Make Up Your Mind

She knows his footsteps before he speaks.

"Enjoying the artwork," he asks, his deep voice warm, concealing an undercurrent of tension. She is standing before a glass-fronted exhibit, a large potted fern to her left, effectively blocking a quick escape. He has cornered her. She knows it to be a calculation. Selina stifles a sigh, turning to face him.

"Bruce," she says. She leans back against the wall, her short, dark hair brushing the glass. One thin strap of the slim black evening gown slips infinitesimally lower down her shoulder. His eyes track it for a moment, then he returns his attention to her face.

"I thought I might find you here," he declares pleasantly.

"And yet, you still came."

Their eyes lock, and she focusses on the feel of the Champaign glass resting in her delicate fingers. It is not easy to challenge him here, in front of all these people, without the protection of a mask. To have to be so nonchalant. As if it doesn't sting, seeing the judgment in those sharp, blue eyes, knowing what lies behind them.

"The Clairmonts would be vastly insulted if I didn't attend the opening of their newest donation to the Gotham Museum," he says pompously, all Billionaire Playboy.

"For however long it lasts," she smirks. His mouth thins slightly.

"Planning a liberation?" His tone is abruptly dark, almost that of his pointy-eared counterpart. She sips her drink. His transformations into the Bat are always like this, sudden and complete. It's a bit unsettling to watch, even after all this time.

"Nothing right now," she purrs. True, the idea is tempting, an exhibit dedicated solely to the worship of cats in ancient Egypt – honestly, do they set themselves up for these theme-crimes on purpose? – but who really needs another gold statue of Bast?

"I'm just admiring the workmanship."

"And in the future?" he asks, glaring into her green gaze. Selina smiles, covering her anger with seduction.

"Guess you'll find out." She saunters away from him, raising her glass in passing. She can feel his eyes on her as she walks, the cut of the dress baring the soft skin of her back, its silken fabric sliding over her thighs. She suppresses a shudder.

There is limited conversation to be had at this particular gathering of Gotham's elite, mostly consisting of old society matrons out for publicity, hoping to be overheard gossiping about their latest triumphs and charity projects. The few people present under the age of sixty all seem to have been guilt-tripped into accompanying Grandmamma, and all appear desperate for escape.

Mindless flirtation aside, she never has spoken with many of these trust-fund babies. When she's not casing the place, Selina realizes, she really only talks to Bruce at these things.

Male gazes trail her throughout the room. Selina declines to make eye contact with any of them. She attempts small talk with one of the younger women, but quickly runs out of common ground. The girl doesn't like cats. Or history. Or architecture, or poetry, or engineering, or anything but the Atkins Diet and Paris Fashion Week. The topic quickly turns to a series of compliments on one another's shoes, out of sheer desperation. It is almost a relief when he finally, inevitably, cuts in.

"Ah, Beatrice. I see you've met Miss Kyle."

The girl – Beatrice – perks up like a spaniel when the most eligible bachelor on the East Coast mentions her name.

"Well, Bruce Wayne," she says playfully, crossing her arms. "What a nice surprise." He smiles blandly at her, nodding. Then he turns to Selina.

"Miss Kyle."

"Mister Wayne," she quips, a smirk in her eyes.

"I wonder if I could have you a moment." His face is open, conveying innocence. Only Selina hears the thread of confrontation in his words.

"Certainly," she says, her teeth bared in a smile. He takes her arm and moves her into the middle of the dance floor, placing his hands on her waist. She looks at him warily, holding her champaign in one hand, the other resting over his powerful bicep, not quite touching him.

"What the hell are you doing," she hisses. In response, he snatches up her hand in his and begins to lead her in a simple waltz.

"What are you really doing here, Selina," he says softly, his tone laced with iron.

"Attending a charity function," she whispers hotly. "One I did not know you would choose to grace with your presence, so I'm sorry if I broke one of your damned rules."

"You know why I had to implement this protocol."

"Yes," she says, her voice nearly inaudible, danger oozing into the small space between them. "You made it perfectly clear that your need to remain a lone, miserable shadow is just one of your many charming character flaws."

"Selina," he warns. "I can't work with the constant threat of—"

"I said," she cuts him off. "You made it clear." He flinches.

"Which brings us to our next order of business," she continues. "You knew perfectly well I was liable to show up tonight. So why did you risk breaking your own rules? Just to see me?"

"I wanted to make sure you didn't fall back into the past." She could slap him.

"What, I lose love, so I go back to my bad old ways," she asks scathingly. He shrugs.

"You've done it before."

She scoffs.

"You overestimate your impact on me." The lie tastes foul, but feels good coming out, sharp, maybe enough to cut him, to scratch that armor he hides behind. His eyes harden.

"It's always best to check."

"And is that what you're doing? Checking up on me?" She sighs in frustration. "Bruce, I haven't lifted a thing from a museum in two years – I've gone straight, remember? Converted. Just like you always wanted." The bitterness in her statement takes him visibly aback.

"Selina—."

"Let me go, Bruce." She attempts to pull out of his grasp, but he holds her to him. She can't risk any greater resistance without causing a scene. Still, she does not back down.

"What do you want from me," she grinds out. "What more could you possibly get from me, you utterly self-righteous bastard?"

"You know the importance of the Mission," he murmurs, his voice like steel.

"I know that you sacrifice your happiness and that of everyone around you in the name of it." God, it hurts to look at him.

"That is not why I ended it between us," he says quietly.

"Right, that was out of some twisted sense of honor you manufactured special, for the occasion."

His face contorts in something like pain. He holds her closer, whispering in her ear.

"You know what Joker could do to you – what any of them would do if they discovered the truth."

Selina laughs severely.

"Please, like it hasn't been hot underworld gossip from day one."

"Gossip is one thing; hard knowledge is dangerous. We were being reckless. It had to stop."

"Anyone who would take me on because of Batman learned a long time ago, it's not a great idea."

The music changes. A new song starts up as dancers shift around them.

"Things change," he murmurs. "You're too vulnerable to be seen with me."

"If you ever knew me at all, you know that the last thing I am is vulnerable."

"I can't take that chance."

"Isn't that my decision?"

He swings her away from an advancing couple, keeping their conversation as private as possible.

"You have to understand," he continues. "This has to end."

"Then why are you still here," she asks. He does not answer. "I can't take this, Bruce," she whispers. "I made my peace with this mess. I accepted that you would never let us be anything more than we've ever been. That you never wanted to see me again. I was dealing with it." Her teeth clench. "Then you show up at that art show, and the charity auction, that stakeout in the East End, and now this. Every time I think I've healed a little, you appear out of the blue and tear it all to hell. If it's over, then let it end, for god's sake!"

There is a long pause. Bruce seems at a loss for words. Selina goes on, more softly, trying not to choke.

"I am not your toy or your sidekick."

"I never tried to make you a sidekick," he huffs.

"Like hell you didn't!"

"Selina, don't-."

"No, I remember. I'm 'the strongest person you've ever known' – just not strong enough to be Batman's equal."

"You're twisting my meaning."

"Fine, then tell me why you keep using the same excuses to break it off between us."

"My reasons are not excuses – I have explained—."

"The real reason, Bruce."

"It's for your protection!"

"Oh please, it's for yours," she exclaims.

A group of women by the refreshment tables are watching them intently. Bruce slows their pace, and they lower their voices to a more discreet level.

"This is what you do," Selina says. "You're so afraid of getting hurt, of committing to something, that you simply push anyone away who gets too close. You destroy your relationships. You self-destruct."

"You don't know what you're talking about," he mutters.

"Don't I?" She stares into his face, her emerald eyes penetrating. He matches her, refusing to back down, refusing to respond. Selina exhales slowly, a wave of sorrow and shame washing over her.

"Let me go, Bruce." She attempts to pull away from him again. His grip tightens in response.

"Not until you understand."

"I'm done trying to understand. Just leave me alone."

"Selina, goddammit, just listen to me!"

"Let. Me. Go."

"I am trying to protect you."

"Now."

They have stopped moving. He grips her like a vice, bruising her skin in his anger. Their eyes clash, his blue and her green, raging against one another in silent battle. Selina is so livid, she could spit. The silence is electrically charged.

Without warning, his mouth is on hers, his arms crushing her against him in a desperate embrace. She gasps and his tongue slips inside her mouth. A roaring fills Selina's ears and her face flushes, growing hot. The kiss is deep, insistent. When his hands move to the small of her back, warm, skin against skin, the world falls away. Her eyes flutter shut as the champaign glass slips from her fingers, landing with a muted crash on the parquet flooring. She returns his kiss with fervor, her soft lips caressing him, her tongue darting out to meet his in a familiar dance. She twines her fingers in his hair, securing his face more firmly to hers. His palm cups the back of her neck.

God, how she's missed him. He and all his stupid rules, letting fear get in the way of what they have, what they need. He fills her senses. His smell, his lips, the planes of his face, his arms, his chest. She remembers her name on his breath, whispered like a prayer in the night. And the way he would hold her, afterward, as if to shield her from all the perils of their broken, imperfect world. And the way he would let her comfort him after some terror had woken him from sleep. The sound of his cape beside her as they soar over the rooftops – the taste of his skin – the color of his eyes – the sounds he makes in his sleep. The sounds he makes during other activities.

Wait.

He traces her spine with his fingertips. She sighs into the kiss.

Wait.

Moisture gathers at the corners of her eyes.

Stop!

She pushes him away, her eyes flying open. They both gasp as, startled, he lets her fall back to her feet. Neither of them is sure when he picked her up. They struggle to regain their breath, their panting loud in the silent ballroom. For a moment, they simply stare at each other, shocked. Selina's vision blurs and she touches a finger to her eyes, mortified to find tears there. They grow thicker as a fine haze of anger and humiliation settle in like a cloud around her. She trembles with it.

Bruce hangs his head in shame before her. He can't bear to look at her.

"Selina," he whispers, "I'm—."

The sound of the slap echoes in the room.

"How dare you," she murmurs, rage making her voice oddly soft. "How dare you."

Bruce opens his mouth but no words form. Flashbulbs erupt in a cacophony of blinding light. Selina is not sure how many of them may have gone off while they embraced. Chatter resumes at a rapid pace, everyone talking at once, all eyes on the two figures in the middle of the ballroom. Selina leaves him there, alone with his masks and his damned walls. Cameras follow her out, men shouting questions, asking for statements. She shakes her head, waving them all away, trying very hard not to think.

They blockade her at the doors to the museum, demanding to know the story behind the display.

So much for not causing a scene, is all that comes to mind.

She tries to hail a cab, but the mob is blocking her view of the street. She shields her eyes and attempts to push through them, but to no avail. She is just contemplating her acrobatic options when that damn voice appears behind her, once again.

"Miss Kyle," Bruce says softly. The crowd of photographers quiets instantly. Selina does not turn around.

"Let me take you home," he continues. "I'll call my car."

"No. Thank you. I'll manage."

"Please. I promise. I'll only take you home."

Selina takes a deep breath, then looks at him. He still refuses to meet her gaze. His face is unreadable, shadowed by dark, boyish hair. He looks so… sad. Selina exhales.

"God, Bruce," she whispers, coming closer. "Why do you do this?"

"I'm sorry." She can barely hear him. "I just… can't bear the thought of losing you. Again."

She closes her eyes, resting her forehead against his. He breathes deeply. She exhales and they move farther away from the eager reporters.

"Listen to me," she says. "Whatever danger I'm in, I always will be. You were never going to change that. So stop with the tired excuses. You're not protecting me, Bruce, you're protecting yourself." He is silent, so she continues. "I won't play second fiddle. You don't want a partner, you want a submissive. I will not be your sidekick in that life, or your plaything in this one. We're either equals, or we're nothing. You chose the latter. So why can't you stick to it for once? Why do you have to keep breaking my heart like this? Make up your damn mind, Bruce!"

"I… don't know if I can," he whispers.

She forces the words out. They sear her throat.

"Then I'm leaving Gotham." She's thought about it. She could do it. If it doesn't kill her to try.

"So you can move on," he says. She laughs bleakly.

"Bruce, it's been twelve years. Don't you think if I was able to stop loving you, I would've done it by now?" There is a long moment.

Finally, he murmurs, "Don't leave."

She pinches the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger.

"Then what are we going to do?"

He looks at the prying eyes around him. The photographers appear to be waiting for a juicier shot, or maybe a better angle.

"We should get out of here, first," he says in her ear. His breath ruffles her hair and she suppresses a jolt, annoyed at the effect he still manages to have on her. She considers her options. None of them seem to allow for a very subtle exit. And she's finally drawn more than five words out of him – he's actually talking to her instead of at her. Selina is afraid of losing this precious edge.

"Fine," she says, loudly enough to be heard by the crowd. "Take me home, Mr. Wayne."

He is all business again, the façade covering his shaken state.

"Of course, Miss Kyle." He does not offer his arm, and she does not reach for it. They descend the stairs together, half blinded by exuberant paparazzi. Bruce hails the valet, who scurries off to fetch his no-doubt ridiculously expensive vehicle. Selina wraps her shawl about her shoulders.

"We'll talk about it in the car," he says, trying not to admire the effect of the black lace over her otherwise bare skin.

Selina smirks, a measure of her customary cool returning.

"Which one is it this time?"