Hello there!

Long time no see… Yes, I had kind of abandoned this story (and all others), but now I intend to finish it, even if at a slow pace.

I think it's interesting to note that this is the first chapter I publish after watching the third installment of Nolan's Batman. Yeah, I watched it last year – it seems so long ago -, and enjoyed it very much. This fiction, however, is based and related to the Movieverse, though now I think it's fair to say that it DOESN'T consider the third movie in its chronology, so to speak. This is not Hathaway's Catwoman – though that was an excellent Catwoman! -, or any of those characters we see in The Dark Knight Rises. Is this too hard to understand? I hope not.

In all truth, I might change this story to the "comics" category, but I would rather finish it first. We'll see. The important thing to keep in mind is that this is another take of Batman's life after The Dark Knight, originally written before the third movie happened. I also think it's fair to say that I had not written the entire story before watching the movie, so I might be influenced by it, although I'll never purposely refer it.

All that said, I thank you for reading this, and hope you guys can enjoy this fiction, despite the fact that the movie has already been seen, talked about, criticized, loved and whatever else blockbusters are.

Thank you all.

AliaAtreidesBr

Over his desk, the Blackberry vibrated.

"Not now", Tommy Elliot said and took a deep breath. "We are in the middle of something so important, aren't we?"

He smiled down to her, her green eyes tearing at the sight. Tommy caressed her dark hair gently, then kindly touched her soft cheek.

"I'll be right back, sweetheart."

She started to cry again.

"Hush, darling, hush…" He lightly placed a finger over her lips. "It will take just a moment."

He truly didn't want to go, but had to. It was his work phone, and he didn't want people to think that brilliant and devoted neurosurgeon Thomas Elliot wasn't as available as ever. He had a reputation to keep.

It sure was a true effort: that young girl right there – helplessly tied up to the operation table in his basement's secret little office – was proving to be quite a catch. They were having so much fun together… he had her in there for three nights already, and she didn't seem to be giving up just yet; remarkable feat, considering most of the others would already be dead by now, or at least begging him to do it.

That was probably because he had changed the profile of his targets, he believed. The other girls had all been sweet young women, all from wealthy families, the daughters of sensible and loving parents and, most importantly, the kind of people that had never faced something ugly in their lives. It made perfect sense for him: it was his job to teach them a lesson, to give to those perfect little families a glimpse of the big, bad world outside. He used to think of himself as the Wolf, and they were his Red Riding Hoods – innocent women that he so easily managed to manipulate, kidnap, torture, kill. Blond little things, feeble, unable to resist him in any way. Those were his girls.

The girl over there, however, she was a different story.

They had met in one of the strip-clubs he often graced with his presence: cheap, despicable places in Gotham's worst parts, but places where he could have what he wanted, just the way he wanted. The girl worked there, an angry young girl that had the nerves of calling him a "douche bag" when he tried to touch her during a lap-dance. That amused him, in fact; most of the other strippers were always so anxious to please him, knowing he was so much richer than the usual costumers. She had guts, Elliot admitted, and was a very pretty girl.

In a way, she reminded him of Selina Kyle. He had tried to not obsess about that woman, that tramp, that damn bitch that had the nerves of ignoring his phone calls for a week. Worse: while doing that, she had been visited by Bruce Wayne. No doubt that Bruce and Selina had connected in that Gallery gala… later, when he mentioned to Bruce he had enjoyed Miss Kyle's company, his so called friend neglected to tell him about how he had paid a visit to Selina's store just the day after that party.

Yes, the girl looked like Selina… physically, no doubt, and also in that aggressive behavior, something Miss Kyle seemed to be so good in concealing – most of the time. It was there, though, he knew it was; you just had to know where to look.

Now, he had no regrets about that small change in his work. That woman over there had given him more pleasure and satisfaction than he had had in a while: he loved the ones that struggled, the ones that pretended to be tough, the ones that masked their pain. It was vain, and kind of silly, but he liked.

Too bad about the phone; now that he was chief surgeon at the hospital he didn't receive those emergency calls so frequently, but they did happen; and when they did, it was usually as serious as it gets, which meant he couldn't bail without damaging his carefully cultivated reputation and position.

He took off his rubber gloves and grabbed his cell phone, reading the message that had just came. First thing he couldn't help noticing was the sender: not the hospital, or any name he knew. In fact, it had come from an "Unknown" source.

That was unusual, but Dr. Elliot didn't make much of it: he had often received messages that were sent to his number by mistake. It would be an unfortunate event, to be interrupted by a message that wasn't even meant to him, but he had ways to console himself, no doubt – that was why the girl was there in the first place. With that in mind, he read the message:

"Dear Doctor,

Want to know what your Dark friend is up to? Pay attention to The Man in black. He's very creative and smart, not an easy prey to Nail.

By the way, why don't you check your e-mail?"

He held his breath, and the phone was shaking in his hand. He pressed the buttons insistently, with more strength than necessary, no doubt. It took him a few seconds to access his personal mail account; there, just a single new message, received not even two minutes before. Again, "unknown" was who had the mail came from. The title, however, read "Bat and Cat BURN".

Elliot opened the message, and noticed there was a video attached, identified by date. He played it without hesitation.

The work was very good. The beginning had been shot from a building that was perhaps half a block away from Odyssey Tower, that old edifice his great-grandfather had financed almost a hundred years ago. The main shot showed Odyssey Tower itself, focusing on the top floors. The first twelve seconds showed nothing unusual, and then he saw it – the editor of the film had highlighted it for him -, the large bat-like silhouette that glided from another roof to the terrace of his great-grandfather's former penthouse.

Oh, Bruce… No doubt about it, that was his old friend breaking into someone's home.

And then an abrupt cut of the shooting – the time on the corner of the film advanced almost ten minutes. The focus remained, though, and he still watched the penthouse. Again something was highlighted, the trajectory of an unidentified projectile that came from across the street and entered one of the top windows in the penthouse. Five seconds passed before he saw light and glass coming from that same window and other ones around it, most of them at the same floor.

Another cut. Now the point of view had changed, and he saw Odyssey Tower from another angle, the West, almost opposite from the previous shooting. The focus was a particular set of windows, from the floor that wasn't on fire, it seemed. Three seconds into it and he saw, all in slow motion for his benefit, no doubt: Batman throwing himself out of the window, another masked figure with him, as he carried him – wait, not him; her -, as he carried her to escape from yet another explosion, a truly violent one. He couldn't help but admire Bruce's prowess: he reacted with such speed and confidence, using that remarkable cable of his to escape certain death on the pavement and smashed another window from the building across the street. All, of course, while caring another person.

That was when the angle changed again, now filming the rooftop of a building. He could still see the orange beacon of fire on the background, and the smoke going up the sky in thick pillars. That was not far from the previous point of view, he noticed, and he easily deduced he was looking at the top of the building Batman had invaded in his escape. And indeed, four seconds into the shooting, he saw two figures coming up that rooftop, then jumping to the next: Batman, for sure, and the other…

Is that Catwoman?

He thought it was, and then the camera focused on them as they stopped for a moment to talk. They seemed pretty friendly to each other, displaying quite a different relationship from the one Gotham had seen in those security videos from the Gallery. Add to that that Catwoman wasn't wearing a mask – too bad the film was shot from too far, he just couldn't have a decent look on her face. Their conversation hadn't been a long one, it seemed, but it ended in such an interesting way: Catwoman leaving, and Batman doing nothing to stop her.

The video ended right there, but in its last seconds, words appeared:

"We should meet, doctor."

Oh, yes, Thomas Elliot thought, indeed we should.

"Selina Kyle is Catwoman, Alfred", Bruce said as soon as the butler entered the cave carrying a silver tray with coffee and breakfast.

The statement didn't seem to impress Alfred.

"Milk or cream, sir?"

Bruce turned his chair to face the butler. "Catwoman, Alfred. The thief? It's Selina. Selina Kyle."

Still Alfred didn't answer. He served Bruce's coffee, then carefully placing the pot back on the tray.

"Did you hear me, Alfred?"

The butler sighed. "I did, sir. My hearing is fine, and I understood what you said perfectly well." Now he faced Bruce in a grave expression, his tone matching his features. "I'm afraid I just don't have anything to add to that, sir. Catwoman is Selina Kyle – I wish I could tell you this surprises me."

Bruce frowned. "Did you suspect it already…?"

"Can't say I did, Master Bruce." He offered him the mug with coffee. "But it's very fitting, wouldn't you say?"

"No, I wouldn't. It's not 'fitting', it's… it's wrong. Just… so wrong."

"I suppose the fact that the only woman to attract your attention since Rachel's tragic death is actually a criminal could be seen as a problem, yes. However…", he dropped a sugar cube in the mug, "… it takes a very special and unusual set of… traits to captivate you, Master Bruce. Not that I would know much about it, of course."

"Are you implying that I'm attracted to Selina because she's a criminal? That's absurd."

"Oh, no, Master Bruce. Not because she's a criminal; because she's the only other person in Gotham that dresses in dark outfits and jumps across rooftops, sir." He looked into Bruce's eyes. "Because she might just get you – the real you."

Bruce raised a hand to scratch his chin, lost in deep thought for a few moments. He finally said:

"You think I should tell her who I am; who I really am."

"I said no such thing, sir; but here is something I will say: if you don't tell her eventually – and by that I mean sooner rather than later –, this relationship of yours will not be in good terms. Not now, not ever." He blinked an eye at Bruce's direction. "Some criminals do have feelings, you know?"

Bruce smiled faintly. He actually did know, and that was a disconcerting notion.

Selina undressed herself and contemplated the pitiful state of her Catwoman outfit: not simply filthy and torn – it was destroyed.

Great, she thought, yet another thing this night took from me.

An outfit, however, wasn't hard to substitute. She could easily manage it, and no doubt that Catwoman would be back in full costume after a few hours of work. What are a few pieces of leather and rubber garment?

Her other problems, though…

Naked, she went into her closet – not as big as Sofia Falcone's closet, but not as deadly either, and for that she was grateful. Also, not as crowded; no big bats in there, that's for sure.

How the hell did you know I was going to be there?

She had been so careful. No one knew about her plans, not in details, at least. All the information she acquired, all the equipment: she had been so cautious to never get things she needed from the same people, always planting false rumors and disinformation to cover her tracks. And she covered her tracks, no doubt about it… and even if she didn't: there wasn't a soul in the world that knew in advance she would be in that penthouse that night. Not even Selina herself – it had been a last minute decision. She just needed that, she needed to go out and accomplish something that Friday night, she needed to relax and forget… forget about Bruce, about that strange conversation and all the feelings it had brought. She hated when, somehow, the idea that she wasn't doing great, that she wasn't absolutely happy about who she was, took hold of her mind.

Because she was happy about the person she became. She was independent, wealthy, confident – and she needed no one. She had never had help, every little thing in her life had been a struggle… and she was damn proud of herself. So what if she was a thief? She stole, yeah, usually from people that didn't need what they had in the first place. She robbed, but she didn't hurt anyone, she never killed, she had never wronged people in need. Never.

Why am I the villain here?

Why did she suddenly feel like a bad person?

On top of that, someone had tried to kill her tonight. Kill her. And she had no idea why.

Perhaps she had just been… collateral damage. Perhaps Batman had been the target; maybe she was just at the wrong place at the wrong time…

Fuck that. They could have killed him anywhere else. They wanted the both of us.

Damn. Someone was trying to kill her.

She walked to the mirror, looking at her naked self. Burns, cuts, bruises. Pain, yes, pain all over her body, pain when she moved, and pain when she breathed. Still, not as bad. Not as bad as the other night, after the Gallery – apparently, when Batman is on your side, things end better.

Or do they?

Was it better that he now knew who she was?

I should be freaking out, she noticed, but I'm not. Reason told her the best to do was get the crown and the rest of her indispensable things – which were few things – and just get the hell out of Gotham. Take a plane to Asia, somewhere really, really far, and stay low. Batman knew who she was, yes, but how far would he be willing to go to get her? As far as she knew, she was just a random face to him, and it would take a while for him to nail her identity. Even if he did: would he waste his time tracking her in India or Dubai just for that crown?

Just to get her?

Probably not. He would probably just keep doing what he did, which was patrolling Gotham – a very demanding job as it was. And then, she would go back to her old life, traveling around the world and stealing pretty things, just like she was quite content to do a few months before.

But you're Catwoman now, said something inside her.

She was Catwoman, yeah. And she loved that.

Alfred woke him up at one p.m..

"So sorry to disturb you this early in the day, Master Bruce", he apologized while opening the curtains, "but you have a visitor."

Bruce rubbed his eyes and sighed. "Tell them I'm sick, Alfred. Or out of town… "

"I'll do no such thing, sir." He grabbed the blankets and tossed them aside. "It's Thomas Elliot downstairs, and I believe he deserves more consideration from his childhood friend than to be told lies every day."

"You would be the one telling them", Bruce snarled.

"That would be funny if not sad, Master Bruce." As he walked out of the bedroom, he advised. "I recommend long sleeves, sir. The scratch marks on your shoulders and arms are very hard to explain as injuries from playing polo."

Getting out of bed was particularly hard, but Bruce counted his blessings when he glanced at his tired face at the mirror's bathroom: all and all, he could be in much worse shape considering all he went through the night before. No serious burns, a few bruises on his back, the scratches over his shoulders that Alfred found so curious. "Are you sure that fighting was all you and Miss Kyle did last night?", he asked.

He had not answered the butler's amusing question, but the insinuation wasn't unfounded. Bruce couldn't deny that his feelings concerning Selina were conflicted, to say the least.

Right now, however, he didn't want to think about it. So much had happened, and discovering who was under Catwoman's cowl was just one of them. And if he had no idea of how he should deal with Selina and her criminal identity, well, at least he had something else to occupy his mind – like who had tried to kill them the night before. Now that was a mystery indeed, and realizing he hadn't the slightest idea of who was responsible for that bothered him too much.

He took a quick shower, just enough to help him wake up. Alfred was downstairs entertaining Tommy Elliot, no doubt, leaving Bruce with the painful task of cleaning his wounds and changing bandages all by himself. In a way, a good thing: Bruce had no pity for himself, what made the whole ordeal less comfortable, sure, but a lot quicker also. As advised by Alfred, he chose a long sleeved, button-up dark shirt, and it did a good job concealing his most recent battle scars – except for a few scratches on his face and a distinct burning mark on his chin.

Bruce took a deep breath, again staring at his image on the mirror: for some reason, he was finding increasingly hard to keep his act of the shallow and unworried trust fund heir. He had never actually enjoyed it, despite Alfred's constant pleas that he should have fun while pretending to do it, but now… now it was a painful effort. It felt like he was dragging himself around Gotham, and he wondered how long he could make it last before doing something that would finally drop his mask.

"Wow", exclaimed Tommy as soon as he laid eyes on Bruce. "What happened, buddy? Did you fall face down on a frying pan?"

Bruce forced a laugh. "Oh, cam' on… it's not that bad…"

"Yeah, I've seen worst…" Tommy shrugged. "Though usually after car crashes and bar's fist fights. You are not part of a fight club, are you?"

"No, no… didn't Alfred tell you?" Bruce glanced at the butler, and Alfred's slight move of the right eyebrow signed that he hadn't provided explanations or given any excuses.

"You know Alfie, Bruce… he hardly tells me anything these days. Really, the guy can keep a secret – I ask and ask, but he never gives me the scoops on your night adventures anymore…"

"Care for a drink?" Bruce led the way to the pool terrace, Tommy following him in a cool expression. "It's an hour and a half past noon, so it's not like we are alcoholics, or something like that."

"Ha-ha, very funny", said the doctor, already sat on one of the white chairs around the small, round table. "And no, I don't want anything. Well, maybe lemonade, or something like that."

"Sure, I guess Alfred can…"

"I'll bring it right away, sir." He blinked and eye in a playful gesture. "And a glass of virgin lemonade for you too, Master Bruce… we don't want your headache to get worst, right?"

"That's very… thoughtful, Alfred. Thank you."

Elliot seemed amused, smiling broadly while relaxing on his chair. "So… not going to tell me where you got those brand new scars?"

"They are not scars yet", Bruce gravely said. "Ski accident. I was in Aspen last Thursday, and bumped into… well, a snow bank. Landed face first, as you can see."

"Hm." Tommy removed his sunglasses and attentively examined his friend's face. "That does explain it, I guess. It must have been an ugly fall; you're lucky you didn't break your neck."

"Oh, yes. Very lucky." He accepted the glass of cold drink Alfred offered him. Elliot did the same.

"So, Bruce", he proceeded. "You must be wondering what brought me here so early in the day – by the way, I apologize for making Alfred take you off of the bed, I told him he didn't have to…"

"Not a problem, Tommy. He would have done it anyway…"

"Yes, I would", the butler reassured. He had returned to the terrace with ice and a jar of water. "And I'm sure Master Bruce is glad to have you at his home."

Bruce just nodded and smiled, probably with less enthusiasm than he should. He liked Tommy Elliot, no doubt about it, but his old friend could be a nuisance sometimes. He talked too much, and usually about things that Bruce didn't care about: women, parties, cars. Every once in a while they did have an interesting conversation – usually when Tommy spoke about his Greek philosophers, an old habit that, unfortunately, the doctor didn't seem so into anymore. Or when they played chess, just like old times, in school – Elliot was still just as good, perhaps better. Back then, Tommy would always win; now, their game was much more balanced. The first few times they played, Bruce allowed Tommy to win; he observed Elliot's style, noticing how it hadn't changed much from their school days. Then, to keep things interesting, he played for real, and beat Tommy a couple times. It had been fascinating, how his old friend made his best to conceal his surprise and, why not say it, his fury. And, after that, Bruce had to admit, Tommy Elliot had improved his game; so much so that Bruce wondered if Tommy hadn't also been faking when they played those first few games.

Chess, however, was something they didn't do frequently. Most of Tommy's invitations were to parties, golf, sometimes company for a double date. Sadly, Bruce couldn't say no to those every time. It was part of his Bruce Wayne façade, and it didn't hurt that he had a trustable member of Gotham's society to vow for his playboy act. Too bad, Bruce thought, that Tommy had grown up to be an ordinary rich man, and not developed into someone more interesting, as interest, at least, as that odd and incredibly smart kid he was when they were in school.

"Yes, Tommy. It's always nice when you drop by."

"Good", he smiled. "I'll try to come more often."

Bruce did his best to return Elliot's smile. Then, he asked:

"Tell me, what brought you here today? You were saying…"

"Oh, yes, yes! Almost forgot." He leaned over the table, coming closer to Bruce. "It's about tonight."

"Tonight?"

"Yes, tonight! Mayor Garcia's birthday party… you didn't forget about it, did you?"

He definitely had. "The party… geez, I guess I did forget. Is that tonight? Because I don't think I'll be able to make it, actually…"

"Really? Bruce, you have to go. It's a huge party."

Bruce gestured towards his own face. "Can't go like this, right?"

Tommy sighed. "Hm. I guess… well, I don't know, it's a good story to tell. Girls like scars, you know?"

"Sorry. Too many questions to answer, reporters will be all over me to tell what happened."

"I understand, buddy. That's too bad, though."

"Think like this: more ladies for you."

Elliot smirked, but nodded in disagreement. "No, no… you see, that's the thing: there's only one woman I'm interested in, and that's exactly the one that seems to not be interested."

"Oh, yeah? And who is that?"

Bruce held his breath waiting for the answer – in fact, he thought he already knew.

"Selina Kyle, of course", said Tommy.

Bruce wondered if the discomfort he felt in his stomach was showing in his features; all he knew was that he couldn't avoid pursing his lips and had no control over the heat that seemed to spread all over his face. His guess was that his uneasiness was obvious, since Alfred suddenly entered the terrace, pretended to trip and dropped the tray he had in his hands.

"Okay there, Alfie?" Elliot was about to leave his chair to assist the butler.

"Fine, Master Elliot, just fine… I'm so sorry, that's so clumsy of me…"

"Oh, it's all right, Alfie… I'm sure Bruce doesn't care if one of the hundred silver trays in this house gets a little bumped… right, buddy?"

"Right. Yes, no problem. Are you okay, Alfred?"

"I'm perfectly fine, sir. Please, don't get up." He picked up the tray and placed it under his arm. "No harm done; I just have to be more careful, you know. Watch my steps."

"You seem to be okay", assured Tommy. "If you want me to exam you…"

"No, no, Master Elliot. No need. Please, continue with your conversation." He smiled. "I'll be back in a moment with a snack."

"Thank you, Alfred", Bruce said, grateful for having someone like Alfred in his life. No doubt the butler had seen his expression and quickly intervened, saving him once again.

Tommy was talking:

"Really, Bruce, I don't think you can count on Alfie over there for much longer. Between you and me, it's about time he retires, don't you think?"

"You know Alfred, Tommy… he's not just a butler, he's… family."

"I understand", Elliot agreed. "Good old Jarvis, the chauffer my mother kept? I had to forbid him to work. The man had Parkinson, and still he wanted to drive me around… 'no way', I said. Kept paying his well deserved salary, but told him to stay home. You just have to make decisions like that sometimes, you know?"

Tommy's remark met nothing but silence from Bruce's part. He wondered if talking about Jarvis, who had been the Elliot family's chauffer for so many years, didn't bother Tommy. It was so long ago, even before his own parents' death, Bruce remembered: the car accident. A rainy night. Jarvis, the chauffer, apologizing profusely – the brakes of the car had failed, there was nothing the man could have done to avoid it… but Bruce didn't get it. He just couldn't understand how Tommy's mother could have kept Jarvis as her chauffer after he had been the one driving the car when her husband died.

He remembered his own father hugging Tommy during the funeral, how his friend had cried while clutching Thomas Wayne's shirt. Bruce had been too ashamed to admit it then, but now he knew: he had been jealous. He had envied all the attention his friend got; he resented how his own father had been so kind and so caring towards Tommy. He feel sorry for him, no doubt, and not even in his darkest dreams he imagined that one day, in not so long, his own father would be gone. But he was just a kid then, and he couldn't help but wonder if Tommy wasn't, even if just for a few brief moments, enjoying being the center of attentions.

Bruce would later feel endlessly guilty about the thought, of course. He saw Tommy during his own parents' funeral, his friend sternly saying how sorry he was for Bruce's loss. That reminded him that he had never told Tommy the same; selfish as he was back then, he had spend most of the funeral and burial of Tommy's dad sat in a corner, watching as people offered condolences to his young friend. And then, as he saw himself in that place Tommy had been months ago, Bruce knew: his friend was no longer a child, just like he wouldn't be one himself anymore.

"Bruce? Hey, Bruce? Are you listening?"

Tommy had just asked him something, and now demanded an answer. "Sorry, Tommy. No, I guess I wasn't listening, after all."

"Maybe I should exam you more carefully… Did you hit your head during that ski fall…?"

"I'm fine, doctor." He smiled. Having a neurosurgeon friend had been useful before, but it was also problematic sometimes. Dr. Elliot couldn't be easily fooled by his excuses for all the strange wounds he often displayed. "You were saying…"

"Well, what do you think? Should I ask her?"

"Ask her…?"

"Selina!" Now Tommy seemed slightly impatient. "Should I ask her to go to the party with me? Be my date? Tonight?"

"Tonight? You wanna ask her out…"

"God, Bruce, what is wrong with you? Honestly, I'm pretty sure you have a concussion…"

"No, Tommy, I'm ok. I just…" He ran his fingers through his damp hair, trying to mask his disconcertment. "I just don't understand… Selina? Really? I thought you were over her."

"I thought so too, my friend." Tommy's grimace felt oddly forced. His smile was automatic, impersonal, the smile he reserved for his polite social interactions with strangers. "But truth is I just can't get her out of my mind. You saw her. She's gorgeous. And not just that. She's smart, self-confident, a little bossy. Not to mention, pretty different from the girls we usually date."

Tommy's description of Selina was very accurate – Bruce could have said those words himself.

"Sounds like you actually care for this one, don't you?" He hoped his words hadn't sound as lugubrious as he felt.

"Yeah, well. I've been thinking about settling down… ever since mother died I've been alone in that big house, and that can make a guy wonder if it's not time to start a family. Don't you think about that yourself?"

Bruce stared at Tommy, wondering how little he actually knew about his friend. If he studied Thomas Elliot carefully – his polite manners, his perfect appearance, the often vague and superficial conversations they had – what did he see? In fact, not so much. Maybe calling him a friend was quite a stretch: they shared virtually nothing that was meaningful, and Elliot had been as sincere and open towards him as… well, as he had been himself. All along Bruce knew he would have to keep Thomas Elliot in a safe distance; he had never intended to tell him about Batman, and never wanted Tommy involved in any way with his clandestine life. If he was to be perfectly honest, Thomas Elliot was, before anything, an alibi. He was using the man.

But now he wondered if Tommy wasn't doing the same.

"I'm not cut out for the family life, Tommy."

"Oh, Bruce. You are. You just don't know it yet." Elliot stood up from his chair. "Nevertheless, it's time for me to go." As Bruce said nothing, he smiled and joked:

"Don't insist for me to stay, my friend… I know it's hard to see me go, but some of us have jobs and patients to attend to. That can't be helped."

Bruce also rose from his seat and offered a handshake.

"It was good to see you, Tommy."

"Same here, my friend."

As he walked Tommy to the door he asked, in his most casual tone:

"So, Selina… Do you think she'll come to the party?"

"I hope so. I mean, I'll invite her… and you know me: I don't take 'no' for an answer, and I never give up."

Well, Bruce thought, yet another thing we have common.

And he intended to take advantage of it as well.