There is a sound. Over the rutting noises of the animals who used to be people—before Ivy unleashed her poison, before the whole ballroom went mad—over the rustle of the vines that are unfurling and growing, snaking up staircases and marble columns, slithering over the giant crystal chandelier.
Footsteps on a skylight, over his head. He's been lifted—the vines lifted him up above the orgy and he's pinned—Bruce Wayne is pinned, his tux torn and tattered by the groping, vicious, primal vines, but he's not part of the fray. The partygoers and high society members of Gotham's elite aren't all so lucky. They surge below him. One of them, half-dressed, hands groping—it's hard to tell quite who, in the naked, writhing crowd—grabbed his foot. Pulled off his shoe before he got here, to the mezzanine level. Before he was able to kick off their desperate, needy grip. He's above them, now. He won't be a part of this pornographic frenzy.
But the vines grab tighter, tendrils scraping along his legs, pulling harder at his wrists and ankles, at his pulse points, and even though he's inoculated himself, over time, through trial and error, against Ivy's drugs, something must have gotten to him because he's just now realizing that he's the only person being dragged up above the throng. Being squeezed and prodded by thick coils of green that move like they're… he writhes in their grasp, trying yet again to get away, but it does no good. Does Ivy know his other identity? Or is it that the vines remember him? They twist and wind around his body, touching him much too intimately, rough but somehow fond. In a horrific, stomach-turning way.
Above, the skylight shatters—and cool night air comes rushing in. Glass crackles and sparkles and falls like diamonds, through the green canopy of leaves above and around him, down over his head, sifting down into his hair. Tiny shards mix with the moonlight and pollen swirling through the room—golden dust motes and glittering shards cascade through a green sea of leaves, down on him and the crowd below, joined by a small, dark shape. He knows the sound of her quick little boots on the marble tile of the stair landing, halfway above the ballroom floor. She steals up the steps, far enough to be at his eye level.
Her voice is louder than he expects, louder than the crowd—or maybe it's just that it's her voice—a snarling, angry growl. Strangely filtered through the mask she's wearing—some kind of breather, thank god, over her nose and mouth.
She's unfurling her whip even as she speaks, taking in the throng. "What is this… this ifreak/i show?" Her whip cracks, sharp and clean, cutting a swath through the swirling dust and pollen, slicing through leaves but not through the vines that hold him. Strangle him. "Mr. Wayne?"
He nods, once, then his head lolls forward, suddenly too heavy to hold up. He can't breathe. Not enough air.
The vines catch him; caress him roughly, with more ugly intent.
She fights her way down the staircase, through the crowd, and suddenly she's gone, swallowed by the press of wild, mad sybarites. But they aren't a match—she's not compromised. She disappears, then he sees her at the firebox and she fights her way back, axe slung in her belt like a sidearm. Men and women he's known for years—most of them shallow, silly people who don't care about anything but their money and their status—fall before her feet and fists as she comes closer and closer.
"Timber." She's at the base of the vines holding him, and moments later he's tumbling forward, dropping into a rolling somersault and landing beside her.
"Nice tuck and roll, Mr. Wayne." She sounds like she's smiling beneath her mask. Extends a hand. "Come on. Cops on their way. We're getting you out of here."
He stumbles, her hand on his wrist pulling him forward, toward the stairs and up. They make it to the top and he steals a look down again at the mass of people below. He's glad—inordinately glad—that he's more immune than they—doesn't have to give in like that, but he knows he's fighting it at the same time and he lunges for her.
She yelps as he falls against her, knocking her breather to the side. Ripping it off her face. Her eyes are wild. "Oh god!" she says just before he takes her mouth.
Ahead of them, an elevator dings and doors start to open. She grabs his forearm, pulling hard, and they lurch into a utility stairwell. Cops pour out of the elevator, gas masks and riot gear; plastic shields held in front of them.
Bruce grabs her and throws himself between her leather-clad body and the uniforms streaming past, covering her, enfolding her in his arms and a kiss that obscures Catwoman from view. They pass, running.
"We should help—"
"We should hurry." She grabs his arm again, hauling him forward. Color is rising in her cheeks. "I took Ivy out in the lobby," she growls as they sprint for the closing elevator doors, sliding in just in time. "She was after Batman. And he's mine." With that, she's on him—crawling up his body—leather and muscle and curves. He holds her aloft, feeling her press and warmth, soft and hard and his senses are filled with her—the touch and the feel and the smell of her. Arms and legs wrapped around him, she punches the button marked Penthouse. "Key," she pants out between hard, wet kisses. Around his tongue, the tongue she's sucking and biting.
He grinds against her and she pushes back. Somehow, they extract the keycard from the pocket of his tux. Then the door opens, and they're in the penthouse, and they're—they can't help themselves. It's rough and hot and they're falling to the floor, rolling and tumbling. At first it's like fighting—like fighting their basest, most primal instincts. But it's together—not against each other, and he knows they're both going to win.