I'd like to respond to an anonymous chap who allowed as to how maybe if I reviewed someone, they'd review me back. I have a confession to make, which is that I don't actually read a lot of fanfiction. This is because I'm too busy writing it (this username is one of several scattered across the web) and other works. I'm torn between stopping there and going on, but seeing as I will actually continue this story whether or not I get reviews (because I get as much pleasure from writing as I get from reading), I'll take the chance to be bitchy and point out that as far as I'm concerned, reviews aren't a bartering system. If you take the time to read something that someone took the time to write, and you enjoyed it or have something to say about it, go ahead and leave a review. It's not payment, and it's not a trade; it's just something nice for the writer to find in their email every once in a while.

Sermon over, onto fic. Sorry this is a shorter chapter, but I kind of had to end it here to stick with my pattern of switching off POV by chapter.

She was avoiding me. That was the only possible answer. Four weeks. Four weeks, and nothing. No hint, no sign. No games. Just… nothing. If it were anyone else, I might have been worried. But I was sure nothing had happened to her. No one got close enough to touch Catwoman. No one but me.

Wait.

What was that?

Was that jealousy, hiding behind self-confidence? Because what if she was holed up somewhere, with some guy, too busy to come out and play? What else could keep her so occupied every night? Surely not sleep; she was as nocturnal as I was.

Annoyed, I pounded the punching bag. This was not acceptable. Distractions were dangerous, and this was getting to be more than just a distraction. It was getting to be an obsession. Even being Bruce Wayne wasn't working anymore; I'd thought it was, that Saturday, but then the girl – Selina – had sent me on my way with nothing but a first name and a pair of heels, and try as I might, no one remembered anything about Jacques' party except for their hangovers. I'd tried to get ahold of Missy Dupois; I'd seen her talking to the dark-haired woman before I made my move, but she was vacationing in France and wasn't taking calls. And what did it matter, anyway? Selina was just a girl, a pretty, intriguing one, but still just a social butterfly. She wasn't Catwoman, even if she had green eyes and a biting sarcasm to match.

"Sir," Alfred said from the stairwell. "If I may suggest some lunch?"

"Not hungry," I ground out, punctuating each word with a spinning kick.

"A drink of water, then? It's been two hours, Master Wayne."

"Not thirsty, either." Sweat fell into my eyes; I shook it off.

"Bruce," Alfred said. I stopped, panting, and stared at him. I can count on one hand the number of times he's called me Bruce.

"What?" I asked, when he didn't immediately speak.

"You need to stop this."

"Stop what? I'm training."

"No," he said, coming down the last two steps and into the gym. "What you're doing is called 'obsessing,' and it's getting rather alarming."

I scoffed, wiping a forearm across my forehead.

"I'm not obsessing over anyone."

Alfred raised a brow.

"I didn't say anything about a person, Master Wayne."

I groaned, turning back to give the bag a defeated smack.

"This is stupid, Alfred."

"I couldn't agree more."

"I mean, I don't even know her."

"Love is blind, sir."

I whirled around.

"Love? Don't even joke about that, Alfred. I don't love her. I don't even like her."

He said nothing, and I caved.

"All right, I like her a little. But it's stupid. And I know I'm off my game, which means it's dangerous as well as stupid, but… if she would just stop being such a coward, maybe I could sort this out."

"Perhaps it's time to engage in a little immorality," Alfred said carefully, his expression smooth. I frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"If Catwoman won't come to you," he began, white brows going up pointedly, "perhaps you should go to her."

"That sounds great. If I knew where she lived."

"Master Wayne," Alfred said, only a little bit patronizingly. "You have access to the greatest informational resources in this city. Not only that, but you have access to people who do know where she lives."

It only took a second.

"Oh, no. Not a chance. I'm not going to them!"

"What will you do instead?" he asked blithely, backing towards the stairs, oh-so-polite. "Work yourself to death in your own basement?"

And that's the story of how I found myself actively seeking out Poison Ivy. I figured that she was a girl, so she was probably friends with Catwoman; they sometimes teamed up, anyway. Also, she seemed less likely to either speak in tongues or attack on sight than her colleagues, especially as I came bearing gifts. Ivy loves presents.

"Oh," she said, her red lips curving as I found my way into the jungle section of the arboretum where she was reclining. "What have we here?"

"A deal," I answered roughly. "You have something I want."

She sat up, her green dress clinging prettily to her not-insubstantial curves.

"Do I? And what might you have that I want?"

I held up the tickets with an internal sigh.

"First row seats, opening night, Little Shop of Horrors."

One red brow lifted, a light of approval dancing through the flecks of gold in her eyes.

"My goodness. That is a treat." Ivy reached out a gloved hand, and I flicked the tickets back into my sleeve.

"First, I need information."

She pouted, but she would talk. I could tell. Ivy was as manipulative as an old-money diplomat, but she knew a good bargain when she saw one.

"What kind of information?" she asked, crossing her legs. I caught a glimpse of green-tinted thigh.

"I'm looking for Catwoman." Bluntness had worked before. "She has something of mine."

"Oh," Ivy said with a little chuckle. "That's interesting. The Bat and the Cat."

I narrowed my eyes, tempted to just hit her until she gave me what I needed.

"Either tell me where she lives, or I rip up these tickets. Last ones available."

"Fine," Ivy snapped, and for once I was grateful for her quick mood changes. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to thin out the competition just a bit. But she never hears who told you."

"Of course," I acquiesced, bringing out the tickets once again. "Some of us are honorable."

She snorted irreverently, reminding me strongly of another Gotham villainess.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." And she gave me an address, snatching up the tickets as soon as the last word was out of her mouth.