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“Is a bowl of rice and soft-boiled egg a nutritious meal?”
“What?” says Batman, pausing.
Catwoman tilts her head and he quickly goes back to securing her handcuffs before she gets any ideas. “I just think there should be a vegetable.”
“...There’s a lot of protein in it. Maybe add an avocado.”
“That’s what I thought,” she agrees, and then knees him in the groin.
“Ough,” says Bruce, and immediately begins mentally redesigning his reinforced cup.
“Thanks, Batman!” she calls over her shoulder as she deftly grapples away across the rooftop, whip clutched in both cuffed hands.
***
“...It gives rather a codpiece effect, Master Bruce.”
“I think she has spiked kneepads under her suit.”
“Mhm. Nevertheless.”
***
“Oh la la,” says Catwoman from under him, “Is that a batarang or are you just happy to see me?”
“Haha,” says Bruce flatly, and immediately regrets it when they both have simultaneous flashbacks to last week, when the Joker broke out of Arkham with a very large inflatable hammer.
“I’m actually quite pleased to see you,” says Catwoman, as Bruce digs for bat-zipties in his batbelt. “I need to ask you a question.”
“Shoot,” says Bruce, and immediately regrets it. He’s never been a fan of guns.
She grunts as he tightens the bat-zipties around her wrists. “Puzzles are good, right? They help the brain. Keep you occupied.”
Bruce sits back, keeping her legs pinned, and immediately regrets it when her eyes drift downwards. He thinks she raises an eyebrow, but he can’t really tell under her mask. “It’s for safety,” he snaps, “And puzzles are excellent for enhancing mental fortitude and flexibility. I love puzzles.”
“Wonderful,” she says blythely, “And what time do you think is an appropriate bedtime?
He stares at her. “Catwoman, we’re literally creatures of the night.”
She rolls her eyes. “Right, but imagine we don’t want to be. What’s a good bedtime?”
Batman shrugs and immediately regrets it because he has a vibe to maintain. “8 PM? 9?”
She nods thoughtfully. “Hm. Long way to go, then. Thanks, Batman.”
“You’re welcome,” says Bruce, because he’s polite even when utterly baffled.
***
“B, Catwoman broke out of the police station again.”
“I don’t know why I bother.”
“One wonders.”
“We couldn’t possibly guess.”
“...Stop smirking, both of you.”
***
“Drop it,” growls Batman, holding out a hand.
Catwoman scowls at him, Mrs. Kitty Trevelian’s stolen diamonds dripping from between her fingers. “I’m not a dog, Batman.”
“Now,” says Batman.
“Oh my god,” she says, rolling her eyes, “She deserved to get them stolen, though, she’s such a nightmare. It’s practically vigilante justice.”
Batman snorts, something he absolutely does not mean to do, and her eyes gleam. “I’m serious, Catwoman,” he says, taking a step towards her.
She skitters backwards, thrusting the jewels behind her back like a child. “Listen, Batman, I just gotta know—how often do you visit the dentist?”
Batman blinks. “Do you not go to the dentist?”
“Obviously I do.” She bares her teeth. “Have to keep these pearly whites sharp for... mm, catching rats. I just want to know how often you go.”
“I’m Batman,” he says. He goes every six months.
“It’s not like I’m trying to hunt down your dentist. Just give me a number range.”
“Aren’t you?” he says, suspicious.
She growls in frustration and does a hands-free roundoff away from him, towards the fire escape. “Every six months,” he calls after her.
The diamond necklace clatters to the ground in front of him, winking innocently in the moonlight.
***
“She still has the damn earrings.”
“I’m sure she’ll look great in them, old man.”
“That’s besides the—that’s not what this is about!”
***
The next time he encounters Catwoman, Nightwing is trailing behind him, muttering mutinously about ‘just wait until he gets a tattoo’. Right. As if. He’s not even twenty. “Nightwing,” she purrs, rolling out of a perfect somersault on the rooftop in front of them. “Just the man I wanted to see.”
“Me?” says Nightwing.
“Him?” says Bruce.
“Nightwing,” she continues, “When you were growing up, how frequently did you see your parents?”
Nightwing casts Bruce a look of utter poison. “Literally every day. An actual nightmare. Don’t remind me, I’ll go into literal hysterics.”
Catwoman paces slightly, tapping her chin with one long claw. “Right, so seeing parents every day is bad, but you should see them sometimes. Right, okay.”
Nightwing sort of slumps and then groans. “Like, no, fine. Seeing your parents every day is actually normal. Until you move out, except when you’re tricked into returning to your childhood home for the weekend so that your lameass dad can take advantage of your highly-advanced skillset because your younger brother has escaped on a field trip. And you stayed because of your highly generous and sensitive nature. Don’t forget my highly generous and sensitive nature.”
Bruce scowls. He’s never forgotten Richard’s highly generous and sensitive nature. It’s one of his favorite natures. Catwoman stops pacing. “Every day? Are you sure?”
“Yes,” says Nightwing sulkily, “Until you move out. Or fall off a roof and die because your dad accidentally gives you the little-kid grapple. Whichever comes first.”
“I said I was sorry,” mutters Bruce.
“Well,” says Catwoman, “This has been great, boys, but I gotta…” She pauses and winks. “...pounce.”
“Not funny,” says Bruce.
Nightwing laughs hysterically.
***
“You forgot to ask her about the museum heist, B.”
“I didn’t notice you plying her with questions.”
“No, she asked the questions, huh?”
“...Yes, she did.”
“Hm.”
“Hn.”
***
This time, Catwoman isn’t being fancy. No somersaults, no tuck-and-rolls, no backflips. She looks worried. “Batman,” she gasps, out of breath, “What do I do about the flu?”
“Your ears are askew,” he says.
She adjusts them hurriedly, the spandex making a snapping sound against her forehead. “The flu, Batman,” she says, “Not an ER situation. What do you do?”
“How ill are you feeling?” he says, reaching towards to feel her temperature.
“Not me, Batsy,” she says, slapping away his hand, “Someone else.”
Batman wrinkles his brow, which is completely inscrutable beneath the mask. “Er… chicken soup, rest, fluids, hot showers,” he recites.
“Hot showers?” she says.
“For the steam.”
“Right,” she says, “Let me write this down.”
He watches, slightly bemused, as she rustles through her own utility belt. Catbelt? She pulls out a crumpled piece of paper and an extremely fancy pen. “Bend over,” she says.
“Um,” he says.
“Oh my god.” She rolls her eyes, grabs his forearm, flattens the paper against the bat-control panel strapped to his inner wrist, and begins frantically scribbling.
“Right,” she says, “Thanks, Batman.”
“You’ve just launched six batdrones,” he says, staring at his wrist, “And was that pen monogrammed?”
She’s already gone.
*****
“Hm.”
“Hn.”
“Hmm.”
“Have some tea, boys.”
***
This time, he’s not Batman. He’s Bruce Wayne, leaning against the edge of his desk in his shirtsleeves, flipping through some documents about money laundering in WayneTech that Lucius has been kind enough to draw up for him. He hears the snick of the window latch behind him and whirls around.
She’s perched on his windowsill, one foot folded beneath her and the other already in the room, like she’s done this a million times before. She’s not Catwoman either. “Hi there,” Bruce tries, even though he’s sure his heart has crawled through his windpipe and is lodged in his mouth, blocking all speech. “Can I help you, miss?”
“Cut the crap, Bruce,” she says sharply, and he sees now that her nose is longer and more arched than it looks in the mask, and that her face is both squarer and sharper and there are little freckles at the top of her cheekbones.
He lets out a little bit of air, heart still firmly wedged in his airways. He can feel it beating. “Hello, Miss Kyle. What’s the occasion?"
She comes all the way into the room, and her eyes are bright and hard and staring right at him. “He’s allergic, Bruce.”
Bruce puts down the papers and opens his mouth, but before he can get a word out, she’s pacing in front of him, words rushing from her like Gotham River when it’s overflowing from the blood rains. “I’ve been working so hard to lure him, I really have—played games, made this whole treasure hunt so he’d stay out of trouble, did quality time, did the chicken soup and naps thing when he was sick, the whole shebang,” she waves her hands, “And the first time I manage to get him all the way back to my apartment, he just starts sneezing all over the place! He’s sweet, he really is—tried to pretend it was my Christmas cactus, but the damn thing has never bloomed once. It’s definitely cats.” She turns to him, eyes wide and frowning hard. “I just—I mean, what do I do, Bruce? I don’t remember my parents that well, and you—you’ve got two, and it comes so easy to you, so—so—I just…”
Bruce blinks a little. “Selina, I really… Two of what?”
She stares at him. “Kids,” she says, the 'obviously' implied but somehow overpowering, “You have two kids.”
Bruce admits it. He sputters a little. “Wait, you—? You have a kid?”
“Well, I’m trying,” she says crossly, “But he’s allergic, Bruce. Keep up.”
Bruce sits down. He puts his head in his hands. “Explain it from the beginning,” he says.
So she does.
***
His name is Tim.
He’s twelve.
He does in fact have parents, but they’re usually in South America or Egypt or rural China or Turkey or Caucasia. Anywhere but Gotham, really. Tim lives (and this is hard to swallow) next door to the Waynes, but he’s usually in Gotham proper, hiding behind smokestacks as the Bats fly by or huddled in warehouse catwalks (ha) watching the impromptu bare-knuckle goon boxing matches Jason won’t stop trying to bet on.
Tim also (and this is the hardest to swallow) knows who the Bats are. Bruce’s rectum only unclenches when Selina says Tim has only ever told her, and it’s why she crawled in through his window tonight.
Recently, when Tim is in Gotham proper, he’s been shadowing Catwoman as she prowls the city. Recently, Selina has been at Drake Manor nearly every day, making smoothies and slicing avocados on top of his soft-boiled eggs and rice, which she tells Bruce is what he regularly eats for dinner.
Apparently, it’s good with salt.
“I finally got him out of that horrible place,” and here Selina gestures in the direction of Drake Manor, which Bruce knows lies a mile south, “It’s practically a mausoleum, no place for him at all. I was going to make him brownies and we were going to start a puzzle—they make puzzles with eight thousand pieces, but he’s been telling me about this ten thousand piece one—anyways, the minute we’re inside, it’s like a waterpark from his eyes. And now he’s back in the Manor, probably shotgunning Allegra because he’s twelve.”
“He’s in Drake Manor?” says Bruce, “Right now?”
She nods, her curly mop bobbing with the movement. “Right,” says Bruce, “Let me get my car keys.” He pauses. “And talk to the boys.” He pauses again. “And Alfred.”
***
Alfred elects to stay back. “Someone must turn over the sheets in the back bedroom, Master Bruce.”
“Well, I’m coming,” declares Jason, and he makes a movement like he’s about to dramatically throw his book onto the coffee table, but it’s a book, so he uses a bookmark instead.
“Just dog-ear it, you nerd,” says Dick, rolling off the couch he’s been laying across and onto to his feet.
“Please,” says Catwoman woundedly, just as Jason says: “I’ll bite you.”
“Sorry,” Dick says to Selina and definitely not to Jason, “I’m coming too, Bruce.”
Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. “Boys, we don’t want to overwhelm him.”
“Overwhelm, nothing,” says Jason, hunting for the sweater he knows he’s left somewhere in the library, “If this is the same Drake I’m thinking of, you couldn’t overwhelm him with a sledgehammer."
Bruce is almost certain he sees Selina’s ears perk up. “You know Timothy?”
Jason grunts halfway up a bookcase, peering behind Bruce’s first editions of Poe. “He’s a grade below me at Gotham Prep. Bit of a freak, if I’m honest, but I once saw him pour several fluid ounces of Elmer’s Glue into Arthur Davis’s tapioca pudding. So he’s cool.”
“Hn,” Bruce says.
Selina nods proudly. “Definitely the same Drake.”
“Aha!” says Jason, holding his sweater triumphantly over his head, surrounded by tumbled cushions and a copy of The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket.
***
“Hi,” says Tim, blinking up at the assemblage on his doorstep, “Can I help you?”
His eyes are a bit red, a bit puffy, but other than that, he’s wearing nothing but a pair of pajamas and an expression of polite interest.
“Sledgehammer,” says Jason Todd, a.k.a. Robin, nodding wisely.
“...Right,” Tim says doubtfully, before spotting Selina and absolutely beaming, “Miss Kyle!”
Selina steps through the door and runs a hand through Tim’s hair. Bruce is pretty sure she’s petting him. He’s pretty sure Tim is leaning into it. “Hey, stray.”
Tim lets go of the door to trot after her as she sets off down the hallway, and it’s only Bruce’s batlike reflexes that stop it from swinging shut in the Waynes’ faces. “Where are we going?” he says eagerly, catching up with her long strides, “Is it another scavenger hunt? I thought that handoff between Penguin’s goons and those little weirdos who live in the sewers was a little too obvious—”
“We’re headed to your bedroom, chickadee,” says Selina as they climb the stairs.
“Oh,” says Tim, “Why?”
“Packing.” Selina is clearly feeling mysterious today.
“Right,” says Tim, and then comes to a halt in the deserted upstairs hallway when he thinks they’re far enough from the family milling about in the foyer. “Miss Kyle?”
She spins around with one foot out, like a model at the end of a runway. “Yes, my little sardine?"
“Why are the Waynes here?” Tim’s voice is low and serious. “What did you do?”
She looks at him for a minute, the skin around her eyes tight. “I told them.”
Tim stumbles back a step. “Selina…!”
“You’re allergic, Tim,” she says helplessly, sinking down to her knees so she can look him full in the face.
“To Christmas cactuses!”
She shakes her head. “I know, Tim. It’s okay, you just can’t stay with me. At least, not unless you get your shots, and that would be a lot.”
“You don’t need to vaccinate me.” Tim frowns. “I come pre-vaccinated.”
“Allergy shots, silly,” she says, “It’s like… two a week. Forever. And you’re twelve.”
“I’ll take Claritin,” he says desperately.
“Forever?” She says again, gently tilting her head.
“I—I can stay here! I know to add avocado now! And—and the ballroom is big enough for a twelve thousand piece puzzle.”
“Wayne Manor,” says Selina, “Has a ballroom big enough for two twelve thousand piece puzzles.”
Tim pauses. Tim thinks. “But they’re the Bats,” he says finally, with a gravity entirely out of place on a twelve year old, “How am I supposed to come find you with them around?”
Selina smiles and straightens up. “I wouldn’t worry about that, my love. Wayne Manor would need far better locks to keep me out. And possibly several mercenaries. On retainer.”
***
When they come back downstairs, Tim is far more subdued. He is carrying three backpacks, a file folder, and has a set of binoculars around his neck. Selina has a puzzle box tucked under her arm. Dick immediately descends on him in order to wrangle away the backpacks. “Hello, Timbit,” he says cheerfully, “Ready to go?”
Tim nods silently. Selina pets him again. “You’re going to have the best time,” she says, “And I’ll be by as often as I can to check in.”
“You will?” says Bruce hopefully.
Jason steps forward, sticking out his hand to shake before he realizes Tim has every appendage occupied. He sticks them in his pockets. “Hi, Tim. I don’t know if you remember me, but I go to Gotham Prep, too. Er—and I’m Robin. Which you know. Um.”
Tim doesn’t beam. He does make a face that is very close to a smile, though. “Yeah, I know who you are. Six fistfights with henchmen in the past week, two with goon squads, and one with Lawrence Gellert yesterday in fifth period.”
Jason blanches and casts a look at Bruce, who is pinching his nose so hard he’s worried he’s going to re-break it. It just finished healing from the Joker’s inflatable hammer less than a month ago. He settles for: “We’ll be going over that later, Jason,” and: “I know this is sudden, Tim, but we’re all very excited to have you stay over.”
Tim accepts this, looking only slightly less composed than normal, but he stays pressed to Selina’s side as they all pile back into the car.
“This is going to be great, Tim,” says Dick, slightly muffled, “You’ll fit right in.”
Dick is squished between two of the backpacks and Jason, who is kicking him in the knee. Tim scooches closer to Selina. “Narc tendencies aside,” mutters Jason, who is still a little miffed.
Tim twists around to look at him. “I thought Mr. Wayne knew. Sorry,” he says, “Lawrence deserved it, anyways.”
Jason stops kicking Dick and observes Tim thoughtfully. “Hm. Dick’s right. You are gonna fit in.”
“Like a puzzle piece,” offers Bruce.
Selina sends him a smile.
***
Later, Janet will blame it on Jack, who gives a poorly-timed interview about the pot sherds they’ve found in Transcarpathia which irrevocably turns public opinion against them in the custody battle.
Jack will blame it on Brucie Wayne, who inexplicably becomes quite hostile when you explain how you’ve extremely responsibly, actually, scheduled a general maintenance guy to come by once a week to check the thermostat and throw a ball in the back garden with your kid. “He doesn’t even like playing catch,” Brucie Wayne snaps.
The people who matter know it’s Catwoman’s fault.
***
The next time Wayne Manor hosts a soirée, it’s in the gardens. The ballroom has a twelve thousand piece puzzle in it.