OOOOOOOOOOO

The night was cold and welcoming, like a bath or a familiar blanket. Selina slipped into the shadows easily, beginning the long patrol west along the park and down into Old Gotham. She liked patrol and the distractions it brought, the need for speed and accuracy, the faith in her abilities it summoned. Whether it was taking down a roving street gang in Robbinsville or crossing the wide gulf of 190th Street West with only a whip and no safety net, the world could fade to the seconds between action and reaction, crime and criminal, problem and resolution. The world seemed very simple during patrol.

It only got complicated for Selina when she hit Old Gotham, that winding warren of alleyways and tenements that was impossible to navigate even for natives. Like nowhere else in Gotham, this district of the city seemed to bend and shift at will. The streets had no names and no accurate map had ever been assembled for the little bourrough. A century ago, immigrants from all corners of the world had settled there, disappearing into their own communities and sliding under the radar of the American authorities. It quickly became a breeding ground for crime, as such unwanted places do. Bad dreams and old memories filled Old Gotham, defying all attempts on the part of law and order to penetrate its skin.

The sound of shattering glass at three o'clock brought her to a building that had no name or address. She could see the river from the rooftop she perched upon; Kane Sound glinted silver in the moonlight, reminding her of the skin of a snake. Then a rush of footsteps, and Selina coiled, ready to spring. She waited until her timing was perfect and then lept upon someone far stronger and faster than she.

Selina found herself thrown off the man's back, her cheek scraping painfully against the black asphalt of the roof. Her eyes widened in shock as she took in a massive shadow, a thing more animal than man. A giant bat, swathed in light-eating black body armor and a cape that shifted in the breeze. She drew in a harsh breath, wondering if there wasn't something familiar about the strong jaw and tense mouth beneath the creature's mask. Despite the annoying feeling that she knew him from somewhere, Selina felt better: there was a man in there somewhere, and a man she could handle. She prepared herself for the fight.

"I think you're a little lost," she told him, her voice a low growl of warning. "Pests aren't welcome in Gotham."

The man seemed to pause, hesitating or perhaps gauging his chances in hand-to-hand combat against Catwoman. He telegraphed a punch but she was faster, ducking it easily. A sweeping kick was also easy to avoid. She clenched her hand, a soft click signaling the slide of razor-sharp claws as they extended from the tips of her gloved fingers. Selina jumped, landing to the left of her opponent and striking out with her claws, sharp metal tips scraping against his chest. The sound of metal-on-metal grated as she made contact with his body armor, her claws penetrating the fabric of his costume but no deeper. She struck again at his kidney, her claws slipping behind the body armor and into the soft flesh beneath. Selina was gratified to hear his sharp intake of breath.

"That wasn't very nice, kitten," he said softly, his voice low and raspy, sending shivers down her spine. He moved again, and she realized he was trying to keep his body between her and something else. She sprang up, her hands resting on muscular shoulders for a moment before she soared up and over to land behind him on the deserted rooftop. Her suspicions were confirmed: a bag of loot, obviously gleaned from one of the mob-controlled pawnshops in the buildings below, gleamed in the moonlight.

"You're not a very good thief, are you?" she asked, whirling to face him. He was already gone, along with a second bag she hadn't even noticed he was carrying.

OOOOOOOOOOO

Bruce let himself into the sleeping apartment silently, despite the injury to his kidney. He'd slipped in through the window he'd left open and had nearly made it to the bathroom when Holly turned on the light.

"You get it?" she asked, excitement driving her voice up a notch. Bruce, sighed, considering whether or not to lecture Holly on the benefits of a good nights' sleep. Instead, unable to dampen her enthusiasm, he nodded and tossed the bag of loot towards her. The teenager scrambled for it, her movements, he noted, a little slower than yesterday. The morphine at work, he supposed.

"Did you eat?"

"Yep," Holly replied, opening the bag and upending it to spill over the blanket covering her thin, white legs. The gold jewelry and cash glinted dully in the light. Bruce began to remove his costume, the air in the tiny East End apartment cool against his skin as he removed the hot black cowl.

He glanced at the dirty dishes she'd left on the coffee table, calculating how much food she hadn't eaten, or pretended to eat and thrown into the kitchen garbage. The pills made her sick and she hated wasting food; he would try to get her something better for the nausea in the morning.

"Any trouble?" she called from the living room. He'd entered the bathroom, the harsh light over the mirror casting the hollows of his face into strange, elongated shadows. Bruce peeled off his body armor, drawing in a sharp, gasping breath as the plating around his kidney came away with a sucking noise, followed by a gush of blood. The kitten certainly had claws.

"None at all," he assured Holly, filling the sink with warm water. He locked the door and found the first aid kit, first pouring alcohol over the wound and then bandaging it to stop the blood. The white gauze looked strange against his skin; he'd rarely been injured on a job before, and certainly never this badly. Self-defense training in a variety of martial arts had formed a part of his education, but the point of cat burglary was stealth: no one should ever know you were there, and therefore, a good thief should never have to fight anyone. The thing with the costumed woman had been embarrassingly amateurish. Her words, spoken in that husky drawl, echoed in his mind: You're not a very good thief, are you?

Not tonight, he wasn't.

Bruce showered and pulled on a ragged terrycloth robe, not quite able to meet his own eyes in the mirror. He'd left half the take behind, and there wasn't much of value in the mob-owned shop to begin with. Either someone had known he was coming, or the Falcones weren't doing as well as everyone thought. The thing with the feline-fixated do-gooder hadn't helped, and the last thing he needed was an injury slowing him down.

Holly had already assessed the take and spread out the night's profits on the carpet. She was sitting amidst the loot, her accustomed nightgown rucked up around her knees as she placed each piece in its spot within the display she'd created. He watched her work, impressed with her innate ability to catalogue everything according to its assessed value, utility or appearance. Even for his expertly trained eyes, some of the pieces, especially the jewelry, were hard to assess. Holly had spent enough time in pawnshops and repo warehouses to learn the value of such things.

"You should get some rest," Bruce told her after a minute, noting the dark circles under her eyes and the way her movements were slow, almost painful, in their effort to arrange the items he'd stolen.

"And you should get someone to look at that kidney," she replied. Bruce tramped down a smile. She was damned observant.

"I'm fine. Now," she said, rising and brushing the wrinkles from her nightgown, "what are we gonna get for this stuff?"

He didn't allow his eyes to waver from hers. "Enough."

Holly grinned, something of her old sparkle and vitality returning to her pale blue eyes. "Awesome." She climbed back onto the couch and snuggled under the blankets, the slight exertion making her cough. Bruce handed her a towel and they both waited for her lungs to settle with the habit of long familiarity.

"Sounds better," he said, trying to be upbeat for her sake. The last thing the poor kid needed was discouragement. "I think it's loosened up."

"It was a good day today," Holly told him, and Bruce had the sneaking suspicion she was also lying for his benefit. "I slept mostly, watched some TV."

"Good," he said, settling onto the other end of the couch, pulling her feet onto his knees and rubbing them. Holly leaned back into her pillow, her eyes drifting shut.

"How was the thing? The party?"

Bruce smiled a little, eyes focused on the soft streetlight outside the window. "It was pretty much what I had expected," he told Holly. "A lot of stuffed shirts, expensive dresses and easy marks. Three of them all but gave me copies of their housekeys."

"That's nice," Holly murmured, half asleep. "You'll hit Bristol tomorrow night?"

"That's the plan," Bruce confirmed, allowing a few long seconds to pass before he spoke again. "There was a woman at the reception..."

"Who?"

"A woman," Bruce repeated. "Selina Kyle."

"Oh...her," Holly whispered, not opening her eyes. "What was she like?"

Bruce contemplated his answer. How could he explain how he had felt on that dance floor? Selina had been nothing like he'd expected. She was beautiful, certainly, but one only had read the Gotham tabloids to learn that. He hadn't been prepared for her quiet vulnerability, that strange aura of sentimentality and sensuality she possessed. She was dangerous, too: Bruce knew that a woman didn't become head of a huge international corporation without tenacity, resourcefulness and a certain ability to be absolutely ruthless. Still, the last thing he had been expecting when he'd asked Selina Kyle to dance was to feel so...intrigued. He wondered even now what it meant.

"She's just another mark," Bruce said to the empty room, the only other sound Holly's deep, troubled breathing.

OOOOOOOOOOO