She walks slowly, gracefully on the rooftop. It's not quite silent, but almost - only preternatural ears would detect her.
There is something eery about this night, over Gotham. The spires of the cathedral look ghostlike, and the looking shadow of Arkham asylum is concerning. Yet Selina Kyle is feeling a little bit gleeful.
She's proud of what she did. It was crafty to get the Bat-Signal on - the easiest part, really. It was something about breaking into the Museum of Fine Arts. It was easy to slip in, to stalk along the corridors, to pad lightly all the way to the centerpiece of the yet to set the little mechanism to cross the infrared lines once she was out of reach.
The tricky part was before. There was a trail - it had to be subtle enough to suggest carelessness, and yet clear enough for the Bat to pick it out.
It was clues. A wet footstep here, a scrap on the wall there, all leading to the rooftop. Had something been stolen? Of course. Only, not here, but further off in the gallery - just a small ring, a ditty of an ancient seal for a well-paying client. And there, the footsteps and the scrapes were hard to detect. It was professional work, as was the opening of the window, the disabling of the alarm.
Catwoman works hard at this. This is special.
Bruce Wayne was in his Mansion when the Bat-Signal resounded. "Dinner is served, sir," Alfred indicated quietly. "Thank you Alfred." Bruce's voice is clipped, neat, almost British. "Are the guests here?" Alfred nods, and Bruce sighs. "I'm afraid you will have to excuse me to them, Alfred." It's Alfred's turn to sigh, and Bruce's turn to nod.
The Batman goes, then. Pointy ears and dark cape, and a sleek black car flash through. He saunters from one place to another in the museum. He may be preoccupied with his guests - he may choose to accept the invitation. For one reason or another, he picks up on Selina's false trail.
His footsteps take him to the roof of the museum - he dashes, nigh unseen.
There is a table.
There are candles.
There is a woman, in a sleek black suit, and a package on the table.
"Merry Christmas, you goddamn bat."
She smiles, waves, and takes the sling, easily gliding out of reach with a light, girlish laughter. The Batman hesitates only a bare instant before he follows her, but she already disappeared into the night.
He needs answers. The package is suspect. He returns, then, to examine it. He takes as long as he feels necessary - who knows what this crazy woman has in mind?
But it is only a present, a pair of cufflinks of gold, beautiful and intricate, not stolen, but bought.
Bats engraved.