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Chapter 8 - What�s Wrong with a Jag?

A sleek black Jaguar rolled to a stop, conspicuous among the old-model Chevs and Fords lining Schiff Street. The cold winter sun was a psychopath�s smile: brilliant without warmth. It was November, and the city yards had been prepping their snow removal crews for nearly a week. Still the traditional East coast flurries and sudden snowstorms did not arrive in Gotham.

Bruce Wayne, tall and elegantly handsome, was wearing his best vapid playboy expression. Clad in a charcoal-gray suit and black greatcoat, Bruce smiled indulgently at passersby who blatantly stared at him or whispered to each other. He leaned casually against the driver�s side door of the Jag, Batman�s finely-tuned senses scanning for danger beneath the dull, vacant eyes of an aristocrat. The illusion was important in this neighborhood.

It was noon in the East End and Bruce waited patiently on the street for Selina, studying the old row houses with the keen eyes of an urban planner, an architect, a social scientist and a psychologist. After the �quake, Wayne Enterprises had spent billions on Gotham�s reconstruction. Most of that money had gone to the financial sector and downtown core. Little had gone to the East End or Crime Alley, which had largely escaped the devastation of the 7.6 earthquake. Selina had told him, jokingly, that nothing short of a nuclear holocaust could level Gotham�s oldest and darkest corner.

Bruce couldn�t remember the last time he had been in this part of the city before nightfall. Crime Alley and the surrounding blocks were Batman�s domain, if the stares and whispers were any indication. Bruce Wayne clearly didn�t belong here. It had felt as though he did last night, however, with Selina.

Bruce Wayne had a photographic memory and he knew it was, perhaps, the greatest reason for Batman�s war on crime. He could remember in precise detail every instant of the night his parents were murdered. The scene had been etched indelibly on his eight-year-old memory and he knew that, for the rest of his life, he would still be able to smell his mother�s perfume and hear the sound of bullets rending the flesh of the only two people he had ever loved.

He also knew that, whatever the future held, the previous night with Selina would be a part of him forever. The pleasure of the long night, the extraordinary comfort and release of making love to her, was something he would be able to recall instantly fifty years from now. And the sharp pain of the morning, the way he�d left her warm embrace, would always be there too. He wondered if she could forgive him for it.

The door to the seemingly-abandoned apartment building opened and Selina tripped down the steps, clad in a calf-length red wool coat and a short, warm skirt. Conscious of the attention Gotham�s First Son was generating, Selina rose to the occasion, smiling broadly and throwing her arms around his neck. Bruce obliged, not allowing his surprise to show, and he lifted her up to join her in what looked like a passionate, breathless kiss. The display quickly became less artificial then he�d intended and after a long moment he reluctantly set her down. Selina, a coy expression in her dark eyes, slid down his body slowly, patting him on the shoulder and waiting serenely for him to open the passenger door for her.

She folded herself into the car�s luxurious interior, smoothing her skirt, half-heartedly evaluating the reactions of her neighbors.

His door slammed shut and the engine roared to life, settling down into a dull background purr as Bruce waited for the busy street to clear. Selina found herself fidgeting and occupied herself by opening the glove box. �This thing isn�t going to set off a missile or anything if I touch it, is it?�

Bruce shook his head, checking her expression with his periphery vision. �That�s the other car.�

�Right,� she said, opening the box and checking for a CD, trying not to look at him. �I was�surprised when you called. You disappeared so quickly this morning-�

�I had to see Leslie,� he told her quietly.

Selina tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. �How did it go with the good doctor?�

�There was a fifty-percent loss of hearing in my left ear, but Leslie thinks it won�t be permanent. The ringing should last a few days, but my condition should improve after that,� he told her, his voice flat, mechanical. She didn�t doubt he was repeating the diagnosis verbatim. Silence hung between them for a moment.

�I should have said goodbye, at least,� he admitted quietly.

Selina shrugged. �I�ll get over it. You always seemed like the love �em and leave �em type anyway. No harm done,� she told him, not mentioning the encounter with Slam right after he�d executed the �leave �em� part.

He wanted to ask her what last night had meant, how things were supposed to continue. She seemed to think it had been a lapse in judgment which had led him to her bed, and he needed to explain it had been just the opposite. However, as Alfred was fond of pointing out, his ability to conduct a simple conversation with an equal was severely limited. Bruce Wayne was always better with action than words.

�I�I�m sorry,� he tried, wincing at the inadequacy of his apology. �As it turns out, I�m not very good at this sort of thing.�

Selina smiled impishly. �I wouldn�t say that,� she told him. �You did pretty well, I thought, despite the near-death experience.�

Bruce looked at her a moment and fought the urge to smile. �I didn�t mean that,� he frowned. �You�re a difficult woman to apologize to,� he finished, again checking her expression. Selina laughed softly, shaking her head.

�Maybe we should try again,� she suggested. At the almost comical flare of interest in his eyes, she smiled. �I didn�t mean that,� she told him, using the same tone and inflection he had. �I�m perfectly willing to do that again. But I think we�re total failures at this �morning after� business. Can�t we just say, �thanks for the fantastic sex, let�s do it again sometime� and then get on with whatever we�re supposed to be doing today?�

�Good idea,� he told her, relieved. He was forgiven for whatever cowardly instinct had driven him from her bed last night. He had always suspected he was the �love �em and leave �em� sort, too. Bruce was disappointed to discover he was right.

�I think my mother would have liked you,� Selina said cheerfully as Bruce shifted into first and pulled out.

�Why?� he asked respectfully. Selina had never spoken of her parents before.

�I think her approval would have to do with the $80,000 Jag,� she replied. �I�d forgotten about all of this,� she said, sweeping her hand to indicate the car�s interior. Leather seats, state-of-the-art sound system, detailed finishing: it all added up to a life spent in wasteful splendor. �You do love to play the part, don�t you?� she asked. �Bruce Wayne, carefree playboy. The irony must kill you.�

�I don�t know what you mean,� he said, bringing the car to a stop at an intersection. The few pedestrians braving the November wind watched and sighed with envy.

�Don�t play dumb, Bruce. It doesn�t suit you.� She considered his face, the suit, the expensive car, the throbbing club music which comprised the majority of the CDs in the glove compartment. �Not the real you, anyway. I don�t know why more people haven�t figured out that you�re Batman.�

Selina�s bold statement startled them both. It felt like a violation, something that should be talked about in hushed whispers miles underground, not sitting in East End traffic under the bright winter sun. She opened her mouth to apologize, then shrugged mentally and carried on. She rarely said the right thing at the right time, anyway.

�When you went to prison, there was an opinion poll on the news nearly every day. The first ones to say you were guilty were the people we used to see at fundraisers and cocktail parties. Reporters had to come down here, into the Bowery or Crime Alley, to find people willing to believe Bruce Wayne was innocent.�

She checked his reaction and typically his face betrayed nothing. Selina finally found the disc she wanted and inserted it into the CD player, noting with professional interest the value of the car�s sound system. The dreamy music of an Ella Fitzgerald jazz ballad filled the car�s interior.

�They believed I killed Vesper,� he said quietly, surprising her. �The entire country did. But most of the lower-income families in the state rely on my factories and social programs for survival. The majority of the free clinics and work opportunities in this city are maintained by the Wayne Foundation. The social elite in Gotham and the rest of the country have no such allegiance to me.�

Selina tapped her finger on the window ledge. �That�s cynical, even for you. I thought you believed that justice couldn�t be bought.�

�It can be loaned,� he replied. �But try convincing Superman of that.�

Selina smiled, watching the city fly past in browns and grays. She wanted to ask him about prison, about the fundamental changes she sensed within him. He was not the hard, unyielding man he�d been a year ago, and Selina knew the Fairchild murder and the resulting crisis had something to do with it. What was happening between them now was possible only because of that change.

She studied his profile, admiring the strong lines of his handsome, masculine face and that familiar square-jawed chin. �It�s a little strange,� she told him, �seeing you in daylight. I don�t think I�ve seen you without the tights since��

�Since the Community Center opening,� Bruce finished.

Selina nodded, watching the skyline, the heavy Gothic architecture and stone gargoyles still dominant despite the city�s recent facelift. �I think we both have a talent for discussing the most painful subject possible at the most inopportune time. We should take the act on the road.�

�I�I�m not much of a conversationalist,� Bruce, master of understatement, admitted. �Pick something to talk about. Anything, painful or not. Dick is always telling me I should nurture my social graces.�

�I think it�s a lost cause,� she smiled. �But I�m curious about the car. Mind if I drive?�

Bruce shot her a skeptical look and Selina pretended to pout. He slowed and pulled the Jaguar over. They would hit the bridge in a few blocks and the traffic was starting to bottleneck. Bruce got into the passenger seat and Selina slid over, firing up the car, making sure the gauges were working and the mirrors were properly adjusted. She pulled out carefully, piloting the small car as though she were taking the final in driver�s ed. As traffic thinned on the bridge and they hit open blacktop she relaxed. He began to see what a good driver she was. Selina coaxed power from the engine, accelerating carefully to navigate around bends in the road with tight control, covering her bets, keeping her eyes on the road no matter what. She drove like a man, one hand on the wheel, the other propped up on the window sill, and he watched her legs as she shifted, the skirt sliding further up her thigh.

�You�ll have to give me directions; I don�t know Bristol that well,� she lied. He knew she had cased the neighborhood countless times when preparing to rob one of the massive Bristol homes. She probably knew the geography and access roads better than he did.

�You�ve driven point man before, haven�t you?� he asked her rather than ponder the implications of her lie.

Selina nodded. �When I was�training. I�d been doing small stuff for years - petty crime, forgery. I met a man who convinced me the bigger game was in jewel heists and bank robberies.� Her eyes clouded over, and Bruce wondered what she was reliving. �He taught me what I needed to know to become Catwoman. And then I betrayed him for a big score. He had to leave Gotham because of me.�

Bruce was silent. Selina continued after a moment in a brighter voice. �Anyway, for a year, any job we pulled, I drove. I knew the city better than he did. And I wasn�t afraid of anything.�

Bruce nodded, another piece of her life falling into place. He wondered if all he would ever have all the parts.

�Turn here,� he said gruffly, and she made a smooth left-hand turn onto a gravel road. The road continued for about fifteen minutes, the Jaguar�s precisely pressurized tires sending up a spray of lose rocks. She turned again, following his direction, and soon they found themselves in front of the ruins of a house.

In its salad days, the mansion had been huge, a monument to affluence and mid-century architecture. Marble columns supported a two-story entrance archway and the three wings of the home converged on the center in a cascade design, each set a step back from the other. Selina guessed there had been at least a hundred rooms within that house, most of them filled with enough artwork and jewelry to keep her busy for a year. Those days, at least for this house, were over.

The mansion had been badly damaged by the �quake. A gaping chasm had opened between the east and west wing and the interior of the house stood open to the elements. The exterior paint and intricate detailing had chipped and faded. Inside the walls were covered in mold, the ceilings splattered with water stains. It was sad monument to a bygone era of wealth, privilege, and building codes that did not require earthquake proofing. Looking at the house, Bruce saw the Wayne Manor of three years ago, just after the quake hit. His family home, one of the first in Gotham County, had also been destroyed by the earthquake, most of it collapsing into the gaping caverns running beneath the house. The rebuilt Wayne Manor stood less than a mile away, a fortress with hidden security systems and concealed passageways which led to a new Batcave. This home, the former residence of the Bradshaw family, was gone forever. Only the shell remained.

Selina absorbed it all carefully, shielding her eyes against the glare of the sun. �Why did you want to show me this?� she asked him. Bruce picked his way through the rubble, advancing on the front door.

�I wanted you to meet the girl we�re looking for. I wanted to introduce you to Jessica Bradshaw.�

******************

They spent the afternoon exploring the old ruins, rummaging through desolate drawing rooms and deserted kitchens. Selina ignored the teeming vermin which had made the wine cellar their personal home. Cat-like, she was uninterested in mice unless they challenged her directly. Bruce delivered a contemporary history lesson as they moved through the mansion, scavenging for clues to Jessica�s disappearance.

�What happened after Jessica vanished?� Selina asked him, tipping an end table into an upright position and checking for a false drawer. Bruce was examining the wall for a concealed safe or a passageway.

�The family dissolved,� he said quietly. �Her parents divorced, and her father moved to Philadelphia. Her mother stayed in Gotham. She died in the �quake.�

�Does her father know about the dead girl on the train?� Selina asked. �Does he know that his daughter might still be alive?�

Bruce shook his head. �The Gotham PD couldn�t reach him. His secretary said he�s been out of the country for two months.�

Selina stood, stretching and arching her back. �I don�t think there�s anything useful here. You must have had one of your lackeys go over this place with a fine-toothed comb. What are we looking for?�

�Something they might have missed,� he replied.

She crossed the room, looking at the jagged remnants of a cracked fireplace. �Did you know the Bradshaws socially?�

�We traveled in the same circles,� he confirmed. �They attended the Wayne Enterprises Christmas Party annually.�

�And how were they together? Did he drink? Was she calculating and overbearing? Was Jessica bored to tears?�

�No,� Bruce said. �They were a family.�

Selina climbed on top of an overturned footstool. A large oil portrait hung over the fire place. She held up a tattered piece of the canvas, restoring the original image. It was a formal portrait of the Bradley family, and her suspicions proved to be well-founded. Jessica�s father�s image dominated the group, a darkly handsome man who towered over his wife and daughter, hands locked around his wife�s shoulders. Jessica�s mother, blandly pretty and dressed in expensive silks, smiled for the artist while Jessica sat awkwardly, even in oils. There was another picture Selina had seen like this, years ago, hanging over the fireplace in Bruce�s study in Wayne Manor. The poses were identical: Thomas Wayne, tall and handsome, Martha Wayne locked in youthful beauty, and Bruce, the child who would grow up all too quickly.

He had already seen it, Selina knew at once. And he�d wanted to show it to her. �I think I�m finally starting to understand why you�re so hot to find this girl,� Selina said in the echoing hollowness of the room. �Please tell me you aren�t that transparent. I�ve spent so many years trying to understand you, I�d hate to discover you�re so easy to read.�

Bruce looked up, only his eyes betraying his reaction to her words. He seemed angry, but Selina knew this had all been calculated well in advance. �That picture looks more than a little familiar.�

He avoided her gaze, settling instead on the portrait. �Ron A. Cohen. He was highly in demand in those days. Nearly every family in Bristol had a sitting with him.�

Selina knew she had lost him. Bruce was thirty years in the past, posing for a young artist who flirted with his mother and talked in low, respectful tones with his father. They had all dressed up for the formal sitting, and his mother had worn pearls. Bruce had hated sitting still for so long and his father had quelled his squirming with a few well-chosen words. �This is for the future, Bruce,� Thomas Wayne had told him. �Years from now, you will show this picture to your own children. It will hang in Wayne Manor for decades. I hope you don�t want future generations to think you couldn�t keep still for an afternoon.�

The gentle rebuke echoed in Bruce�s mind. The original portrait of his parents had been destroyed in the �quake and he had had a reproduction finished before the manor was rebuilt. Generations would continue to view the last of the Waynes, frozen in oil, and might think little Bruce sat a bit stiffly. No one would ever see the Bradshaw portrait.

�Does it ever work?� Selina asked, interrupting softly. �Finding Jessica Bradshaw. Pounding the life out of the Joker. Taking down murders and drug dealers. Does it ever bring them back, even a little?�

�That doesn�t matter,� he told her, his voice lifeless. �The point is to try.�

Selina turned from him then, picking her way down through the levels of old rubble until she reached the grand entranceway. He hadn�t followed her. Bruce was still up in the library, staring at a portrait of ghosts. Selina sighed, heading out to the car.

He finally joined her, climbing into the driver�s seat. His jaw was set tightly, his posture severe. Selina tapped her fingers on the window, wondering what she could do to snap him out of it. She leaned over and brushed her lips against his cheek. Bruce turned to her coldly.

�We should head back to the city,� he told her. Selina placed her hand on his knee, slowly raking her fingers down the inside of his thigh.

�It�s early,� she whispered, shifting slightly so that her body was turned towards his. She kissed him then, her tongue flicking out to explore the inside of his mouth. His lips were rigid. Selina broke the kiss, smiling slightly and licking her lips. She liked a challenge.

He remained resolute, looking at her with detachment. Selina shook her head, undeterred, and slid one long leg over his, arranging herself until she straddled his lap. Men had a difficult time arguing with her in that position.

�It�s very early,� Selina amended, murmuring in his ear as she trailed her tongue across his earlobe. He didn�t pull away. She took that as a sign of encouragement and brought her mouth back to his. This time, his lips softened and he allowed her inside. A compromise, not a surrender.

She worked on loosening his tie, unbuttoning his shirt until his bare chest was exposed. Selina dipped her head, her tongue tracing fire down his body. She rediscovered the scars crisscrossing his chest, battle wounds from a decade spent locked in combat with the most perverse minds on the planet. Before she could examine the old wounds again, Bruce caught her chin and brought her mouth back to his. He finally emitted a low, animal sound of pleasure and Selina flashed a victory grin against his lips as she unbuckled his belt.

�Selina�� he mumbled against her warm, scented hair as she slid her skirt up, pushing the thin scrap of silk and lace that served as underwear aside and slowly impaled herself on him. Bruce arched his back, dragging in a ragged breath, his hands sliding to her hips. Selina kept her hands on his shoulders, brushing an errant lock of coal-black hair from his forehead. Bruce slipped a hand under her shirt and his rough, calloused hand massaged her nipple. Selina closed her eyes and bent her head slightly to kiss him, shifting her hips, feeling the heat and friction generated by his presence inside her.

It was over as quickly as it had begun. Bruce kept his hands on her spine as the last shudders of his orgasm faded, his fingers tracing the vertebrae in her back, blissfully relaxed. Selina sagged against him, her head resting on his shoulder. They were both breathing heavily and snow had begun to fall. Condensation misted the windows of the Jaguar, turning the outside world a soft, dim white. Selina shifted her weight, but Bruce stilled her movement, wanting to stay inside her.

�Comfortable?� she asked him, a small, contented smile playing at the corner of her mouth. He nodded, touching the side of her face, his thumb stroking her soft, smooth cheek.

�That was��

�If you say �interesting�, I�ll kill you,� she promised, pushing his shirt open further to examine the scars on his body which had so fascinated her in the shower. Bruce closed his eyes and so missed the strange flare of emotion in her even green gaze. The scars seemed unfamiliar in the fading light of day, even to himself. He had only begun to notice the disfigurement of his upper body last night, with her.

Selina traced one particularly nasty gash along his ribcage with her forefinger, contrasting the texture of the ugly white mark against the smooth, firm muscles of his heavily-developed stomach. Without the protection of his cowl, it felt strange to bear the full scrutiny of her intelligent, concerned gaze. She touched his shoulder, brushing the soft pad of her thumb against his bare skin. �No one should have to live with so much pain.�

The hard, certain look in her eyes made him catch his breath. He recalled her fierce loyalty, that streak of protectiveness within her which resembled a wild animal�s ability to keep guard no matter what the cost. Selina�s voice, soft and strong, whispered a challenge to him. �I would ask why you do it, but somehow I don�t think you�re ready to tell me.�

He cupped her face tenderly, thinking of the portrait upstairs and its partner in Wayne Manor. She was right: that was why he�d started, not continued.

�Do they still hurt?� she asked, gesturing to his bare chest. He was about to shake his head, then changed his mind.

�Some of them always will,� he admitted quietly.

Her face grew sad, serious, and she bent her head, nodding in acknowledgement to him as one warrior would another.

He examined her body carefully now, taking his time as he failed to do the night before. There was an odd burn on the inside of her thigh - it looked as if someone had put out a cigar on her flesh. His eyes widened in surprise as he brushed tender fingers over the small, ugly burn.

�I�m sorry for reacting like that to a few old scars,� she said earnestly. �I shouldn�t be so surprised. I just�I�ve thought of you as invincible for so long now. It�s strange to remember that beneath that mask, you�re a man,� she grinned flirtatiously, �Which is a little funny, considering I was always attracted to the man.� She kissed him as she moved away, their bodies coming apart with a soft noise of suction. �I guess last night wasn�t a one-time thing after all.�

�I never thought it would be,� Bruce told her, cold now in the absence of her body heat. He fastened the fly on his pants and buttoned his shirt, assuming the costume of a wealthy playboy but leaving off the expression of one. He watched as she found her panties and smoothed the wrinkles in her skirt, helping her to close the buttons on her blouse. His hands did not shake.

�I think, on our next afternoon outing, you should leave the Jag at home, bring something with a back seat,� she suggested playfully. �Not that it isn�t fun to rough it, but I think the stick shift left a bruise on my�� she trailed off, wiggling an eyebrow. �Or we could try the other car. One of those Bat gadgets might prove useful.�

At the mention of his extracurricular activities, Bruce frowned, thinking that a night spent on the rooftops of Gotham with Catwoman would be qualitatively different from now on. He pointedly ignored her evocative suggestions, unsure as ever how to respond to her strange sense of humor. Bruce turned to watch the snow fall softly on the ruins of the Bradshaw house. �Why did you�why did you want to do that?� he asked her. Selina shrugged.

�Thought it might be fun.�

�No you didn�t,� he told her. �Increase in heart rate and breathing indicate fear, not sexual arousal.�

�Sometimes they can indicate both,� she responded, surprised. She had never been with a man who insisted on analyzing her behavior from such a scientific viewpoint. �I�m not afraid of you,� she said, her voice low and lovely. He nodded.

�Despite my best efforts,� he acknowledged. �But this was something else. What were you trying to prove?�

�Who�s in control,� she told him simply. �And don�t forget it. You want to disappear into some black hole of depression, fine. Just remember that now I know how to pull you out of it.�

He jerked his head to the side, looking at her in astonishment. That�s what this had been about? His reaction to the portrait of the Bradshaws? Not quite, he concluded, looking into Selina�s eyes. She was telling the truth and lying at the same time. One of her many talents.

Bruce started the engine and piloted down the long gravel drive, the car�s four-wheel drive and ABS braking system gliding over the fresh snow effortlessly. They made most of the trip in silence. A few miles from the Kane bridge, Selina asked �Want to hear a funny story?�

He looked at her quickly, then returned his eyes to the road. �It doesn�t look as though it will be overly amusing.�

�More funny-sad than funny-ha-ha. You know the type,� Selina muttered. She had never told anyone this part, not even Slam, who had probably guessed the truth anyway. �I lost my virginity in a car like this,� Selina told him. �A less expensive model, of course, one of those mass-produced reproductions that looked like the real thing but were made from cheaper plastics. I was thirteen, and I think they were a couple of those high-tech assholes who ate it when the market crashed in �87. They were celebrating one of the guys� birthdays, and don�t ask me why, but when those stockbrokers party, they�re always after the youngest thing in a tube-top they can find. I made less than a yard, but they could have easily afforded a thousand.�

Her tone remained light, casual, offsetting the underlying horror of her story. Bruce downshifted, pulling the car out of the traffic flowing onto the bridge and into the parking lot of an abandoned service station. He shut off the engine. The Jag�s soft purring had barely been audible, but the gesture had its own quiet significance. They had important work to do later tonight; he was postponing for her. She wouldn�t have thought him capable of it a year ago.

�Selina, I�� He turned to her in his seat, those warm, skilled hands she so admired strange in their purposelessness. Slam would have taken her in his arms, tried to give her comfort with his strength and presence. Batman might have left. But Bruce Wayne, who knew better than nearly any man alive that you cannot comfort a memory, watched her in the dim light of the lot and waited for her to continue. �Why did you tell me that?�

Selina shrugged, facing him without fear or anger. �I just thought it was an interesting story. Now you know why I always used to boost Cadillacs or Porsches, not Jags.� His lips moved as though he wanted to say something but had changed his mind. She had never associated him with indecision, but Selina was beginning to suspect he was not as clear-thinking or resolute as he seemed when wearing the cape and cowl.

�Well,� she said, shifting her legs, �I�ve told you about my first time. Your turn.�

Bruce frowned, narrowing his eyes, understanding her hidden motive in this conversation. �You could have just asked,� he said gruffly, moving his hand now to rest behind her head, not touching her but making his presence known. �It isn�t much of a story.�

�You�re actually going to tell me?� she asked, incredulous.

He nodded. �You�ll be disappointed.�

�What, to hear about Batman�s deflowering? I�ll risk it.� Selina declared. He took a deep breath, thinking that not even Alfred was aware of the details of this particular story.

�It was�similar to yours, I suppose,� he said. Selina�s eyes widened.

�Someone paid you?�

�I paid,� he corrected, glaring at her. �I was living in Paris, training. Fighting techniques, escape artistry, criminology and forensics�I knew that any naïveté in one particular area could be disastrous to the mission, and so I included sexual experimentation in my education.�

Selina grinned. �Because certain unscrupulous women - and men - might use sex as a weapon. Remarkable foresight. How old were you?�

�Fifteen.�

�Ah,� she murmured, trying to picture Bruce at that age. She couldn�t imagine he�d endured the horrors of adolescent anxiety or bad skin: something about him made the usual adolescent turmoil impossible. He might have been a little shorter, thinner, less muscular, but he was probably still Bruce. Very few people resemble what they become at fifteen. Selina guessed Bruce had looked like an adult for the majority of his life.

�So she was��

�A prostitute. Of legal age,� he was careful to say, �and I was not eager to repeat the experience.�

�Why not?� Selina asked, curious.

�The look in her eye,� Bruce said immediately. �I couldn�t seem to forget it. She wasn�t in pain, or unwilling. She was just so�detached. I hadn�t expected that. I supposed I�d romanticized physical intimacy�I thought the act itself implied closeness.�

�You were fifteen,� Selina reminded him, close to understanding. During the Vesper Fairchild murder case, Channel Six had incessantly flashed a picture of Bruce as a boy, taken just after the slaughter of his parents in Crime Alley. The photo had been offered as evidence of Bruce�s unbalanced mental state. Selina had been shocked by the picture. When she and Bruce had dated years ago, she had never glimpsed a photo from his childhood. In the picture, the child he�d been had looked in every way like an orphaned waif muted by grief, except for his eyes. Those eyes had burned with emotions no child should ever be acquainted with, dark things that slithered and shuffled in the worst corners of the city. Whatever had happened to that boy, Selina knew he would never feel safe with another human being again, because he knew what people were capable of. He must have approached intercourse as the exception to the rule, evidence that it was possible to cherish another and be forgiven. Sex must have come as a disappointment to the wounded adolescent he�d been.

Selina took his hand, brushing his cheek. �I hope what happened between us was an improvement,� she said, and he dipped his head in acknowledgement. �And the others?� she asked, wondering about the endless parade of names attached to beautiful blondes in the Gotham tabloids.

Bruce shook his head. �It�s a short list.�

�How short?� she asked, unable to resist.

�Short,� he rumbled, waiting a beat before looking at her. She met his eyes evenly, wondering if he was joking to bring her back to the present. Finally she deciding it didn�t matter.

�We�re a bit of a mess, aren�t we? I mean, I knew we had issues, but��

Bruce didn�t reply, watching her in the dim light. His eyes flicked to the side momentarily, narrowing, and then returned to her face. Selina�s lips parted, but before she could speak, he pulled the keys out of the ignition and got out of the car, making his way across the deserted lot. By the time he reached the far side of the gas pumps, the shoulders of his thick black overcoat were covered in soft flakes of snow. He halted before a dented old Camero, a monument to city rust and neglect. The car�s owner was struggling with the ignition which had failed to fire. Bruce tapped on the window and the young man rolled it down.

�Look, man, I�m late for work�� the kid said until Bruce hunched over, letting him see his face. The youth�s eyes widened in surprise, taking in the expensive suit and chiseled features of the wealthiest man on the East Coast. �Mr. Wayne?� he stammered.

�What�s your name?� Bruce asked, friendly, smiling slightly.

�Dennis,� the kid replied, still awestruck.

�Something wrong with the engine?� Bruce asked. Dennis shook his head.

�It just won�t turn over sometimes. I think I flooded it. Takes a few minutes to kick in.�

�Mind if I take a look?� Bruce asked. Dennis popped the hood and jumped out of the car.

�I try to keep her clean, but��

Bruce removed his soft driving gloves, bending over to examine the car�s engine. �It looks great in here. You take good care of her,� he complimented. Dennis blushed and twitched nervously.

�Well, Mr. Wayne,� he said politely as Bruce closed the hood, �I�m going to be late, so��

�Here,� Bruce said, offering him the keys to the Jag. �Take mine.�

Dennis� eyes widened, peeking over Bruce�s shoulder and catching sight of the Jaguar parked across the lot. �What?� he whispered, stunned. �Why?�

Bruce shrugged. �My friend back there doesn�t like the color. And she has a thing for Cameros,� he finished, shrugging with a �women: what can you do� gesture. �You can sell it, if you like. Or keep it. Just don�t park it anywhere in the East End or Hunts Point unless you�ve brought a police escort with you to keep an eye on it.�

The kid was struck dumb and Bruce extracted the Camero�s keys from his nerveless fingers. Selina materialized beside Dennis, pushing him gently towards the Jaguar which waited patiently in the falling snow. Dennis climbed into the car, still dazed, and fired the engine. The roar of precision-molded pistons echoed in the barren emptiness of the lot. Dennis grinned happily, backing out carefully and signaling to them with a little wave as he drove off.

�I think Bruce Wayne just made another friend for life,� Selina smiled, slipping her arm into his. �Or at least another witness for the prosecution. He must think you�re absolutely insane.�

�I suppose he does,� Bruce shrugged, opening the car door for her. �Want to drive?�