1. Nostalgia


Author's Notes: Thank you for taking the time to read my story. This is ultimately Catwoman's origin story as I see it based on the Nolanverse, and, of course, with a dark twist to it. For those of you that know me from my Dark Knight fanfiction, I apologize for being dormant for so long (give or take a few years)-I simply lacked the inspiration to continue Don't Fear the Reaper, and hopefully I will be getting to it again soon. I was always a fan of Catwoman and was itching to try a 'fic centered around Selina Kyle and her post Dark Knight Rises fate.

I will DEFINITELY try to update a chapter a week, no longer than that. Please read & review and I hope you enjoy it!


The sun dipped low beneath the crest of the horizon, and Selina Kyle was finally at peace, night covering her body like a feline's black fur.

She raised her hand up to her eyes, turning the milky white limb back and forth, examining the intricate lines on her palms, as if it were markings on an alien. Her brown eyes lingered on the ring resting upon her slender finger-a generously cut stone, gleaming under the winking moonlight. It was precious and beyond expensive-perhaps the cost of a middle-class house. And at that moment it looked worthless to her, insignificant in comparison to the dark world ebbing and flowing before her reach.

It wasn't the first night she had felt like a stranger within her own skin. She raised her head to feel the cold wind billowing past her from her balcony, savored the feeling of it flying through her hair, caressing her head with nocturnal tenderness. Almost instinctively, her ears perked up at a sound nearby-but it was probably someone walking just past the manor; no one who could pose a real threat.

The realization was almost disappointing.

She looked back down at her hands and imagined black, leather gloves binding them; the razor-sharp tips of nails that could slice through flesh. She imagined the black mask on her face, heavy yet never confining, never frustrating. The weight was a reminder of who she was, whatshe really was beyond her flesh and bone and beating heart.

She wondered how much longer she could go on masquerading as Selina Kyle. As someone she...wasn't, despite having the face, the name, the demeanor.

A soft smile curled her lips, maybe in resignation, maybe in self-pity-she looked out at the horizon again from outside the manor, at the silhouettes of homes in seemingly endless rows, fading into the blackness of night, lit up by the intermittent glow of stars, occasionally interrupted by the harsh fluorescence of streetlights. They were tempting, so tempting-holding promises of valuables within their depths, the wealthy streets taunting her like lines of drugs at her feet, taunting and teasing for her touch...

Selina knew very well that your face was never who you were.

Your skin, your freckles, your eyes, your lips, teeth, tongue-it was all appearance, all facade. It could be manipulated, all of it-from your hair down to your toes, from the way you moved to the way you breathed. She knew it, she always did-which was why hiding from herself was so painful, so pointless. Why watching passersby while on the arm of her lover slowly ate away at her resolve, why she felt powerless as she helplessly eyed the necklace on a woman's vulnerable collarbone, pined for the gleaming wristwatch on a man's naked, outstretched arm. It was unnatural, almost torturous, her ability to do nothing in the wake of such easy prey.

Because what she was, what she really was, would cry out at every single one of those moments-to act, to breathe, to be.

She didn't have a name for it. Not really.

Over twenty years of acknowledging the true side of her-the lone...cat within her, manipulating and beguiling, taking whatever she pleased on this green glorious earth from whoever she wished, since life was fleeting and rules were made for the benefit of the elite, bythe elite. She hadn't really given herself a true name, besides what had been bestowed by her parents before she had graced an orphanage.

But then, were names reallynecessary? Of course, to him they were-she looked back at the hallway behind her for a moment as her thoughts focused on the man within, and her finger swept to her ring. She caressed the top and bit down on her rouge-stained lip, wondering if he was asleep.

He had retired. They had relocated, together-a phone call after his presumed death, after his self-sacrifice as Gotham's Jesus, dropping the bomb and pulling at her heartstrings to the point of breaking when she saw his number appear in fractured digits on her cell-and she had run to him, swept herself into his arms without a second thought.

Selina knew loss. She had grown accustomed to it since birth. It was like winter, cold and inevitable, something she had learned to live with, to wear a toughened surface to bear it and wait until its iciness dissolved away with time. But the thought of losing himhad been too much to bear, something akin to a physical pain, the ice tearing at her skin and threatening to burst the bubbling blood within until she was nothing but a husk of herself.

Selina had never been so afraid to lose anyone. Never, since she never allowed herself to get close to anyone-and perhaps it was for that very reason, the inevitability of loss. She was the type that always gained; she received, she acquired, she took, she possessed. She did not losethings, unless she did so willingly. If something was taken from her, she would conspire to get it back. The rule didn't apply to people. People were not objects-they played to your mind games to a certain extent, until they realized their strings were being pulled, and then they became violent and uncooperative.

But this...had been different. Brucewas different.

And maybe, she thought, as she began to pace along the halls of the manor, her bare feet gliding across the marble tiled floor, it was because he had so wrongly insisted there was more to her than meets the eye..more to her than what she knew she reallywas.

"There's so much more to you," He had told her time and time again, gazing at her with his steady penetrating stare, from the depths of his mask, from the depths of their bed, with his hand caressing her face, as he took her, tried to possess her, tried to unlock her. Time and time he would try, but he did not know that her insides were a brick wall that couldn't so easily be penetrated-regardless of her feelings for him, feelings she wasn't even willing to completely analyze for fear of them devouring her whole, feelings that were acknowledged by the rock on her finger, the manor that entrapped her within its depths each day, the bed she shared, the skin she sought pleasure in.

But there wasn't more to her. Bruce was mistaken. He may have been the Batman, and he may have retired his persona in name-but there was something very basic to both their natures that Selina knew could never be unraveled. It was what brought them together in the first place-the masquerade, the way they hid behind their identities so diligently, the way they sought power and claimed it behind a flimsy costume and pretty little weapons.

She knew who they really were. Their masks were the faces they wore each day-Bruce and Selena, dancing their little dance, the dance they had started at Miranda Tate's ball, that they had never truly ended. In their depths, they were truly Batman and...whatever she was. The feline sort of creature within her-the creature that even Bruce could not unravel, with his charm and his passion, his crow-eyed smile and shining white teeth.

She held her hand out as she passed rows of paintings in the hall. The manor was ridiculously large for only two people, but of course, that was what Bruce had been used to, having been raised with the silver spoon in his mouth and golden diapers. A smirk graced her lips as she imagined her razor-tipped nails digging in and ripping apart each pretty little portrait, each thousand dollar painted piece of paper to insignificant little shreds. And then she would disembowel the insides of the paintings, pull their pretty golden frames and take them for herself, a shining beacon of example that even those in power were fragile, as fragile as the poor they oppressed, hidden and locked away behind the keys of their manors and fancy halls...

Of course, that was her husbandshe was thinking so vehemently of.

She stopped herself mid-thought at this realization, her lip curling, her hands closing on a fist against the last portrait she passed.

Well, she thought to herself, raising an arched brow as she reached the heavy set of double doors, if you can't beat 'em...

She found him lying there in the massive bed for two, its trappings gaudy beyond reason (as always), black silk sheets and perhaps ten pillows, and a mattress you could sink for miles into, as if you were diving into the depths of bejeweled bliss. He looked as statuesque as a god, as if he belonged there, strewn along the ornate sheets. She could see the age on him, the vulnerability that no one else could see-it had become more translucent to her the longer she had stayed with him. His hands trembled slightly as he slept, along with his slightly parted lips. His chest had been immaculately chiseled, but now it was turning soft and thin, a slight trace of ribcage peeking beneath. He wore loose pants, like a prince in his harem-she preferred him this way, lying down and vulnerable. And at that moment, he was almostlike an object, she mused, as she pulled herself on top of him with lithe agility, her nimble fingers stroking his hair with a careful sweep across his forehead, light enough not to wake him.

It was almost like he was truly hers. Like she had conquered him, somehow-and maybe that was her fantasy. That she could steal him, disarm his inner strength and dominate him utterly and completely.

She brought her lips to his, felt the sharp yet steady intake of his breath. Her brown eyes gleaming in the moonlight, she licked his bottom lip gently, grinned against him when she heard his breath stop for a second in response, then resume again. Selina ran red-nailed fingers down his chest, imagined raking into them in the throes of passion, as she had done countless times before-ran her fingers along the tiny scars on his stomach as proof, her personalsignature.

How she wished he could accept her-could accept her in her cat-eared, thieving glory; could even accompany her on a heist, his billowing cape flying through the air as they masqueraded along the streets of Gotham at night, fighting and pillaging as two lovers reclaiming what was rightfully the people's from the rich, bringing them to justice in a different, entirely satisfying way. But Selina was no fool, and she knew it was and always would be a mere fantasy. Bruce was a different creature than her-maybe that was what enraptured her in the first place, she mused, as she looked down at his sleeping form between her legs, as she silently straddled him and ran her fingers along him like a pretty jewel in her grip.

"Can't you set me free?" She whispered so quietly, it sounded like the wind rushing through the opened windows of his huge bedroom, ruffling the sheets of the bed ever so slightly. Her mouth was pressed against his earlobe, and she nipped it gently-laughing to herself against his ear. He was still asleep, and here she was, making late-night confessions to him. She pressed her forehead against his temple, the bow of her lips touching his ear again, and she relished the contact of skin, although momentary,

"To be honest...I like being your captive. But you can't keep a cat from scratching the post forever,"

Her voice sounded like a hiss, even to her own ears.

And then she fought back a scream from her own lips as a hand clamped around her neck.

"I can't," Bruce responded to her surprise, his eyes open, an amused smirk on his warm features, "But she can scratch me all she wants, in the meantime. Keeps things more interesting that way. Objectifies me."

Selina yelped as Bruce flipped her over so that he was on top of her. She had been taken completely by surprise, and it had awakened something primal within her-the familiar adrenaline rush accompanying the heists within her past, pumping blood viciously through her veins, her heart fluttering as he pinned her down beneath him, a primal grin on his strong features,

"What makes you want to come out to play tonight, Miss Kyle? I thought you didn't want to come to bed. If I had known you'd been willing..." He cast a mischievous grin as his eyes raked the length of her body, simultaneously bringing his warm hand to her bare thigh. Her own hand clamped against his and she squeezed, her smile a perfect mirror of his own,

"Well, Mr. Wayne, maybe this little girl wanted to play hard to get, so the conquest would be more...satisfying." She met his gaze with a raised brow, licking her lips momentarily. He released his hand from her neck and laughed quietly, and she grabbed him by his shoulders and pulled him into a long, hungry kiss.

It seemed to last forever, and that was how she liked it-all tongue, less talk. And if there was talk, she preferred the biting sarcasm-better than normalcy, since that was fleeting, and ultimately boring.And Bruce knew that, of course; he kept up with her mood-swings with an odd patience that perplexed her.

It was, to her dismay, Bruce who broke the kiss. He took a breath and pressed his nose against hers, before inquiring coolly, his penetrating gaze awakening knots of desire within her stomach,

"What's bothering you, Selina?" His hand strayed to stroke her face, and she ripped her gaze away, taken aback by surprise the second time that night. Could he really read her so well?-had she become some sort of open book, the pages already worn with time?

"Nothing that can't be...fixed," She mumbled immediately in response, her hand grazing his thigh.

He gave her a playful grin, "A great distraction, of course...but we both know that isn't the issue at hand."

"Really now?" She asked coyly, cocking her head to the side, "I do believe that's the reason I came into your room tonight, Mr. Wayne. I just need some tender love and care."

Bruce pulled himself away, and Selina fought back the urge to roll her eyes. No sentimental talks tonight, thank-you-very much. She wasn't nearly in the mood, and his refusal to play along with her banter was always something that irked her.

"Selina. Speak to me." His gaze met hers again and she wondered for the millionth time that they had been together who the man really was in the relationship. He reached forward and ran his fingers along the pearl necklace at her neck-his mother's, the item she had endeavored to acquire the first time she had met him.

She hadn't taken it off since.

"You know if I let you hide in that scheming little mind of yours, you'll run away as fast as you get the chance to escape me."

Another urge to eye roll, but she smirked instead, meeting his fingers with her own at her neck,

"You know me that well, do you? I'm impressed. But it's nothing you can help me with...just a...hint of boredom."

This caught Bruce's attention. "Boredom? I would have thought you were satisfied the past few months."

"I am," She retorted quickly, turning her gaze to the wall across their bed. It was pristine and white, almost immaculately painted in the way it seemed to glow in the moon's reflection. "But...do you ever...feel like a stranger in your own skin? Like..." She brought her gaze downwards, back to the ring gracing her free hand, fully aware Bruce was watching her with careful scrutiny, trying to read her very bones. "...Like you shouldn't have put away your cape."

Bruce was quiet for a moment. She thought he would be angry at her words, call her mad, or delirious-after all, they were two different types of vigilante. She was a burglar, he was a hero-the fact she wanted to steal again, wanted to plunder, as noble as the concept was to her, the Robin Hood appeal...

He took her chin in his hand. Her eyes widened and she met his steady stare,

"I was the Batman of Gotham. For the lives of the people of Gotham. Protecting them...I wouldn't trade those years for the world, those years of pain, of hardship. It made me who I am. WhatI am."

A pause, pregnant with promise, filled the air. Selina caught her breath at the intensity of his gaze. At the adoration. It chilled her to her bones-it seemed surreal. It seemed remote. She didn't want it, didn't think she deserved it, didn't even think she could processit.

"You must feel the same way...but to be safe, and protecting you...I wouldn't trade that either. Not anymore. Those years made you who you were. They made you cunning, they made you strong...but they are not you, Selina. You are..."

"So much morethan that." She repeated quietly, a mantra she had heard time and time again, pounded repetitively into her head, though it never truly stuck.

"Yes," Bruce nearly hissed, gazing almost desperately into her eyes, "I am waiting for the day you finally see that in yourself, Selina. When you see the woman...the woman behind the mask. The woman that..."

The words died before they could leave his lips. She looked down, felt a warm flush on her cheeks. Almost-but they hadn't said it. Not quite. It was suggested-in the ring, the pressing of skin against skin, the steady gazes and the quiet conversations-but it wasn't there, not yet.

She didn't know if she could acknowledge it...that feeling for him. She feared the spark of adrenaline it brought to her, the fight-or-flight that burst into her brain, to fight against the bonds of weakness that threatened her, should she allow them to take hold.

"I hope I doone day. For both our sakes." She was earnest when she said it, and her hand momentarily went to stroke his face. He closed his eyes at the feel of her skin against his cheek, and she pulled her hand away a second later, went to pull herself from his side and towards the ground.

Bruce's hand clamped around her wrist, with enough pressure that it was almost violent. Selina flinched and looked back at him. His eyes held a silent plea, an expression she was unaccustomed to seeing on his otherwise strong face. The brooding and discontent within her growled and snapped at him from deep within her, yet she nodded and pressed herself against his chest, dug her nails lightly into his back. He groaned at the contact and shut his eyes as she bit his ear, then his lip, and pressed her mouth against his, allowing him to push her down, down, downagainst the sheets of the bed, to press himself against her, into her, to join himself with her.

For a few hours, she felt whole in Bruce's grip-whole and alive and free and unburdened.

And for a few hours, she knew she was living a lie.

In her dreams, she saw darkness, interrupted by the shining light of pearls. The darkness was an ocean, and she was swimming, fighting, as she felt it grab at her and threaten to suffocate her-her hands reached out for the light, the tiny iridescent pearls, but they swam away from her, further and further from her grip, the harder she tried to grab hold. And the darkness grew around her, hissing and snapping and clawing, digging painfully into her body, wrapping in tendrils around her ankles and pulling her under, forcing its way down her throat until it slithered into her lungs, until she could barely breathe, and her hands became sharp and blackened and gnarled, forming razor-sharp tips like claws, and she hissed and scratched and shrieked in her struggle as the darkness sought to crush her, weaken her, suffocate her, become her...

She awoke in a sweat, naked and tangled in thick black sheets. She raised trembling fingers to her neck-felt the scratch marks, pink painful lines burning against her skin. The necklace was broken, three pearls hanging feebly off the string in her palm, the remainder scattered against the bed, speckles of white against black. With a shudder the flung the remainder of the necklace to the ground, shoving her face to her hands, every inch of her skin slippery with sweat and tears.

Selina knew Bruce was wrong about her. There was a limit to who she was-to whatshe was.

And it was only a matter of time until he figured it out.