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1. Selina can recall Bruce once telling her that everything about them was wrong.
She had nodded in agreement, batting her lashes and stepping forward. You’re fighting a war on crime , she had said. And I’m on my way to steal a case of diamonds . He told her much of the same thing, that it was all a misalignment, a transgression, a mistake. They were exchanging lies like children trading candies during recess; it was easy to play coy, to pretend she didn’t care, because sooner or later the bell would ring and they could return to their respective, separate realities. It was a game, treating it like it didn’t matter. Like his voice didn’t linger somewhere inside her head. Like his presence wasn’t enough to set her skin on fire. It was a red circle on the ground; and she danced along the circumference while he stood rigid and helpless in the middle of it. It was easier this way. Let him think it didn’t matter, at least not to her, and maybe somewhere down the road it would finally ring true.
And it’s not like Bruce wasn’t doing the same thing either. He would lie, and so would she. The moment their lips touched, they’d relish the short moments of the bittersweet truth, like rock candy on the tongue. Again, it didn’t matter. When they pulled away, they went back to pretending anyway.
2. He was collapsed on the floor of her apartment, bleeding on the floorboards. She kept her voice calm, steady, but her hands were trembling as she rushed to get hold of the antiseptics and the bandage and all the other things she used in the aftermath of a terrible night. She asked him, more than once, why he didn’t return to the cave, to Alfred’s far more experienced care. To the cave, where a fully-equipped medbay awaited his return. He didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.
She kneeled beside him, her cowl torn off, nimble fingers helping him discard the suit. She cleaned the wound as well as she knew how, treating it only to the best of her knowledge. He offered a few inputs in the form of low grunts and ragged instructions.
“I need to call Alfred,” she had said, finally finished with wrapping the wound. Her own frame slid down the wall where he was pressed against for support, nestled at his good side, letting the frantic exhaustion take its leave. “I need to find you something more comfortable to wear,” she mumbled under her breath. The floor was oddly cold, but he was also oddly warm. “I need to get you something to drink…” A bead of cold sweat traced the curve of her neck. “I need to clean all this blood off the floor.” There were so many things to do, and more things to talk about. It had made no sense for him to come here—that was what they usually agreed on. She was a risk he couldn’t resist taking. He was a rule she couldn’t resist breaking.
He didn’t say anything. His good arm pulled her closer, and she willingly allowed herself to be pressed against his warmth. The layers of discarded leather and Kevlar surrounded them like a reminder of what they were, and in turn, what they meant to each other. Soon, they would have to confront all the things they needed to talk about. (If the consensus was kisses and banter on a rooftop, why bother coming here? Why bother coming to her?) Soon, but not now. Not when the silence had finally stopped feeling like emptiness, and more like something better.
3. Superman lay on the opposite end of the spectrum—red cape flying behind him, his magnificence hovering above them like a god. She had been rushing along the usual rooftops with Bruce when the unusual figure suddenly appeared, all good-natured features and boy-scout charm. Selina doesn’t exactly remember what Justice League concern was so pressing that first night she met Clark, but the unsure glance he threw at Bruce’s way when her presence had finally been acknowledged still vividly replays sometimes in her mind. Bitterly, Selina looked at him with a weird sense of disgust. These superhero do-gooders were all the same; kings or princesses, god-like and aware of it, equipped with supernatural abilities or beneficial physiologies. There was no obvious reason for her to dislike them, given that they were the defenders of the planet and the upholders of ‘good’—but the idea of being looked down upon by these super-beings who didn’t even know of the real world, the tragedies of human normalcy, the relentlessness of death in the land of the living…
For a moment, as the strange pair occupied themselves with conversation, she felt something weigh in her chest. It’s bizarre–Superman lay on the opposite end of the spectrum, his abilities a cruel mockery of Bruce’s mortality, his light a brutal contrast to Batman’s darkness–and yet they stood there like synchronized puzzle pieces. No odd glances to be thrown their way, no disbelief towards their shared company. Does goodness bubble that far up the surface? Selina knows how Bruce thinks of himself, how he compares himself and his motivations to the other members of the League. He would like to think of himself as something less, but that just makes him something more. Something like Superman.
She couldn’t explain why looking at them felt painful. Maybe it was because gave rise to questions about herself, and her own intentions, that she didn’t know how to answer.
Bruce was right. It was a misalignment, a transgression, a mistake. How could someone like him…
Let the good men save the world and uphold good. She fled into the night, quiet as a cat.
4. When Holly first asked her about it, she didn’t know what to say.
“They have it in the papers, you know,” Holly murmured idly, taking a sip from her cup of tea. “It feels funny, seeing you in that line-up.”
Selina snorted, sitting down next to her. “What line-up?”
Holly shrugged. “With the Penguin. The Riddler. That crazy guy who used to be the DA. The fucking Joker , Selina. Psychos. Madmen.”
Selina rolled her eyes. “They’re not as dangerous as you make them out to be, you know. At the end of the day, they’re still just greedy, stupid men.” Which wasn’t a lie, but also wasn’t exactly true. They were, in fact, dangerous, murdering psychopaths. She wouldn’t admit that to Holly, though.
She didn’t have to. Holly looked at her, her gaze transfixed. “You don’t belong with their lot.”
Selina let out a breath. “Of course I don’t. I’m not criminally insane.”
“Then why are you with them?”
Selina’s eyes flashed at her, feeling heat pool in her chest. Holly’s eyes remained fixed at her, unwavering. The conversation, the look in her eyes… It was too much like talking with Bruce. How many times has he asked her that question? “Because the people of Gotham like to call everyone crazy,” Selina returned. “Because it’s easier to take everyone led to crime and call them insane. People like that. As much as this city denies it, Gotham is in love with its own craziness.” She exhaled, massaging her temples. Selina felt the words coming out of her mouth, but she couldn’t recognize them as they filled the room. “Look, Holly, I’m not in the mood. Finish your tea and make sure to lock the door. I’m going out.”
Her feet brought her to rooftops. She took time in her strides, letting the cold air brush the exposed parts of her face. Not long after, and by then very much expected, she felt his presence catching up behind her.
“On a job?” he asked, his voice low and familiar.
“No,” she replied. A bitter smile crept knowingly on her lips. Meanwhile, she didn’t even have to ask. He was on a job, as always. This was all a job.
The tension was palpable. She wasn’t sure she wanted to talk to him, or if he wanted to talk to her. But still, he was here. And she wasn’t sure if she liked that or not.
She continued rushing along, letting him trail behind her. With her pace, he could speed up to her and catch her in his arms. Corner her into an explanation she wouldn’t give. They would argue, and it would end with a kiss. But they would part with the mutual understanding that everything still wasn’t okay. Just the thought left Selina with such emptiness, and she did not want any more of that. Not now. Maybe not ever again. The chase isn’t just for thrills. It’s only a way to avoid talking, because once words get involved it only leaves the both of them angry and confused.
“Selina,” he called her, and it was one of those rare times when Bruce’s voice leaked through the suit and the cowl. It was soft, almost tender. “Selina,” he said again, and so she finally stopped running. She sauntered over to the railing, looking below. From the rooftops, Gotham at night looked just like any other city. But she knew far too well of the desperation that lingers in the hidden alleys, the grief that lives inside the old forgotten buildings.
She lifted her gaze toward the sky. The darkness was beautiful, compelling. It was so black that it was starting to look blue, and the vastness drew her in a way she couldn’t put to words. As dark as it was, little stars scattered about like diamonds. Diamonds with a greater value than Selina could ever imagine. The value of light shining through in spite of the seemingly all-consuming abyss. All she could do was look, admire from afar. No matter what she did, she was shackled to the ground. Bound to rock bottom. To the desperate alleys. To the grieving buildings. How long before she went insane herself?
She felt her shoulders shake, the sobs hitching to her throat before she could even comprehend that she was crying. Wetness streamed down her face, passing through her mask. Bruce lingered behind her, his arms finding their way around her waist. His head found its place on her shoulder, his warm breath on her neck. She tried to push him away, telling him he didn’t understand. That he didn’t have to do this, to be here.
But once again, Bruce was doing what so few people in her life ever did. With his feet planted to the ground–firm and unshakable as ever–he stayed. She was too tired to enforce distance. God knows they already had enough. So she let herself cry, and she let him comfort her. The night would end the same way anyway.
5. The soft light of the creeping dawn persists through the slim gap of the curtains. It’s a small streak of warmth, but it pools around the room, reaching out to where they lie entangled among the sheets.
“What if we’re not meant for anything more,” she says solemnly, pressing her face closer to his chest. “What if we’re all push and pull.” She traces a line with her fingernail on the tepid stretch of skin of Bruce’s arm. “What if I’m everything they say I am. I’m not like you, Bruce. I’m not all good. You have to accept that.” Saying these words, her pride feels like a small thing in her throat. You have to accept that. You have to accept me.
She can feel his leveled breaths, and she waits for any tremors. A comfort has settled so deep into the marrow of the space between them that a fight wouldn’t be possible, but all the same she waits for his protest and denial.
His hand finds its way to hers, their fingers intertwining under the covers. “I love you,” he tells her, and the small space between them doesn’t feel strained by their long stretch of similarities and differences. It just feels like space. “I love you, Selina. There’s nothing you can do about that.”
Selina tilts her head, looking up to the blue of Bruce's eyes. Sometimes, she thinks, there is a different version of herself that she can’t ever get to see. It seems to only be visible to her when she looks through Bruce’s eyes. She would love to amuse herself and complain of such injustice–but when he holds her like this, warm with complete surrender, she thinks it works both ways.
So she allows herself to be enraptured by his embrace, her other hand running along the tapestry of scars that lie on his back. She can feel the weight of them on his skin, knowing that there are worse ones that he carries within–those that mirror the ones she owns herself. This feeling of being seen, for all that she is and isn’t, and the love that endures in spite of that… has she ever felt something like this before? Has he?
“Marry me,” Bruce tells her, his lips finding hers amidst the dimness of the room. In the small space between them, she responds. After all this time, after all they’ve been through, her reply comes easy as a heartbeat.