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A soft click, and then, “Catwoman. A moment of your time, if you would.”
Selina stiffened, instinctively sinking down beneath the lip of the ledge and sliding out of sight behind an air-conditioning unit on the roof of the high-rise she was currently crossing.
It wouldn’t make a difference. Whoever spoke wasn’t close enough to have actual eyes on her; they were speaking through the comm in her ear.
She typically didn’t wear one. A radio to follow police chatter and stay ahead of the boys in blue, yes, but that was strictly one-way transmission. But tonight she was working with the Birds of Prey, so she begrudgingly needed to keep in contact with at least Oracle (she’d be dropping this earpiece in the harbor as soon as the night was finished. Or maybe holding onto it for a rainy day… in a shielded box, of course).
But that voice, soft and young and male, wasn’t Oracle.
When neither Helena, Dinah, nor Oracle herself cut in with alarmed questions or accusations at the appearance of this uninvited guest on their party line, she realized he must have opened a private channel with her.
She pursed her lips. All facts considered, there really was only one person it could be.
“Cernunnos,” she replied cautiously. “I’d say it's a pleasure to finally meet, but, well…”
Cernunnos was Oracle’s apprentice, taking over the Bats and Birds’ operations when she was busy with her own Birds, although he worked a lot with the otherwise wildly unsupervised Young Justice as well, and was arguably the reason the new team hadn’t broken up after their first few missions went disastrously off-the-rails.
(Word among those not on a first-name basis with the police commissioner was that Cernunnos was known to lend a hand to a few other equally unauthorized vigilante and gray hat groups on occasion, most likely without Batman’s knowledge or permission. Only to say, she wasn’t too surprised to be suddenly contacted by him).
Cernunnos was quite the mysterious figure. But knowing the real name, as Selina did, of the boy behind the voice in her ear only made him more of an enigma, not less: Timothy Wayne, Bruce Wayne’s youngest child, and the one least known about even in his civilian identity.
Dick (Of all the Gotham vigilantes, she held a special place in her heart for him: The first Robin. The first of the superhero sidekicks. Something new and never seen before, tiny and ferocious and brilliant as a star. She’d taught him how to pick locks, and he earnestly offered her some of the fruit snacks he snuck into his utility belt in exchange. And he’d always be that cocksure, grinning little kid to her, even if he had outgrown his red feathers and traded them in for blue) had sulked to her at length that Tim hadn’t wanted to take up a mantle keeping with the Bats and Birds theme of the rest of their family. But as Oracle had put in, it was certainly in keeping with her own.
The poor boy would never be a vigilante out on the streets, however, and not through any physical disability like Oracle.
The boy had crippling agoraphobia, and rarely, if ever, left Wayne Manor as a result. And never without his dad.
But Bruce had enough money that none of his children had to work a day in their lives if they chose not to. The situation was deeply sad, but as far as the lives of shut-ins go, he couldn't be better situated. She knew, too, that Bruce was secretly glad of it. To have found a child who could be part of his life as Batman, but who he would never have to risk losing to it. Not again. Not after Jason.
And what Tim had made of himself in becoming Cernunnos was impressive, especially considering, through whatever horrible negligence Bruce had rescued him from, the boy had been unable to even read or write his own name when he’d first been taken in by the Waynes, much less use a computer.
“I have a job for you.”
“As you may have noticed, I’m already on one,” Selina quipped back a bit snarkily, lip quirked up in anticipatory amusement as she waited to see how he’d respond.
The pause that followed was long enough that she began to feel guilty for assuming she could tease the way his brother might, or that he would even recognize it for such, when she was essentially a complete stranger to him. Because as much as she felt like she knew him from Dick and Barbara’s anecdotes, this was the first time they had ever spoken, and he may not even know they talked about him. May even be alarmed to learn they were.
But then that acerbic wit Dick often bragged of came, with a quiet, beleaguered huff and a “you and I both know this thing for O is hardly more than a milk run for you. Surely I can interest you in something a little more challenging? A little more fun?”
Her smile returned full-force, as she leaned back against the air conditioner unit and began twining the very tip of the tail on her whip between her restless fingers like she used to the curling cord on her old landline phone while on calls.
“You know tonight’s just a favor for Huntress, right?” she purred. “So I’ll have to stop you there. Whatever you have planned, I’m not exactly a do-gooder. Can’t be making a habit of this kind of thing.”
“Well, when you ask for a cat burglar, there’s generally only one thing you’re asking for.”
She stopped, suspicion swamping her good humor. “What is this really about?”
Though the line was suspiciously silent for the length of a breath, in her mind’s eye she could see the pursed lips, imagine the deep inhale for confidence before he turned his mic back on, tone solemn and wheedling. “I assure you, this is a genuine offer. Not a joke, not a test, nor a trap.”
She stood, brushing off the dust of the gravel on the roof’s surface from her catsuit, and crossed her arms. She hoped he was watching through some camera somewhere.
“Does Oracle know you’re poaching? Better yet, does the Big Bad Bat know you're asking me this?”
The longest silence yet. Then a quick, frantic whisper. “Don’t tell him.”
“I don’t know,” she teased, drawing the word out, as she examined the clawed fingernails on her glove in classic mean girl indifference. “Maybe I–
“Don’t!” The shout cut her off, her hand dropping down to her whip at her waist automatically in alarm. “I’m begging you.” His agitated tone turned bitter. “Just forget I asked.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Okay, kid,” she said soothingly. “You can relax, I was just joking. Look, my lips are sealed.” She made a motion of zipping her lips and tossing away the key to sell it.
But with another nearly-inaudible click, he was gone without another word.
Selina tilted her head back, absently seeking out any lonely stars in Gotham’s pollution-clouded firmament.
“Cernunnos, huh?” she murmured. Cernunnos was a Celtic god of the hunt, which made it a clever enough pseudonym for someone dedicated to “hunting down” criminals (since the more obvious choice of Artemis was already taken). But Cernunnos was better known as the lord of beasts and wild places.
An industrial mess of a city like this was certainly an odd choice for someone using his name to call home, she thought amusedly. But she couldn't expect a teenage boy to give a lot more thought than the “Rule of Cool” when choosing his first superhero persona, and he could have picked a lot worse.
“Catwoman? Are you at the location?”
And there was Huntress on the comms now.
“Ah, no, took a little detour, but I’m on my way.”
Later that night she found a folder on her laptop that hadn’t been there when she left for the evening. Inside was a detailed analysis of the Gotham Art Museum’s new security features (and flaws) and a map of each camera’s placement.
She wasn’t sure if it was a bribe, a thank you, or even the job he’d been offering her.
In any case, she left a small bone carving of a deer, about the size of her palm (and taken from the ancient art exhibit), on the windowsill of the only room in Wayne Manor with four monitors and two laptops on the desk.
+ + + + + + + + + +
Dealing with Bruce was a roller coaster. Scratch that—roller coasters were fun. Dealing with Bruce was like dealing with a cat that (briefly, grudgingly) deigned to purr as you pet it one moment, then clawed the hell out of you and shat in your bed for daring the next.
(Not even Catwoman could charm them all. Felix was now living the dream as a barn cat at an old school friend’s ex-husband’s farm. May they suit each other well.)
And unlike dogs, cats couldn’t be trained or reasoned with. It was normally why she loved them, but…
It was over a year since the first, last, and only time she’d spoken to the most elusive Wayne scion, and she’d just had another screaming fight with Bruce. Or at least, she’d wanted to scream, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of looking out-of-control when he was once again playing the part of a brick wall.
So instead she was screaming into a pillow while waiting for Ivy to show up to help plan her retaliatory “fuck Batman” crime spree. And then maybe it was time to take a long vacation out of this oppressive sinkhole of a city. Cannes was nice this time of year…
So of course that’s when the phone rang.
Feeling in the mood to make a telemarketer cry, or if it was Ivy to tell her to stop and pick up a couple of steaks and another bottle of wine on her way, she picked up the phone without even bothering to check the caller ID.
“How do you feel about getting a little revenge?”
Selina rolled over onto her back, staring up at the ceiling, and gently pushed away the little cat head that began gnawing on the corner of her phone, leaving tooth marks in the case.
“You,” she began skeptically, “Tim Wayne,” she emphasized his name, because if he was going to make a point of showing he knew her civilian identity by calling her on her personal cell rather than continue politely pretending he didn’t, she sure as hell wasn’t going to keep up the fiction any longer either, “want to help me absolutely ruin your dad’s life.”
“Bruce was being an ass.” She could practically hear the shrug.
She scooted up to sit back against the headboard, pulling Cheddar into her lap and scratching behind his ears until he began a rumbling purr.
She may not be the “world’s greatest detective,” but she considered herself pretty good with people. You had to be, to be a successful con. And it was certainly interesting that Tim called Bruce by his first name. Dick did, but then he was never officially adopted, and still reserved that title for the deceased John Grayson alone. But Jason had (god, Jason) called him Dad. It seemed Tim did not.
“Agreed. What did you have in mind?”
“I can keep him distracted across town, disable some security at the bank,” Tim said, going for casual but noticeably excited. “You can have some fun in his safe deposit boxes.”
“Oh?” She had to admit, she perked up at this, dislodging Cheddar who moved to curl up at the foot of the bed instead with an annoyed flick of his tail.
“Jewelry, furs. Lots of old valuable vintage stuff Bruce doesn’t have a use for but doesn’t want to sell.” That Tim was trying to downplay the importance of what was in those safe deposit boxes was raising flags.
She sobered, balancing her head on a fist, elbow propped up against the pillows with a regretful sigh. “I appreciate it, kid. But any jewelry and furs Bruce is hanging onto would have belonged to his mother. No matter how mad at the man I am, I’m not the kind of gal to dig my fingers in an open wound.”
She hung up, suddenly irritated at her own soft-heartedness.
Just in time, however, as she heard a soft tap at her window. Immediately after, a needle-thin green tendril slipped under the crack and then coiled upward like a tomato vine grasping for a trellis in fast-forward. It found the latch, and maneuvered it to the unlocked position.
Ivy pulled the window open and slipped inside. No steaks, but she had a hefty bag of take-out from Selina’s favorite Singaporean restaurant in one hand, a bottle of wine in the other, and another bottle of whiskey tucked under her arm.
Later, relaxing on the yacht of a rich something-or-other off the southern coast of France, Selina couldn’t help but muse that this was the second time Tim Wayne had offered to help her steal something, presumably from Bruce.
Bruce had taken Tim in less than a year after Jason’s death, and while it left a sour taste in her mouth to think it—because it wasn’t that she didn’t think Tim deserved to be rescued from his previous living situation—no one could try to claim with full sincerity that Bruce hadn’t taken the child in as an attempt to replace Jason, to fill the hole left behind in his heart. Like people who get a new puppy to distract from the pain of loss only days after putting their old dog down.
Looking back at what her own interactions with Bruce had been like in those awful days, she could only imagine how bad it was in the manor—unpredictably alternating between a desperate, frenzied clinginess one moment, then a harsh coldness the next, or else weepy indifference to anything but his guilt and grief.
Those first few months would have set the foundation for Bruce's whole relationship with the kid, so it wasn’t totally surprising that their relationship was more fraught and complicated than any of the other Bat Clan members. With the parental role models he’d had so far (and that certainly included Bruce), Tim may not always realize what was an appropriate reaction or escalation, and he didn’t even have the option to move out and get some space and perspective like Dick had.
Whatever stability Tim and Bruce had found together over the years, Jason’s reappearance must have stirred up complicated feelings for Tim, despite having never met his predecessor before his adoption. Bruce’s reaction to his second son’s return was more than enough of a catalyst for that.
Little Jason Todd, all grown up, she mused, had become a seismic quake shaking all their foundations. The problem of what to do with him…
Well, Bruce wouldn’t listen to her. She didn’t have to try reasoning with him again to know the result would be the same—that way madness lies. And Jason could take care of himself now; he’d proven that, if nothing else.
But she felt a tad guilty leaving Tim behind to bear this mess alone, although she had no obligation to him, having never met the kid and only spoken to him twice, and for less than ten minutes in total.
But even Jason’s new righteous fury against Batman, all his allies, and everything he stood for, was, like her own anger, built around a core of love. You could only be betrayed if you’d trusted first, after all (and betrayal only continued to sting so long after the fact if you wanted to trust them again, because the betrayal itself was an obstacle in your way).
Dick seemed mostly oblivious—his relationship with Tim was good (at least from his telling of it, and his love and praise for the kid was genuine) but he wasn’t around to see how Tim and Bruce interacted whenever he went back to Blüdhaven. From conversations with Babs and Alfred, the words they weren’t saying, Selina picked up enough.
Even more from that little speedster friend of the kid’s the time she’d caught him in Gotham at a kebab stand on one of his attempts at sneaking over to see Tim. Before the Flash, with all the panic of a dad who found his child getting into something they shouldn’t while he was supposed to be watching them, and didn’t want mom to find out, showed up to drag him back to Central.
(You would think, after Jason, Bruce would have loosened his “no metas in Gotham” rule. Relied on his superpowered friends more. If he’d asked for help sooner, maybe he could have saved him in time. But if anything, after taking in Tim, Bruce locked down the ship even tighter. Not even Superman was allowed at the manor anymore.)
+ + + + + + + + + +
But maybe she was wrong.
When Bruce died (the rest of Gotham may have been fooled, but she recognized Tommy Elliot’s voice and mannerisms when she saw him), his properties were ransacked.
The manor in Bristol first.
Tim had been there alone when it happened.
Because the grief of staying there after Bruce’s unexpected and traumatic death had been too much, and the rest of the Waynes had uprooted and moved themselves into the penthouse in the heart of Gotham. Except for Tim.
The boy was inconsolable when he first learned of Bruce’s death, and refused to leave, no matter the amount of pleading or reasoning, and attempts to physically drag him out of the manor resulted in hysterical screaming and fighting back (although that might have been the agoraphobia at work).
No one was happy with the decision, but Alfred had a much younger grandson to think about now, and one who—having grown up isolated, abused, and brainwashed in the League of Assassins, was then abandoned by his mother and only defender on his father’s doorstep at their first meeting without so much as a goodbye, and then lost that father so soon after—needed the support and guidance much more. Tim, after all, wasn’t likely to stab someone if left unsupervised.
Alfred visited the manor each Wednesday morning after dropping Damian off at school to cook meals for the week, and again on Saturday afternoons to complete various housekeeping chores and ensure Tim was actually eating and bathing, but otherwise the boy was alone.
Tim claimed to have slept-through the break-in.
The house was ransacked from top to bottom, but nothing valuable was actually taken, although many priceless pieces of furniture and art were irreparably broken. Every locked drawer, closet, or chest in the manor was smashed open. Air vents and outlet covers and even light fixtures were unscrewed and pulled out of the walls and ceilings. Seat cushions were sliced open, enormous holes were knocked into the walls, and floorboards were torn up. It looked like a start had been made on tearing up the yard, but the property surrounding the manor was expansive and not much progress had been made there—only the new rose bushes Alfred had put in a few years before uprooted and lying in a sad heap.
Extensive renovations would be required.
The Waynes decided to quietly eat the cost, reluctant to bring in an insurance adjuster when they all suspected Tim had done it himself in an extended fit of grief and rage. The damage was so comprehensive it was clearly the work of days, and would have been LOUD.
No one dared accuse him of it, however, and the whole thing was swept under the rug.
It did finally convince Alfred to force Tim to the penthouse with the rest of them, whether the boy wanted to or not. Either Tim was lying about the break-in, and the isolation was worsening his already fragile mental health, or he wasn’t. In either case, it wasn’t safe for him to be there alone anymore.
Surprisingly, Tim came without much fuss, although the move wasn’t great for his agoraphobia, and he was often twitchy and restless, wandering through the apartment and rearranging the bookcases and furniture, and endlessly cleaning every room in the apartment despite Alfred’s protests.
Then the New York and Metropolis apartments were broken into. And the one purchased under an assumed name in San Francisco back when Dick’s Robin was living with the Titans out there. The remote cabin on the lake in the Catskills, the vacation home in Lake Como. Even the old manor house originally belonging to the Kane family in Ireland that neither Bruce nor any of the Waynes had ever stepped foot in before or since he inherited it at his mother’s death.
These break-ins, too, were kept under wraps, but for publicity reasons. And though naturally suspicion fell on Tim, he had never once left the Gotham penthouse in all that time.
When the repairs at the manor were finished, Tim begged to be allowed to go back. He had become unnervingly set on taking up spelunking, and exploring the depths of the cave system under the manor beyond the Bat Cave.
…Grief affects everyone differently.
When the whole family trooped out to inspect the finished renovations, the penthouse was broken into in the time they were absent, although the damage wasn’t as extensive there as elsewhere.
What they couldn’t hide so easily, was that as soon as all of Bruce’s private properties were finished being searched, the perpetrator began making their way through every Wayne Enterprises facility in the U.S., starting on the Eastern Seaboard and moving West, then for good measure also hitting the buildings in London and Hong Kong where Bruce had made overseas business trips in the last few years.
Thankfully, the offices weren’t as completely destroyed as the residences had been, but it was clear to everyone who came into work the morning after each time that there had been a break-in. Desks and filing cabinets were rifled through, ceiling tiles were removed (they were thorough, and evidently didn’t care if people knew they'd been there)—overall, it was unsettling, and numerous workers called in sick the rest of the week, feeling too uncomfortable to continue to work there until additional night security had been hired.
Tim Wayne remained, as ever, a ghost in the manor.
+ + + + + + + + + +
It was a long road getting there, and half the time she was walking it, she was looking for the first turn off of it, but Bruce Wayne—the man who regularly faced down genuine evil with nothing between him and it but a layer of kevlar—finally worked up the nerve to ask Selina to move in.
(He’d hinted she’d be welcome a few times, and maybe he assumed a cat burglar would want to take it for herself rather than being given it, but she deserved the words themselves.)
So she moved in.
Dick came back from Blüdhaven for the weekend to help with the move, beyond ecstatic for the both of them.
Damian was conflicted. It was another nail in the coffin for his father ever getting back together with his mother, “the clearly superior choice,” and was sulking in his room after having abducted Cheddar the orange tabby, Winnie the tuxedo, the siamese kitten that she didn’t think would find its way back to her after (as intended—she was a con artist after all. Damian wouldn’t accept a “bribe” from her if she gave it to him as a gift. But he could claim it had picked him for itself, and would still be influenced in her favor), and her black panther Lover, promising with an adorably disgusted crinkle of his nose to “find a more suitable name for the noble creature.”
Bruce followed worriedly up after, but Damian was also annoyed with him for “being so weak-minded as to fall for a criminal’s seduction,” and wouldn’t let him into the room, so Bruce would simply have to trust her lovely pet would not eat his son, or that Damian would not vanish out the window with the panther at his side and a bindle over his shoulder.
Damian’s feelings about the two of them together wouldn’t change in a night, after all. And she had time now to establish a relationship with Damian that would work for both of them.
Jason had known it was coming—Red Hood and Catwoman had a working relationship, after all. He told her he thought she was making a dumb choice, but wished her the best of it anyway, saying “hopefully you can get the old man to loosen up a little.”
So no one thought it was strange when she caught Tim’s eye as he shuffled into the room, watching from the doorway with a tired expression, and smiled at him.
“Hi Tim. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
He lifted a hand in a casual wave.
No one stopped her when she said, with a jerk of her thumb, “these guys can handle this. Let’s talk in private.”
It was simply a moment of bonding between a potential step-mother and her new step-son.
Tim was 19 now, going on 20, and taking some college courses online. But considering his condition, he was unlikely to ever move out.
As they moved down the hall, Selina joked, “can I expect Bruce to review the security tapes of our conversation later, to give me a grade on how I did?”
Tim glanced at her from the corner of his eye, then diverted his path from the living room to the stairs and began to lead her up them.
“The bedrooms don’t have cameras,” he said.
When she’d taken a seat on his bed, and Tim had locked his door behind him, sitting down at his computer chair, she began.
“You’ve got some loyal friends, huh?”
Tim leaned back in the chair, head tilting down against his shoulder as he eyed her defensively.
“Yeah. So?”
“Nothing. I just think it’s sweet that Impulse and Superboy would do that for you. Did you tell them the importance of it?”
His eyes narrowed.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“But obviously searching the W.E. buildings needed a… finer touch. But with that idiot Hush in charge, no one would have noticed any more money going missing.” She crossed her legs, leaning back on her hands. “Who did you hire? Was it someone I know?”
Tim aggressively spun his chair around, booting up some MMORPG on his computer.
“I said, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Is that all? Are we done?”
“Is that where you hired them?” she asked, standing up to peer curiously over his shoulder. “Through one of the game’s chats? It’s a good way to hide your tracks.”
“No,” he said stiffly, angrily clicking through game menus. “You watch too much TV.”
“You should have asked me again.”
Tim went still.
Selina moved back and sat back down on the edge of the bed.
“Third time’s the charm. Maybe. But I know it can take a lot out of someone to try twice, and be turned down twice. So I won’t make you ask again. I’ll offer.”
Catwoman asked, “Is there still something you want me to steal?”
Silence. Then,
“Yes.”
+ + + + + + + + + +
She didn’t blame the kid—well, he wasn’t a kid any longer, and wasn’t that the most tragic part of all this—for never being able to find it these last seven years.
Bruce had loyal friends, too. There wasn’t much Superman wasn’t willing to do for Batman, and storing something in the Fortress of Solitude, no questions asked, was a simple enough favor. Especially for something as innocuous as a fur stole.
Getting it back out required calling in several favors she’d been hanging onto, some of which required people who owed her to call in their own favors, and she had to take on a debt of some favors owed, but she didn’t regret it.
It was small, and incredibly warm and soft when she ran her hand over it, and colored a mottled brownish-grey. It was a sealskin.
She didn’t bring it out until they were alone. Tim hugged it to his chest and collapsed to his knees, overwhelmed and weeping, when she gave it to him.
The next morning, she wasn’t surprised when Dick swept into the dining room where she and the others were eating breakfast, panicked and waving a note in his hand.
In Tim's handwriting, three short lines.
Despite everything, I do love you.
And I’ll miss you.
But I’m finally going home.
In a parallel to the sight of the night before, Bruce held the note to his chest, collapsing to his knees right there beside the table, and wept and wept and wept.