Hey, guys; it'd be sweet if more people reviewed, blah, blah, blah.
I've got a temper. I'd be the first to admit it. I'm a volatile creature, prone to high ups and low downs. Always have been. For this reason, I keep my apartment fairly rage-proofed. The breakables are all in cabinets with bulletproof glass, and I avoid those squat table lamps that are so perfect for hurling against walls.
That doesn't mean I can't be creatively destructive, if so inspired.
"And that!" The plate, cheap and ceramic, shattered with a satisfying crunch against the tile floor of my small kitchen. Nostrils flaring, I glared at the pieces. "Fuck you, Dark Knight!"
And then, after a few minutes, I got out the broom and swept up the broken plate. I felt a little better when I dropped onto my bed, spread-eagled in my underwear.
"Well, Selina," I said aloud, "you sure handled that. Situation contained."
It was my own fault, of course. I'd baited him, led him on a merry romp across the city rooftops, deliberately ended at a deserted spot with no other exits. And maybe I'd even made it a little romantic, a little special. The pier on the full moon. All that was missing was the violin.
I balled my hand into a fist and pummeled the mattress at my side. You're a fool.
What had I expected? What had I wanted? Another taste of the thrill, another adrenaline pump. Stealing didn't do it anymore, so it was on to the next rush. It was in my nature; I couldn't fight it.
Except that was bullshit, and I knew it. Kissing Batman wasn't a little dose of some good, healthy crime. It wasn't skiing in the Alps, or skydiving in Monte Carlo. Kissing him the first time could be passed off as something along those lines, but my reaction had been dangerous and uncontrolled and certainly not expected. So kissing him a second time?
Another fist sank into the mattress.
Nothing's changed.
I heard his voice, strong and clear as if he were in the room with me, and hated him. I'd said I didn't hate him, but obviously that was wrong. How dare he kiss me like that and then say nothing had changed? Never mind that we were sworn enemies, that I'd made a sport out of tricking him and teasing him and stealing things right out from under his nose.
I groaned.
"What are you doing?" I had no good answer for myself. And no good explanation for why I was feeling hurt right now, not annoyed or smug or vindictive, but actually hurt. He didn't have the right to make me feel like this.
There was a sinking sensation, deep in my stomach, and I thought that I would probably not be putting on the catsuit for a week or two. I was pretty sure that if I ran into him, I wouldn't be able to resist clawing him up. Which would make it pretty obvious that he'd gotten to me. Which was unacceptable.
Right. It had been a while since Selina Kyle had shown up at any of the high-class parties in town. If Catwoman couldn't play, my other side would. Maybe a wild night with some pretty, stupid thing would help me get over this ridiculous state of affairs.
Saturday night in Gotham is an exciting time. All the brightest stars of our grimy city come out to shine, exchanging pointless fluff about art or celebrities or the latest summer home in France. This Saturday was no exception, and as I stood by the window of Jacques Dupuis' downtown penthouse with a glass of champagne in hand, I remembered exactly why I tended to stay away.
"And that haircut, oh! It's just exquisite, Selina, darling; wherever did you get the idea?"
I smiled sweetly, taking a large sip of my champagne before replying.
"The Matrix."
"Well," Missy Dupuis said after a pause, with a flutter of her manicured hand, "that's marvelous." She smiled at me, I smiled at her, we smiled for a while longer, and then she moved on.
"Thank god," I muttered into my glass.
"Careful," someone said from my left. "If you drink it that fast, you won't have anything else to distract you." It was a man's voice, as smooth and charming as every other male voice in the room.
"Then I'll just have to hope someone brings me another," I replied easily, turning to face him. For a moment, my smile faltered. His eyes were so blue, a shade I'd seen only once before. Then, forcing myself back under control, I took in the clean-shaven face, strong and aristocratic; the fine suit; the ringless left hand holding a champagne glass to match my own. He looked familiar, which was odd; usually I remembered faces. Maybe it was the eyes, his stupid Batman-blue eyes. But he would do. He would definitely do.
"I would offer my services, but you might think I was trying to get you drunk." He didn't miss a beat, taking my unashamed inspection in stride. My smile grew wider, more real; he was good at this.
"Good heavens. The scandal!" I kept the sarcasm to a minimum, not wanting to put him off by my obvious disdain for everything around us, but I thought I saw those beautiful eyes narrow just a hair. Just as I was wondering why, the expression disappeared and he smirked.
"I hope you don't have a reputation to uphold," he drawled, purely wicked. I decided I had been mistaken, and downed the rest of my champagne.
"Only the bad one." At that, he laughed outright. It was surprisingly pleasant, warm and rich.
"Can I get you another glass?" the stranger asked, draining his own.
"You may," I replied primly.
"I'm Bruce, by the way." He held out a hand, and suddenly I knew why I recognized him. "Bruce Wayne."
"Aha," I said, taking the hand and shaking it once. He grimaced.
"Speaking of reputations…"
This earned a chuckle. I do love some self-deprecation.
"Selina," I told him, figuring that if he wanted to find my real name, he wouldn't have any trouble. Bruce Wayne knew everybody. There was no point in lying now.
"That's all I get?"
"If I can ignore your reputation, you can wonder about mine." I let go of his hand, taking a step back. "I'll be on the balcony when you get back with that drink." And, in true femme fatale form, I left him staring after me.
He played the game well, I had to admit. I was on the balcony for a good five minutes before he found me, two new glasses in his hands.
"Did you bring me something good?" I asked, turning to rest my elbows on the railing. His eyes dropped to my figure, and I smirked to myself. The dress, black and short and tight in all the right places, had been an indulgence that I was grateful for now. And I knew I looked good, my eyes lined in kohl, my short black hair gelled into a sleek, sexy cap, my lips dark and red.
"Try it and find out," Wayne said, handing me one of the glasses. It was green and icy; a margarita. My lips curved approvingly, and I sipped it. Bruce Wayne wouldn't drug a girl. Bruce Wayne didn't have to.
"Mm," I purred. "It's a little hot out tonight. This is perfect."
He grinned, leaning beside me, facing out at the cityscape.
"Is this the part where I say something cheesy about how you make it hot, baby?"
I laughed, surprised and pleased. Given the rumors about the guy, 'funny' was not something I would have expected from Gotham's prodigal son.
"Not if you want tonight to end well," I answered, taking another sip of my margarita. The alcohol was only just hitting me, a pleasant buzz.
"When you say 'well'…" He broke off, laughing, as I slapped him lightly on the shoulder.
"Don't get ahead of yourself, buster."
"We live in hope," he said, with a light-hearted twist of the mouth, but the joke passed right through me. Those words. The way they
(– behind bars?)
fell off his tongue, eyes rolling just a little
(we live in hope)
as if to say, Don't worry, I'm not serious.
"Hey," he said, and I realized I was staring. "You okay?"
"Yes," I said, looking away, frowning. Stop it. You're here to not think about him, remember? "Sorry about that."
"No worries," Wayne said easily. "The heat does that sometimes. The other day, I zoned out in the middle of a board meeting. Didn't come back until someone spilled coffee on my hand."
"Ouch," I said, chuckling a little, aware that it was half-hearted. I mentally shook myself off. This was ridiculous.
"Yeah, it wasn't the best way to end a daydream." He took a gulp of his own drink, and I remembered mine.
After a moment of silence, Wayne glanced at me.
"So," he said. "We could go back inside."
"We could," I agreed. There was something in his eyes, a new heat, and suddenly I wasn't so distracted.
"Or…" He trailed off, almost coyly. I looked down, biting back my smile.
"You want to get out of here, Bruce Wayne?"
"Lead the way."
We took his car, because it was way faster and way cooler than anything I'd ever driven. He drove fast, too, taking curves like we were on a racetrack. I almost didn't notice when we wound up by the shore, the wind whipping past my ears. When we finally stopped, the exhilaration stuck around. I turned to him, grinning, my heart racing.
"Where'd you learn to drive, Tex?" I asked, and for an instant there was another flash of that – that – whatever expression it was, and then he shook his head.
"With the best," he said smugly. "How about a walk on the beach?"
"I don't know if I could handle the romance."
"Well, if you faint, I promise I'll catch you."
There was something about this banter, the quick exchange, the way his eyes lit up with the challenge. Something… I shook it off, slinking my way out of the car to ensure maximum ogling. My heels, though, I left on the seat.
"So," I began as we strolled down the embankment to the sand, "from what I hear, you have a private jet."
"It does make those weekend jaunts to Paris easier," he said jokingly, not at all embarrassed. I liked that. If anything annoys me more than pompous rich people, it's rich people with false modesty. If you have money, own it. Don't flaunt it, but don't try to hide it, either.
"Must be nice." The sand was warm, but not painful; I picked my way down to the gentle waves lapping at the shore and waded in up to mid-calf. Wayne stayed dry, hands in the pockets of his very fine slacks, watching me. In the dark, his eyes glinted out of the shadows of his face.
"And you?" he asked, tilting his head. "Not just anyone gets an invite to Jacques' parties."
"I guess I'm not just anyone, then."
He shook his head, amused, and then I almost fell over.
Oh, my god. Some trick of the light. It was dark, hard to see; that would make anyone's features look – Oh, my god.
We live in hope.
Those eyes.
Bruce Wayne.
Bruce fucking Wayne.
I staggered, actually, legitimately shocked, the knowledge hitting me like an eighteen-wheeler with absolutely no warning. Instantly, a strong forearm was around my waist, keeping me upright, blue eyes peering worriedly into my face. Familiar blue eyes. Batman-blue eyes.
"Shit," I said.
"Are you okay? I was kidding about the whole fainting thing, you know." He grinned a little, and it was charming, and sweet, and oh, god, Bruce Wayne was Batman.
"I, uh." I stopped. He was still holding me, and I realized that I was holding onto him, too. The waves splashed around my calves. I looked down, saw that his pants were wet to the ankle, had the absurd thought that his shoes were going to be ruined but that was okay because Bruce Wayne could afford a new pair of shoes.
"Selina," he said, and suddenly I couldn't understand how I hadn't seen it before. The voice, the voice was the same! Less gruff, maybe, less short, but the same. The mouth, those thin, clever lips; the strong jawline, the fucking eyes?
"I'm all right," I managed, my voice shaking a little. But that could be explained by lightheadness, as could the nearly falling. It was okay. I hadn't given myself away.
"Are you sure? Here, let's go back to the car. I can take you home."
"Um," I said, at my most eloquent. "Wait."
He stopped trying to steer me towards the dry sand, one arm still around my waist. I only had time to decide that it probably wasn't a good idea, and then I was pulling his head down and kissing him for the third time. Oh, yeah, I thought, while I still could. Definitely him.
Somehow we were on the beach now, me flat on my back, him braced over me, his dark hair coming out of its neat styling as his weight pinned me into the surf. My dress was also getting ruined, but all I had to do was sell a few good pieces to buy a new one. That wasn't important right now, anyway. What was important was the way his mouth felt on mine, the way his fingers tangled themselves into the short crop of my hair, the sound he made when I drew my nails down the back of his neck.
"I hope you're okay," he managed between kisses, his lips worshipping my cheeks, my jaw, my throat. "Because I'm going to do things to you on this beach that I would feel really bad about doing with an invalid."
Fuck. He was funny! Batman was funny! Batman made jokes while his hands made me tremble!
"I have to go," I said, the panic setting in like a pack of dogs. "I can't do this. I'm sorry, but I have to go." Even I could hear the raspiness in my voice, and even I couldn't help the way I arched against him when he drew away.
"Okay," he said, rolling off of me. He lay flat on his back for a moment, breathing hard. "That's okay. I'll take you home."
"No, I can get back from here." I pushed myself up, ignoring the sand in my hair and stuck to the backs of my legs. I had to get out of there, had to get away from him before I did something really stupid, like have sex with him or tell him I admired his cape.
"What?" He rolled over and leapt nimbly to his feet. "Selina, I'm sorry if I went too fast for you, but I can't let you walk home from here. I'm not going to try anything."
"I know," I said quickly, brushing off my dress as I started walking towards the road. "It's not that; you've been a complete gentleman. It's not you, it's me. This is crazy, right? And you don't want to be involved with a crazy girl."
"It's not – " He was beside me, gesturing emphatically, and the absurdity of the situation made me laugh out loud.
"No, no, it's okay. I live close to here; I come here all the time. Trust me, I'm fine. It's been great. Seriously, a really, uh, a really interesting night."
"Well," he said, uncertainly, "I'm not going to force you into my car."
"That's good." I laughed, hoping it didn't sound as manic as it felt. "I might suspect you of ulterior motives."
"Selina, what's going on?"
I stopped, guilt setting in, guilt that I so rarely felt. I turned, faced him, the smile dropping from my face.
"I'm sorry," I said, and meant it. And then I waited for him to get in his car and leave, despite his many protests, before remembering that my shoes were still in his passenger seat.
Awesome.