an expression equal parts disappointment and quiet challenge. “Master Wayne,” he began, his voice calm but laced with the unmistakable edge of fatherly reproach, “I have spent the better part of my life cleaning up the messes you’ve left in your wake. But this time, you’ve truly outdone yourself, young man.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened, but Alfred didn’t waver. His tone remained measured, each word chosen with care. “You told Miss Kyle she should not accompany you because she would be a distraction—that her assistance wasn’t required. And yet, I distinctly recall a certain conversation with Mr. Fox, wherein he cautioned you: do not, under any circumstances, attempt to control her. A woman of her caliber and character will not tolerate being regulated to the sidelines, Master Wayne. And frankly, you should have known better.”

Bruce growled under his breath, rolling over in bed and glaring at the ceiling as Alfred’s words replayed in his mind. He knew why I didn’t want her here. He didn’t need my excuses on that flight. It wasn’t about Blake’s training or tracking the Joker. It was about Rachel. Alfred knew it. Selina knew it. Hell, I knew it.

He could still picture how Alfred had sighed after his string of justifications, leaning forward to deliver the final blow with that unerring blend of exasperation and affection.

“Permit me to pose a question, sir,” Alfred had said, his gaze unflinching and voice steady, each word weighted with meaning. “Were Miss Kyle seated here at this very moment, do you truly believe you would still be agonizing over what you said? Or would the two of you, as is your wont, be working together to outwit that deranged madman? Because, if I may be so bold, it seems to me that leaving her behind has done little to ease your distraction. On the contrary, I daresay it has only compounded it.”

As always, Alfred had struck directly at the heart of the matter, leaving Bruce with nothing but the bitter sting of truth.

Bruce had opened his mouth to retort but abruptly snapped it shut. Without another word, he slipped his phone from his pocket and walked to the rear of the plane. Dialing her number, he waited, the hum of the engines filling the silence. She answered on the third ring, but all he received was static-laced quiet. “Selina.” Her name escaped his throat like a plea as he dropped into a padded chair, lowering his head into his hand. His fingers raked through his dark hair, the weight of regret pressing on him. “I’m sorry, Selina. I shouldn’t have asked you not to come. I was wrong—very wrong—to say what I did, to force you to stay behind. You know how much I love you. I’m just…” His voice trailed off, replaced by a frustrated exhale.

Her voice cut through his anguish like a blade when she finally spoke. “You’re afraid.”

The words brought him up rigid in the aircraft’s leather recliner. He searched for a response, his lips pressed into a hard line. Finally, he admitted, “Yes, I am, Selina. The Joker has given me every reason to fear him. I know what he’s capable of.” His voice was steady, but beneath it was a tremor of vulnerability. She let the silence stretch, giving him space to work through his emotions. “But that doesn’t make what I did right,” he continued. “I’ll book you a flight out of Florence in the morning. Or I can arrange a private charter—”

“No.” Her reply was firm, her tone resolute. He knew there would be no arguing with her now. “Bruce, if my being there weakens you, then you were right to ask me not to come. You need to focus on Gotham and what has to be done without worrying about me every step of the way. When I said I understood, I meant it.” There was a long pause before she added, her voice softer, “You don’t have to worry about me, Bruce. Just handle your business.”

The grim finality in her words hit him like a blow. Even as she assured him she would be there when this was over, he felt the unsteadiness take hold. I didn’t need the Joker to break us apart—I did it myself. Who needed a painted lunatic to destroy everything when I was lunatic enough to do it myself? He wanted to tell her that he needed her beside him, that he couldn’t do this without her. But the words caught in his throat. He couldn’t bring himself to ask the woman he loved to follow him into Gotham’s darkness—not this time. Not against the Joker.

Gotham had fallen into an unsettling calm in the weeks since the Joker's escape from Arkham. The entire city seemed to be holding its collective breath, waiting for the green-haired monster to unleash his unique brand of chaos. In this haunting lull, the Joker's ominous presence cast a shadow so suffocating that it drove a wave of panicked citizens from the city. 

The media had dubbed it an "exodus from evil." Hundreds of residents were packing up and leaving each day, finally deciding they had endured enough of the city’s perpetual madness. Prominent businesses followed suit, relocating their headquarters to safer environments where rebuilding wasn’t a gamble against a precarious economy and the looming specter of the Joker’s wrath.

Bruce found himself frequently in the spotlight, reassuring the public through interviews and press releases that Wayne Enterprises remained steadfast. He pledged both his and his company’s continued commitment to Gotham’s recovery, determined to be a stabilizing force in a city teetering on the edge.

On days like today, his sense of duty—to Gotham, Blake, and the legacy he had vowed to protect—gave him the strength to carry on. Bruce forced himself to move. He grabbed the gray sweatpants Alfred had neatly laid out for him, pulling them over his black boxer briefs. A plain gray hoodie followed, then socks and running shoes. Standing, he stretched the stiffness from his back, feeling a rare moment of gratitude. Pain-free knees were still a novelty. As he took his first steps toward the bathroom, he almost smiled. He rolled his shoulders and flexed his elbows, marveling at the improvements in his mobility. Selina’s words echoed in his mind: “Too bad the Doc doesn’t treat broken backs and concussions—you’d be damn near bionic, Wayne.”

 “Damn, if I don’t miss that smart mouth of hers,” Bruce muttered to himself.

In the main room, Blake was seated, speaking quietly with Alfred when Bruce entered. At the sound of Bruce’s approach, Blake stood, his posture straightening with anticipation.

Bruce gestured toward the rear of the penthouse. “Weights and Jujutsu today,” he said curtly, his tone all business.

Blake nodded and headed to the workout area to begin his warm-up. Starting with a Tai Chi-inspired routine, he focused on stretching and balance, easing his muscles into motion. The slow, deliberate movements brought a surprising sense of calm, even as he braced himself for the grueling session ahead.

Training with Wayne was always intense. Blake knew today’s lesson in Jujutsu—a close-combat martial art designed for disarming armed and armored opponents—would focus on joint locks, holds, and throws. At least he had an idea of what to expect this time. Often, Bruce wouldn’t even tell him the discipline they were working on; he’d demonstrate the techniques, leaving Blake to absorb, mimic, and master them.

The session began with precision drills, gradually escalating in complexity. Bruce moved through the forms with fluid ease, his movements deliberate and sharp, while Blake struggled to keep up. As always, they ended the session in the center of the padded mat, where Bruce tested everything Blake had learned.

Each maneuver felt like a mental gauntlet as much as a physical one. If Blake faltered—whether by forgetting a defensive trap or executing a counter maneuver incorrectly—the correction was immediate and merciless. Bruce would slam him hard to the mat, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. Without a word, Bruce would extend a hand and pull him back to his feet. They’d review the mistake, refine the technique, and begin again. By the time they finished, Blake’s muscles burned in places he didn’t even know existed. Aching and drenched in sweat, he limped back to his room—now unofficially his space in the Wayne penthouse—for a much-needed shower. Meanwhile, Bruce went to the kitchen, where Alfred would be waiting with the day’s itinerary.

Over a cup of black coffee and one of his signature wheatgrass protein shakes—a concoction Blake found almost as intimidating as the training itself—Bruce would listen as Alfred outlined the schedule. Once Bruce was showered and dressed, Alfred would take the wheel of either the Benz or the Rolls and drive him to the office.

Blake would devour a breakfast fit for a small army, courtesy of Alfred’s culinary expertise, before steeling himself for the next round of training. The cycle was relentless, but for Blake, it was all part of the price of preparing for the battles ahead.

From eight in the morning until noon, Blake trained in martial arts under two master instructors personally selected by Wayne, each imported from the birthplace of their disciplines. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, he studied Karate under an elderly Japanese sensei from Okinawa, whose movements were sharp and precise, honed by his decades of experience. On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, he trained in Kung Fu with a young, intense Chinese instructor from Hong Kong, whose fluid and explosive style pushed Blake to his limits.

Lunch was always waiting for him in the fridge, thoughtfully prepared by Alfred. If fortunate, he would kip a short nap before the grueling afternoon sessions began. These lessons were a favorite, offering a diverse array of training. Instructors from various disciplines would visit, many of whom spoke little or no English. They introduced him to stick fighting, grappling, throwing techniques, and even the occasional session in sword handling. The variety kept him sharp, but it also left him utterly exhausted.

By the time these lessons concluded, Wayne had often returned from the office. Blake and Alfred would share dinner at the table while Bruce dined alone in his private study or on the balcony overlooking the city’s skyline if the weather was pleasant. Like clockwork, Bruce would emerge thirty minutes after Alfred cleared the dishes. Blake would wordlessly fall in step behind him, and together, they’d disappear into the safe room.

From there, the actual training to become Batman would begin.

Wayne led him into the shadowed depths beneath Gotham City, where their practical lessons unfolded. Suited and masked, they squared off like armored gladiators, their silhouettes blending into the shadows. Bruce pushed him relentlessly, drilling the nuances of hand-to-hand combat while clad in the cape and cowl. Every movement carried a purpose, as he emphasized balance, precision, and adaptability.

The suit's weight, the pull of the cape—it all mattered. Each detail tested endurance and skill, forcing Blake to adapt, think, and fight as if every encounter was life or death. Only in the shadows beneath Gotham, cloaked in secrecy and under cover of night, did Bruce speak to him of invisibility and Ninjutsu—the art of blending into the darkness, of becoming unseen.

Blake recalled when he first heard Bruce whisper, "Ninjutsu.”  It was as if Bruce was revealing a sacred truth—a key to something ancient and powerful. It sent a chill down his spine; he listened intently, absorbing every word. It felt as though Wayne was unearthing a shadowed fragment of himself, a secret steeped in darkness. His voice was low and deliberate, each word carrying weight.

“It is the art of forbearance, patience, self-control, restraint, and tolerance,” he began, his tone measured. “It originated in Japan, practiced by assassins in the age of feudal warfare. A discipline rooted in stealth and shadow. Covert warfare.” His gaze grew colder, the words sharp as the blade in his hand. “Its purpose is to inspire fear and confusion in your enemy, to exploit their weakness.

“But make no mistake,” he continued after a brief pause, his voice hardening. “It is dishonorable. To fight through fear, to prey upon your opponent's mind, is to forfeit your humanity. By wielding these skills, you will become something else—shinobi no mono. A ninja. You will be bound to their code. You must accept that your life will be lived in the shadows, and in death, your name will vanish with you. The legacy of your battles will belong only to those you have served.”

Wayne’s voice fell silent, and Blake found himself shivering—not from the cold, but from the gravity of the revelation.

A faint rustle echoed behind him. He turned, his head snapping toward the sound. When he looked back, the Batman had vanished. The shadows seemed to have swallowed him whole. Blake spun in place, scanning the cavernous room. His eyes searched the dim corners, each one darker than the last. Flicking on the visor in the cowl, he activated the heat signature overlay, and a faint register appeared—directly above him.

“Might as well come out, Bruce. I see you,” Blake called out.

A gloved hand clamped firmly on his shoulder. Blake jerked around, only to find Batman standing there, silently as though he had materialized from the air itself.

“You see only what I allow you to see,” he said, his voice calm, unyielding. The resonance of Batman’s voice filled the chamber, imposing and commanding. “You will be schooled in the arts of non-detection, avoidance, and misdirection,” he continued. “To master this discipline, you must learn disguise, escape, concealment, archery, medicine, explosives, and poisons. Only then will you begin to understand the powers of Ninjutsu.”

Blake met Bruce’s gaze, and at that moment, the weight of Batman’s mantle became startlingly clear. Bruce’s knowledge wasn’t just profound—it was a burden, a crushing responsibility he had borne alone through years of sacrifice and resolve.

Blake's training was everything he had dreamed of—grueling, enlightening, and transformative. Yet, with each lesson mastered, the horizon of his journey stretched farther out of reach. For every skill gained, he realized how much more there was to learn, how vast the chasm remained between him and Bruce. Awe and doubt mingled uneasily within him. Could he ever truly stand in Wayne’s place? The preconceptions he’d once held about Bruce Wayne were long gone, and with them, any naive notions of what it truly meant to be Batman.

Under Lucius Fox’s guidance, Blake quickly absorbed the intricacies of the Bat’s technology. Countless hours were spent in the vaults of Applied Sciences, where Lucius’s patient instruction transformed complex systems into practical tools. The open section of the blasted floor served as a perfect practice site—Blake learned to master the grappling gear and perfect the gliding techniques essential for Batman’s arsenal. Each trial brought him closer to proficiency, yet the shadow of Bruce’s unparalleled expertise loomed ever larger.

Lucius’s work in securing the surrounding tunnels beneath Wayne Tower was nothing short of extraordinary. The meticulous strategy Fox employed bordered on genius. He ensured absolute control over a critical asset by acquiring the subcontractors once aligned with Daggett Industries and rebranding them under Wayne Enterprises as Ginger Fox Construction.

With this team, Lucius orchestrated a remarkable feat: they low-bid and won the city contract for the inspection, restoration, and remapping of Gotham’s subterranean drainage and sewage systems. It was a logistical masterpiece, executed with precision and subtlety.

Blake didn’t need Lucius to explain the implications of this achievement. When Fox finally shared the outcome, Blake could only marvel.

“The city council just turned over the entire substructure of Gotham City to the Batman,” Lucius had said, his voice tinged with quiet satisfaction.

Blake felt the magnitude of those words reverberate through him. Gotham’s foundations—the city's arteries—were now in the hands of the one person who could wield them for good. And in that moment, Blake understood: the role of the Batman wasn’t just about donning the cowl. It was about wielding power responsibly, with foresight and an unyielding sense of purpose.

Lucius offered a knowing smile and shrugged. “They’ve been trying to hand Mr. Wayne the keys to the city for years now. I suppose he finally decided to accept—and make himself at home.” He paused, his tone light but deliberate. “Besides, I gave Gotham quite the deal on that contract. With the price I put forward, GFC will just barely cover payroll and materials.”

He chuckled softly, clearly pleased with his handiwork. It was a balancing act, but one that left both the city and Wayne Enterprises better off. “Now, of course, Mr. Wayne is footing the bill for the… additional upgrades. Extending the tunnel system out to the Palisades won’t be cheap, or simple. But once it’s finished, there’ll be a private, dry channel connecting the cave system under Wayne Manor to Wayne Tower—and from there to secure berthing ports throughout the city.”

Crews from Ginger Fox Construction unknowingly rerouted Gotham’s drainage tunnels, erasing any trace of the expansive cavern beneath Wayne Enterprises. City maps were quietly redrawn, and the subterranean space beneath the tower ceased to exist. The fifty-man team assigned to the ambitious Palisades dig consisted of workers imported from a South American mining company—a company that, not coincidentally, had recently become one of Mr. Wayne’s acquisitions.

These miners were brought to Gotham under heavy cover and compensated generously for their labor and discretion. Believing they were working at a classified dig site in Australia, the crew operated under a meticulously maintained cover story. Even the security team overseeing them was brought in from Wayne Enterprises’ offsite medical research facility near Melbourne to bolster the illusion. During their stay, the workers were housed in barracks-style accommodations on the lowest level of Applied Sciences, where they were well provided for. As stipulated in their contracts, they remained on-premises and refrained from any outside contact until the project was complete.

Their loyalty to their new employer went far beyond their wages. Since Mr. Wayne acquired their mining company, the miners have witnessed transformative changes. Operational safety measures had been implemented, ending the dangerous practice of excavating unsupported honeycomb tunnels in older mines. Entire communities had watched in awe as controlled blasts sealed hazardous shafts that had once claimed countless lives.

But safety wasn’t the only improvement. Wayne’s ownership brought medical teams to provide care and vaccines to workers and their families, extending that support to surrounding villages. The company’s private security team had also displaced the corrupt military force that had long terrorized the community, restoring peace and stability. The change had been nothing short of life-altering for the miners and their families.

Among the locals, a legend began to take shape. They credited their sudden good fortune to a flawless red diamond unearthed from the mountainside. The gem symbolized their prosperity, and the miners were hailed as heroes. With increased wages driving the local economy, loyalty to their benefactor ran deep. So, when the foreman called for volunteers for a unique project, the response was overwhelming. So many stepped forward that many had to be turned away.

Blake had witnessed the miners’ dedication firsthand. They were some of the hardest-working men he had ever encountered and fiercely proud of it. During his visit to the site, the supervisor had clapped a hard hat on his head and pulled him over to a weathered map, proudly pointing out their progress for the day. The drill operator eagerly invited him to inspect the state-of-the-art rig they’d been provided, then personally escorted him into the trenches to see the clearing work up close. Blake’s limited Spanish had been enough to offer a heartfelt “buen trabajo” and “gracias,” which had earned him wide grins and nods of appreciation.

When one of the rock haulers approached Blake with a question, it took him a moment to decipher the man’s broken English and gestures. Eventually, he realized the worker was asking about the score of a soccer match between Peru and Brazil. Blake could only shrug apologetically and admit he didn’t know.

Later that evening, with Lucius’s help, Blake pulled off a minor miracle. As the workers settled in to watch a Spanish-dubbed movie on the large flat screen in their barracks, the screen flickered, and a bootleg replay of the soccer match began instead. The cheers and shouts of gratitude that erupted moved Blake in a way he hadn’t expected.

Soccer had never been his game, but that night, it became one. Before he knew it, the miners had pressed him into a chair, and a steady stream of imported beer appeared in his hand, one can after another. Blake drank, cheered, and laughed as the underdog Peruvian team triumphed over Brazil’s fútbol juggernaut in a thrilling 3–2 victory.

Luckily, Lucius had the foresight to cover for him. Midway through the match, Blake received a text:
I notified BW that our “training” was running long this evening. He suggests you not drink too much—you have an early session with him in the morning.

Blake smirked down at his phone. “Damn, Bruce, you are a scary bastard sometimes.”

In truth, Bruce was scary most of the time. Blake learned firsthand during the third week of training when Bruce decided it was time to take him out into Gotham. Leading him through a labyrinth of tunnels, Bruce emerged in the heart of the city and gave Blake a simple instruction: “Follow my lead.”

The next four hours were a grueling gauntlet of terror and adrenaline. Bruce leaped effortlessly between rooftops, scaled sheer walls with his hydraulic grappling gun, and sailed off skyscrapers without hesitation. Blake struggled to keep up, his breath ragged as he scrambled across steel and brick.

Bruce never said a word. He would watch Blake complete each exercise, waiting silently for him to arrive, only to vanish again into the night. Over time, Blake grew accustomed to the silence during their nighttime training sessions. After all, the Batman was meant to be silent.

It was the silences when their masks were off that unnerved him. Outside of their morning sessions, Bruce rarely spoke unless prompted by Alfred or Blake. He spent hours in the study, poring over crime pattern analyses on his computer. Alfred managed his emails and screened his phone calls, with only a select few ever getting through—a group Blake had dubbed the shortlist: Pepper Potts, Commissioner Gordon, Lucius Fox, and Selina Kyle.

When it was Selina on the other end of the call, Bruce would stop whatever he was doing and retreat to his room. The aftermath of her calls was unpredictable—either the best of times or the worst. Blake had learned quickly not to involve himself in the latter.

Seeing Bruce gloving up for the heavy bag after one such call, Blake had foolishly offered to spar with him. Fifteen minutes later, Alfred was playing cut-man, tending to Blake’s split chin while Bruce pounded mercilessly on the three-hundred-pound bag.

The bag hadn’t fared much better. By the time Bruce was done, Alfred had to patch the leather with strips of gray duct tape. As the butler pressed the tape into place, Blake, still nursing his wounds, couldn’t resist asking about the shift he saw in Bruce.

Alfred had given him one of his knowing smiles. “This is Bruce Wayne,” he said simply. He went on to explain that the other side of Bruce—the lighter, laid-back version—was the true anomaly. “That Bruce only ever showed himself for Selina Kyle,” Alfred had added. Blake tried not to let his disappointment show as Alfred continued. “And I daresay we won’t see him again unless Ms. Kyle defies his wishes and returns to Gotham—or the Master conquers the Joker and returns  to Italy to fetch her himself.”

As Bruce walked silently past, unwinding the tape from his wrists, Blake realized both scenarios sounded pretty damn appealing right about now. Alfred gave him a reassuring pat on the knee. “I know he doesn’t seem like the same man to you, Master Blake. Be assured, it’s through no fault of your own. This business of waiting for the Joker to surface is wearing on the Master’s nerves, as you might well imagine. And the separation from Ms. Kyle only worsens his temperament. The misfortune of navigating that temperament falls to us, lad.”

Blake watched as Bruce disappeared wordlessly into the hallway. He sighed and glanced back at Alfred. “I never thought I’d say this, but I wish Selina Kyle would bring her ass back to Gotham.”

Chapter Text

Bruce signed off on the last two contracts with a decisive stroke, his pen scratching against the crisp paper. He shoved the completed documents into a red intra-company envelope designated for urgent matters, and fastened the string holder with a practiced flick of his wrist. The faint echo of footsteps in the hallway pulled his gaze up just as Lucius Fox stepped into the office, his presence as steady and deliberate as ever.

“Late night tonight, Mr. Wayne?” Lucius asked, his tone carrying that familiar mixture of curiosity and understated concern.

Bruce leaned back in his chair, the weight of the day visible in the faint pinch at the corners of his eyes. “When you have the opportunity to snare some of Gotham’s prime real estate for pennies a square foot, it’s worth staying a little later.”

Lucius’s expression tightened, his disapproval subtle but unmistakable. He didn’t need to say anything immediately—his silence was often as eloquent as his words—but it carried the weight of experience and measured caution when he did speak. “Who was it this time?” he asked.

“Donovan Marketing Group,” Bruce replied, his voice betraying a hint of weariness as he secured the envelope’s tabs. He glanced up to meet Lucius’s eyes, almost as if anticipating his reaction.

Lucius shook his head slowly, the motion deliberate and laden with quiet frustration. “That’s a big name for the city to lose. If they don’t relocate their employees, we’re looking at another hundred or so people out of work.”

“They’re taking only the top executives—merging marketing with legal at their hub in Detroit.” He let the city’s name linger on his tongue, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Detroit,” he repeated, the word weighted with disdain as though judging it and finding it utterly lacking. “A city with the worst real estate market and unemployment in America—yet still more appealing to companies than staying here in Gotham.”

Lucius sighed, slipping his glasses off and pinching the bridge of his nose in a gesture of tired resignation. “So the workers stay, but the jobs go. That doesn’t exactly make things better, does it?”

Bruce exhaled slowly through his nose, his eyes dropping to the envelope on the desk. “We can’t do much more without spreading Wayne Enterprises dangerously thin,” he admitted, his voice steady but low. The admission was uncharacteristic of him—open, almost vulnerable—but it came with the weight of his position and the decisions he’d shouldered alone. “We’ve barely recovered financially from the pinch I put us in.”

His fingertips began a restless rhythm on the desk, but he stopped after a moment, letting his hand fall still. The silence in the room felt heavier as if the weight of Gotham’s struggles was pressing down on them both.

Lucius Fox settled into the chair across from Bruce with the calm deliberation of someone who had long mastered the art of navigating his employer’s mercurial moods. His gaze was steady as he folded his glasses and tucked them into the breast pocket of his impeccably tailored navy suit. Resting his chin casually in the palm of his hand, he spoke with a tone that blended reassurance and measured critique.

“I hardly think you can blame yourself for Talia’s actions or the fallout from her trade scandal,” Lucius began, his voice calm but firm. “That being said, Mr. Wayne, I can’t entirely disagree with your assessment of the shop’s current financial situation.”

He let his words linger, watching Bruce with an unspoken understanding before his expression shifted, a flicker of wry humor softening his tone. “Although… I’ve always thought it might behoove us to have an innovative marketing and public relations team at our disposal. Lord knows, with the stunts you’ve pulled in the past, we could have used a few people with a flair for media spin.”

Bruce leaned back, the leather of his chair creaking faintly under the movement. He let his gaze drift briefly to the ceiling before a grim smile ghosted across his lips. “I was just buying the building, Lucius. Are you suggesting we keep Donovan’s creative team on the payroll?”

Lucius’s soft smile remained intact, his composure unshaken. “I’ve asked you before, Mr. Wayne, not to take me for a fool. I know exactly what you had in mind when you inked those contracts.”

Bruce let out a short, humorless laugh, tilting his head slightly as his eyes found Lucius’s. “Do you think me a fool, Lucius?”

The older man’s smile broadened, his eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. “At times,” he admitted the words carrying just enough levity to disarm. “But not today. Not about this decision, anyway.”

Lucius’s gaze lingered briefly on the framed photo of Selina resting on Bruce’s desk. A subtle shake of his head betrayed his unspoken thoughts, though he remained silent. The image was striking: Selina stood poised against the railing of a cliffside restaurant on Corsicana, the vast ocean stretching endlessly behind her. The cream dress she wore, its coffee-colored stripes accentuating her elegant frame, naturally commanded attention. Yet, it was more than the dress—it was the wind sweeping through her dark hair, the golden glow of the island sun on her skin, and the quiet confidence in her posture that made the photo unforgettable. It wasn’t just an image; it was a moment suspended in time, one that Lucius had intentionally placed where Bruce couldn’t help but see it.

Lucius had positioned the frame the week Bruce returned to Gotham. He’d done so with an unapologetic smirk, brushing aside Bruce’s questions before they could fully form. “Orders from Selina,” he’d said with a note of finality. She had made it clear the photo belonged in Bruce’s line of sight every day. And with a mischievous glint in his eye, Lucius had added, “Attempt to remove it, and I am to have your office wallpapered with poster-sized versions.”

Now, as Bruce’s eyes fell to the photo, the corners of his mouth softened into something unreadable—regret, maybe, or something more profound. He sighed, directing a benign scowl toward Lucius, who met it with unflappable poise. “I never did thank you for that photograph, Lucius,” Bruce said, his tone dry but laced with reluctant amusement. “Nothing quite like a constant reminder of our little misadventure on the island.”

Lucius took the jab in stride, his hands steepled before him and the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “Think of it as motivation, Mr. Wayne,” he said smoothly. “Ms. Kyle wanted to ensure she stayed on your mind.” His humor didn’t falter as his smile widened slightly. “Though, I suspect you don’t truly mind remembering her in that dress, do you?”

Bruce raised a brow, his expression somewhere between mild surprise and wry amusement at the insinuation. Lucius chuckled, lifting his hands in mock surrender, the gesture as easy and unassuming as his tone. “Just an educated guess, Mr. Wayne,” he added, his smile never wavering. “I’ve noticed you seem particularly fond of that… designer.”

Bruce shook his head, suppressing a smirk, as he stood and turned toward the desk. His gaze lingered on the photograph of Selina for a moment longer before he straightened, reached for his dusky grey suit jacket, and shrugged it over his shoulders. The fabric settled neatly over his wrinkled white shirt. With practiced efficiency, he snugly adjusted the sky-blue silk tie at his throat, the faint sheen catching the light.

“Mr. Fox,” he said, his voice carrying a note of dry humor as he stepped around the desk, “why don’t you put that educated mind of yours to better use and figure out how to keep a hundred and sixty-four people from Donovan on the payroll—considering neither of us knows a damn thing about marketing?”

Lucius smiled, rising from his chair with the unhurried grace of someone who had grown accustomed to Bruce’s quips. He stretched his back, his arms moving with the deliberate care of a man who spent more time at a desk than he should. “I’ll get right on that, Mr. Wayne,” Lucius replied, the slight arch of his brow hinting at his skepticism but also his unwavering determination.

As Bruce moved toward the door, the interplay of light and shadow in the office seemed to mirror the dynamic between the two men—a balance of pragmatism and wit, each carrying the weight of Gotham’s struggles in their own way.

Xxx

Bruce stepped into the parking garage, his gaze narrowing slightly as he caught sight of the backup driver standing beside a sleek Cadillac limousine. A mild pang of irritation flickered through him—Alfred had, yet again, arranged for someone else to take him home. This time, a thirty-something blonde man offered a polite nod accompanied by a faintly self-assured smile that Bruce found particularly grating.

“Good evening, Mr. Wayne. I’m Geoff—with a G,” the man said, his tone overly cheerful.

Bruce offered a curt nod, his patience wearing thin. This marked the fifth time in three weeks that Alfred had employed a backup driver. Resigned, Bruce stepped into the open door and sank into the deep leather seat at the rear of the limousine. He glanced around the dark interior, his distaste for the vehicle’s ostentatiousness evident in the faint huff he released. He’d always preferred the understated sophistication of the Rolls—or, better yet, driving himself.

His mind wandered briefly as the car pulled away from the curb. I didn’t mind so much when Selina took the wheel, he thought, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Though she damn sure put me on the edge of my seat every time. The fleeting amusement gave way to a genuine smile that lingered for a moment before fading as the limousine lurched forward abruptly, forcing Bruce to brace himself against the door.

His frown deepened, his thoughts shifting to Alfred. What had been occupying his afternoons… Bruce slid open a compartment beside his knee and pulled out a slim, portable laptop. The smooth whir of the machine powering up was a soothing contrast to the occasional jolt of the limousine’s brakes. Bruce settled back into the leather seat; his irritation renewed as the driver braked hard at a stoplight, causing him to shift slightly in his seat.

He keyed into the Batcave’s secure servers, the familiar interface glowing softly on the screen. Navigating with practiced ease, he initiated a GPS trace on the Rolls, his fingers tapping out commands with precision. A small blue dot blinked onto the map, marking its location. Wayne Manor. Bruce frowned, his skepticism piqued. He re-entered the vehicle ID and waited as the system processed the request again. The small blue dot blinked in the same place—Wayne Manor. His brow furrowed further as he stared at the screen, his irritation giving way to curiosity.

The limousine hit another abrupt stop, and Bruce’s grip on the laptop tightened. He exhaled sharply, his focus already shifting back to the screen. There was more to Alfred’s sudden absences than he’d let on, and Bruce intended to find out exactly what it was. Bruce squinted at the laptop display, double-checking the readout to confirm he hadn’t mistakenly entered a drop point at the server center in the cave. The results were precise: Alfred’s current location was Wayne Manor.

Leaning back, he considered instructing Geoff—with a G—to drive him there. Visiting his old home was tempting; he hadn’t set foot on the property since returning to Gotham. But sentimentality had never been his strong suit. It wasn’t reluctance that kept him away—it was time. Between work and responsibility, personal visits had taken a distant backseat. Besides, he didn’t want to disrupt the children at the facility.

A faint smirk curved his lips as his thoughts drifted to Blake. That’s all I need—another street-smart kid figuring out I’m the Batman. The image was both amusing and faintly exasperating.

 Gotham’s dim streetlights cast fleeting shadows across the cabin as the limousine veered abruptly through another turn. Frustrated, Bruce’s mind returned to Alfred. What could have drawn him out to the Manor?  A few possibilities occurred immediately; perhaps he’d gone to tend to his parents’ graves or assist with some charitable endeavor. Alfred had quietly taken on nearly all of Bruce’s social responsibilities since their return—something Bruce neither requested nor challenged. Bruce vaguely recalled Alfred mentioning an event scheduled at the Manor in the coming weeks, some rededication for Tom and Martha. A wing? A library? He couldn’t remember. The details felt inconsequential compared to the pressure of recapturing the Joker.

Shifting restlessly in his seat, Bruce absently brushed his fingers along the edge of the laptop. Alfred knew how much he loathed public appearances, especially those that painted him in the light of a reluctant icon. Still, Alfred had promised the guest list would be small, with no media presence. In these tense times—with the Joker still loose—even Gotham’s wealthiest were keeping low profiles, unwilling to draw the wrong kind of attention.

I’ll be damned if I let a rededication in my parents’ memory become a target, Bruce thought grimly, his fingers tightening briefly on the laptop before he exhaled slowly, releasing the tension, especially not for a function meant to honor me of all people. He suddenly imagined Selina, dressed to the nines, moving gracefully through Wayne Manor, her presence effortlessly captivating and commanding, free of any pretense.

Shutting his eyes, he tried to will the thoughts away, to let the steady hum of the limousine engine lull him into calm. But the effort was futile. His mind betrayed him, drifting to Selina.  A familiar ache settled in his chest as an unbidden memory surged forward—her in that gold dress, shimmering and impossibly elegant. The sight of her had nearly stopped him in his tracks.

Don’t think about her, he told himself firmly, pressing his fingers against his temple as though sheer willpower could banish the thought. But trying not to think of her was like trying not to think of elephants—an impossible task that only made the thoughts louder. Inevitably, his mind filled with her: Selina. Elephants. And everything else he was fighting so hard to suppress.

The limousine’s cabin felt suffocating, the low hum of the engine doing little to silence the absurd spiral of his thoughts. African elephants. Circus elephants. Elephants, in short, damn designer dresses. Elephants everywhere.

The absurdity of his mental tangent only fueled his frustration. Shaking his head sharply, Bruce growled under his breath and redirected his attention to the laptop. His fingers flew over the keys, tapping out commands as he locked on the GPS marker for the Rolls. Moments later, he entered a different tracking number. The map refreshed, the satellite-linking icon pulsing briefly before the screen displayed a new location: the Pennyworth residence in Florence.

The map was populated with a maze of green lines, tracking records tied to the movement of the pearls. Bruce leaned in, studying the routes. The data revealed a tapestry of activity: multiple trips to the farmers' market, visits to the university, walks along the canal, and stops at several local museums. Selina was making the most of her time in Italy, unencumbered and vibrant. That thought sparked an ache he couldn’t quite name—part longing, part regret.

His frown deepened as he tapped the beacon on the screen, a quiet admission slipping from his lips. “I’d love to be the one taking you to those places. I promise, Selina, I’ll make it up to you when this is all over.”

The weight of his words lingered, compelling him to reach for his phone. The sudden urge to hear her voice was overwhelming, but his thumb hovered over her contact as he stared at the screen. It was nearly one in the morning in Florence. She’d probably be asleep—or enjoying the quiet that came with the late hour. But then again, this wouldn’t be the first time one of them made a desperation call at an inconvenient hour.

He smirked faintly at the memory of her last call. It had come just a week ago, in the middle of a meeting with representatives from the Pentagon. The topic: weapons contracts. His phone had rung, and without hesitation, he’d held up a hand to halt the presentation. No one in the room missed the significance of the moment as Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s elusive billionaire, answered his phone with the unmistakably personal greeting:

“Good evening, darling.”

The room had fallen into stunned silence, the Pentagon officials exchanging baffled glances. Even Lucius had raised an eyebrow, his expression somewhere between disapproval and admiration, as if silently asking, “Should we all just wait, then?” Bruce couldn’t have cared less about their reactions. For him, there was no contest between priorities.

Now, as his thumb brushed against the edge of his phone, he hesitated. His instincts told him to call—what would one more late-night conversation hurt? But a flicker of restraint held him back, even as his mind replayed her voice on that last call, a lifeline amid the chaos.

Selina never called during meetings; she made it a point not to. Alfred ensured three copies of Bruce’s calendar were distributed every morning after they finalized it: one to Fox’s assistant, one to Bruce’s mobile, and one to Selina Kyle. She was nothing if not respectful of his itinerary and his time, so if she called, there was a reason for it.

She had apologized the moment he answered, her voice hesitant, as though she regretted dialing. She’d even tried to let him go, insisting she knew he was busy, that she had just needed to hear his voice. Bruce hadn’t been willing to leave it at that. He’d glanced at Fox, giving a nearly imperceptible nod, before standing and leaving the conference room.

Fox, unflappable as ever, looked up at the young man delivering the presentation and gestured for him to continue. The presenter hesitated, his confusion evident, and asked, “Shouldn’t we wait for Mr. Wayne to return?”

Fox had merely smiled. “Business of a more urgent nature has presented itself,” he replied smoothly. “We’ll have to muddle through the remainder of the conference without him.”

Bruce had ducked into an empty meeting room, his movements deliberate but unhurried, and assured Selina she hadn’t interrupted anything of consequence. Sitting on the ledge beneath the tall windows, he loosened his tie and shrugged off his jacket, letting it fall beside him. The sun was dipping lower on the horizon, casting a warm amber light into the room as he leaned back against the glass like a man with nothing in the world more important than this conversation.

“What’s got you so unsettled?” he’d asked, his tone quiet but grounding.

She’d hesitated before confessing. “I just woke up,” she’d said reluctantly. “I couldn’t shake the feeling… like something had happened to you.”

Bruce had spent the better part of an hour on the phone with her, his voice low and steady as he carefully unraveled the threads of her worry with calm reassurances. He assured her of his safety, reminding her that he was always just a call away. His attention was unwavering, and his sole focus at that moment was to ease her fears and anchor her with the certainty of his words.

That was how Fox’s assistant found him—seated on the ledge beneath the picturesque window, phone in hand, framed by the warm glow of the waning sunlight. The assistant had quietly stepped back, shutting the door with care to avoid disturbing the owner of Wayne Enterprises. Without hesitation, he stationed himself outside and discreetly redirected the reporting executives to an alternate venue.

Bruce had refused to let Selina apologize for taking him away from work, scolding her gently when she admitted she felt embarrassed for making “such an emotional production” over a dream. “Don’t,” he’d told her firmly. “I love you.  You call me anytime, no matter the reason.”

They’d ended the call with her promise to do just that, her voice lighter than when she’d first spoken. Yet even after they hung up, Bruce remained seated, his gaze fixed on the darkening cityscape. The decision to return to Gotham weighed on him more heavily now than it had the day he said goodbye to her in Florence. In that quiet moment, self-loathing settled over him—for the choices he’d made, the miles that separated them, and, above all, for not being there when she needed him most.

Now, as the limousine crept along in traffic, Bruce stared down at his phone, Selina’s name glowing softly on the screen. His thumb hovered over her contact, the urge to call her clawing at his resolve. But he forced himself to put the phone down. Waking her now wouldn’t ease her worries—it would only appease his.

Fuck, I deserve to feel this way. I made this choice for us.

Bruce tightened his grip on the phone, his knuckles whitening as he fought to steady his nerves. The driver’s abrupt acceleration from a stoplight pressed him back into the plush leather seat. His glare shifted toward the front of the vehicle, irritation simmering into something darker. Enough. Snapping himself out of his spiraling thoughts, Bruce unlocked his mobile—not to call Selina, but Alfred Pennyworth. 

x

Blake didn’t look a gift horse in the mouth when Bruce breezed into the penthouse and casually informed him he had the night off. For a moment, he considered dropping to his knees to kiss Wayne’s gleaming leather wingtips in gratitude for the reprieve from exhaustive training. Instead, he stood there in stunned silence, unsure what to do with his unexpected freedom.

Ace, however, had no such hesitation. The dog trotted to Bruce, nails clicking lightly against the polished wood floor. Bruce greeted him with a quiet demand for a 'security report.' Ace responded with a sharp bark, earning Bruce’s approving grunt. Bruce stroked the dog’s sleek head, and Ace’s eyes squinted shut, his scarred face settling into a look of bliss at the rare show of affection. Bruce straightened and fired a question at Blake. “Where’s Alfred?”

Blake blinked, realizing it had never occurred to him to wonder about Alfred’s comings and goings. “I ... I have no idea.” He stammered; this answer seemed to escalate Wayne's annoyance. Bruce’s hand instinctively went to his phone, presumably to demand an ETA from his wayward butler.

A distant ringtone heralded Alfred’s arrival, the butler stepping into the penthouse with bags of takeout in hand. Bruce glanced up, then down at his watch, as if to emphasize Alfred’s tardiness. “What exactly am I paying you for today, Alfred? It certainly wasn’t for chauffeuring me home.”

Alfred snorted, thoroughly unimpressed by the rebuke, as he made his way to the kitchen, the aroma of takeout trailing in his wake. “At present, Master Wayne, you’re paying me to provide your dinner and endure your deplorable company.”

Blake bit back a laugh, turning his attention from the verbal sparring to the tantalizing prospect of food. He made to follow Alfred, but Bruce shot him a look like his mental drive chain had slipped a link. Blake hesitated. “Your one night off, and you’re going to spend it here eating takeout?” Bruce asked, incredulous.

Blake shrugged and trailed after him. “What else would I do?”

Alfred glanced up from the counter, where he was unpacking the bags. “Perhaps Master Wayne expects you to panhandle on the street before buying your own Moo Shu pork?” Blake stiffened, glancing between Alfred and Bruce.

Bruce’s gaze shifted from Blake to Alfred, confusion giving way to a flicker of irritation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That means, Master Wayne, that while you’re saving Gothamites from financial ruin, you’re driving your protégé straight toward it. Unless you intend to put Master Blake on the Wayne Enterprises payroll soon, you’d best expect him to take all his meals here—or risk him being unable to eat at all.”

Bruce exhaled sharply, his frustration evident. Blake could tell it hadn’t occurred to the über-wealthy mogul that he wasn’t earning wages. Bruce’s expression made it clear he was not only unsettled but embarrassed. “Hey, look, it’s no big—” Blake began, only to be cut off by Bruce’s raised hand.

“I’m sorry, John. That shouldn’t have gotten by me,” Bruce said quietly. Though calm on the surface, his controlled anger was unmistakable.

“I owe you an apology as well, Master Blake,” Alfred said. “When one becomes accustomed to privilege, it’s far too easy to overlook the struggles of the working class. Fortunately, Ms. Kyle has a sharper memory of such matters.”

Both Bruce and Blake turned to Alfred, curiosity piqued. Alfred ignored them, carefully unpacking the last cartons before reaching into his pocket and pulling out an envelope. He handed it to Blake.

Inside was a check from Wayne Enterprises, endorsed by Selina. A handwritten note accompanied it:

Alfred,
This arrived for me, but it’s clearly meant as compensation for the position Bruce and Fox discussed—director of WE security. Since I’m not serving in that role, I figured “Robin” has probably earned a paycheck for surviving basic training. (He has survived, hasn't he?)

Make sure he takes it, Alfred. I did some digging, and his credit cards are nearly maxed out. And please ensure Bruce pulls his head out of his ass and takes better care of his protégé.

Miss you!!

  Love you!!!
           SK

P.S.

Sig and I had lunch at your café.

The staff says to tell you, "Buongiorno!"

Behind the note was a sketch of Sigmund with smiling waiters holding wine bottles. Alfred gently retrieved it. “If you don’t mind, Master Blake, I should like to keep this.” Blake nodded, attempting to pocket the remaining items—only for Bruce to intercept them.

His sharp hazel green eyes scanned the uncashed check and then lingered as he read the note. As he finished, his jaw tightened, and he shot Alfred a glare that could have melted steel.

Unfazed, Alfred handed Blake a wooden serving tray with the precision of someone whose standards remained intact despite his weariness. The tray was neatly arranged with five unopened takeout cartons, several bottles of water, a blue rehydration drink, and silverware placed with care. Blake accepted it, his confusion growing. Alfred bringing home takeout was unusual enough, but serving it in its original containers? That was unprecedented. And Bruce giving him the night off? Completely unheard of. The entire evening felt... baffling.

 “I’m exhausted, Master Blake." Alfred patted his shoulder."You will have to rough things a bit this evening.” He pulled the check from Bruce’s grasp and slid it between the food cartons. He offered Blake a weary but genuine smile. “Bon appétit.”

Bruce looked poised to go thermonuclear at any moment.

Blake wisely nodded in silence and quickly grabbed the tray, moving with purpose to escape the blast radius. He was nearly to the door when Bruce’s voice cut through the air.

“You’ll have a Wayne Enterprises bank card and payroll account set up by morning. Any outstanding balances on your charge cards will be cleared by the end of the business day. Let me know if you want to keep the Mustang or upgrade to something else.”

Blake froze at the threshold, torn between answering and attempting to vanish into the nearest shadow using his newly honed Ninjutsu skills. He settled for a cautious reply. “I, uh, think I’ll just keep the ’Stang. It’s almost paid off anyway.”

Bruce, still facing Alfred, didn’t miss a beat. “As of now, it’s paid for.”

Blake swallowed hard, then followed his original instinct: disappear. He moved swiftly to the living room, leaving Alfred to manage the ticking time bomb that was Bruce Wayne. Settling in front of the TV with the tray, he glanced at the check again. His eyes widened at the string of zeros before the decimal point. Nearly choking on a bite of orange chicken, he coughed and muttered, “Ace, buddy, whatever Alfred’s paycheck looks like, it should be double this—just for putting up with Bruce.”

Sitting attentively by his side, the dog gave a soft whine, his gaze fixed on the kitchen door. Blake shook his head. “Nope. Stay out of it, pup. That’s way above our pay grade.”

From the kitchen came muffled voices—sharp and cutting at first, then lower, as if they were too exhausted for a full-blown argument. Ace tilted his head, clearly debating whether to investigate, but Blake turned up the volume on the television, silently praying for peace.

In the kitchen, Bruce and Alfred stood on opposite sides of the counter, their frustration simmering but restrained. Alfred methodically unpacked the remaining food containers, setting them out on the counter with little fanfare. His only concession to the meal’s origins as takeout was to lay out folded cloth napkins and proper silverware, replacing the flimsy paper and plastic that had come with the order.

“Consider this a buffet, Master Wayne,” Alfred said flatly, his tone clipped with fatigue. “I’m officially taking the evening off.” Without waiting for a reply, Alfred turned to the wine rack and selected a semi-sweet Riesling Sauvignon Blanc. Bruce intercepted him before he could retrieve the corkscrew from the drawer. Their eyes met briefly—one an unspoken offer, the other an unspoken acknowledgment. Bruce silently collected the tool and opened the bottle. Alfred retrieved a crystal goblet and wiped it clean with a cloth before placing it on the counter.

Bruce poured the wine and set the glass lightly in front of Alfred, who had already claimed a stool and was helping himself to one of the cartons. Alfred glanced at the meal with a faint frown before apologizing. “You’ll have to forgive my tardiness and the quality of your dinner tonight, Master Wayne,” he said, swirling the wine in his glass. “Time got away from me this afternoon, I’m afraid.”

Already settling onto the stool opposite him, Bruce gave a faint grunt in response, his mood still dark but tempered by the weight of the day. For a moment, the kitchen fell into a weary, companionable silence as the two men shared the impromptu meal, their exhaustion palpable but unspoken.

Bruce wordlessly picked up one of the takeout cartons. He turned it in his hands, studying the red dragon emblazoned on the side. It was unmistakably Japanese—a slender, snakelike body and three toes instead of the full-bodied, five-toed dragons of Chinese lore. He let out a quiet breath, shaking his head at the amateur oversight, wondering if the restaurant’s grasp of Chinese cuisine matched their knowledge of Asian art. Fortunately, the Szechuan beef was surprisingly good by American standards.

The quiet between them stretched, broken only by the faint rustle of chopsticks against paper cartons. Finally, Bruce set his carton down and broke the silence. “When I called earlier, you said you were at Tom and Martha’s?” He kept his voice even as though the question were merely an afterthought.

“Yes, I was,” Alfred replied succinctly, offering no further details.

Bruce leaned back slightly, fixing Alfred with a steady, measured gaze. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

Alfred met his stare with a faint smile, the kind that hinted he already knew more than he let on. “Ah, so you’ve uncovered it.”

Bruce remained silent, though his fingers tapped lightly against the countertop—a subtle but telling gesture. Their earlier phone call had left him unsatisfied, prompting him to dig deeper. The GPS records showed Alfred visiting Wayne Manor nearly every day since their return, often spending entire afternoons there. Public records revealed four separate building permits issued to contractors working under Ginger Fox Construction. Still, Alfred’s calm confidence grated on Bruce as he pressed further.

“I know you’ve been spending an unusual amount of time at Tom and Martha’s,” Bruce said, his tone clipped. “I know Fox has contractors working out there—multiple crews, in fact. What I don’t know, Alfred, is why.”

“Truly, Master Wayne, I never imagined it would take you this long to piece things together." His amusement was evident, "Your focus has clearly been elsewhere.”

Bruce’s brow furrowed slightly, but he quickly masked the reaction, folding his hands in front of him on the counter. His silence conveyed his growing impatience more effectively than any words could.

Alfred, again unfazed by Bruce's foul mood, pushed an untouched container of Kung Pao beef across the counter. “Eat, Master Wayne. It’s best while warm.”

Bruce glanced at the container but didn’t move to pick it up. “What should I have figured out by now, Alfred? Besides the fact that I’ve been unintentionally bankrupting John Blake.”

Alfred chuckled lightly, lifting his wine glass for a sip. “Commissioner Gordon and certain officials in Gotham have decided to express their gratitude for your tireless support of the city's recovery. They intend to return Wayne Manor to your care.”

Bruce’s expression faltered, his usual controlled stoicism yielding to a flicker of disbelief. For a moment, he stared at Alfred, the weight of the revelation settling over him. His childhood home—the place steeped in memories of his parents, the echoes of his past, and the promise of the cave beneath—was his again. Bruce’s focus sharpened, “And the contractors?”

“There were extensive repairs and renovations needed to restore its prestige,” Alfred replied smoothly. “Today, I was finalizing the placement of furnishings and art.“ You will have to forgive the distinctly Italian influences in the new décor. I was unable to recover much of the original furnishings. Many replacements were procured by the missus and flown in directly from Italy.” He took another sip of wine before adding with a glint of mischief, “Naturally, a Mediterranean aesthetic was… inevitable.”

And there was another curveball: Selina. “She was involved?" He asked, his voice low but edged with incredulity as if trying to reconcile the thought. "Selina... helped?”

"From afar," Alfred inclined his head, “You might say she’s left her mark,” he replied, a glint of humor flickering in his eyes. “I daresay you’ll find it… distinctive.”

Bruce blinked, leaning back slightly, his fingers brushing the edge of the countertop in an unconscious gesture of thought. His brow furrowed, a mixture of curiosity and apprehension playing across his features. He could picture it—Selina, with her sharp eye and penchant for the dramatic, prowling the shops of Florance, selecting items for the manor. A vision of her mischievous grin flashed unbidden in his mind.

The shock was etched across Bruce's face as Alfred’s words sank in. The butler returned the look with a guarded expression, his tone firm. “Before you get your knickers in a twist over this, Master Wayne, do remember that Commissioner Gordon intended this as a gesture of gratitude—for all you have done, both as a public leader in Gotham and privately as the Batman. I trust you to act appropriately gracious and honored when he returns the Wayne estate to you in a few weeks.”

Alfred punctuated his statement with a bite of Lo Mein, effectively silencing himself before voicing the unspoken thought: that Bruce’s typical reaction to the unexpected was rarely favorable.

“I suppose I’m meant to act shocked as well?” Bruce asked, his voice carrying a sardonic edge as he stood and walked stiffly around the kitchen island to retrieve a pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator.

“No need for theatrics, sir,” Alfred replied smoothly. “Commissioner Gordon never believed we’d reach the dedication without you catching wind of his plans. In fact, he granted me carte blanche on when and how to bring you into the loop—provided, of course, that it left him, and I quote, ‘with as much ass as possible’ after the revelation.”

Bruce barked a laugh, shaking his head as he poured unsweetened tea into a glass of ice. He paused before taking a sip. “What about the kids?”

A faint smile touched Alfred’s lips, a glimmer of approval flickering in his eyes. “Ah, as I expected, your mind would go straight to them. They’re to be housed permanently at the dormitories of the old Catholic university near St. Swithin’s.” Bruce’s grimace at the mention of the long-abandoned institution was enough to prompt a quick clarification. “The current rooms have already been refurbished to the highest standards. I toured them personally before the first child was relocated. Construction on the remaining forty-five units in the boys’ dormitory is underway as we speak.”

Bruce’s gaze narrowed as he studied Alfred, his thoughts racing. “You’ve been working on this since we got back?”

Alfred shook his head, his tone tinged with pride. “Since well before, Master Wayne. Commissioner Gordon first approached me with the idea the day after Christmas. It’s been quite the project these past months, though I’ve had ample help.”

Bruce’s lips parted slightly as the magnitude of the effort dawned on him. “Selina?”

Alfred nodded, a twinkle of amusement in his eye. “Indeed. The missus and Mr. Geller have been instrumental, particularly in matters of décor and furnishing. One must expect nothing less from artists, I suppose.”

Bruce sipped the amber liquid as he absorbed the enormity of what had been done. Gratitude softened his features, “How does it look?”

Alfred’s hand twirled the stem of his wineglass, his voice taking on a quiet reverence. “It has exceeded all expectations. Wayne Manor is as stately and grand as ever, but now it carries a warmth and a vibrance. For the first time since your mother’s passing, it feels alive.”

Bruce shut his eyes, leaning against the counter as the enormity of it all washed over him. “Thank you for telling me, Alfred. I wouldn’t have handled it well otherwise.”

His mind turned toward the logistics, the seemingly insurmountable hurdles Gordon must have overcome to orchestrate such an endeavor. The Wayne estate was one thing, but securing St. Margaret’s for the children? Even abandoned, the land was worth a fortune. Its historic architecture had been the only thing protecting it from demolition, preservationists battling against commercial developers for years. “How did Gordon manage to secure St. Margaret’s?” Bruce asked, his voice laced with curiosity. “Even in disrepair, the land alone would have been a significant hurdle.”

Alfred inclined his head thoughtfully. “The city donated the land. The dormitories were the first structures to be remodeled, funded entirely through private donations.”

Bruce’s sharp gaze fixed on Alfred. “The first? Implying what? Are other buildings on-site being renovated as well?” Bruce’s tone carried a sharp curiosity, his brows drawing together as he leaned slightly forward.

Alfred met Bruce’s eyes with a small smile, “Precisely, Master Wayne. It seems the Commissioner has grander plans in mind. The entire complex has been slated for renovation. The private funding was sufficient to revitalize the dormitories, and federal grants soon followed. Though small, as you’ll recall, the campus is set to be restored to its former glory—all meticulously adhering to the preservation guidelines of the historical society.” He paused, his tone cooling as he spoke under his breath, “Not that anyone in Gotham is organized enough to appreciate such efforts these days.” His expression softened as he added, “Eventually, though, it will matter that the original architecture was salvaged. With the destruction of the church on Piedmont Street, St. Margaret’s is now the oldest structure in Gotham.”

Bruce studied Alfred, his brow furrowing as the weight of the revelation settled over him. “What’s the plan for the campus once the renovations are complete?”

Alfred’s smile deepened, a hint of pride evident in his voice. “Per federal directives, the funds will transform the campus into a Collegiate Preparatory School and Vocational Technical College. Restorations on the library and women’s dormitories are already well underway. The children of Tom and Martha’s will not only have a residence but also be afforded an educational opportunity.”

Bruce’s eyes widened slightly as he leaned back in his chair, processing the implications. “A full school and technical college? For the kids?”

Alfred inclined his head, his expression softening. “Indeed, sir. This will offer them more than a roof over their heads—it will provide a future.”

Bruce exhaled, running a hand over his face as he absorbed the scope of the effort. “How did this even happen? I didn’t... I didn’t see this coming.” His voice carried a mix of disbelief and admiration, though he tried to mask it with a composed tone.

Alfred gave Bruce a knowing look, a touch of humor glinting in his eyes. “It’s not at all surprising that this particular project escaped your notice, Master Wayne. With the entire city undergoing reconstruction or repair in some form, this effort is rather minor in the grand scheme of Gotham’s recovery.”

Bruce smirked faintly, tilting his head as he caught Alfred’s eye. “I imagine it didn’t hurt that you stopped taking Bridgeport Parkway on our commutes to the office in the mornings.”

Alfred chuckled, his tone warm and unrepentant. “That too, sir,” he admitted, the glint in his eye betrayed his satisfaction at having successfully concealed the project for as long as he had.

Bruce leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he absorbed the magnitude of what Alfred, Gordon, and the others had achieved. For a fleeting moment, vulnerability surfaced in his expression, only to be swiftly concealed behind a quiet, thoughtful nod. “You’ve all been busy,” he murmured, his tone carrying a rare edge of surprise that Alfred didn’t often hear.

Alfred’s gaze softened, a flicker of pride tempered by his deep understanding of Bruce’s unspoken emotions. “I imagine your parents would be pleased,” he said gently. “The children of Gotham are cared for, and their son is back where he belongs—in the family home. Your parents’ legacy is alive, shaping Gotham’s future in ways we could have never anticipated.

Bruce’s gaze dropped to the floor. A faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before it disappeared. He glanced toward the window, the city lights flickering in the distance, and for a moment, his mind conjured an image of his parents standing in the grand hall of Wayne Manor, their faces alight with the same vision Alfred had just described. “They’d be proud,” he said, “Of you. Of all of this.”

Alfred inclined his head; his expression showed he was touched. “We’ve all done our part, Master Wayne. But lest you forget, this tribute is as much in your honor as theirs.”

x

Bruce checked the luminescent dial on his watch, calculating the time difference to Florence. She should be waking for her run about now. He reached under his pillow for his phone, a small smile curving his lips as the display lit up:

Incoming Call: Selina Kyle.

The caller ID photo was one he had taken of her asleep on his chest, the two of them curled together on Alfred’s balcony. His thumb traced the sharp line of her chin on the screen. She was so thin. Was she eating properly? Without Alfred there to force-feed her, who knew?

He flicked his thumb across the screen to answer. The line connected, and predictably, she didn’t speak right away. She often didn’t. They sat in comfortable silence, the vast distance between them momentarily bridged by Wayne Satellite Technology. It wasn’t a contest of wills; words felt unnecessary. Bruce finally broke the silence, his voice a low rasp. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

There was a pause before she responded, her tone quiet but edged with curiosity. “Is that good or bad?”

He rubbed his brow, leaning back into the bed. “Both, I guess. That damn picture of you on my desk is torture.” Her low laugh stirred something deep in his chest. Butterflies he hated to admit existed rustled in his stomach. He tried not to resent the hold she had over him, the helplessness she inspired despite his iron discipline. “Every time I turned around today, your name was in my ear.”

She asked the question again, this time more tentatively. “Hmmm... that good or bad?”

“Both,” he admitted, though his smile faded as he had caught a trace of apprehension in her question. “You could have just texted me about Blake, Selina. There was no need to make it sting.”

Her voice sharpened, anger lacing her words. “Yeah, well, seeing that paycheck stung me, Bruce. Especially knowing I’ve done less than nothing to earn it while I’m stuck in exile over here in Italy.”

Bruce shut his eyes, absorbing the blow from her sharp tongue. He exhaled, trying to defuse the tension. “You might’ve wanted to keep that check,” he said, a wry attempt at humor. “I hear you and Sigmund have been on quite the shopping spree outfitting our house.”

Her soft laugh brought a reluctant smile to his face. “Cat’s out of the bag, huh? Don’t worry, Bruce. I’ve still got a few bucks tucked away for a rainy day. Haven’t had to dip into the Wayne trust just yet.”

His smile faltered, a subtle bristle tightening his shoulders. Was it the reminder of her stolen fortune funding their home or that she avoided using his money?  “Jessica’s ill-gotten gains still keeping you afloat, are they?”

“Something like that,” she replied breezily, clearly baiting him.

Bruce refused to rise to it. His eyes flicked to the ceiling fan, its slow spin almost meditative.“Despite your funding, I like the idea of you picking what goes into our home.”

She was quiet for a moment before her tone softened. “You do? Well, don’t get too sentimental. Sigmund deserves most of the credit. I just drink wine and reel him in when he gets too far out of bounds.” Her voice wavered slightly with her following words, cracking his composure. “You’ll have to tell me how it all looks at the dedication.”

The realization hit Bruce like a blow—he’d be walking through a house she’d decorated, one meant to be theirs, without her by his side. His chest tightened as he forced his voice into a hardened monotone. “There’s still no sign of him, Selina. No sightings.” The unspoken message hung heavy: It’s still unsafe for you here.

Her pause was longer this time. “You should tell Gordon to get someone down to the Bowery. There’s information to be had if he sends the right person. Joker will need personnel and weapons. Crown Point could be where he goes to make some contacts.”

Bruce’s voice was steady, but his knuckles whitened as he gripped the phone tighter. “I used to know a woman who could waltz into a place like that and come out with all the answers.”

Selina’s reply was immediate, a teasing edge in her voice. “I know that chick. A natural badass broad, if I remember her right. Let me know if you wise up and admit you need her help.”

Her words were a lifeline wrapped in barbed wire. He could hear the invitation beneath the surface—Say the word, and I’ll be there. But he also knew her well enough to recognize she was angry, enough that she’d probably make him beg for it. Bruce closed his eyes, gripping the phone so tightly that it creaked before laying back against the pillows of his bed. His hand rearranging himself as his body made him painfully aware of exactly how much it, too, was missing Ms. Selina Kyle.

Selina's voice was a low whisper when she finally broke the silence; "You fall asleep on me, BoyScout?"

Bruce sighed as he imagined her hands in his hair and shook his head. Goosebumps rose on his skin, and he shivered at the thought of her touch. "No, kitten, I'm not sleeping. I haven't been sleeping much at all lately."

Her disapproval was evident as she clucked her tongue and growled low in her throat. "Alfred told me that when I last talked with him. What am I going to do with you, handsome?"

Bruce slipped his hand into his sweatpants and gave into the aching need. "Tell me, kitten, What would you do with me?"

She chuckled knowingly and practically purred into the receiver, "Well, I wouldn't let you touch yourself like you are doing right now, that's for damn sure...”

Bruce's low laugh mingled with hers. "You aren't here to stop me, kitten. Besides…this is all I have. Just your voice and my hand." The hand in question stroked him now as he listened to her breath quicken. He pulled himself over the elastic waistband of his fleece joggers and shut his eyes, imagining himself inside her as he listened to her voice.

"Believe me, rich boy, you wouldn't want your hand in the way tonight. I can still remember how good you taste…how you felt against my lips…like soft velvet over rock-hard steel."

Bruce groaned as his hand increased the speed and pressure as he pursued his release. Selina talked and teased him until he was panting into the receiver. She had asked him to wait twice, already telling him to slow down and control himself and that she deserved him to wait until she said he could finish. Jesus, if it's not the sexiest thing ever when she denies me …when she makes me wait. Now, she did have him begging her.

She promised he could finish if he told her what fantasy he was imagining as he got off. "Tell me, Bruce. What is it?"

He gasped as he felt himself drawing up; his orgasm was imminent, "You…you laid over the Tumbler in Applied Sciences. Jesus, Selina." He could barely grind the words out, "You in that leather skirt bent over for me. Legs spread…me taking you hard over the hood. God, I dream about it at night…your white skin against the dark metal. It's too much. Selina, let me... I need to..."

"Almost…almost," she panted back as he struggled to hold on.

 Fuck this was all my fault. I deserve this...to be strung out like this…for choosing to leave her behind. Sweat was beading on his skin as he pressed back against the pillows, "Please, Selina. Please." He heard her soft gasp, and he recognized the sound immediately. She's coming. Goddamnit...oh sweet baby. She had been touching herself while she was getting me off. His stomach clenched painfully, "Now, Selina. I've got to…now…now."

"Then go ahead, handsome. Come for me."

He did immediately. The force of his orgasm was so strong it was nearly painful. He had not experienced such a desperate climax since their first night together. Her soft laugh taunted him through the phone as his body repeatedly contracted.

"I should have made you wait for me to have another, " she pouted. One with you is never enough."

Bruce’s breathing was ragged as he listened to her voice, the space around him fading into irrelevance until only they two remained. Their connection obliterated the miles, rendering everything outside their bond insignificant. His mind wandered to their playful sparring in Applied Sciences, and a wry thought took hold. She’s a witch. That’s the only explanation. She’s bewitched me completely, and I’m powerless against her. His hands trembled slightly as he dragged the towel over his skin, his pulse still thrumming. Selina’s voice was like a tether, grounding him even as it unraveled him, her hold on him undeniable. He managed to collect himself, though his voice was still uneven. “What about you? What were you thinking of?”

“Mmm, nothing in particular,” she replied coyly.

Bruce let out a soft huff, recognizing the lie immediately. “Fair is fair, Selina. What was it?”

Her voice dropped into a low, sensual whisper, each word dripping with intent. “Monte Carlo… it keeps me up at night.”

Bruce exhaled, his fingers gripping the damp towel in his lap. Words he desperately wanted to say churned in his mind, clawing at the edge of his restraint. Come to Gotham. I need you here. I should never have let fear come between us. I need you in my life… in my bed. But the words tangled on his tongue and were lost in the hollow silence of hesitation. He let out a frustrated breath instead.

Selina sighed, her voice soft but charged. "I miss you, handsome."

"I miss you," he admitted, his voice quieter. "More than you know."

"Bruce, this is ridiculous. Who knows how long he’ll stay underground? Are we really going to let the threat of him keep us apart forever?"

His shoulders slumped, his head leaning back against the headboard. The weight of her words pressed into him. "Not forever, Selina," he said, though even to his ears, it sounded thin.

“With the pillow next to me empty night after night, it feels pretty forever.”

Her tone carried irritation but, thankfully, not sadness. That small mercy eased his guilt, though her words twisted something sharp and uncomfortable in his chest. Staring up at the spinning ceiling fan, his body still tingling in the aftermath, he felt the weight of their separation settle heavier than before.  "Please," he said, his voice raw. "Please be patient with me."

There was a beat of silence before she answered, her voice low but edged with exasperation. "This is me being patient," she growled into the phone. Then, her tone shifted, daring and provocative. "I’m warning you now… don’t be surprised when I show up naked in your bed some night very soon." The heat in her tone ignited something primal in him. Bruce managed a low, rueful chuckle, though his heart ached with the growing demand to close the distance between them. 

x

x Edit update GK 1-5-25

Edit credit to CHEED

Update edit 9-29-20

 The Next part of this chapter is still Under construction.

Chapter Text

Edit Update  GK 1-7-25

Edit Update 9/29/20 LWH 

Thanks to Cheed for the editing assistance

Chapter Text

Lucius Fox had been banking on a quiet half-day for Saturday. When Bruce’s message popped up on his phone, he let out a low groan, his plans for an early finish evaporating before his eyes.

Meet me in Applied Science at 2. It’s important. —BW

Lucius checked his watch. Already 1:15. Where had the morning gone? He glanced at the forlorn vending machine sandwich on his desk: wilted salami, soggy bread, and a faint whiff of regret. The prospect of choking it down became less appealing by the second. He tapped out a reply with the kind of pragmatism that had carried him through decades of working with Bruce Wayne:

My office… bring food. —LF

Bruce arrived forty minutes later, a brown paper bag from Charlie’s in hand. The aroma of freshly grilled burgers and crispy onion rings filled the room, drawing an audible growl from Lucius’s stomach. Charlie’s was a legend in the financial district, and for good reason.

“You’re a lifesaver,” Lucius declared, sweeping the pathetic excuse for lunch into the trash without a second glance. He accepted the bag gratefully, peeking inside to find two neatly wrapped burgers and a container of perfectly golden onion rings. “You might just earn yourself a raise for this.”

Bruce smirked faintly as he settled into a chair across from Lucius. “I thought Wayne Enterprises was broke.”

“When we get her right-side up,” Lucius replied with a wink, already reaching for an onion ring, “I’ll make sure to remember this day.”

Lucius looked too casually dressed to be the CEO of Wayne Enterprises, but considering he had the office to himself, he hadn’t hesitated to show up in tan cargo pants and an MIT long-sleeve polo. Across from him, the owner of Wayne Enterprises looked no more formal. Bruce had opted for dark jeans and a leather jacket, a far cry from the tailored suits that typically marked his public appearances. The motorcycle ride into the city had been an attempt to clear his head—a chance to focus his restless energy on something tangible. Instead, the ride had only given him more time to dwell.

Selina. Selina who loves motorcycles. Loves Fox. Loves me. Selina Kyle, who is also a stubborn, sneaky little witch and who now refuses to answer my calls.

Bruce masked his annoyance as he set his helmet on a nearby chair and settled into a chair.

Meanwhile, Lucius was halfway through his first burger, wolfing down a few mouthfuls with the practiced efficiency of a man who had gone too long without a proper meal. He reached for a napkin, wiping his hands as his eyes flicked back to Bruce. “So,” he began, his tone casual but curious, “what’s so urgent it couldn’t wait until Monday?”

Bruce leaned back slightly, his fingers drumming lightly on the table as Lucius took another bite.

“If it’s your rebranding campaign,” Lucius continued, gesturing toward him with a fry, “I can assure you, the people at Donovan will make it work or die trying. I’ve also had them update the logos for a few of our subsidiaries—little details to freshen things up without rocking the boat.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow but said nothing, letting Lucius continue.

“The team agreed the main WE logo should remain unchanged,” Lucius added, his tone carrying the faintest note of pride. “They believe its familiarity and history add to the perception of stability for the company. And stability,” he said, leaning forward slightly, “is something Gotham is in short supply of these days.”

Bruce nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful as his mind worked in parallel. Stability wasn’t just a corporate concern; it was a city-wide necessity.

Lucius glanced up at Bruce, seemingly amused. “The PR department did feel like you, however, could use some rebranding,” he said, his words light but pointed. He smiled as he chewed, letting the thought hang for a moment before continuing. “They suggested a media campaign to keep the Wayne name trending positively in the wake of so many large investments. We don’t want the population turning rabid, thinking you’ve used this fiasco to take financial advantage of Gotham.”

He took another satisfying bite of his burger, clearly enjoying himself, before elaborating. “They’re recommending full disclosure of earnings and investments and the hows and why’s behind the acquisitions. Focus on the humanitarian factor—salvaging jobs, retaining industry, that sort of thing.”

Lucius swallowed and took a sip of tea, his expression calm but thoughtful. “In other words, Mr. Wayne, I have an entire PR department tuning up like a brass band, ready and waiting to toot your horn.”

Bruce shrugged, brushing off the suggestion with a nonchalant hand wave. “Whatever they think. Let them roll with it. It’ll keep them busy until we can generate something more substantial for them to do.” Leaning forward, his tone shifted, becoming more focused. “Lucius, marketing and public relations aren’t why I wanted to see you.”

Fox nodded knowingly, setting his tea down. “I didn’t think they were, Mr. Wayne. What is it this time?”

“Selina,” Bruce stated curtly, his tone clipped.

Lucius took another bite of his burger, chewing slowly as he regarded his employer with measured curiosity. “What about her?”

Bruce’s jaw tightened slightly as he leaned forward, his green eyes fixed on Lucius. “I want you to tell me where she is.”

Fox paused, setting his burger down and wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. He took another deliberate sip of his tea before replying, calm but edging with amusement. “Stalking people is more your hobby than mine, Mr. Wayne. Why don’t you tell me where she is?”

A rueful smile flickered across Bruce’s face, though it lacked any real humor. “I’d love to do just that, but I can’t. It seems my sly fiancée discovered the tracker in her pearls. Now, I need you to figure out another way to pinpoint her location.”

Lucius raised a brow, his expression a mix of disbelief and faint exasperation. “If you want to know where your fiancée is, Mr. Wayne, might I suggest you pick up the phone, call her, and simply ask… politely.”

Bruce held his gaze, his voice carefully controlled, though a sharp edge underlined his words. “My fiancée is no longer willing to take my calls, Mr. Fox. If you believe that direct approach has possibilities, you’re welcome to try it.”

Lucius leaned back in his chair, a chuckle escaping him as he swirled the tea in his cup. “Well, now you’ve made it a challenge,” he said, plucking his phone from the desk. He tapped a few buttons, his movements unhurried, and moments later, Selina’s voice filled the room, amplified by the speaker in his docking station.

She answered on the first ring, her tone warm and light. “Lucius, my man, I was just thinking of you.”

Fox shot Bruce an apologetic smile, though the faint amusement in his eyes was impossible to miss. Bruce, for his part, remained silent, though his narrowed gaze and clenched jaw betrayed his irritation.

“I just imagined you were, my dear,” Lucius replied smoothly, his voice carrying an effortless charm. “Were you perhaps thinking you should call and warn me that your betrothed would be knocking down my door this afternoon?”

Selina chuckled under her breath, the sound carrying a hint of mischief. “I suppose he’s there right now, brooding as he eavesdrops.”

Lucius, the epitome of calm, sat with his fingertip pressing lightly against his temple, elbow braced on his desk as he mediated the latest standoff between Gotham’s most complicated power couple. “He is. Would you care to speak with him?”

“No,” she replied flatly, without hesitation. Bruce’s expression remained blank until he caught the faint sound of a siren in the background—the distinctive wail of a European emergency vehicle. Traffic noise accompanied the siren, yet his certainty that she was in Gotham deepened. His hands flexed against the arms of his chair as he leaned forward slightly, listening intently.

There was a pause on Selina’s end, followed by a rustle and a mumbled apology in Italian. “Hey, Fox, you still there?” she asked, her tone casual but carrying a hint of distraction.

“Yes, dear. Is there a problem?” Lucius replied smoothly, his gaze shifting to Bruce, whose tension was palpable.

“Nothing that throttling your boss wouldn’t remedy,” Selina quipped, her voice dropping into a lower, playful register. “Really, Fox. Do something with him, would you? Please?”

Lucius glanced at Bruce, noting how the younger man leaned forward as though proximity to the phone might give him further advantage. “Selina,” Fox replied evenly, “I already have my hands full with your fiancé as he tries to stabilize Gotham's entire business district. Keeping him in line personally is your department—it’s what you signed up for.”

Selina laughed, the sound light and genuine. “I don’t remember reading that in the fine print.” There was a sudden interruption—a louder rustling noise—and Selina’s voice cut through, tinged with mild exasperation. “Hey, Fox, I’m about to los—”

The line disconnected.

Lucius set the phone down and turned his attention to Bruce, who was now perched at the edge of his chair, his lips set in a grim line. “What is your concern again, Mr. Wayne?” Lucius asked, his tone light but pointed. “She’s clearly in good spirits and is out and about enjoying her day in Florence.”

Bruce’s expression was resolute, unimpressed, and undeterred. “Mr. Fox, I’m going to need you to dig in a little deeper,” he said, his tone firm. He gestured vaguely into the air as if indicating the entire conversation they’d just had. “Because that... I’m not buying any of it.”

Lucius, refusing to rush his meal for anyone—even Bruce Wayne—continued eating his burger as they stepped into the elevator bound for Applied Sciences. Bruce, visibly impatient, ended up holding the drink and the greasy bag of onion rings while Lucius leisurely enjoyed his food. The rich aroma of burgers and fried onions filled the small space, Bruce’s grip on the bag tightening with each casual bite Lucius took. The older man, seemingly oblivious—or perhaps deliberately indifferent—to Bruce’s silent disapproval, chewed with satisfaction.

By the time they arrived, the meal had put Fox in a more agreeable mood, and he went along willingly, albeit with a faint air of indulgence. “Alright, Mr. Wayne,” he said, setting the remnants of his meal aside as he sat at his workstation. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

Fox began pulling Selina’s satellite phone records, his fingers moving deftly across the keyboard. He retrieved the logs, highlighting her number's recent transmissions and hits. After a few moments, he spun the monitor around to face Bruce, pointing at the data. “There you see. Everything shows an initialization from Florence, Italy.”

Bruce stared at the screen, his skepticism evident in how his brow knit together, his focus unyielding. The data was clean, neat, and entirely logical. But it didn’t align with the gnawing instinct in his gut, which told him something was off. “Recheck it, Lucius,” he said, his voice quieter now but no less insistent. “I need you to be sure.”

Lucius rolled his eyes, muttering something about paranoia, but he complied, re-entering commands to re-examine the data as he sifted through the logs; his practiced eye caught something—a faint irregularity buried in the transmissions. He leaned closer, his relaxed demeanor shifting as curiosity and focus took over. “Well, now,” he murmured, his voice carrying a note of discovery. He tapped a few more keys, the data expanding on the screen. “That’s interesting.”

Bruce stepped forward, his shoulders tensing as he fixated on the monitor. “What is it?”

Fox didn’t answer immediately, his attention entirely on the screen as he cross-referenced the irregularity with other logs. After a moment, he sat back, his hand resting thoughtfully on the desk. “It appears,” he began slowly, “that some of these transmissions were routed through a relay… in Gotham.”

Bruce’s gaze sharpened, his eyes narrowing as the implications sank in. Fox glanced at him, his expression thoughtful but restrained. “Well, Mr. Wayne,” he said finally, “it seems your instincts may have some merit after all.”

Lucius slipped on his glasses, the lenses catching the light from the monitor as he leaned closer to examine the data string. With a practiced flick of his finger, he tapped a line of computer code displayed on the screen.

"Mr. Wayne," he said, his voice even but tinged with a hint of surprise. "It appears we’ve been had."

Bruce straightened, his eyes narrowing as he moved closer to the desk. His palms flattened against the surface, his posture taut with anticipation. "Tell me how," he demanded.

Lucius tapped the screen again, highlighting the details as he explained. "All Ms. Kyle’s phone calls appear to be sourced from Italy. However," he emphasized, "they’re all generating from a single cell tower." He glanced up briefly, noting Bruce’s intense focus before continuing. "Even accounting for minor GPS inaccuracies, her movement throughout the city should have triggered pings from various towers nearest her location."

Bruce nodded sharply. "But it isn’t. Every signal, every transmission—everything is tied to this single service tower," he said, his tone clipped, already drawing conclusions.

Lucius leaned back slightly, adjusting his glasses as he met Bruce’s gaze. "Exactly. This suggests she’s set up a daisy chain, relaying her calls and messages to this singular beacon before redirecting them to her actual location—wherever that might be." He folded his hands briefly, his expression thoughtful. "Based on this setup, I find it highly unlikely that Ms. Kyle would go through all this effort only to remain in Italy."

Bruce’s jaw tightened as he absorbed the implication. "How long?" His voice cut through the room like a blade.

Lucius turned back to the screen, his fingers flying over the keyboard as he traced the relay logs. When the results loaded, he hesitated momentarily before responding, his tone measured. "You’re not going to like this, Bruce."

"How long?" Bruce’s voice rose, demanding an answer.

Lucius exhaled and gestured toward the data. "The singular relays from this tower began two weeks after you returned to Gotham."

The words hit like a physical blow. Bruce stilled, his head lowering slightly as his mind raced to process the timeline. Two weeks. Two weeks. She had been operating under my radar all this time... He shut his eyes briefly, tension radiating from his frame as his hands balled into fists, pressing hard against the desk.

"Damn her," he muttered, the quiet intensity of his voice carrying more weight than any outburst could.

Fox shook his head, a mix of curiosity and concern flickering across his features. "I wonder what the hell she’s been up to all this time."

Bruce’s mind clicked into place, connecting dots scattered across weeks of frustration and half-answers. He knew precisely where she had been and what she had been doing. Selina wasn’t hiding out in Florence. She was here, in Gotham, working her leads in the Bowery.

The realization struck hard and fast. Every seemingly innocent suggestion she had made—her casual comments about places Gordon “might want to check out” or spots Blake and Bruce “should maybe take a look at”—hadn’t been idle speculation. They were breadcrumbs. Subtle nudges pointing them toward the same conclusion she had already reached. Every one of those leads had panned out, and now Bruce understood why.

Because she had been right there, in the middle of it all.

He froze, the full weight of what it meant crashing down on him. Selina had been in town for weeks, lying low and working the streets. She wouldn’t have started in the Bowery; she would have trailed leads there, piecing together a picture she knew would eventually need his attention. For her to suggest, even in passing, that he and Blake should start focusing their efforts in the Bowery—or to outright tell him that Gordon needed boots on the ground there—was her way of signaling something bigger was at play.

And she needed backup.

A cold knot formed in his chest as his thoughts raced ahead. What the hell have you gotten yourself into, Selina? And who else knows you’re back in Gotham?

His mind snapped to Gordon. The commissioner had been quietly pulling valuable intel out of the Bowery for months, information that had seemed too precise to be a coincidence. Bruce had assumed the intel came from undercover officers in the area, like Officer Kerr, who had been tasked with infiltrating the underworld network. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

The timing lined up too perfectly. The breadcrumbs. The Bowery. Selina subtly drew attention to the area without ever tipping her hand. She wasn’t just gathering intel—she was in the thick of it, feeding it to them under the guise of offhanded remarks.

Bruce’s fists tightened at his sides, his mind torn between anger and admiration. She was good—too good. And now he had to figure out how deep she was in and whether he could pull her out before it was too late.

Jim Gordon opened the door, slipping his service weapon—a Glock .40 caliber—back into its holster. His expression shifted from cautious to surprised when he saw the man standing on his front stoop.

“Mr. Wayne. This is… unexpected, to say the least.” Gordon opened the door wider, gesturing for him to come in. “Meghan and I were just sitting down to eat. Care to join us?”

Bruce offered a faint smile, stepping inside. “I hope you don’t mind an uninvited guest.”

Gordon laughed lightly as he motioned around the modest home, cluttered with scattered toys and clothes. “I should be the one asking if you mind.”

Before Bruce could respond, a delighted squeal erupted from the hallway. Meghan, Gordon’s energetic young daughter, rounded the corner, her eyes lighting up at the sight of her honorary uncle. “Bruce!”

Despite his purpose for being there, Bruce crouched to greet her, enveloping her in a warm hug. Her questions came in a relentless string, punctuated by the occasional kiss on his cheek. He patiently answered each query, his usual stoicism softening in her presence. But when Meghan’s chatter shifted to Selina—asking if she would visit soon—Bruce faltered, the smile fading briefly from his face.

Sensing the tension, Gordon gently guided his daughter back to the kitchen. Bruce followed, watching as the commissioner settled her at the table with a plate of baked fish and vegetables. Gordon then moved to the counter, fixing plates for himself and Bruce.

The next half hour passed with Bruce dining alongside the Gordons, fielding Meghan’s endless stream of questions while keeping an ear on Gordon. It didn’t take long for Bruce to confirm that neither of them had any clue about Selina’s potential return to Gotham. But the visit wasn’t entirely fruitless—before he left, Gordon promised to dig deeper into the source, feeding them weapons intel from the Bowery.

Thirty-seven minutes later, Bruce stood in the doorway of the apartment Lucius Fox had arranged for Selina. The moment he pushed the door open, he knew. The air was stale, the rooms devoid of life. Selina hadn’t been here. She likely hadn’t stepped foot since it was set up.

Still, Bruce went through the motions. Room by room, he searched for any sign of her—an overlooked item, a forgotten piece of clothing—but came up empty. The sterile silence only served to deepen his frustration.

His next stop was the safe house. There, the echoes of her presence were stronger but still faint—memories rather than recent traces. Sitting on the bed they had shared, he clenched his phone in his hand, debating whether to try her number again. Finally, he dialed.

The line rang. Once. Twice. Then went to voicemail.

Bruce exhaled sharply before speaking, his tone steady but edged with frustration. “Selina, I need you to call me. Or at least text me to let me know you’re all right. I need to talk to you.”

He ended the call and stared at the screen momentarily before tossing the phone onto the bed beside him. Raking a hand through his hair, he stood his mind already on his next move.

He narrowed his eyes as resolve settled over him. There was one more spot to check.

Bruce approached the rear entry of Wayne Manor, his boots crunching softly against the overgrown field he had crossed on foot. His motorcycle was hidden just off the road, out of sight. The security perimeter surrounding the house was sophisticated, but bypassing it proved almost reflexive. Pulling a small device from his pocket, Bruce activated a controlled EMP pulse, disabling the system on a lower-level window. He forced it open with practiced ease, pausing briefly as he climbed inside.

The house smelled different. Strange. The heavy chemical tang of fresh paint and varnish lingered in the air, mingling with the faint undertone of sawdust. The newly treated baseboards and moldings gave the space a crisp, unfinished quality. Bruce crept through the house, his eyes scanning the open rooms. Massive accent rugs lay rolled up like dormant sentinels, waiting to be stretched across the freshly scraped wood floors. Tarped furniture was scattered about, ghostly outlines of what would soon fill the space.

Each step took him deeper into the familiar halls, though their transformed state made them feel foreign. He shoved down a pang of guilt. He should have waited for the unveiling, seen the finished product when it was ready—when she was ready. But he couldn’t. Not now. Not when he was chasing answers that seemed to slip through his fingers like sand.

He pushed past the guilt and imagined Selina walking these halls weeks for weeks. He pictured her inspecting every detail, her discerning eye watching the space filled with the furnishings Sigmund had shipped from Italy. A faint trace of her presence seemed to cling to the air, stirring something raw inside him.

His stomach tightened, the knot twisting tighter with each passing thought. He had no idea how he would react if—when—he found her. Frustration bubbled beneath the surface, tangled with a whirlwind of emotions: relief, betrayal, longing. Each one hit in waves, chaotic and relentless, leaving him unmoored. The sharp edge of his anger surged, immediate and undeniable. Still, it clashed with the ache of missing her—the gnawing desperation to understand why she had vanished without a word.

The polished floors beneath his feet gleamed faintly in the dim light filtering through the tall windows. His steps were muted but purposeful. He clenched his fists, his breaths deepening as he forced himself forward. The uncertainty of what he’d say—or how he’d feel—when he saw her face weighed heavy on him.

So far, anger and betrayal had been the lead ponies in the race, their fiery energy spurring Bruce onward. But somewhere, beneath the blaze of emotions, a quieter contender whispered of relief and hope. It was a slow horse, lagging but steady in its persistence. Bruce gritted his teeth against it, forcing himself to focus instead on the sound of his footsteps and the relentless pulse of anticipation driving him through the empty halls.

Bruce reached the second-floor mezzanine, his steps faltering as his gaze landed on a tangle of rope and an opened crate labeled Murano. The name sparked recognition—a small Venetian island renowned for its exotic handblown crystal. His eyes instinctively followed the line of sight upward, catching on the frescoed ceilings and the stunning new chandelier suspended above.

The chandelier's gleaming crystals shone like captured starlight in the pale moonlight, tiering in an exquisite tri-level teardrop design. Bruce leaned against the mezzanine railing, his gaze drifting over the ballroom below. Even cloaked in shadows, the transformation was breathtaking. The gray marble walls—once stark and cold—now stood as timeless sentinels, framed by rich blood-burgundy fabrics cascading over the massive windows and archways. Crystal wall sconces flickered faintly in the ambient light, their soft glow mirrored in the polished silver drink tables and antique benches lining the room’s perimeter.

For a long moment, Bruce stood motionless, his attention drawn to the gleaming marble floor. An image rose unbidden—Selina pressed against his chest, her laughter soft in his ear as he guided her through a slow waltz across the expanse. This room would be dazzling when fully lit, the Italian crystal fixture igniting the space like a thousand tiny stars. He was certain of that.

Before, this room had been lifeless, a hollow shell cluttered with modern art sculptures chosen by some overeager interior designer. Cold. Disconnected. He frowned slightly at the memory. I hadn’t liked the first, so I told Alfred to leave the others shrouded. They remained that way for years, forgotten mummies hidden under sheets, until Alfred finally offloaded them to a collector.

Now, though, the room was alive, brimming with elegance and purpose. Bruce felt his chest tighten as he imagined Selina and Alfred working together, their shared vision breathing life into this forgotten space. How does she do this? How does Selina walk into my life and turn it inside out so effortlessly? She holds my heart in her hand and doesn’t even realize...

The relief horse jolted to life in the race inside him, surging forward with determined momentum. For all the anger and betrayal still clawing at him, Bruce knew the truth of what he’d feel when he found her—relief. She doesn’t know how much I need her. How essential she’s become to my happiness. Since Selina entered my life, the difference in me is as vast as the transformation in this room. At my core, I’m the same… but with her, I’m someone completely different. Unrecognizable. Enhanced. Alive.

His lips twisted into a rueful smile as the weight of his emotions crystallized into one undeniable truth. “When I find her, relief will be what I feel,” he muttered, his voice a low growl, “but I may lock her in the cave permanently for safekeeping.” The words were an empty threat, tinged with exasperated affection, as he pushed off the railing and approached the stairs.

As he ascended to the third level, his steps slowed as he neared his old bedroom. For a moment, he hesitated, almost turning left out of habit. The familiar pull of the past was strong, and the memories lingered like shadows in the corners of the house.

Bruce halted, his gaze drawn toward his parent's master suite. Alfred would expect me to stay there now. The thought settled heavily in his mind. To Alfred, my taking a bride would mean accepting my place as the Master of the Manor. A wry smile ghosted over his lips. He would use Selina as his weapon of choice, of course. How could I deny her rightful place in this house?

The weight of obligation pressed against him. I already feel duty-bound to honor her as my wife with nothing less than the finest trappings Wayne Manor can offer. Yet, unease stirred as he looked at the closed door. Regardless of the circumstances, I will still feel my parents’ presence in that room...

He stood frozen in the hall, the silence thick around him. Finally, he gathered the nerve to take a step forward, his heart heavy with memories. As he approached the door, he noticed a small note card stuck in the jamb:

‘Complete. Do not enter.’

Bruce stared at the message for a long moment, then slowly stepped back, retreating as though the room itself might lash out. She’s not in there, and I’m not facing that room without her beside me. Even with her, I’m not sure I’ll be able to spend my nights there. He let out a quiet breath. She will forgive me. Selina will understand.

His retreat was deliberate, his steps cautious, as though something might leap out of the shadows if he dropped his guard. Turning away, Bruce walked the length of the hall toward his old room, his movements steady but weighted with thought.

When he rounded the corner into the remote wing, he stopped, immediately noticing the alteration to the floor plan. The familiar layout of his past was gone. He moved forward, entering the open gallery where dozens of shrouded paintings stood like sentinels in the moonlight. His eyes were drawn to where the door to the old drawing room had once been—and to his bedroom beyond it. Both were gone.

Instead, the wall now housed a heavy double door, recessed into the brick and framed by elegant stone pillars. The wood was dark, intricate, and formidable, detailed with twisted iron that made it look like a fortress. It looked strong enough to repel a battering ram. Bruce’s hand found the handle, and he pushed it experimentally. The door swung open smoothly on its iron hinges, defying its massive weight with effortless grace.

Moonlight streamed through the east-facing windows, spilling across the room in silver ribbons. Bruce stepped inside, his sharp eyes taking in the details with a slow, deliberate sweep. Even at first glance, it was clear what had been done—they had created a new master suite.

He moved further into the room, momentarily distracted from his purpose as he absorbed the transformation. The contractors had transformed the drawing room into a space of near-palatial proportions. A vast his-and-hers walk-in closet occupied one side, while an adjoining boudoir offered the house's mistress a private retreat.

The room’s aesthetic was striking—formal, traditional, and undeniably sensual. Rich woods, intricate moldings, and tasteful furnishings blended seamlessly to blend classic elegance and understated luxury. 

He walked past the custom clothing hanging in the expansive main closet and into the boudoir, his gaze immediately drawn to the array of lingerie suspended enticingly from satin-covered hangers. The floor-length mirrors and makeup vanity were nearly overlooked as his eyes locked onto the room's centerpiece—a long neoclassical chaise lounge.

The ornate piece was adorned with intricate gold leaf trim and upholstered in cream-colored crushed velvet, its design both opulent and provocative. Bruce ran his fingertips over the high-flared corner, his mind already conjuring its intended purpose. This isn’t a chair for dressing… it’s for undressing. Undressing my wife.

The thought stirred something deep within, and for the first time, the lust horse lazily strolled out of the gates, trotting leisurely up the track. Ironically, it seemed every other emotion had lost its will to compete.

Bruce let out a low, humorless chuckle as the memories flooded back with unrelenting clarity. He leaned back against the headboard, staring at the intricate carvings and copper inlays that had once made this bed perfect for his solitary existence. Now, softened by the exotic allure of the Japanese silk duvet, it fit them—both of them—perfectly.

Jesus, the thought of having her in this room just became my new favorite thing. The vision came unbidden, vivid, and all-consuming: Selina on her knees, her hands gripping the back of that chaise lounge, surrounded by endless reflections in the mirrored walls. His lips quirked into a rueful smile. So maybe I’ll take her on that chair half a dozen times before locking her below the Manor...

He shut his eyes, letting himself fall into the fantasy for a long, indulgent moment. Selina’s low, breathless laughter mingled with his ragged breaths. Her body arching under his touch, her skin gleaming in the faint light, her intoxicating scent enveloping him. He could almost hear her teasing him, feel her nails dragging down his back as she whispered something wicked in his ear.

Bruce exhaled sharply, forcing himself to pull back from the edge. Focus, Wayne. Later. If there’s a later...

He pushed off the bed and circled the room, his gaze sweeping over the details Selina had clearly orchestrated. His eyes landed on the duvet, the rich olive-green silk embroidered with the swirling koi and elegant Geisha. His chest tightened at the familiarity of it. The suite in Monaco. He ran his fingers over the fabric, the memories of that night rushing back. This isn’t a reproduction... His fingers traced the edges, and he could almost hear her sly voice. She probably waltzed in and took it right off the bed herself.

"Selina Kyle," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head with equal parts admiration and frustration. "That night really has been on your mind."

His fingers skimmed the bed's wood frame, and he paused at a small nick on the side. Bugatti. This was my original.  His lips curved faintly. Alfred, you old fox, you outdid yourself. The bed that had once stood as a monument to his solitary life had been transformed, softened by Selina’s hand, into something that perfectly balanced their worlds—masculine yet undeniably sensual.

He sank onto the mattress, his movements slow and deliberate as though the bed might crumble under his expectations. He braced himself, expecting the old, familiar grief tied to nights spent wrestling with guilt over Rachel. But instead, his mind filled with images of Selina—her easy laughter, the sparkle in her eyes when she teased him, the way she fit perfectly into his arms.

This is our future. The thought came unbidden, but it settled deeply within him. He tugged down the duvet, lowering his face to the pillow. He inhaled softly, catching the faintest trace of her scent—whether real or imagined, it hit him like a lightning bolt. His chest tightened, and for a moment, he let himself feel it all: the longing, the hope, the frustration, the aching need for her presence.

"Fuck," he muttered as he leaned back, his eyes unfocused. I’m obviously crazy. This whole thing feels like a fever dream. The Manor, the bed, the lingering scent of her—it all felt surreal. I’ll wake up soaked in sweat, alone and hard as hell, back at the penthouse, and this will have all been a dream.

But if it were a dream? He clenched his jaw.

If it is, I swear to God I’m calling her. And like the weak excuse for a man I’ve become, I will beg her to return. To get on the first plane smoking out of Italy because I’ve fucking had enough of this. Enough of missing her laugh, the way she grounds me makes me feel at ease in my damn skin. Enough of taking hollow relief from my hand with nothing but the memories of her to sustain me. Enough of this... all of this.

The room echoed with her presence, filling every corner with her essence. He almost heard her playful, teasing voice: "Don’t be surprised when I show up naked in your bed." His lips curled into a dark, knowing smile as the memory surged. "Mauvaise fille," he muttered under his breath, the French slipping easily off his tongue. 

Bruce growled low in his throat as he stood and smoothed the bed cover back into place. The unease in his chest only deepened. Am I imagining things? He didn’t trust himself to dismiss the feeling, so he stalked toward the bathroom, determined to find definitive proof that Selina had been there.

The bathroom was a testament to the extensive remodel. The builders had utilized the old closet area, virtually doubling the size of the space. Split vanities stood on opposite sides of the room, and Bruce immediately noticed his personal items expertly reproduced—his shaving kit, cologne, and favorite soap all perfectly arranged. This felt more like Alfred’s meticulous handiwork than Selina’s. It was second nature for his butler to ensure every residence, even the jet, was stocked with his chosen items.

Selina’s counter, however, was a blend of familiar and unfamiliar. Some items he recognized, but others seemed like educated guesses, likely selected by Alfred to anticipate her preferences.

Bruce moved toward the enormous bath area, noting the dusty grout layer still coating the sunken tub's bottom. He stepped into the shower, its walls lined with smooth natural rock. A caddie built into the stone held their respective shower items. His eyes lingered on the bottles, searching for clues. He reached for a shampoo bottle, lifting it to the moonlight streaming through the frosted window. The level appeared nearly full. If she used it, she didn’t use much.

Bruce ran his fingers over the shower floor, lowering himself to one knee. The texture was clear—no caulk residue or grit from the mortar. He crouched lower, his sharp eyes scanning the smooth rocks near the entrance. There, faintly illuminated, were the whorls of small toe prints pressed into the dusty surface. His lips curved into a triumphant smile.

“Got you, sneaky little witch.”

He stood abruptly, his mind racing. His eyes darted back to the counter, searching with renewed focus. Among the carefully placed items, a tiny travel-sized deodorant caught his attention. Bruce tilted his head. Everything else here had been purposefully selected, clearly explicitly purchased for her. Why would Alfred, of all people, buy her something travel-sized? He picked up the small stick, confident of what he’d find. He uncapped it and stared at the top—missing its protective cover, the product visibly worn down.

He held the first undeniable evidence of Selina’s presence in Gotham in his hand. He didn’t know whether to feel victorious or defeated for a moment.

Selina Kyle is here… in Gotham. My Selina is prowling the streets of the Bowery, where some crazed bastard is butchering women.

The vibration of his phone snapped him out of his thoughts. Filled with hope, he pulled it from his pocket.  He checked, only to feel the sharp pang of disappointment.

Incoming call: Gordon.

Bruce exhaled slowly, his jaw aching from how tightly he clenched it. He swiped to accept the call, “What have you got, Commissioner?”

Gordon spoke quickly, his tone sharp and urgent. “You were right. She is here. Gerard Stephens, one of my detectives in the MCU, has been in contact with her. She spoke with him about an hour ago. Said she had a line on our killer.”

Bruce’s grip on the phone tightened, his pace quickening as he strode through the bedroom toward the study.

“She told him the police officers weren’t the first. He’s been working through prostitutes on the west side, dumping their bodies in the sewers. She ID’d him—black male, early thirties, built like a damn defensive guard. She estimated him at six-foot-eight, around two eighty.”

Adrenaline surged through Bruce’s veins. Selina had seen this man. She was close—too close.

Gordon’s voice momentarily faded, muffled as he barked orders on the other end. “No, take Lamar to 8th!” There was a pause, and then his voice came through clearly again. “She said the guy has some skin condition. Wears a trench coat to cover it. Stephens ran the description through NCIC and got a hit out of Louisiana—a BOLO on a scumbag enforcer named Waylon Jones."

There was a pregnant pause, heavy with the weight of Gordon’s following words. “I just got off the phone with a lieutenant in their vice squad. He said the MO on our murders fits Jones to a T. His file down there is as thick as a phone book: assault, prostitution, aggravated robbery. He’s wanted for questioning in the sexual assault and murder of four women before he skipped town.”

Bruce felt his pulse quicken, a cold tension gripping his chest as the pieces clicked together into a grotesque image. This wasn’t just a murderer—it was a monster.

“They said their suspect was a biter too,” Gordon added, his voice dropping lower, grim and weighted. “The guys in homicide were calling him Killer Croc.”

The name lingered in the air, visceral and fitting, sending a shiver of unease through Bruce’s otherwise steely resolve. His mind raced, overlying Croc’s description with the trail of bodies Selina had unearthed, each thread converging into a chilling narrative. She had willingly placed herself in this predator’s path. “You said she had a line on him,” Bruce finally said, his voice clipped, the Batman's voice emerging. “Where is she?”

“Her last known location was on the east side of the Bowery,” Gordon replied.

Chapter Text

Bruce was at a dead run by the time Gordon relayed Selina’s location. He flew into the library, every step pounding with urgency as he prayed the entrance to the cave was as it should be. A shadow of dread filled him—a contingency he hated to imagine.

If the internal entrance is compromised, I’ll have to race across the property, bypass security, and rip the cap off the well. There won’t be time to seal it behind me... the guards will investigate, and the cave will be exposed. The risk is unthinkable, but I won’t let that stop me.

He nearly swore in relief as his eyes locked onto the familiar shape of the grand piano, still covered with a furniture tarp amidst the chaos of renovations. His strides didn’t falter as he hurdled over a stack of rolled rugs, narrowly avoiding a pile of splintered wooden crates. Reaching his target, Bruce whipped aside the dusty cover, revealing the instrument beneath. His fingers moved with the precision of muscle memory, striking the broken sequence of notes. The mechanism responded instantly; the bookshelf slid open with a faint mechanical hum. He ducked inside, pressing the phone back to his ear as he descended.

“Jim,” Bruce said, his voice tight with purpose. “I’m twenty-five minutes out, minimum. The kid’s no closer.”

The silence that followed was thick, but Gordon’s voice eventually came through, steady despite the tension they both felt. “I’ll get to her. I swear it.”

The phone nearly slipped from his grip as the unmarked car took Park Row on two wheels. The vehicle jolted hard, and Gordon braced against the passenger-side door. Stephens gave him a sheepish glance. “Sorry, Jim,” he muttered, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

“Don’t apologize,” Gordon said, his tone sharp and commanding. “Step on it—we can’t afford to be late.”

Stephens nodded curtly, his grip tightening on the steering wheel as they barreled down the street. The weight of the moment hung heavy between them, unspoken but palpable. He stole another sidelong glance at Gordon, noting the tension on the older man’s face. Stephens knew what was driving him. He hadn’t been on the response team the night Rachel Dawes died, but the echoes of that tragedy had reverberated through the department like a shockwave. The guilt Gordon carried for not making it in time wasn’t some whispered rumor—it was a shadow that clung to him, shaping his every decision since.

For Stephens, the weight was no lighter. He carried guilt for his mistakes, which allowed the Joker to escape. The memory of that failure was a constant itch beneath the surface, one he couldn’t scratch away no matter how many good cases he closed. This wasn’t just about Selina Kyle. For both men, this was about redemption.

Gordon shifted in his seat, his sharp eyes scanning the streets. “There!” He pointed to the sidewalk just ahead.

Stephens didn’t hesitate, bumping the curb and straddling it to cut through the congestion. The unmarked car’s horn blared in tandem with its wailing siren as pedestrians scattered. The tires screeched as Stephens jerked the wheel, swinging them down a narrow side street.

Gordon was about to demand an explanation for the detour when it clicked—Stephens had patrolled these streets as a beat cop before his promotion to detectives and eventually to the Major Crimes Unit. He knew this part of Gotham like the back of his hand. Gordon gave a sharp nod of approval, his trust in the detective momentarily eclipsing his unease.

The car roared forward, the city blurring into a chaotic tapestry as they closed in, every second weighing heavier on their resolve.

Stephens cranked the wheel, sliding the battered Chevy expertly onto the main road. The maneuver saved them at least five minutes, but evening traffic on the bridge was a nightmare. Red taillights stretched endlessly ahead, and Gordon cursed under his breath as he realized they’d be slowed no matter what they did. Stephens glanced sideways at the commissioner, “Jim,” he ventured cautiously, “she said she could handle it.” Gordon shot him a sharp look, his expression a mix of frustration and concern. Gordon knew the delicate line they were walking. Gerard knew Selina Kyle’s relationship with Bruce Wayne, even if Gordon did not mention names during their earlier conversation. The unspoken truth loomed large: if Stephens knew Selina’s connection to Gordon and Wayne, he likely suspected Batman’s identity, too.

Still, Gordon took some solace in that Stephens was a veteran officer—trusted, capable, and discreet. Gerard’s lapse with the Joker had been understandable, given the circumstances. Gordon had seen firsthand what the Joker could do to even the strongest minds. The commissioner didn’t blame him for the brutality that night, knowing full well how the lunatic had pushed everyone to their breaking points.

Stephens felt Gordon’s scrutiny and offered a reassuring nod. “She’s tough, Jim. You know that.”

Gordon wiped a hand across his brow, clearing away the sweat beading at his hairline. “Tough doesn’t matter much when the guy we’re chasing is built like the Rogues’ starting linebacker.”

Stephens tried to lighten the mood, his tone edged with forced optimism. “You know what they say, Commissioner. The bigger they are, the harder they fall.”

Gordon’s grim expression didn’t waver. “Sometimes, the bigger they are, the harder they kick your ass.” He pulled out his Glock and gave it a quick, efficient check.

The weight of Gordon’s words settled in his chest, and he pressed harder on the accelerator. He couldn’t shake the worry gnawing at him—Selina had trusted him to have her back in the Bowery, and the thought of failing her now twisted his gut. His mind drifted back to the first time she approached him six weeks earlier. He had just ended a long shift and was heading to his car in the GCPD parking garage. The sound of her voice nearly stopped his heart.

“Good evening, Jerry.”

He’d spun around, expecting her to be directly behind him, but she was above him, perched casually on a concrete beam. Her leg dangled as she leaned against a pillar, looking entirely at ease. His hand instinctively went to his chest, and for a moment, he cursed every hot dog and plate of nachos he’d ever eaten, convinced this was the big one—the heart attack to end all heart attacks. Selina just smiled, watching him compose himself with her head tilted slightly to the side, her long brown hair falling over one shoulder. She wore a leather jacket and jeans, effortlessly commanding the space. She was, without question, the most stunning woman Stephens had ever shared a room with, and his heart hadn’t stopped pounding for a second.

He’d stuttered out some garbled question about why she was there, and she twisted, dropping her other leg so both feet swung freely. “Relax, Jerry,” she said smoothly, her voice tinged with amusement. When she explained what she wanted, he had already agreed to keep her return to Gotham a secret. In exchange, she promised to feed him intel—leads she said the department wouldn’t find otherwise. She spoke with such confidence as though her success wasn’t a possibility but an inevitability. All Stephens had to do was act on the information and keep her involvement to himself. Stephens thought she might vanish into the night when she slid off the beam, landing effortlessly on the heels of her stiletto boots. Instead, she turned back when he called her name.

“Selina... You asked before how I got this,” he said, gesturing to the scar across his throat. Selina’s eyes flicked down, then back to his face, calm and composed. “The Joker,” he said flatly, waiting for some sign that she understood the gravity of what she was stepping into. “He’s a lunatic. And he’s dangerous. Be careful.” She stepped closer, and for one wild moment, Stephens thought she might kiss him. He froze, unable to move as her perfume—orange blossoms, delicate and intoxicating—filled his senses. She grabbed the lapels of his jacket, pulling him slightly forward.

“If you play nice and keep all this just between us,” she whispered, her breath brushing his ear, “maybe I’ll save some of the clown just for you.” When she pulled back, she gave him a sly smile and—against all odds—kissed him lightly on the corner of his mouth. “Don’t kiss and tell, Jerry,” she said with a wink before disappearing into the shadows, leaving him stunned and wondering if the whole encounter had been a fever dream.

We both kept our ends of the deal. I stayed quiet, and Selina Kyle kept the information flowing.

At first, the updates came once a week, but as she dove deeper into the Bowery, they became more frequent—three times a week, sometimes more. One day, she even caught me in person on my way to work. My daily routine included a stop at Blinks for coffee and a bagel- somehow, she must have known this and was waiting. When I walked in, I spotted her immediately. She was impossible to miss, even in jeans and a worn concert T-shirt. Although she looked tired—ragged, even—she radiated effortless beauty that had a way of turning heads without trying. At least she wasn’t in the hooker getup she usually wore while working the Bowery. Not that I was complaining. Those short skirts and tight tops had been doing wonders for my married life.

When I approached, she smiled faintly, though her exhaustion was evident. “Morning, Jerry. Figured you’d show up eventually.”

The waitress brought my usual coffee and bagel, and Selina flashed her a gracious smile when she presented a blueberry muffin.  “Thanks for putting me out of my misery,” she said, her voice carrying that mix of charm and grit that seemed to define her. I followed Selina to a booth at the back of the shop, my mind racing as I studied her. The vibrant, confident woman I’d first met weeks ago seemed worn thin. The spark was still there, but something darker had settled in her eyes. We sat silently until the waitress left us alone, and then I leaned forward. “What’s going on, kid?”

She took a bite of the muffin, chewing slowly as if buying time to gather her thoughts. “It’s been… intense down in the Bowery,” she finally said, her voice low. “Weapons are moving tonight. Small arms, mostly. Maybe some C4. I’ve got no leads on the buyer yet, but the streets are crawling with new players.”

I frowned. “New players? Where are they coming from?”

She shook her head. “Don’t know. These guys aren’t small-time, though. Even connected pricks like Dino Maroni are keeping their distance. The Gazzo family handed over their weapons business without so much as a whimper.”

Her words sent a chill down my spine. I didn’t like the idea of new power players consolidating control in Gotham’s underworld. “What about you?” I asked. “What’s your plan?”

Selina looked at me, her gaze sharp despite the weariness in her expression. “I’ve got another lead. It’s going to take time to work my way in, but I’ll get there.” She hesitated, then added, “There’s something else.”

I leaned forward. “What is it?”

She sighed and glanced toward the door, her voice dropping even lower. “Women are disappearing in the Bowery. Word on the street is- someone’s murdering prostitutes.”

The statement hit like a punch to the gut. “How reliable is your source?”

“It’s not one source,” she said. “It’s the whisper in the wind. Working girls talking to each other. And if they’re scared… well, there’s not much that scares women who are willing to work the Bowery.”

I sat back, processing her words, their weight settling heavily on my shoulders. “We’ve got no reports of missing women,” I said finally. “No MOs matching this.”

Her lips curled into a wry smile. “Who’s going to report them, Jerry? Their pimps? Their clients? Hell, even the women working beside them don’t care—they’re just glad for less competition. The street population is transient. Nobody keeps tabs on who comes and goes.”

I wanted to argue, but her words rang true. I could see it in her face—she wasn’t guessing. She knew. “What are you planning to do about it?” I asked though I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer.

She leaned back, crossing her arms. “I’m going to find the bastard. I’ll track his dumpsite, keep it undisturbed, and wait for him to return. If those women’s deaths are going to mean anything, it’s going to be catching him.” Her words made my stomach churn, but I couldn’t deny the resolve in her tone. Selina Kyle wasn’t someone who tilted at windmills for the hell of it. She believed she could stop him if she was going after this guy. “You’ll hear from me every day,” she said as she slid out of the booth. “If you don’t, there’s an address on the back of that packet I gave you. Give it to Gordon. He’ll know what to do.”

I nodded, my throat dry. “Be careful, kid. This guy isn’t just dangerous—he’s an animal.”

She smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I know what I’m getting into. Thanks for trusting me.”

As I watched her walk away, I felt the weight of the knowledge I carried. Keeping this from Gordon… from Batman… was it the right call? If anything happened to her, I knew exactly who would come knocking. And God help me if I ever had to look him in the eye and explain why I hadn’t done more.

Everyone knew she was in the Bowery, and we were all scrambling our asses down there, but hell, what else could we do? Selina had given me the description of the possible perp a few hours ago, laughing as she did it. She’d warned me the intel sounded like unbelievable crap, but I’d insisted. She rattled off the description, and we both laughed.

How could either of us take it seriously? It sounded like something ripped straight from a comic book. Freaking huge guy with scale-like skin? Give me a break. I even mocked the report, exaggerating the descriptors as I repeated it to her.
“I copy that—a seven-foot reptile man wearing a flasher jacket. I’ll send an APB out now on all frequencies.”

She laughed, but I could tell she was disappointed she hadn’t found something more concrete.

I almost left to go home, but something nagged at me. Taking a second, I logged into Gordon’s computer. It wasn’t exactly a challenge; the guy’s an electronics dinosaur, same as me. I got in on my second try—Meghan#1. Not exactly hacker-proof, boss man.

I entered the information, and it bounced back immediately with a hit.

When I saw the BOLO from Louisiana, I nearly shit my shorts. The guy was a monster—six foot eight, three hundred thirty pounds, with an unidentified skin pigmentation disorder. I sat there staring at his photo, reading the bio with my head in my hands, trying to process what I was looking at.

That’s when Gordon walked in and slammed the door. He stood there, glaring, one hand on his hip, the other pushing his glasses up with that annoyed little gesture of his.
“You have something you need to tell me, Detective?”

I had a lot to tell him, and I did. I should’ve felt guilty for spilling my guts, but what I felt instead was like I’d unloaded a freight train off my chest. I knew Selina Kyle wasn’t a pushover, but she had no idea what she was up against with a lunatic like this.

Now, as we raced to the Bowery with lights flashing and sirens wailing, I felt, for the first time, like I finally had her back.

Gordon and I were already en route in my unmarked while he chewed my ass raw over keeping her little operation from him. Damn, he was pissed. I finally shut him up by agreeing to take him to the address Selina had provided. I’d already done my homework and found it was the Wayfarer Hotel. A well-known shag pad that could be rented by the hour, day, or week.

To Gotham’s criminal element, it wasn’t just a hideout—it was home. Selina seemed to be operating out of there.

We strong-armed the manager and entered the room without a warrant. Gordon tore the place apart, searching for whatever Selina had left for him, but he came up empty. He ended up in the bathroom, staring at the cracked mirror on the medicine cabinet. A small piece of tissue was wedged in the corner of the glass. He pulled it out, unrolled it, and grumbled, “Nothing.” Then he wadded it up and tossed it into the sink.
“We’re going to need forensics to comb this place,” he said.

I stared at the mirror, my mind turning over the possibilities before something clicked.

“I don’t suppose she was military?” I asked.

Gordon shrugged. “It wouldn’t surprise me if she’d worn a uniform at some point.”

I smiled, cranked the hot water in the sink, and repeated the gesture with the shower. “Steam sign. It’s an old Army trick.”

Gordon caught on quickly and shut the bathroom door. The cramped space filled with steam, and we stood shoulder to shoulder, watching as the Batman sign emerged on the mirror’s surface. Below it were the words: ‘Look behind.’

Gordon yanked the medicine cabinet off the wall, revealing a ragged hole behind it. He reached in and pulled out a plastic bag stuffed with rolled papers. Throwing open the bathroom door, he headed straight for the rickety card table and dumped the contents.

Inside were drawings of women. They were penciled with such clarity and detail it was as if they might step off the page and tell their stories themselves. On the back of each drawing was a map of their territory, with the last-known location of each woman carefully marked.

Gordon unfolded a tattered map of Bowery’s east side. Selina had circled a radius and marked off sections with red X’s—places she’d presumably checked.

Then he turned the next page, and we both froze.

It wasn’t a woman’s portrait this time, nor a man’s. It was a grotesque amalgamation of reptile and human, eerily similar to the photo of the perp I still held in my hand.

We stared at each other silently, the implications settling heavily between us.

There was a handwritten note clipped to the drawing, addressed to me:

Jerry, I know what you’re thinking as you look at this—I was thinking the same thing when I drew it. But this is the description I got from two sources in the Bowery. Elisa was attacked five days ago—she’s at Gotham General under the alias Melissa Stephens (haha). The second is a kid from South Elum, Delroy Martin (and yes, that’s really his name; I checked his wallet. Haha).

If you’re reading this, then shit broke loose. You’ll need to track down these two and get their statements. Start your search in the area I marked on the map. I’m nearly sure he’s dumping bodies in the storm drains under the city.

Sorry, I couldn’t give you more than this. Hopefully, we’ll be lifting a beer together when this bastard’s behind bars, and I’ll be telling you all this in person. If not... well, that’s the way shit goes sometimes.

Tell Gordon not to let Bats come down too hard on you over this. You did me a solid by keeping things quiet. I left a letter for Gordon. Please make sure he gets it.

Thanks for everything—
S

That was when the all-emergency call came through over their radios.

When Blake got the call from Bruce, he was perched atop the Hibernia Bank building. The familiar twist of fear that usually preceded his jumps was absent as he sprinted to the rooftop's edge. Instead, a desperate resolve had latched onto his every movement. The fabric of his cape unfurled into dark wings as he leaped from the crumbling rooftop, diving into Gotham’s inky night.

I cannot screw this up. Not this time.

From the moment I handed over my badge and claimed the pack filled with climbing gear, I’d been learning from and about Bruce Wayne, and each day had peeled back another layer of the man who became Batman and the sacrifices it took to wear that cowl. I discovered a man who asked for nothing in return for his selfless deeds. The only thing Bruce had seemed to need—genuinely need—was Selina Kyle.

At first, I didn’t understand it. Selina seemed like a nuisance—a threat, even. She was a con artist, a thief, and a criminal. To me, she represented a chink in Wayne’s otherwise impenetrable armor. Watching Alfred, Fox, and Gordon fall for what I thought was her act only deepened my disappointment. Worse, Bruce seemed to allow it, blind to the exploitation I was convinced was inevitable. She constantly antagonized, challenged, and belittled me, which was infuriating. But then came the night against Scarecrow, and Selina Kyle shattered every assumption I had about her.

That night, she fearlessly infiltrated Scarecrow’s hive of thugs, feeding us intel like she’d been born for the role. When the chaos separated me from Bruce, she stayed. The airborne inhalant turned Crane’s men into drug-fueled monsters, ripping and tearing at anything in their path. I was buried beneath a pile of thrashing bodies when she appeared, her face obscured by a protective mask against the dust spewing from nearby canisters. I knew she was no match for the rage-fueled mass covering me—and so did she. But that didn’t stop her. She spun, flipped, and danced through their grasping hands in a mesmerizing display of gymnastics and martial arts, moving with precision and grace.

I clawed free as she drew the men away, dealing with the remaining two. Kicking one into the other, I sent them into a brutal brawl and pulled my damaged cowl back into place. The animalistic grunts and rage-filled echoes down the corridor chilled my blood, but then I saw her.

Selina walked toward me, calm as ever, while the men behind her dissolved into a writhing pit of madness. She tugged off her gas mask, flashed a brilliant smile, and flipped her goggles onto her head. “Lover, not a fighter,” she quipped, her tone dripping with mockery. I had laughed—out of relief, mostly—until I saw the man charging at her from behind. Instinct took over.

Selina ducked without hesitation as my arm flew over her head, the sharp fins of my bracer slicing through strands of her hair that had floated into their path. My arm connected with the man’s chest, clotheslining him and slamming him to the ground. I turned to check on Selina, only to find her glancing back at me, a grin tugging at her lips. Without thinking, I mirrored her expression.

Things were different after that.

I began seeing her in a new light—more profound and complex than I had believed. She wasn’t just Bruce’s weakness. She mattered. She’d had my back that night when I needed it most, and now, I felt the weight of finding her—not just for Bruce, but for everyone who cared about her, myself included. We stuck together through the following madness, eventually reaching the parking garage. She held off Crane’s flunkies while I tracked down the doctor. I’d been so proud of myself, so caught up in the adrenaline of success, that it never occurred to me to worry about her. When Fox told me she was still inside, my stomach dropped.

We never spoke about it afterward, but our dynamic shifted. She gave me a hard time, and I learned to dish it back. She’d had my back, and I owed her.

Earlier today, Alfred floored me with the news that Bruce believed Selina was back in Gotham. Alfred’s expression was pride and worry as he explained her deception. I’d just finished sparring when Alfred all but dragged me into the safe room. He activated the sled that held my suit, venting the sanitizing agents as he motioned for me to suit up.

“Best you check on the missus and ensure she hasn’t overextended herself, shall you?”

His hands were folded over his chest, but his lined face betrayed the concern he felt as I dressed. Since his return, I hadn’t gone out without Bruce, but refusing Alfred wasn’t an option. If Selina was in the Bowery, she was likely hip-deep in trouble, even if she’d never admit it. As I reached for the cowl, Alfred placed a hand on my arm. “Master Blake.” I paused, meeting his gaze. “Let the missus know that Master Bruce is aware of her return.” I raised an eyebrow, and Alfred’s expression hardened in response. “Don’t make me call in my marker, Master Blake. The warning was clear. 

“Not necessary, Alfred. I’m just surprised you thought I wouldn’t let her know. Selina’s sticking her neck out for Gotham without anyone asking and doing it against Bruce’s express wishes. The least I can do is give her a heads-up that an angry billionaire is hot on her trail. Hell, I might even run a little interference.”

When Fox’s distress signal came through, everything clicked into place. Selina had broadcast her position across all channels, sacrificing her cover. She wouldn’t have done that unless she was in epic trouble. She was inviting a Bruce Wayne ass-kicking, and that meant whatever she was facing wasn’t something she could handle alone.

The auto-distress sent her coordinates to the PD and all of us. Officers were on-site within moments when the next call came through:
“217 in progress.”

x

Selina had her share of problems, and right now, an angry lover with deep pockets didn’t even make the top ten. No, Selina Kyle had a much bigger problem. A very big problem. A freaking enormous problem.

It was one thing to hear a street kid say, “That dude was huge.” It was another to see that said dude filling an entire waterway, top to bottom, side to side. He had to stoop to fit, and his massive shoulders still brushed the ceiling. You’ve got to be kidding me.

Selina’s eyes tracked him as he moved above her, his boots pounding against the metal grating, reverberating through the sewage tunnels like the ominous beats of a war drum. He didn’t just move; he plodded... no, he trudged... no—lumbered. Yes, that was it. This hulking bastard lumbered. Every step added to the unnerving effect, a constant reminder of just how enormous and dangerous he was.

The scene itself was straight out of a nightmare. She crouched below, her hiding spot hidden beneath the grating, with the stench of stagnant water and death choking the air. Dead women floated in the muck around her, and this murderous psychopath above her, the one who was clearly responsible for the carnage, had yet another woman hanging limply under his arm like she weighed nothing at all. The surreal horror of it all made her stomach churn.

This felt like every horror movie I’d ever sat through—the clueless girl stumbling right into the killer’s lair while the audience screamed at her to turn back. Call the cops. Get the hell out while you still can. But here I was, playing the part of the dumb broad who didn’t listen.

I’d been working the streets for days, chasing useless leads from skittish, tight-lipped streetwalkers. Not that working girls were ever thrilled about a new face on their turf, but fear made them even more uncooperative. Yesterday, one of them had taken a swing at me with a blade. Lucky for me, Fox’s Kevlar bi-weave lived up to its reputation. Fortunate, too, that the suit doubled as streetwear—sleek, sexy, and functional—or I’d have been in the ER getting stitches.

When I wasn’t dodging knives or bad leads, I was swatting off pimps trying to expand their stables and turning down sleazy customers flashing sweaty wads of cash. All while combing these filthy streets for anything that could pass as accurate information. Her only reprieve from the grime and chaos of the streets was the brief moments she managed to chat with Stephens or talk to Bruce. Neither conversation had gone the way she’d hoped. All she had for Stephens was a jumble of nonsense from a woman with the IQ of a houseplant, spinning exaggerated tales of a trench-coated, hulking, dreadlocked monster with scaly skin. The only detail lending even a shred of credibility to her story was the bite mark on her forearm.

The woman claimed she’d slipped through a chained fence and escaped her attacker, but her description had Selina doubting everything she said. A slightly more credible—and considerably smarter—source pointed to some shady activity near the water treatment plant. This lead involved a guy matching the same general description, minus the lizard skin. The source was just a kid, but he’d been around long enough not to flinch at the sight of a John taking someone into the tunnels for a "quickie."

Young Delroy had run his mouth to her pimp about the girl not coming back out, and that’s what had finally brought Selina around to talk. I had to chase his fast ass down twice to get him to spill what he saw. Since when did I look like a cop?

The story was the same: a man in a long coat and fedora slipping into the tunneling system. Only this time, the kid added a detail he’d omitted earlier—the man had been carrying a woman—a redhead. One of my missing girls was a redhead, lost around the time the kid claimed to have seen the man carrying someone into the canal by the treatment plant. Carrying. That part stuck with me. When I pressed him, he hesitated before admitting he thought she was probably passed out. Stephens and I had both written it off as a crap lead or a tall tale from a street kid trying to make himself important. But it stuck with me.

Then there was my last call with Bruce. That had been an even bigger disaster. He was on to me. He’d figured it out, the brilliant bastard. I’d been careful—meticulous, even—but now that he suspected something, he’d be relentless, like a shark scenting blood in the water. He wouldn’t stop until he found the truth. And then, he wouldn’t stop until he found me.

I could imagine it: walking the Bowery, glancing up, and spotting a shadow just a little darker than the rest. Then he’d appear, under those damn devil horns of his, cape flowing, acting all holier-than-thou with his boy-scouting, judgment-rendering, self-righteous attitude. Bruce. The Batman. Wayne.

 What I wouldn’t give to see that man right now...

She could almost hear his disapproving tone, the relentless judgment laced with that damnable sense of superiority. She would gladly endure his nagging, his disappointment—hell, even his self-righteous lectures—if it meant he was here. Because all of those scenes would come after the monumental ass-kicking, they would deliver to this murdering psycho.

But Bruce wasn’t here, and he wouldn’t be coming, not after I decided to follow damn pimply-faced Delroy’s lead on my own. Now, I was stuck down here. Alone. Alone in this pit with a serial-killing nutjob who had a biting fetish. It was up to me to stay alive so it wouldn't be Bruce Wayne charged with identifying my chewed-up remains in this dead pool.

Selina shook her head, forcing herself to focus on the reality of her situation. If I don’t calm down and start thinking, Stephens really will be bringing Bruce down here to collect my body. That is not something I’m prepared to do—to him or myself. I’m not ready to punch out yet. I have a lot to live for now.

She gave herself a mental shake and drew a deep, steadying breath, rolling her shoulders to release the tension. I’m safe... just calm the hell down. I’m hidden in the shadows. He’ll never know I’m here. Her face relaxed as she pushed her emotions aside, letting her mind take over, calculating her next move.

When she entered the tunnels, she’d followed a trail of old blood, faint but revealed by the biofilter on her visor. She had picked her way carefully, mindful of every detail, ensuring she disturbed nothing. She buttoned down her uniform, donned her gloves, and steeled herself for a fight. She thought she’d been prepared if she came face-to-face with him. She thought she knew the dangers. But that was before I saw him. She wasn’t too proud to admit that she’d lost her nerve.

This bastard is bigger than Bane—by a long shot.

The blonde hair of the woman he carried under his arm dragged across the grate beneath which Selina crouched. Strands caught on the jagged edges, pulling clumps free as the body swayed with his lumbering strides. The woman never moved; she was already dead.

Selina kept her distance, trailing him in the darkness. She timed her movements with his, allowing her footfalls to sync with his heavy, echoing steps, masking the sound of her own as she shadowed him through the sewer’s oppressive gloom.

Yes, that was definitely the word… lumbering. She watched from under the grate, restarting the recording. She had begun capturing footage as soon as she found the bodies, walking carefully around the women who were in various states of decay. She paused on each of their faces for long moments, panning the length of their bodies to ensure their garments were recorded. Maybe it’ll help ID them should something unthinkable happen while I’m down here.

Worst case scenario, I’ve got all this on video now, including him with his newest kill. I just have to get up to street level to ensure the data uplink gets sent. I intended to bring this bastard down myself, but now... well, fuck that. Her mind flashed to the brutal showdown between Bruce and Bane. I saw what Bane did to Bruce when they went toe-to-toe. I’ll be damned if I’m taking this shady-looking son of a bitch on down here, all by myself. No fucking way.

Now, as she crouched low in the shadows beneath him, the gravity of her situation hit her. This isn’t some skinny-ass, creep-mouse killer. This is a massive, knuckle-dragging behemoth. If anything, he’s even bigger than my sources estimated—and that, friends, is a deal-breaker. I’m not a heroine. I don’t even have a dog in this fight. I was just supposed to be poking around for information. I’m not engaging this lunatic to try and make a citizen’s arrest. But on the flip side, I’m also not an idiot bimbo from a B horror flick who panics, runs, trips and gets chainsawed for her trouble.

So, that leaves the middle ground... playing it cool.

She crouched even lower in the stagnant water, clinging to the shadows, as she reassured herself of her decision.

Yup, I am going to lay up on this one. I’m just going to film him and get a firm ID. I might even be a sport and track him out of here. I’ll get Stephens on the horn and watch from the cheap seats while Gotham’s finest sack up this big bastard. Selina exhaled slowly, forcing her nerves to settle. That is precisely what I will do- so the movie audience can relax and stop screaming at the screen. I hear you. I’m listening. I’m laying low, staying quiet, and I’m going to live to fight another day... and I’m not going to feel a damn bit guilty about it.

Her muscles unwound slightly, her confidence in the plan giving her a moment of calm. I’m going to leave here, find Bruce, let him yell himself hoarse at me for coming back to Gotham, and then I’ll fuck him until he forgives me... I’m going to live happily ever after in a big damn mansion, too, while I’m at it... and I’ll forget any of this ever even happened.

Selina was fully committed to her decision—until she heard the soft moan from the woman he carried.

Her breath hitched, her entire body locking up. Her heart slammed against her ribs so loud it felt like it would echo through the tunnel. No... I didn’t hear that. It’s just the fear... the adrenaline making me imagine things. No... please... please.

Her eyes widened in horror as she watched the woman begin to struggle faintly, her movements weak but unmistakable. Selina’s mouth went dry, and she willed herself not to make a sound, terrified that the slightest movement would draw his attention. If he looked down, it would all be over.

Selina heard his low, animalistic voice reverberating through the echoing chamber. There was an accent—Creole, Cajun French, from the bayou—but it was more than that. The words were garbled like he was speaking through a mouthful of marbles. The sound was almost alien as he hissed at the woman to shut her mouth.

She watched in horror as he dropped the blonde onto the metal grating with a careless thud and then delivered a brutal kick to her stomach. Selina flinched as the force of his boot lifted the slender woman off her knees and slammed her into the concrete tunnel wall. The sharp, desperate sound of the woman’s whooping attempts to draw air filled the cavern, a chilling echo of pure struggle.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Selina’s hands trembled as she crept forward, every fiber of her being screaming to stop, to retreat, to escape this unfolding nightmare. Just huddle down… this is the last one… you’ll have him. No one would blame you… she’s just a streetwalker… nobody will even miss her. I should—

“Lay there and take it, Selina.”

The words slammed into her mind, so vivid and sharp that for a split second, she thought the man had spoken them. But the voice wasn’t his. It was her father’s. His voice. The words that had once frozen her kept her still and silent, trapped in pain and fear. “Lay there and take it… don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be, Selina...” The voice echoed in her mind, dredging up memories she’d spent years burying. A wave of sickness rose in her throat, and Selina clamped her hand over her mouth to stifle the involuntary gag. Only the noise of the struggling woman masked the faint sound she made.

She swallowed the burning bile, forcing it down as her gloved fingertips dug into her cheeks. Her body trembled, but she refused to let the panic overwhelm her. Get a grip. Breathe. Stay quiet.

The man shifted, his movements deliberate and terrifying in their sheer power. He squatted down, thick fingers lacing through the metal grid above her head. Selina froze. With a guttural grunt, he heaved the entire walkway up, lifting the heavy metal like it weighed nothing. Holy fuck. The sheer strength he displayed made her blood run cold. That thing has to weigh three hundred pounds… and he just tossed it like a piece of paper.

She pressed tighter against the wall, shrinking into the shadows as her shaking hand slipped under her tunic. Her fingers found the embedded emergency locator, and she pushed it without hesitation. Houston, we have a goddamn problem... Please, Fox… send me some help. She kept her gaze locked on the monstrous figure, her breath shallow and silent. Selina knew she couldn’t count on him overlooking her forever. She needed a plan, and she needed it fast.

Five grates were lifted and tossed aside easily, each clanging against the damp concrete as he prepared the pit for his latest victim. He surveyed the grim tableau below—a grotesque mosaic of bleached grey skin and tangled hair, their once-vivid garments dulled and stained. The swirling fabrics of Gotham’s working women lay marbled with decay.

He held a small flashlight in his meaty hand, the beam cutting through the oppressive darkness as he methodically took stock of his collection. His thick fingers rested on his hip as he stood there, his heavy breaths echoing in the cavernous space. Each motion was deliberate, almost reverent, as he relived his time with each of them. His jaw flexed, teeth grinding audibly as he licked his lips, tasting the lingering metallic sweetness of his newest. She had been different... sweeter. The memory sent a shiver of pleasure through him, his massive form almost trembling under the weight of his twisted delight.

But then, something changed. He turned to claim her once more, and his eyes locked on the empty space where she had been. His lips curled into a grotesque smile, and a low, guttural laugh rumbled from his chest. “So, you’re gamier than the others,” he muttered, his voice a strange, guttural mix of Cajun and something more primal. He ran up the walkway, flashlight swinging wildly, the beam slicing through the darkness as he searched. “Candy,” he called, his voice reverberating through the tunnel like a predator taunting its prey. “Candy...”

He called her name again and again; each repetition tinged with a maddening mix of anger and excitement. His guttural cry filled the tunnel, promising the game had just begun.

Edit 1-10-25 GK

Edit Update 9-30-20

LWH Chapter

The remaining chapter is Under Construction.

Chapter Text

Fox’s Bluetooth system activated with a crisp chime, abruptly cutting off a soulful voice mid-verse as it declared the resilience of love. The interruption was clean, leaving only the faint hum of the car’s powerful engine. “Override security protocol,” Fox commanded sharply, his voice carrying his urgency. The system complied immediately, disabling safeguards that typically prevented sensitive communications from playing openly.

A mechanized female voice filled the cabin, the clarity sharp against the silence. “Priority one request from Kat. Emergency beacon has been activated. Priority one request from Kat. Emergency beacon has been activated." 

His response was instant—he veered sharply across two lanes of traffic, earning the startled blare of horns, before hurtling his diamond-white CL65 Coupe onto the off-ramp. The car’s tires screeched in protest as he swung onto the shoulder of the access road, dust and gravel spitting up in his wake. He activated the custom computer embedded in the dash. The screen lit up in a flurry of data streams before locking onto a secure connection with Bruce and Blake. Their faces appeared on the split screen almost simultaneously, their expressions alert.

“Gentlemen,” Fox began, his voice calm but urgent. We have a situation. More specifically, Kat has a situation. Stand by for her coordinates. Be advised that I’ve received a priority one request.”

Fox linked the computer systems and sent her tracking position to the computer terminal in the cave. From there, it would be accessible from any transport the men operated. His fingers flew over the small remote keyboard that illuminated on his black leather steering wheel—a sleek innovation that mirrored the technology employed in the safe house.

The light board represented the next generation in cyber technology, slated for production by Horizon Innovations, a cutting-edge firm specializing in advanced interface systems. Horizon’s earlier versions had been considered groundbreaking, but the iteration now in Fox’s hands was leagues ahead. Refined and enhanced by Wayne Enterprises’ R&D division, it embodied Fox’s team’s technical mastery. Horizon had purchased the original concept from WE years ago for a tidy sum, only for Fox’s team to quietly perfect it behind the scenes.

Fox accessed the police broadband, and the steady hum of radio chatter between dispatch and field officers filled the cabin of the Benz. Less than three minutes later, a call crackled over the air.

“Dispatch, this is Mike 23. We have a 217 reported in progress.”

Fox pulled up the PD’s codes and scanned down the list. His eyes widened slightly as he read: 217—assault with intent to murder. He keyed the radio connection with both Bruce and Blake. “All channels. Confirm your response time to location.”

“Bat Two en route. ETA seven minutes.”

“Bat One en route. ETA eighteen minutes.”

Fox felt his stomach tighten as the police broadband activated, and the female dispatcher’s disembodied voice sounded over the emergency channel.

“All units... all units, we have a 217, repeat, 217 in progress in the vicinity of Garfield Boulevard and 55th. Reports indicate the perp may be in the sewer system. Break. All units in the vicinity are authorized to respond 10-39. Repeat, possible 217 in progress. Suspect is assumed 918V—armed and considered extremely dangerous. All units stand by for transmission of BOLO. Sector units Charlie 45 and Henry 53, please respond.”

Fox listened intently as the sector's duty officers reported their ETAs—three minutes and five minutes, respectively. His color grew more ashen as he searched the additional codes. 918V… violently insane suspect… 10-39… lights and sirens. His fingers danced over the console as he intercepted the video feed transmitted to the patrol officers’ computers. The photo displayed the grim reality of the situation, sending a chill down his spine.

Waylon Jones.

Fox scanned the bio and rap sheet, but his focus kept returning to the photo. The prominent protrusion over Jones’s brow lent him an almost Neanderthal appearance. His blotchy, uneven skin was a patchwork of discoloration that seemed almost unnatural. Although he was African-American, his condition obscured his typical features, hinting at a far more severe affliction.

Fox’s gaze moved to the accompanying medical notes, and his thoughts immediately turned to atavism—a rare genetic condition that caused the reappearance of primitive traits after generations of evolutionary absence. Exceptionally rare in humans, but not impossible. And I’m looking at a man presenting symptoms of it right now, Fox thought grimly, his mind already racing with the implications.

The scanner crackled, pulling Fox’s attention as Gordon’s voice came through, sharp and authoritative:
“All units, this is Commissioner Gordon. Use any necessary force to apprehend. No solo patrols in the tunnels—wait for backup.”

There was a brief pause, and then Gordon’s voice returned, more urgent.
“Be advised: undercover responder is on site. Caucasian female, early thirties, black over brown. Possible engagement with the suspect. All units proceed with caution.”

A sharp alert blared from the console, accompanied by a flashing red notification on Fox’s display. He immediately pulled up the secured video transmission that had just loaded onto his server. The header read: Priority Alert – Field Unit Activation.

Fox tapped the screen, and the video feed expanded, filling his monitor with grainy night-vision footage. The green glow revealed a haunting scene: a tunnel, women floating lifelessly in water. His breath caught as he steadied himself, and he shut his eyes briefly before pressing play.

The angle shifted as Selina slid stealthily under a rusted grating, her fluid and precise movements a testament to years of practiced skill. The feed flickered momentarily before stabilizing, revealing Waylon Jones. The hulking criminal stepped into view, his massive frame dominating the narrow space, illuminated by the eerie glow of Selina’s visor. Slung under his arm,  limp but beginning to stir.

Fox scrubbed through the footage faster, his jaw tightening as he watched Jones roughly handle the woman. He knew what was coming and forced himself to watch as Selina Kyle intervened, her movements precise and controlled, before the video cut abruptly. It wasn’t until the feed jumped to an exterior view that Fox understood why. The recording had been ongoing during the entire ordeal in the tunnels, but the thick layers of concrete and steel had blocked the signal. Only when the rescued woman reached the grated sidewalk vent was the visor able to sync with a satellite feed, uploading the stored footage in a burst.

Fox pushed the video to real-time, where officers arrived and pulled the blonde woman out of the grating. Her hysteria was palpable; the video whipped erratically as she flailed her arms, shouting in panic. Focusing on the audio, Fox isolated her frantic voice: “There’s another woman down there! She’s trapped! You have to save her!”

The image steadied for a moment, giving Fox a clear view of the woman’s injuries—deep bite marks on her neck and arms, still bleeding heavily. She collapsed to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably, as the camera caught fragmented images of her trembling hands turning the visor over.

Fox exhaled sharply and activated the commlink. “Be advised, team, the beacon does not indicate Kat’s current position. She rescued a woman and sent her out with her locator.  I’m overlaying that origin point of the signal on a map of the tunnels. You’ll need to track her from there. Be advised the subject was aware of Kat and is in close pursuit; it would appear they are heading west from this location.”

Bruce absorbed the information as he piloted the Bat, his gloved hands tightening on the yoke. He trimmed it out faster, sacrificing stealth for speed as he shot above Gotham’s skyline. The turbines roared in protest under the strain. Normally, he would never risk flying this exposed without the protective cover of Gotham’s towering buildings. But now, none of that mattered. All that mattered was reaching Selina’s last known location as quickly as possible.

Switching to autopilot, he accessed the sewer maps, overlaying the coordinates from Selina’s transponder with the map Gordon had found in her room. A photo of it had been texted to Wayne’s phone and routed directly to the Bat’s computer system via satellite. Bruce scanned for alternate routes from where the woman had emerged from the tunnels.

Fox said they were moving west. Waylon was chasing her... Bruce’s eyes narrowed as his mind raced. Or was she leading him? Baiting him… drawing him toward… where? His gaze locked onto the water treatment plant. Selina would have known the lay of the land before she ever set foot in the tunnels. If there was one thing Selina Kyle never failed at, it was meticulous preparation. She would have identified the treatment plant as her best option long before entering. She wouldn’t waste time weaving through the twists and turns of the channels and aquifers. No, she would aim for the straight shot—the point where the pipes widened and the drainage system opened into the plant.

She’d want him in the open. Somewhere, she could maneuver, where her speed and skills would give her the edge. His sheer size would overwhelm her in the confined space of the tunnels. If it came to close-quarters combat, Selina wouldn’t stand a chance.

Bruce gritted his teeth, forcing down the panic rising in his chest. The image of Selina, trapped in the tunnels with Waylon Jones, threatened to consume him. If he gets his hands on her in there... she’s dead. She’d never break free. His thoughts spiraled. He’d crush her under his weight… and then… Bruce’s stomach churned. Then, it would be his teeth ripping through her flesh.

He shook his head violently as though he could physically dislodge the sickening thoughts.

She’s resourceful. She’s strong. She can handle herself.

But the hollow reassurance offered little comfort. His mind, unrelenting, conjured the image of Blake’s friend, the Gotham officer who had fallen to the murderer dubbed “Killer Croc.” The brutality of her end, the savageness of her final moments, bore down on him like a weight, threatening to pull him under.

Bruce forced himself to focus as he resumed control, gripping the yoke tightly. He dipped the sleek black craft and twisted it between two enormous potable water tanks.  With precision born from countless missions, he brought the Bat down on the outer perimeter of the treatment plant, landing quickly, his focus unshakable.

Gordon and Stephens entered through the pried-open grating, aware that SWAT teams were still five minutes out. A uniformed officer remained above with the rescued woman, staying by her side as the approaching ambulance drew closer.

Before Stephens descended into the grate, the woman shoved a pair of goggles and a transponder into his hands. Her voice trembled, raw with desperation.
“These are hers—Catwoman’s,” she stammered. “She saved me. She’s not dead like they say. Please, help her. Hurry!”

The stench of decay and the grisly sight of the dump where Waylon Jones had left the women clung to Gordon and Stephens like a suffocating shroud. Gordon knelt briefly by the water, his hand wiping his lips as he fought to suppress his physical reaction to the overwhelming sights and smells. He met Stephens’s strained gaze and spoke grimly.
“We have to make up time. Stay on my six, Jerry. Let’s get this son of a bitch.”

Their years of collective experience in the GCPD told them one thing—they needed to move and move fast if they had any hope of reaching Selina before she became the next victim of a sadistic serial killer.

They charged recklessly through the tunnels, their footsteps echoing off the damp walls. Years of tactical training—methodical sweeps, cautious movement—meant nothing now. The horror they had seen and the urgency to reach Selina shattered every instinct, leaving only raw desperation.

Gordon ran with his wrists crossed, his right hand gripping his pistol while his left clamped tightly to the long handle of the mag flashlight, its beam cutting through the darkness ahead. Stephens mirrored the stance, his weapon ready as he covered the police commissioner from behind. Together, they pushed deeper into the aquifers, their movements purposeful despite the oppressive dread pressing down on them with every step.

She had him down. Waylon Jones was on his knees, and Selina stood behind him, her foot braced between his shoulder blades at the base of his neck. Bruce froze on the skywalk above, watching the scene unfold below.

He had landed the Bat at the east end of the facility, using a device from his belt to shear through the latch on a six-foot by six-foot roof access vent. He dropped down two levels when he first heard her scream. The sound echoed off the walls of the treatment plant, freezing his blood.

There was something about a woman’s scream that unnerved him like nothing else. It always dragged him back to that night—the sound of his mother’s scream, raw with anguish, pain, and fear. It still haunted him. But this time, it was Selina, and her scream was one of triumph.

It was primal—a sound of rage and exhilaration that ripped through the darkness like the cry of a jungle cat. Raw and untamed, it reverberated through the cavernous facility. She had him, and she knew it.

Bruce reached the edge of the catwalk and peered down at them. Heavy chains wrapped around Waylon’s knees and ankles, pinning him in place. Bruce’s gaze shifted to the chain Selina had twisted around his head. The links were wrapped around her fists as she pulled with everything she had, her stiletto heel digging deeper into the muscles of his back.

Her voice hissed through the air, dripping with venom:
“Three times a day, you’ll think of me, Swamp Thing.”

Bruce understood her intent as she forced the chain into Waylon’s mouth. Three times a day—breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The grim meaning settled over him. Waylon Jones would think of her with every meal—because he’d never eat again without a straw.

Teeth scattered across the floor, rattling over the metal grates before tumbling into the sewer water below with faint plunks. Waylon’s roar of pain and rage filled the room, echoing off the barren concrete walls.

He surged forward, dragging Selina with him, but she didn’t resist. Instead, she used his momentum to her advantage, shifting her position higher. She planted her other knee on his shoulder, leveraging herself for control. She forced his lower jaw open and ruthlessly cleared his remaining teeth like kernels shucked from a cob.

Waylon thrashed wildly, his massive arms swinging as his left hand caught the chain and tore it from her grasp. Bruce moved, climbing onto the railing, ready to intervene—but he stopped as he watched Selina move with a predator’s grace.

She leapt off Waylon’s back, twisting midair into a back handspring that landed her well out of his reach.

She came to rest in a low crouch, her knees absorbing the impact. One hand planted lightly on the floor, her legs coiled like springs, ready to launch in any direction. Her head tilted as she watched Waylon struggle to his feet, her eyes locked on her prey.

For a moment, Bruce thought his heart might burst.

When she stood, it was a slow, smooth, and controlled rise, her movements deliberate. A smile curved her red lips, sharp and confident.

Waylon staggered forward, kicking loose the metal bindings as he spat out the heavy iron links of the chain, along with shattered remnants of his teeth. He spun to face her, screaming incoherently, his mind struggling to reconcile what had just been done to him—and the fact that she was the one responsible.

“You can’t do this to me!” he bellowed, his voice raw and trembling.

It occurred to Bruce that Waylon, an import from Louisiana, might not even know who this woman was, the one systematically dismantling him beneath Gotham City. She lacked her trademark goggles, and her hair was short and black, but to any Gothamite, there would be no mistaking her identity: this was the Catwoman.

As if to erase any lingering doubt, she deployed her claws. The sound of ten blades unsheathing was unmistakable, akin to the racking of a shotgun—a sound that made spines straighten and instincts scream danger. Even Bruce, armored and standing thirty-five feet above her, felt the jolt.

Waylon started toward her, then faltered, suddenly uncertain. His hulking frame hesitated as if his body was beginning to understand something his mind hadn’t caught up to: she was dangerous.

Bruce held his position, though he felt his lip curl into a sneer. I can only imagine the satisfaction Selina must feel right now. This killer, this predator who had terrorized countless women, was now the hunted. Now, he’s the one who’s afraid.

Selina circled him with the slow, predatory grace of a tiger. The dock wall was at her back, and she had deliberately left Waylon an obvious avenue of escape. Bruce could see the gears turning in the criminal’s mind as he glanced over his shoulder toward the tunnels, the possibility of retreat flickering in his bloodshot eyes.

She laughed, low and dangerous.
“Go ahead and run, you piece of shit. I want you to. I want you to know what it feels like to run for your life.”

There was none of the playful taunting Bruce had seen before, the coy temptations Selina used to lure her marks into making a mistake. This was different. She wasn’t playing anymore. She was ready to end it.

Waylon looked back at her, panting, a long line of blood and drool streaming from his ruined mouth.

Selina’s smile widened, a flash of brilliant white teeth. She ran her tongue over her perfect, unbroken smile and purred, “I want you to run Swamp Thing. Run like those women ran from you. I want you to run because I’m going to be on you before you even make it to that tunnel. And when I catch you...” She flexed her fingers, the blades of her claws glinting in the low light. “I’m going to rip you apart while you beg for your life.” Her voice was deadly. “And I’m going to laugh while I do it.”

Bruce’s legs tensed instinctively, readying for the leap that would drop him between them. She’s no damsel in distress. She’s fought this guy to a standstill. She’s earned this moment, and I want her to have it. But he couldn’t ignore the surge of protectiveness rising within him. I can’t stand by and let him lay even a single finger on her. Not one.

A green dot blinked at the periphery of his visor’s display. Blake had arrived, positioning himself on the outskirts of the scene. Making his decision, Bruce activated the commlink and whispered, “Hold position, Bat Two.”

Blake was moving toward her when he heard the message in his ear:
“Hold position, Bat Two.”

Even as he recognized the voice of his mentor, Blake kept advancing. The voice came again, calm but firm:
“Hold position, Two. She has this.”

Blake froze, his jaw tightening. If their communications were connected, Bruce was seeing exactly what he was seeing. He didn’t bother scanning the room to locate him—Bruce was here, watching and making the call.

No one needed to explain why Bruce was letting this play out. The memory surfaced unbidden: the retired officer scolding Bruce about stepping in when it wasn’t needed. She doesn’t need a caped character swooping in to save the day when the day doesn’t need saving.

Blake slipped along the dark perimeter wall, his movements careful and deliberate. He watched, fighting the mounting urge to intervene. He wanted to avenge Bethany, to face Waylon Jones himself, but it struck him like a cold truth—her vengeance was here. It had already arrived in the form of Selina Kyle.

This man, this murderer of women, deserved to face justice at the pointed claws of the Catwoman.

Blake’s stomach tightened as Selina and the Croc charged at one another, the air electric with tension. He clenched his fists and offered a silent prayer, one final hope that Bruce would not regret letting it end this way.

That bitch... standing there, threatening me... mocking me... telling me I would beg.

Everything came flooding back. My aunt’s abuse... her mocking laughter at my deformities... her hate. Her voice dripped with the same venom, the same cruelty that had haunted my childhood. The woman before me wasn’t just her—it was every bitch that had ever humiliated me, every face that had sneered at my pain. She wasn’t just mocking me; she was the reason for it all.

And she would pay the price.

Waylon charged, nearly blind with rage, his massive arms spread wide, his jaw snapping with a feral need to sink his teeth into her flesh. The jagged stubs of his broken teeth sliced into the shredded gums of his lower jaw, but the pain barely registered. Blood spurted into his mouth, the metallic taste fueling his homicidal fury.

This one… she caused it all. Her… she was the one. She was laughing at me. She made me powerless. She hurt me. She’ll pay.

His huge hands curled into hooks, swiping for her as she darted past. His head whipped downward at the flash of black streaking past his knee. He tried to kick out, but his leg buckled beneath him.

Selina had anticipated his charge before he even moved. She was already running toward him, her right arm cocked and ready, claws poised to slice. Her left hand curled protectively against her stomach, shielding the injured wrist she refused to acknowledge.

She knew this takedown had to be fast. He was too big, too strong—trying to stop him head-on would be suicide.

In the seconds before they collided, the world narrowed to crystal clarity. The pulsing ache in her wrist, the fear gripping her heart—all of it faded into the background. Her mind cleared of the white noise, and she focused entirely on the moment.

Everything I’ve been, everything I ever will be, exists in this moment.

Gordon and Stephens burst into the room just as Selina and Waylon collided. It was too dangerous to take a shot, but both officers immediately locked their weapons on Waylon, tracking his every move.

Selina dropped low and slid to the side, trapping his leg as they collided. The impact sent them tumbling, and for a moment, Gordon thought she had miscalculated. The trap collapsed, and they rolled together across the floor toward the dock doors. Waylon landed on top of her, his massive frame pinning her down.

Hidden in the shadows, Blake reached for his belt, pulling out three Batarangs. His arm was already moving to throw when he realized Selina had Waylon exactly where she wanted him.

She braced herself against the floor and kicked out with both legs, using the momentum to heave the hulking man off her. Waylon’s body slammed against the roll-up vehicle door, hitting the activation button. The motor groaned as the door began ratcheting upward. Selina’s wrist-mounted grappling hook fired in a flash, the triangle barbs striking with brutal force. One embedded into the metal door near Waylon’s hip, another drove into the surface beside his head, and the third sank deep into the meat of his left thigh.

The door continued to rise, the heavy wire lifting Waylon with it. He thrashed wildly, trying to free himself, but his long dreadlocks caught in the lift chain and began feeding into the drive cogs. The metal sprockets chewed into the thick braids, snapping and tearing them from his scalp. Waylon’s bellow of rage turned into an agonized shriek as a mass of his hair became tangled, pinning his head against the steel door. The metal cable tightened further, winding into the enormous sprockets and lashing his body securely to the rising door. Blood streaked across his fatigues as the unforgiving wire sliced through the thick fabric and into his flesh.

Selina calmly released the cable from her wrist device as it began to pull her across the floor. She remained sprawled on the damp concrete, smirking as she watched the door lift higher, the wire biting deeper into Waylon’s flesh. Ribbons of blood traced down his coat and legs as the cable cut through to his skin.

Gordon rushed forward, slamming the emergency stop button. The door jerked to a halt, leaving Waylon suspended in a grotesque tableau of agony.

Selina didn’t look surprised to see him or Stephens. She gave Gordon a tired little wave before smiling wearily at Stephens, who crouched at her side. He took stock of her condition and, finding her alive and well, shook his head in disbelief and admiration.

“You know you’re totally insane, don’t you?” he said, a faint grin tugging at his lips. “Christ almighty! Are you alright?”

Selina laid her head back on the concrete, exhaling deeply. “Never better, Jerry.”

Selina collected herself for a moment before shifting up onto her elbows. She glanced between the two men and offered a wry smile.
“I don’t mind saying I’m happy to see you guys.”

Stephens reached out, taking her offered hand and hoisting her to her feet. His eyes scanned her again for any signs of injury as he steadied her.

Gordon’s gaze shifted to the massive figure pinned against the door. He holstered his weapon, running a hand through his hair as he exhaled deeply. “You know you had some people worried about you?”

Selina looked momentarily self-conscious, “Honestly... I had me worried about me. I didn’t exactly plan things out like this, Jim.” She glanced at Stephens as he handed her the glasses and locator device. Taking them, she arched a brow at him.
“Guess she made it out okay?”

Stephens nodded, his voice quiet. “Yeah, she did. Thanks to you.”

Gordon grunted, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, we need to get word out that you’re alright—and we need to do it fast. Your boyfriend’s liable to string all three of us up right beside big boy over there.” Selina exchanged a subtle smile with Stephens before Gordon began trying his cell phone. After several failed attempts, he switched to his radio, but neither device connected. With a sigh of frustration, he knelt under the open dock door until he finally picked up a signal.

He quickly messaged Bruce and Fox: Kat is fine. Suspect in custody. Water treatment plant near Induct Eleven. Switching to his radio, Gordon called in, “Suspect in custody. Requesting first responders and an armored transport unit to induct eleven.”

Selina moved toward the furthest corridor, intending to avoid the arriving officers as the first wail of sirens echoed through the dock door. The fading adrenaline left her feeling weak and unsteady, her legs rubbery beneath her. Stephens had noticed and even offered to escort her back to her hotel. She’d refused, of course. Now, walking alone down the dark corridor, she was rethinking that decision.

She leaned heavily against the rough concrete wall, her right hand sliding along its surface to steady herself. Gordon had insisted she take his heavy mag light, and she’d tucked it awkwardly under her left arm—her injured wrist throbbed too much to support the weight. She’d curled her hand into her belt, improvising a sling to keep the wrist immobile.

The flashlight guided her through the dark tunnel until she caught a flicker of lightning reflecting off the damp walls ahead. She clicked it off immediately. There was already enough activity down here; she didn’t need to draw attention to herself.

Her feet splashed through shallow puddles, the sound blending with the rumble of traffic overhead and the distant growl of thunder. Rainwater began trickling into the tunnel, pooling and connecting the scattered puddles. The cool March air seeped into her wet clothes, chilling her to the bone. She looked down at the dark water swirling around her boots and then up at the grate above her, where droplets pattered gently down. The vibration of traffic rumbled overhead, and she sighed deeply. It was finally over.

Voices echoed faintly in the distance. She paused, tilting her head to listen, debating her next move. Glancing down the tunnel, her sigh was heavier this time. Her feet were numb, and the damp cold was settling into her muscles. Spring had yet to reach Gotham, and the night was raw and unforgiving.

The flash of lightning illuminated the walls again, followed by a loud thunderclap. She let the rain fall on her face, the water washing away the grime and blood. She listened to the steady hum of engines above, waiting for the next crash of thunder. When it came, it loosened something in her. She imagined herself in her old purple Charger, the rain dotting the windshield, wipers swiping rhythmically across the glass. The faint sound of music on the radio as she rolled out of the Bowery.

Where would I go once I left? This question hung in her mind, and her path ahead seemed suddenly uncertain.

Her eyes blinked open, scanning the tunnel around her. Water dripped steadily from the grate above, the chill of the air gnawing at her resolve. She tried to decide her next move, but her thoughts circled back to Bruce.

Now that Bruce knew she was in Gotham, he’d be pissed. There wasn’t a single place she could go where he couldn’t eventually find her. But now, she wondered if he’d even try. What if he doesn’t want to find me?

Gordon had said Bruce and Blake were on their way, but neither had shown. Maybe Bruce was that angry. That disappointed. The thought cut deeper than she wanted to admit.

The idea of returning to the manor, only for him not to come to her, felt unbearable. I’d rather disappear again than go all the way out to the Palisades and have him not show. Then what? Hide from the construction workers again in the cave, surrounded by rabid bats? Trapped in another dark pit, freezing my ass off? No thanks... I can’t go back to the Wayfarer either. Gordon and Stephens probably rolled my room. The managers there would bounce anyone, bringing the cops down on them. There’s too much shady business going on for them to let someone sloppy wreck everything. Besides, it was disgusting there anyway.

She turned her gaze critically to the grate above her. It occurred to her that climbing out of the tunnel would be a nightmare with a hurt wrist and no grappling device. It might be a long walk through the tunnels before she found another way out. “Shit,” she muttered softly, dropping her head in defeat. She planted her hand on her hip and stared dejectedly at the dark water rippling around her boots.

The weight of everything pressed down on her, and for a moment, staying right where she was seemed the best option. I just need a minute to collect my thoughts. She pressed hard against the wall behind her and slid down until her bottom rested on her boots. I’ve been so scared back there I didn’t even think about what came next. Hell, I’m still shaking. I need to calm down and think. I lived through it, and now it’s over. I need to get a damn grip on myself.

Selina shut her eyes and rested her forehead on her arm. Her mind drifted, vaguely registering that the drizzle had become a steady shower. She didn’t feel the rain. Instead, she let its comforting sound lull her as it pattered over her armored suit.

She heard the soft echo of footsteps. Her right hand flinched reflexively, reaching for a gun she no longer had. Her eyes blinked open, clearing the water from her lashes. Through the mist and rain, the hulking shadow of the Batman loomed. They stared at one another for a long moment. Selina shook her head and dropped her chin back down onto her arm. She mumbled dismissively, “You’re not real.”

She felt her weight shift as a hand shook her shoulder. She lifted her head again, finding intense green eyes searching her face from within the depths of the cowl. Selina tried to get her brain back in action and said the first thing that came to mind. “I want my gun back.” It came out in a long slur of “Iwonmygunback.”

Bruce responded with an unexpected agreement. “Yes.”

Bruce knelt beside her, slipping off his glove and touching her cheek. Alarmed by the coolness of her skin, he asked again if she was all right, but Selina didn’t respond. She shut her eyes and leaned her face into the warmth of his palm. Bruce cupped her chin and gently tilted her face up to his. “Selina, answer me. Are you hurt?”

Another slur of words followed, sounding vaguely like “I don’t think so.”

Bruce peered into her eyes, and if not for the situation, he would have sworn she was high. Her eyes were glassy; the black pupils so dilated that only a sliver of brown rimmed the edges. Gathering her closer, Bruce studied her sluggish response as she turned her head, attempting to track the movement of his hand. “You’re in shock, kitten. I need to get you out of here.”

Selina might have agreed—or maybe she didn’t. Either way, it wouldn’t have mattered. Bruce was already pulling her to her feet. He apologized when she flinched from the pressure on her left wrist, but the pain seemed to bring Selina back to her senses. She suddenly became more alert, more aware.

She swatted away his hands when she realized he was intent on carrying her. Wayne had no problem understanding her following words as she enunciated them loud and clear.

“Screw that, Bats. I’ll be damned if I’m carried out of here like a victim. If you wanna carry somebody, go sack up that scaly-looking fucker and throw him over your shoulder. I’m going out the way I came in—under my own power, on my own two feet.”

They locked eyes and reached a silent compromise: his arm around her shoulders, her arm unsteadily looped around his waist. Bruce led her down the twisting tunnel, using the tracker and fluorescent visual markers he’d deployed during his nerve-wracking race to find her.

The water rose quickly, reaching their knees and moving swiftly. Selina stumbled, but Bruce caught her before she fell. He firmly positioned her at his side. Bruce was faced with the choice of slowing down to her pace or going to war with her over the exit strategy. By the time they reached the access point, Selina was leaning heavily against him, her pace slow enough to drive Wayne clinically insane.

Holy hell, we’re both so stubborn. I don’t know how we’ve made it this far together, both of us refusing to give an inch.

Bruce was so relieved to see the opening in the tunnel that he nearly cursed aloud. As he glanced down at Selina, he noticed she wasn’t even looking up anymore. Her head was pressed against the armor plate over his heart, and she seemed barely able to place one foot in front of the other. It was just as well that she seemed unaware of her surroundings—she was in no shape to facilitate her escape, and Bruce was done placating her.

Selina felt Bruce stop and realized he had a grappling gun in his hand. Seconds later, they were airborne, and Wayne was hefting her one-handed out of the storm grate and onto the street. Selina sat numbly on the lip of the grate, her legs dangling as she tried to gather her bearings and adjust to her newly found freedom.

She felt his hands under her arms as he lifted her to her feet. Bruce kept an arm around her, pressing her firmly to his side. She tried to protest, to tell him she could walk now that the water was gone, but he ignored her. She mumbled something about him being a "pushy boy scout" and was rewarded with a growl. Truthfully, his arm was welcome support, and she willingly allowed herself to be led toward the hulking aircraft.

Selina eyed it warily as the canopy slid open and the ladder unfolded before her. This was going to be a challenge.

“Can you climb?”

Selina gave him a withering look for having the audacity to ask aloud the very question she’d been wondering to herself. He met her gaze with a look that dared her to lie. The sarcasm she was about to unleash died on her lips but played loudly in her mind. Can I climb? Really? You just asked the Catwoman if she could climb a little ol’ six-rung ladder? Bitch, please.

She shoved him away, just managing not to stagger as she walked to the ladder. She winced when her left hand grasped the steel rung. She reversed her grip and stepped up. Selina felt Bruce at her back, pressing against her as he slipped his left arm under hers, gripping the ladder securely. His position allowed her to rest her weight against his bicep with her upper arm and elbow so she didn’t have to take the pressure on her injured wrist. Alright, that was pretty nice of him.

Selina gave him an appreciative glance over her shoulder, and Bruce lifted his chin, rasping out one word. “Climb.”

Selina chuckled softly, her voice full of wry amusement. “I nearly forgot how charming you can be sometimes.”

Edit  1-10-25 GK 

Edit 10/1/20 LWH

Chapter Text

The flight in the Bat felt as unnerving to Selina as the first time she flew with Bruce. But this time, she wasn’t shaking from fear but from the cold. The chill in the cabin seeped into her bones, biting at her skin relentlessly and unyieldingly. After what felt like an eternity, Selina finally broke the silence. “It’s a meat locker back here, Bats.” Her words were slurred, tinged with frustration.

He glanced up at the display of her in the seat behind him as he adjusted the controls. A stronger current of warm air filled the rear of the compartment, but Selina still trembled, her body shaking uncontrollably by the time they landed. She had removed her gloves, pressing her chilled hands over the vents, but their heat did little to stave off the relentless cold gnawing at her.

As she tried to flex her numb fingers, she couldn’t help but be reminded of their night in the metallurgy. She bit back the urge to share that little tidbit, sensing the tension in the silence between them. Bruce didn’t seem inclined to talk; truthfully, neither did she. Every attempt to string words together failed. Her tongue felt thick and heavy in her mouth.

As they crashed through the wall of water that camouflaged the cave, Selina peered around the natural cavern, wishing she felt chipper enough to ask for a guided tour of the underground facility. The cold still gnawed at her, a constant presence that dulled her thoughts. She barely registered the sleek contours of the cave’s architecture, too distracted by the numbness in her limbs and the overwhelming fatigue that had settled over her.

Bruce landed the craft smoothly, lifting the canopy before the turbine engines began to wind down. Selina fumbled for the harness release, but her fingers were stiff from the cold. The clasp slipped through her numbed fingers, and she cursed under her breath, the words barely making it past her chattering teeth. Before she could try again, Bruce released it for her. She let her annoyance show in a sharp exhale. “I had it,” she muttered. She wasn’t sure whether she was more irritated with herself or with him, but she didn’t have the energy to argue.

That seemed to be the last of Selina Kyle’s attitude that Bruce was willing to tolerate. With a swift motion, he pulled her bodily from her seat, the abruptness of it startling her. “Stop talking,” he ordered, his voice low and stern.

She glowered at him. Screw it. I didn’t feel like talking anyway.

Bruce silenced further protests with a growl, dismissing any mention of how they would exit the plane. “Hold on,” he muttered tersely before launching them from the aircraft.

Her body was slow to respond, numbness clouding her senses, but despite the mental fog, instinct kicked in. She hooked her left leg over his thigh and grasped onto him as the cape deployed, the wind howling around them.

Bruce guided them effortlessly through the cave, soaring above the expanse of water surrounding the landing pad. He landed smoothly beside the control center despite supporting her in his arms. Selina, eager for solid ground beneath her, released him. But her booted feet remained suspended several inches above the ground as Bruce kept her pressed firmly against him, unwilling to let go.

She heard a door slide open behind them and realized, with a sharp flicker of irritation, that she had missed a room during her earlier recon of the cave. She twisted her head, glancing over her shoulder as Bruce carried her up a small flight of stairs. She hadn't minded the express route down from the Bat—climbing down frankly sounded worse—but this? She didn't need to be treated like an invalid. Kicking her legs, she pushed against him with her uninjured hand, her frustration bubbling to the surface. “Let me down, tough guy.”

Wayne didn’t acknowledge her demand. He kept walking, his jaw clenched tightly. She could feel the tension in every muscle of his body. He was radiating frustration. His silence only made things worse.

I am not in the mood for this macho bullshit. I had a rough night, and my week’s been hell. I feel like crap, and I hate being carried. The sensation made her feel small, insignificant... powerless. That only fed the simmering anger in her gut, and she used it to focus her energy. She pushed harder against his chest, nearly breaking free from his hold.

But before she could fully move, Bruce spun around, pressing her roughly against the cold rock wall. “Stop, Selina… Stop right now. I’m barely staying hooked up as it is.”

She met his fierce gaze with one of her own, the shared fury palpable between them. Now we’re both pissed. Her voice was a low growl, barely above a whisper. “I’m serious, Bruce. Let me down.”

There was a pregnant pause as they faced off, the tension crackling between them like static. Selina could feel his warm breath against her face and, without warning, the searing heat of his lips covering hers. The world seemed to narrow around her as her mind briefly stuttered—until she became sharply aware of how cold she was. His warm mouth was firm and insistent; even the metal of his cowl felt warm against her cheek.

In those fleeting moments, something changed. The fight drained from her, leaving her clinging to him, her body instinctively yearning for more—more warmth, more of him. She longed to feel his skin against hers, to close the distance between them. Without thought, her fingers reached for his cowl, intent on removing it, but he caught her wrist with his gloved hand. “Careful of the safeguards, kitten,” he murmured, the reminder.

At some point, Bruce must have started walking again because the next thing she knew, they passed through a hidden door in a rock wall. Confused, she looked around, trying to understand where he had taken them. She was startled when the cowl clanked onto the rock floor. Without explanation, he began to kiss her again.

Wayne’s face was impossibly warm, his skin a welcome contrast to the cold that still clung to her. Selina pressed closer, the heat of his body engulfing her as she nuzzled into the soft spot between his ear and jaw, where the warmth radiated out in waves. His ungloved hand found the nape of her neck, his fingers holding her steady, and there was a quiet assurance in his touch. She mumbled her approval, her lips against his skin. He shifted his grip and, with his teeth, pulled off his other glove, carelessly letting it fall to the floor. His now bare hand immediately came up, cupping her cheek with its heat. “You’re frozen, kitten,” his voice rumbled deep in his chest.

She felt a shiver wrack through her, but it had nothing to do with the temperature. It was him—his closeness, his touch. It was enough to make her forget the cold entirely. She didn’t care she was being carried; nothing else mattered except getting closer to him. The sound of water began to echo off the rock walls around them, and she thought of the waterfall protecting the cave entrance. She squirmed in his arms again, trying to find purchase on the ground beneath her feet.

His hand cupped her bottom, holding her securely against his body. Usually, Selina would argue any point and engage Bruce in a fight just for the sport of it. But not now. She wasn’t in the mood for any dispute. Carry me if you want to, Wayne, she thought, her mind fogged with exhaustion and the cold. Grab my frozen ass if it makes you happy. She was sure she’d enjoy the attention if she weren't completely numb.

The sound of the falling water grew louder. Still unsure of its source, she braced herself, expecting the sharp bite of the freezing water as Bruce walked them, fully armored, under the spray. It took her a moment to register that the water cascading over them was warm. Mist swirled in the air, curling around them as Bruce stood holding her, his body a steady anchor. The warmth of the water mingled with the heat of his body, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Selina felt her muscles start to relax. Steam rose from the rocks surrounding them, diffusing in the humid air, and for a fleeting moment, everything felt right. Safe. Like nothing else mattered in the world but the quiet intimacy between them.

His mouth found hers again, and Selina returned his urgent kiss. She realized from the feel of his face and hands and the searing burn of his kiss that the shower was solely for her benefit. He radiated heat like a furnace beneath the suit, the warmth of his body seeping through the layers of fabric and metal. Selina reveled in the sensation, her fingers finally beginning to thaw. She wrapped her hand around the back of his neck, feeling the strength and warmth there, savoring the return of sensation to her numb fingers. The intimacy of the moment was undeniable. Her fingers tangled in the dark perfection of Bruce Wayne’s hair, and she pulled him closer as if touching him would steady her.

He responded with a low hum of approval, a sound that rumbled deep in his chest, and she felt it reverberate through her as she pressed herself against him.

The heady mix of passion and the night's events left Selina's mind swimming. As he broke away from her lips, his voice was a low murmur, but she didn't understand what he said. Confusion gripped her, and she looked around, trying to anchor herself. She realized how disconnected she felt. Bruce might have been right—maybe I am in shock. She tried to recall escaping the tunnel, but her memory was fragmented, like flashes of a fading dream... I remember him lifting me out of the tunnels, but everything before that felt hazy. A fog was wrapping her thoughts. Memory impairment... Isn’t that a symptom of shock? I can't remember... The irony hit her, and she couldn't help but laugh, though the sound was brittle. It had a manic edge, ricocheting off the cave walls, the echo twisting in a way that made their entire situation feel far less humorous and far more unsettling.

She pressed her body tighter against him, no longer seeking warmth but instead reassurance, as she tried to stop the world from spinning out of control. Her cheek rested against his, but she wanted to draw herself even closer, trying to anchor herself in the chaos in her mind.

His gravelly voice filtered into her ear, clear, reassuring her in a way nothing else could. “I have you, Selina. You are safe now.”

For a fleeting moment, she nearly fought against the warmth he offered, the security. But she couldn’t bring herself to—not now. Her body responded to him without hesitation, pulling him closer. She buried her face into the crook of his neck, letting the heat from his body bleed into her frozen skin.

A soft whimper escaped her throat, and she could feel her control slipping. Damn, if that doesn’t piss me off, she thought. She fought to lock down her emotions, knowing that losing control now would only reaffirm that she couldn’t handle herself. Falling apart wasn’t an option. She broke away from his kiss and pushed against the insignia emblazoned across his chest. "Put me down, Bruce."

His hands gripped her firmly, holding her still. Despite the heavy armor covering him, she could feel his chest's steady rise and fall beneath her hand. "Please... not yet." Bruce’s quiet request had Selina searching his face, her breath catching at the raw emotion visible even in the dim light of the room. He wasn’t exaggerating when he said he was barely hanging on—he was wrecked. He looked torn and vulnerable, and it was then that Selina understood. This was as much for him as it was for me.

She relaxed her arm, letting him pull her closer, her forehead pressing against his. They stayed that way for a long while—nose to nose, her hand fisted in his hair, her legs wrapped around his thighs, his arms grounding her to him. In the stillness, she whispered that she loved him and was sorry, and then he did tell her to shut up.

He told her to shut up and not talk—just to let him hold her. He whispered that he needed her to be real-that this couldn’t be just another dream, and at that moment, Selina knew she hadn’t been the only one haunted by their separation. The vulnerability in his gaze shattered any illusions she’d had of hiding how she felt—or of being anything other than honest about how much she needed him.. how much she loved him. He deserved better than that from her.

He kissed her with desperation, his hands roaming over her slender sides as he repeatedly asked if she was all right. She nodded, assuring him she was fine. She told him Fox’s armor had held, and she felt his shoulders sag with relief as he buried his face in the hollow of her neck. She held him close, understanding that she hadn’t been the only one terrified by the night’s events.

“If anything had happened to you, kitten…”

He flexed, and even through the protection of her suit and the numbness in her skin, Selina felt the power in his hands. Gently, he shifted and lowered her onto the ground. She found herself sitting on a fine metal grating, her mind still foggy as she looked up at him, confused by why he was pulling away. When the flash of the metal Batarang in his hand registered, she flinched instinctively. But Bruce persisted, gently gathering her injured arm at the elbow. Trusting his intent, she relinquished her arm. With detached curiosity, she watched as he sliced the sleeve of her uniform from shoulder to hand. Damn, Fox is going to get tired of replacing suits for me, she thought absently.

Bruce inspected her wrist, which was bruised and swollen. Selina tried to reassure him, but the words came out slurred. “Don'...worry...mmfine.”

His eyes snapped back to hers, and his concern was evident in the furrow of his brow. Selina was self-aware enough to know that speaking was hurting her case, so she fell silent, resigning herself to quiet observation as Bruce continued his inspection. She rested her chin on the armored bulge of his knee, closing her eyes for a moment of peace.

Eventually, Bruce lifted her face and kissed her lightly before pushing the suit off her other shoulder. The warm water helped the fabric slide, and he had little trouble freeing her upper body from the suit’s confines. His eyes scanned her skin as if assuring himself of her condition. Selina watched him, and in that moment, it struck her how much she loved him. She pulled his face to hers, wanting to prove to him that she was all right, that everything was as it should be. Bruce kissed her again, but it was a distraction more than anything else. Before she realized it, he had slid the suit over her hips and down to her knees. He broke away abruptly, refocusing his attention on removing her boots.

Selina seriously considered slapping him right then for acting like such a robot. Fucking droid. I’m numb from cold, hardly know which way is up after my run-in with the lizard king, and I’m still willing to forgo everything else for a romp with him in this bat-infested cave. What does that say about me? She shot Bruce a reproachful look, though he never saw it—his attention was entirely on her boots. I guess, if anything, it proves I was missing our sex life more than he was... jerk.

The catch on her right boot stuck, and Bruce snapped it with an impatient flick of his wrist. Selina barely registered the action, her mind lingering on the mild regret—another thing for Fox to replace. Oh well, she thought, the stench of the sewers will never come out of the suit anyway. It’s a lost cause.

Speaking of lost causes... Her hand went up to her head, fingers working beneath the wig she wore, prying it free from the glue line as Bruce continued divesting her of her boots. She pulled it off, the disgusting hairpiece now a tangled mess. She tossed it aside, where it landed in a wet heap, the dark strands of hair hanging between the mesh of the drain. She tried not to think about how it reminded her of the women in the sewers—dead, lifeless hair floating in the black water.

Her stomach twisted, and her eyes stung with the threat of tears. How many had there been... a dozen? More? The weight of it all hit her suddenly. She was grateful for Bruce’s single-minded determination; she needed all the remnants of tonight gone. The grime, the blood, the stench of death—it was suddenly overwhelming.

Selina forced her mind away from the memories, focusing instead on undoing her braids with one hand. Her left hand curled protectively over her stomach as she fumbled with the twists that held her long hair in place. She tried to concentrate, pushing away thoughts of the Bowery.

I can almost smell the shampoo... feel my fingernails working the soap into my scalp...

But the soothing fantasy was abruptly cut off when she felt Bruce tug off the last of her boots. Startled, she blinked up at him, momentarily yanked out of her daydream. She watched as his hands moved over her bare legs. The touch was lost on her—her senses dulled by numbness—and what should have been comforting felt coldly clinical. She knew what he was doing: scanning her for cuts, scrapes, bites, bruises—his detachment made it clear he didn’t care she was nearly naked or that it had been months since they'd seen each other.

He’s in droid mode, she thought bitterly. Too busy playing detective doctor to notice I’m a person, not just a case to solve. Her frustration bubbled up, and she returned her attention to her hair, yanking at the stubborn strands. It was probably for the best that she was numb—her tender scalp would have made the task more painful if she weren’t.

Finally, when Bruce seemed satisfied that she wasn’t hiding any injuries, he shifted his focus back to her face. His lips twitched, his gaze lingering on her hair, half undone and hanging wet and limp across her face.

“There’s my beautiful Selina,” he murmured.

She growled out a response that wasn’t words—words were failing her tonight anyway. Bruce brushed the strands of hair behind her ear, and with muted surprise, Selina realized that he was finally letting himself look at her... see her. His eyes traced over her face, lingering on the faux tattoos adorning her ear and neck before dipping down to her lips, then drifting lower to her chest. It wasn’t the same cold, clinical scrutiny from earlier. This was different. His gaze softened as if taking her in fully, all at once, and something inside her tightened with the intensity of it.

Bruce favored her with a slight smirk before, with a quick flick of his hand, severing the lace covering her breasts with the blade of his Batarang. His hands moved lower, and with ease, he hooked the band of her panties, slicing it from hip to waist. He did the same on the other side and pulled the fabric away. As he did, she saw the effect she had on him.

A man shouldn’t look at a woman like that and expect me just to lay back and take it. Selina gave up on her hair, grabbed the front of his suit, and tugged him toward her. He grasped her hand, stilling her, then gently freed himself. Before standing, he kissed the back of her hand, then the tip of her nose.

Abandoned, Selina watched him step away and quickly remove his soaked armor. "Droid," she muttered under her breath, her frustration rising as she returned to her one-handed attempt to loosen her hair from its tight braids.

Her fingers stalled as she watched him pull loose from the armored bat suit. Jesus Christ, he is gorgeous. The weeks without me had treated him well; he put on a good fifteen pounds since I last saw him. His chest and abdomen are full and defined. I would not have thought it possible, but his shoulders look broader, his muscled thighs thicker. She felt a heavy tug in her core as she admired the raw masculinity of Bruce Wayne, soaking wet and gloriously nude.

He kicked the black lump of his uniform aside and returned to her. His hand cupped her face, and Selina was only vaguely aware of his other hand in her hair, undoing the final stubborn braid. Her fingers gently caressed his bicep. He stilled immediately, his eyes locking onto hers as her hand continued to explore, tentatively touching his shoulder.

She did not let his tense reaction deter her. She had seen him naked and droid- mode or not, it was evident from the state of his body that he wanted her as much as she wanted him. She did not intend to wait any longer, but he abruptly pulled away again.

She swore aloud this time, ensuring he was fully aware of her discontent. Just as she decided storming away was the answer, he returned, bottle in hand. Shampoo. She didn’t care that he was smirking as he worked the soap into her hair. It felt so good as his fingers massaged the soap through her hair that she willingly accepted this as a consolation prize.  At this moment, she would have forgiven him anything.

He took longer than was necessary, inspired by her throaty groans of pleasure. She took advantage of his proximity and slid herself against his body. She wrapped her legs around his waist and curled her arms over his shoulders. The feeling was intoxicating. She held on to him, and when he finally finished washing her hair and circled his arms around her, she realized how alone she had been without him.

They must have been in the shower for quite a while. Selina realized this as she glanced down at the pruned, wrinkled skin on her fingertips. Taking stock of her condition, she noticed that the shaking had finally stopped. She then became aware that they were still on the shower floor, a tangled mess of limbs, arms, and legs wrapped tightly around each other. Her head rested on his shoulder, and his arms locked around her.

For a moment, she wondered if she had lost consciousness. Maybe she'd taken a hit to the head and hadn’t realized. She tried to gather her thoughts, remembering only vaguely the sensation of Bruce rinsing her hair and soaping her body. She wasn’t entirely sure she hadn’t imagined it all. Her focus shifted back to the tactile, and she ran her hand over his shoulder and down his chest. Wet-scarred skin over hard muscle, a light dusting of coarse hair under her fingertips. This is real—he is real.

Lifting her head, she met Bruce’s eyes, noting their intense alertness as they searched hers.

“Bruce... am I alright?”

His jaw flexed, and for a moment, he looked like he was struggling with how to answer what she thought was a simple question. He kissed her forehead softly. “You’ve been through a lot tonight, kitten.”

She dropped her head back to rest against the muscular swell of his deltoid. His arm flexed, and she was glad the numbness had left her limbs so she could feel his hands on her skin as he stroked her back. She felt his chest rumble against hers as he quietly asked, “Are you warm enough?”

She nodded and immediately wished she hadn’t when he shifted away from her and stood. He gently helped her to her feet and then lifted her again. Her sound of discontent at the disruption of their moment of intimacy quickly turned into a hum of approval as she wrapped herself back around him. He guided her arms over his shoulders, encouraging her to circle her legs around his waist.

Selina’s easy acceptance registered with him, and he whispered into her ear, “I take it that we’re not going to fight about me carrying you this time, then, mauvaise fille?”

She grumbled a rude response into the damp, warm skin of his neck and tightened her legs around his waist. Bruce draped a thick towel over her, ensuring she was covered from head to toe before adjusting his grip to pin the cloth securely around her. The towel held the warmth of the shower against her skin, shielding her core from the cool blast of air as he carried her through the cave. She could feel the muscular swell of his glutes flexing under her calves and, with amusement, realized he hadn’t bothered with a towel for himself.

Bruce walked them to the lift, and Selina couldn’t help but smile. Alfred would not approve of you walking bare-assed through the manor... this isn’t the YMCA, Master Wayne...

Her chin rested on his shoulder as he moved, and she looked around at the operation he’d set up beneath his family home. Selina had uncovered this little Wayne house secret on her fourth night at the manor.

A breeze fluttered the freshly hung curtains in the private library, and when Selina moved to close the window, she found it locked shut. Her curiosity piqued, she looked around, noting that the room had been one of the first to be completed. That meant it was important. If it mattered to Alfred, then by extension, it mattered to Bruce. And if it mattered to Bruce, it was likely tied to the Batman.

She lit a candle, its tiny flame flickering erratically in the stillness of the room. As the flame danced, it bent and wavered in response to an unseen breeze. Her eyes narrowed as she followed the flame's movement until it revealed the source of the draft. Her fingers traced the edges of a hidden passage, and she began her search. Soon, she found the release mechanism cleverly concealed in the piano.

Kneeling beneath it, Selina located the trigger wired to a series of keys. Testing them individually, she pressed various combinations, finally triggering the off-key notes that sprang the latch. This puzzle was designed to be nearly impossible to solve by accident but easy enough for the right person to activate.

The rest of the evening was spent exploring the cave beneath the mansion, and Selina had to admit—Bruce had created something impressive down there. It made her wonder: did Gordon know any of this? Did he understand how much it meant for Bruce to have his childhood home back? She doubted it. Bruce would never share that with him, and Gordon, in turn, would never ask. That’s just how they were—each living in their world, playing their part. Damn, Bruce Wayne... you are something.

Selina lifted her head from Bruce’s shoulder and kissed the hard line of his jaw. He turned toward her, whispering, “Almost there, kitten.”

 “I love you, Bruce.”She whispered,

He growled in response, “That’s not going to help your cause with me. You are in deep trouble... deep, damn trouble, mauvaise fille.” Selina sighed, resigning herself to the consequences of her deception. Hope sparked in her heart despite the reprimand when she heard him rumble softly, “Petite sorcière.”

Selina allowed herself a small smile. Being called a little witch didn’t seem so bad, especially when it was clear he loved her—despite it... and maybe, just maybe, a little bit because of it. She threaded her fingers through his dark, wet hair as he walked them through the shadowy halls of Wayne Manor. Her eyes roamed over the familiar sights, and she felt the weight of the moment—the master of the house moving confidently toward his room, a location he seemed to be sure of... When his pace didn't falter, she couldn’t help but ask, “Did you like it?”

She felt his arms tighten around her, his whisper brushing against her ear, thick with emotion. “I loved it, Selina. It took me apart... you knew it would.”

She pressed her lips against the warmth of his neck, feeling his strong, steady pulse. “I just wanted you to think of me... to remember our time together.”

 “I did. Believe me, I did.”

Selina spoke, her lips grazing his skin. “I came here as often as I could. Being here... it made me feel closer to you.” She swallowed the knot in her throat, letting her vulnerability spill out. “I wanted you to figure it out. I wanted you to come here looking for me. It killed me to be away from you for so long.”

He held her even tighter, his pace quickening as he climbed the stairs two at a time, the rhythm of his movements steady and grounding. “I did come for you, Selina. I’m just an idiot, and it took me longer than it should have to figure things out.” His hand squeezed her bottom, a teasing note in his voice as he added, “In my defense, you’re a tricky little witch.” His lips brushed her ear, warm and tender. “I’m sorry it took me this long. I’m sorry you were out there, in this damn city, all this time without me knowing.”

Selina felt his chest expand with a deep breath, and his voice dropped lower, raw with regret. “I almost can’t forgive you for that, kitten. That you’d put yourself at risk like you did. You can’t do things like this anymore. Do you hear me?”

His voice was raw, and Selina understood the depth of his pain; she felt the weight of his fear. "I know it was wrong," she murmured, her words thick with regret. "I just... I couldn't. It was unbearable to be in Italy knowing you were here." She turned her face away from him as she spoke, her voice growing smaller. "I knew you didn’t want me here, that I would interfere with what you were planning with Blake... I didn’t want that, but I couldn’t stay away." Her voice faltered as she realized no explanation would be enough to ease his anger. So, she dropped her head back onto his shoulder, pressing herself harder against his chest, seeking solace in his embrace.

Bruce felt her grip tight around him, and the mix of emotions he couldn’t make sense of twisted in his chest. She was afraid—afraid of how he would react. He couldn’t blame her. Hell, he didn’t even know what he was feeling. It was like trying to hold onto something slipping through his fingers. He paused at the top of the stairs, still holding her close, “No more of this, Selina,” his voice was low but firm. “No more lying to each other. No more games... ever.”

He looked down at her, seeing the fear in her eyes, and it hit him like a punch to the gut. She was scared—not just of what had happened tonight, but of what he might do next. He started walking again, his footsteps heavy as he set the terms that had to change. “Selina, I can’t have a repeat of this. Tonight... you going down there by yourself, not knowing if you were alright. I can’t handle it.”

Pausing at the door to their bedroom, he braced his hand against the rough wood. A breath escaped him, trying to steady himself, to force out the words that didn’t want to come. “I meant it when I said you’d never face another monster alone... and then you went down there without me. What were you trying to prove? Taking him on like that…” His voice cracked, and he stopped, struggling to finish. “He could have—”

Before he could continue, she silenced him with a kiss, her cool lips pressing against his, and everything else seemed to fade away. But he pulled her away, physically this time, his frustration rising again. He couldn’t let himself be distracted. “Dammit, I’m being serious, Selina. Listen to me.”

She pulled back, her voice soft but challenging. “I am,” she said, attempting to kiss him again. “I’m listening. I didn’t want to be down there by myself. You were all I could think of... I activated the locator because I needed you there.”

Bruce pulled her arm from around his neck and locked eyes with her, the heat rising in his chest. “What if you hadn’t been able to handle him? What if he’d gotten you down, and I couldn’t make it in time? It’s hard enough for me when we go into things together—”

Her lips were on his again, cutting him off, stealing the words from his mouth. He kissed her back desperately, everything he’d been feeling—the fear, frustration, love—pouring out in that kiss. He pulled her closer, trying to make her understand, showing her what he couldn’t express in words. But even in the intensity of that moment, his mind was racing, overwhelmed with everything. “Stop, Selina...”

The command was just as much for him as it was for her. He needed to control himself- to focus. If he let his emotions free, he knew he wouldn’t be able to get through to her the way he needed. But that kiss... it was everything. Every part of him wanted more, and yet, in that moment, he needed her to hear him. With her hand fisted in his hair and her legs clamped around his waist, his brain was frying. “Stop. Selina... now stop.” The order was mumbled, but she did everything but stop.

She pulled him closer, and he turned his head away in frustration. Her teeth nipped at his ear, sending sparks of desire down his spine. He whispered hoarsely, “He was a fucking animal, Selina. The things he did... he w—”

She jerked his chin toward her, and her eyes bore into his. “Stop imagining all the bad things that didn’t happen, Bruce. I am here. You are here. We are both safe. Don’t waste time with that. Haven’t we wasted enough time already?”

He smoothed back a drying curl from her forehead and shook his head. “So, you think that’s it? You lied and snuck around, hid yourself from me, led Gordon and me around the Bowery like children on a scavenger hunt. Then tonight, you almost got yourself killed... and what? We are just going to screw, and it would be like none of it ever happened? I am just supposed to forget it all and forgive you?”

Selina cocked her head, the light shining brightly in her eyes. “Yeah. Yes. That. Just like that.” She looked at him longingly, hope shining in her gaze. “You forgive me, and I’ll forgive you.”

"You'll forgive me?" He repeated incredulously.  “Witch...” The curse rumbled through his chest as he laid her down on their bed and lost himself in her kiss.

 The feel of her breasts pressing against his chest had him achingly hard. He only came back to himself when he felt her tremble. He pulled the duvet over them and covered her with the warmth of his body. As he looked at the familiar cover as it brushed against her cheek, he realized it was him who was shaking. The thought of how close he came to losing her was crushing him.  “Don’t lie to me again, Selina.” He pressed his lips against hers. His teeth grazed her lower lip. She moaned softly, and he felt himself losing his grasp on rational thought. She is playing me...wrapping me up in the memories of Europe, stealing away my anger... drowning me in emotion. “Witch... sneaky witch..."

Bruce felt her nails dig into his back, the desperation in her touch. He could hear the fear in her voice, and it rocked him. What Selina had felt in Italy was not protection; it was abandonment. He held her tighter, giving her the reassurance she needed.

"Never again, Selina," he muttered, his voice firm but soft. "I'm never doing something foolish like that again."

She looked up at him, and the haunted look in her eyes struck him like a blow to the chest. It was more than he could bear. He pulled her under his chin, rolling to his side so his weight was off her but still keeping her close. She nuzzled against him, and he palmed her head gently.

"It’s done now, Selina," he said quietly, pressing her head to his chest. "We’re both back where we belong."

He heard the exhaustion and defeat in her voice as she spoke. "I screwed up, Bruce. You’re right. I shouldn’t have gone after him... He was too much... When I saw him, I just froze... I was so afraid, Bruce... I heard my father’s voice, and it was like I was that powerless kid all over again. I almost... couldn’t make myself face him. That woman... she could have died because of me."

Her voice was barely a whisper, and Bruce could sense the shame she carried in the weight of her confession. She was ashamed of the fear that had gripped her in the darkness under the city. Bruce tightened his hold on her, his mind racing as he tried to imagine the courage it had taken for her to do what she did to save that woman.

What had it taken for her to face down a man like Waylon Jones? The answer was simple. It was the same courage she had shown when she faced the mobsters at the marina, the same strength it took to survive her father’s abuse. It was courage, plain and simple.

"I know you were scared, Selina," Bruce whispered, his voice raspy. "You handled yourself down there..." He pressed her tightly against him, feeling her heartbeat steady against his chest. "I’m proud of you.  Your strength.. your ability... of your courage."

 "Courage..." she scoffed, nearly choking on the word.

Bruce pulled back just enough to look down at her. He caressed her chin with his thumb, tracing the ridge of her jaw as he confirmed his thoughts. "Courage," he repeated softly. He gazed into her eyes, seeing the raw emotion there, before he spoke again, his voice steady but filled with conviction. "Courage is not the absence of fear, Selina. It’s the willingness to act despite it. That woman is alive tonight because of you. Because you had the courage to do what had to be done."

Selina looked up at him with liquid eyes, her voice barely a whisper. "How angry are you that I came back to Gotham?"

"Furious," he answered in a whisper, his lips brushing hers gently before he kissed her forehead. As her eyes closed, a tear escaped, and he kissed its salty path to the hairline of her temple.

"You’re safe now, kitten," he murmured, holding her close. "Just rest. I’ve got you tonight."

Bruce felt her body relax as the tension and fear melted away. He realized how far they had come. Selina Kyle trusted him... she loved him.

For Selina, love and trust had never been mutually exclusive. It had taken everything to help her see that he could be trusted with the truth of her past and still accept her for who she was. It had taken time to show her he loved her—not despite her experiences, but because of them. Those experiences had shaped her into the woman he held in his arms now.

As he listened to her recount the horror of facing Jones, he saw her most vulnerable. She had laid herself bare, sharing the crippling fear she had felt, and Bruce was overwhelmed by the intimacy she offered him. She exposed the woman beneath the hardened armor of the Cat, showing him everything she had been through.

It occurred to Bruce then that Selina didn’t fully understand where her strength lay. It wasn’t the Catwoman, clad in Wayne Tech, that had stood against Killer Croc; it was the little brown-haired girl from the wrong side of Gotham who had faced him tonight. The courage she showed that night came from that little girl who had learned to stand up against men like Jones. Her father’s voice had been a reminder of that strength—the courage she had within herself.

As he held her, he could see that she was offering him more than he ever could have asked for in a lifetime. She was letting her façade fall, choosing to find shelter in his arms, and it humbled him. He kissed her brow softly, pulling the cover higher over her shoulder as she settled deeper into his embrace.

He wished he could say that she drew strength from him, but the truth was that Bruce drew strength from her. As he listened to her words, his eyes burned with unshed tears. She had taken him below Gotham City, sharing the pain and fear she had endured.

She looked up at him with watery brown eyes. "All I could think of," she said softly, "was that I had failed you. That I cost us our life together... and I had failed... failed to find the Joker... I was going to die knowing he was still out there and that you would be facing him without me."

Bruce silenced her with a kiss that stopped the flood of worry and what-ifs. He soothed her with the gentle caress of his lips, waiting for her to show him what she needed. His mind raced as he tried to process everything that had happened. He was still upset with her deception, but he couldn’t be angry that she had returned to Gotham. She came back to protect him, to protect them. To make sure they didn’t lose what they had together.

But then she had gotten caught up in the Bowery. And when faced with a choice, she couldn’t just stand on the sidelines. Bruce understood that part—he understood that drive. The same drive that pushed him to save Gotham, the same drive that had driven her to return and fight.

He realized then that preserving their love was paramount, but they both had to be true to themselves. Bruce was Batman, and Selina was Catwoman, whether she accepted it or not. They both had codes and responsibilities and would have to figure out how to balance them with their love for one another.

There was one thing Bruce knew for certain: they belonged together. And denying that truth any further wasn’t something he was prepared to do. Selina Kyle was back in Gotham to stay, and he had to get on board with that. He gently broke away from her lips, whispering against her cheek, "Bienvenue à la maison. Je t’aime, petite sorcière."

She met his gaze, her soft chocolate eyes filled with emotion. ""Bruce, je t’aime. Je veux être avec toi pour toujours."

• “Mauvaise fille” – bad girl
• Accueillir à la maison – welcome home
• “Je t’aime petite sorcière.” – I love you little witch
• “Je t’aime” – I love you
• “Je veux être avec vous pour toujours” – I want to be with you always

Edit Update 1-13-25 GK

Edit Update 10/1/20
LWH

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Chapter Text

Selina crept stealthily to their bedroom door, balancing lightly on the balls of her feet. She had slipped on a short robe from her closet; the rich burgundy silk color matched the shade of her engagement ring almost perfectly. She had been lying across Bruce’s chest, nearly asleep, when she heard his low voice rumble, “Selina... where is your ring?”

She had lifted her head, giving him a sleepy smile. “Safe.”

His eyes were on her injured hand, which lay cradled against his stomach as he gently stroked her back. “I asked where it was, not how it was.”

Selina nudged him with her knee and pointed beside the bed. “It’s safe... in the safe.”

Bruce retrieved the ring immediately from its secure storage. Rather than disturb her, he dutifully accepted her directions to disarm the security measures as she remained curled in bed. Bruce was properly impressed with the design of the new security. The safe was in the wall by Selina’s nightstand, camouflaged so well that he had never noticed its presence. It wouldn’t have helped him even if he had discovered it during the initial search of the room, as the opening was arduous and complex. Any attempt to open it would have failed without Selina’s instruction. However, the reward for the effort in disarming it now was substantial. The contents included his mother’s necklace, the pearl earrings he had given Selina for Christmas, and the object that had kicked off his quest initially—Selina Kyle’s engagement ring.

Bruce thought about the limited inventory of the safe for a moment. Selina had several jewels that eclipsed the value of the earrings and even the pearls, but none benefitted from the protection of the safe. The why was simple—these pieces mattered to her. Their intrinsic worth wasn’t based on the exchange rates of metal and gem but on the emotions tied to them. Bruce tried not to let the transparency of her love affect him, but he failed. It was clear that she guarded what was of value to her, and it was these things she chose to shield from loss.

Bruce ran his hand over the pearls before settling on the ring. He slipped it on the tip of his right index finger, marveling again at the small diameter of the band. He stood and pushed the heavy door shut with his foot. Staring down at the ring, he walked over to where Selina lay draped over their pillows. He shook his head in disapproval as he sat beside her.

“When I gave this to you, Selina, I expected it to be kept on your finger, not in a safe.”

He glanced back at the wall that held the jewels and smirked. “No matter how secure that safe might be.”

Selina remained silent, but Bruce didn’t miss the contrite look on her face as her hand covered his, and they both looked down at the symbol of their commitment to one another.

“I couldn’t chance wearing it down in the Bowery. The risk of losing it was too great.” Her eyes never left the stone as she spoke. “I wore it the first few times I went in, even though I knew I shouldn’t.” Her voice sounded almost apologetic as she explained her reasoning. “I didn’t feel right taking it off.”

Bruce heard the emotion in her voice. “I tried turning the stone down into my palm, but it still drew attention.”

Bruce looked at her, his lip twitching as he rolled the band between his finger and thumb. “Someone tried to steal it from you, then?” He lifted his chin. “How’d that work out for him?”

Selina smirked at him, then yawned before looking back down at the ring. “How do you think?”

He lifted her right hand and slipped it onto her third finger. “I suppose this will have to suffice until the swelling goes down and it can be returned to its proper place on your left hand.”

Selina pulled back the comforter and slid back, making room for him. "How about you get back in your proper place?"

The suggestion made him smile as he slid back under the covers with her, wrapping her in his arms. She slipped her leg over him, pulling him close as she settled into his body.

Bruce held her for a long time, listening to her soft sleep sounds. He felt her tense, and his arms tightened, rousing her from her dream. She woke, squirming closer to him, her hand running across his chest as her lips kissed his jaw. She murmured that she wanted him, but he quickly captured her hand before it could slide lower down his stomach. Her sleepy grumble of disapproval made him smile. It was everything he had to remain reserved, not letting her entice him into action. Only the emotion of the evening had kept him from it. Whether she would admit it or not, what had transpired there affected her. Selina had dropped her hard front for him, and she was still fragile. He saw it in her eyes.

He inhaled deeply as his arm wrapped over her shoulder, his eyes roaming the dark expanse of the bedroom. Moments like this made him fear the rising emotion inside himself. He felt dangerously possessive of her. It was primal and sexist, and he was intelligent enough to recognize it for what it was, yet he seemed unable to overcome it. Instead, he lay awake, vigilant and watchful, calmly holding her while inside; he was in turmoil, spoiling for a fight. He could argue that it wasn’t his male pride demanding redemption, but that would be a lie. It had taken more out of him than he realized to stand by and watch her take on Waylon Jones alone. His jaw ground, and he had to force his arms not to tighten against her as she slept. He almost wished someone would walk through those doors so he could release the emotion trapped inside him.

 He became acutely aware of the soft swell of her breast pressing against his chest and had to force back thoughts of the other act that would offer him a similar release. Selina Kyle, you have me reduced to a Neanderthal. It’s a good thing that you can’t read my thoughts, or you’d label me a chauvinistic bastard and likely take it upon yourself to slap the machismo right out of me.

He stroked her hair with a shaky hand as he fought back the terrible need twisting inside him. It was a battle, but he knew his mind would eventually prevail over his body. His desire, no matter how great, was trumped by his obsessive need to protect the woman he loved. He wouldn’t allow himself to act on his desires, or even hers until he was sure she was ready.

I want her to feel safe. If not anywhere else, I want her to feel safe lying beside me. I want her to find the protection she needs in me... her shelter in me.

His chest rose and fell with effort as he regained control. He wouldn’t allow anything to compromise the vulnerability she had shown him tonight. Selina’s trust was a valuable, delicate thing; he had worked hard to earn it, and now, he found himself guarding it zealously.

Bruce finally felt the tension subsiding in his muscles as he relaxed further into the pillows beneath his shoulders. He felt grateful for his life of discipline and the strength it had given him. Strength to be the man Selina needed tonight. His practiced patience would carry him through until she was stronger and more herself.

A smile briefly touched his lips as he recalled her anger at his refusal to yield to her feminine wiles. You have no idea, little girl, what that cost me… The dull ache in his gut reminded him of the physical toll. But he was resolute; his patience would remain unyielding until he saw the haunted pain in her eyes fade. He needed to be sure she was with him, fully present in the here and now. Not lost in the shadows of Gotham’s streets—or worse, trapped in the memories of her childhood.

He drifted toward sleep, feeling her breath warm against his neck and inhaling the scent of her hair. He forced his mind away from the darker corners of his thoughts, resisting the pull of the nightmares that lurked just beyond his consciousness. Instead, he let his mind wander, seeking a more peaceful place. Through the haze of sleep, he glimpsed Wayne Manor, the image of little Meghan running up the drive. Without a second thought, he emersed himself... stepping out the front doors into the rare warmth of a bright Gotham afternoon, where the sunlight felt like a reprieve from darkness.

Selina absentmindedly traced the band of her engagement ring with her thumb, her gaze flicking back to Bruce’s sleeping form. He lay on his side, undisturbed by her quiet departure from the bed. She had woken to find herself still wrapped in his arms, and though she hadn’t wanted to move, thirst and a lingering pain pulled her away from his warmth.

The heavy door clicked softly as she pulled it shut behind her, padding silently down the hall. The house was still cloaked in shadow, but the morning sun would soon creep through the countless windows, casting its light through Wayne Manor and filling it with warmth and life.

Selina was no stranger to the construction crews' routine of arriving at dawn. With the unveiling only days away, she knew they’d be punctual, if not early, eager to meet the looming deadline. She kept the timeline in mind as she descended the stairs, her footsteps light and measured, before slipping into the kitchen.

Instead of heading to the main refrigerators, she moved toward the larger industrial refer at the back. It was always stocked with water and hydration drinks for the workers, a courtesy she had benefitted from countless times. She grabbed a bottle of raspberry blue, set it on the counter, and then ducked it into the fridge again for two water bottles. She nudged the fridge door shut with her hip, placed the water next to the Hydropower, and made her way to the far cabinet.

Selina knew the cabinet would hold a stash of medicines and first aid supplies. A headache was starting to creep in, and the throbbing pain in her wrist from the night’s events was worsening. After a brief search, she found a bottle of pain medicine on the middle shelf. The familiar label promised her some relief.

As she contemplated how she could remove the safety cap with one hand, she turned and found herself nose-to-nose with Bruce. She yelped in surprise and nearly dropped the bottle of pills. Bruce raised an eyebrow and stood perfectly still, arms folded over his chest. A smirk played on his lips as he watched her fight to regain her composure.

“Wayne, I already almost died once tonight. Are you trying to finish me off with a heart attack?”

Bruce’s smirk deepened, clearly enjoying the novelty of having surprised a cat burglar. Without a word, he took the bottle from her, twisted the cap off, and shook two capsules into his palm. He handed them to her wordlessly. Selina accepted, popping them into her mouth. As she reached for a water bottle, Bruce intercepted her again, opening it with an effortless twist before silently handing it to her.

"Showoff," Selina muttered, chasing the chalky pills down her throat with a generous swig of water. She took a deep breath, finishing the rest before setting the bottle aside. Bruce cracked open the sports drink, leaving the cap balanced on the bottle so she wouldn’t have to struggle with it. As he brushed past her on his way to the refrigerator, Selina felt the intentional touch and gave him a knowing smirk.

Bruce moved through the kitchen with effortless grace, still shirtless but now wearing dark green silk pajama pants at the waist. He opened the freezer and rummaged through it before returning with a bag of crushed ice. He walked to the sink, filled the basin with water, and dumped the ice into the steel reservoir. She heard the crackling sound as it began to chill the water.

Turning back to her, Bruce patted the counter beside the sink with his hand. Selina shot him a knowing look. “Alfred would not likely approve of me sitting on the counters in his kitchen.”

Bruce nodded, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. "Alfred would likely not approve of many things you’ve done on kitchen counters.” Selina laughed, and the sound earned her one of Bruce's rare, beautiful smiles. She walked over to him, ready to jump onto the counter, but she stopped when he placed his hands on her hips. His grip tightened slightly as he flexed his fingers around her small waist. “Allow me?” he offered softly.

Selina raised an eyebrow. “So now you’re asking my permission before carrying me around?”

Bruce smirked, his eyes glinting with amusement. “I figured it would be easier than having you pissed at me.”

Selina’s lips curled into a coy smile, and Bruce closed the small distance between them. With a quiet, deliberate motion, he lifted her onto the counter, his hands gliding along her sides. As he slid her body up his chest, Selina felt the warmth of his face grazing her neck. Then, he gently placed her atop the cool surface of the counter.

Her smile deepened, the familiar closeness of his touch making her pulse quicken. When their eyes met, she saw the dark passion in his, and she hooked her heels behind his thighs, pulling him into her body.

Bruce offered no resistance, allowing her to encourage him into the very place he longed to be. He traced a finger over her cheek and down her neck to her shoulder. Bruce watched her throat work as she swallowed, and he found himself wanting to kiss the soft pulse of her neck. He held back instead, his finger traced down her arm, lingering briefly over her injured wrist. She tensed at the touch, and Bruce could feel her apprehension. Gently, he gathered her hand in his, guiding her into the ice bath. He felt her flinch at the initial shock of the cold water against her skin, but he didn’t let go, steadying her as she adjusted.

Then, with a tenderness that was becoming all too familiar, he did kiss the soft spot on her throat, just below her ear, before his other hand slid behind her and pulled her closer into his body. They stayed like that for a long while, Bruce holding her with quiet intensity. He inhaled deeply, savoring her scent, feeling the warmth of her skin against his face and the silk of her robe against his chest.

Bruce withdrew his hand from the water, leaving hers submerged in the ice bath. The cold from the water lingered on his fingers, and he brushed his cool, moist hand over the back of her neck. She allowed him to support her, leaning into him as the chilled water worked its magic, easing some of the pain and swelling in her wrist.

His voice was soft, filled with concern as he massaged her neck. “Headache?”

Selina nodded, her expression tinged with exhaustion but still playful. “Nothing compared to the ones you get, I’m sure.”

Bruce made a sound of understanding, a murmur of sympathy. “If I remember my first aid training correctly, I’m supposed to cook you noodles and entice you into eating a packet of honey.”

Selina chuckled lightly, a pained but genuine smile crossing her lips. “Haven’t we, Bruce?”

He nodded, his hand gently caressing her cheek, his thumb brushing over the smoothness of her skin. “We’ve been through the wringer a time or two.”

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