Carry On

Rain beats down on her from above, heavy tears shed by a moonless sky. Fat drops slide along her body, sting her cheeks, nearly blinding her, before swirling away into the darkness far below. The drenched catsuit clings to her skin, the feel and smell of wet Kevlar driving her onward up the sheer face of the wall.

The balcony sits just above her, and she stops for a moment, letting it shield her from the onslaught, breathing heavily before continuing the last leg of her climb. She has run the entire way here, and her arms and legs are screaming, her joints stiff and sore. She takes one last breath, her chest constricting, before launching herself upward into a perfect flip, landing silently on the railing before the wide French doors.

They are somewhat unremarkable in comparison to the house at large, but the sight of them causes something inside of Selina to break. With none of her usual grace, she jumps from the railing and falls on the alarm system, typing in the code she knows by heart. She holds back a sigh of relief as the tiny green light flares and goes out, the nearly undetectable hum of the security disarming itself, locks opening, energy fields retracting. The door handle slips in her cold grasp.

Selina enters, closing the doors behind herself, then falls back against them. She looks around the room unseeingly, her chest heaving in and out. The air in the room is warm, comfortable. It smells lightly of linen and wood, like leather. It smells like home.

It smells like him.

She lifts her goggles, wipes the rivulets of water from her eyes, not bothering to decipher the rain from the tears. Her hands are slick and icy in their armored gloves, and she rips them off with her teeth. She presses her palms against her eyes, hard, trying to warm them, trying to make them not see, to forget.

Please, she thinks. Please, no.

When she opens them again, the first thing she sees is the bed. That enormous four-poster monstrosity, a testament to old wealth and archaic tradition, draped in linen and covered with at least four-thousand-thread-count silk sheets.

That bed. That damn bed.

Without thinking, Selina steps toward it, clumsily, as though in a dream. Rests her hand on the surface. Grips the silk in her fingers, feeling its weight, its warmth. Its familiarity.

Hiccoughing slightly, she climbs onto the mattress. Pressing her face into the fabric, she remembers she is still wearing her boots, and kicks them off viciously. They land with a thunk somewhere on the floor. She doesn't see where.

Selina wants to strip, to tear off this mass of Lycra and synthetic armor, this barrier between her skin and the fabric, this last remnant of solace, this reminder of her loss, of her ineffectiveness. But she has curled into a ball now, and cannot seem to move any of her limbs, or raise her head from its burial place in the very center of the huge white expanse.

"Please…" she whispers hoarsely. And "why…?"

Selina wraps her arms about herself, hugging tightly, and pushes herself further into the mattress to keep from rocking back and forth. The sharp ears of her cowl dig into her scalp. Desperately, she sits up and tears the goggles from her head, ripping open the cowl's latch and yanking it off before pitching them both into a corner of the room. She runs her fingers through her hair, trying and failing to regain some semblance of control. The weight of a thousand regrets, of a thousand unsaid words drags her down into a fetal position, her mouth open in a silent, guttural scream.

She has no words for this pain.

And Selina Kyle knows pain. Growing up in all the worst parts of town, from a crumbling brownstone, to the System, to the streets, she is no stranger to the unfairness of life; to being cheated. She did what it took to survive in a hostile world, a deadly city, before there was ever an avenging vigilante in the shadows. There was no Batman to save Selina Kyle from starvation or abuse - from being used as a welfare check or a pimp's doormat. Selina Kyle had to save herself.

She did not always succeed.

So no, she is no stranger to pain, or to loss. The East End teaches its children far too early that life's a bitch, and crying gets you nowhere. As far as Gotham City is concerned, that is the Gospel Truth.

Selina clenches her teeth together, gasping for air against the gaping emptiness in her chest. It has been so long… does she even remember how to cry? Heart-wrenching sobs wrack her body, but they make no noise. Silent, always silent.

We are prey animals, if we make noise, the wolves will hear us. If we make a sound, we are dead.

"Come back," she breathes. "Bruce."

The name rolls off of her tongue before she knows she is saying it. Hearing it now, spoken aloud in this soft, aching room, makes Selina unfurl. She stretches her limbs out as far as they will go, taking up as much of the bed as possible. The silk is soft, giving way to her slight weight, enveloping her in its well-worn embrace. Her hands unclench, resting atop the sheets. Feeling. Remembering.

It is utterly dark. The rain patters on the tiles outside, steady and very far away. Selina breathes.

A thousand memories cascade through her, of this room and others. Nights when she would come to the balcony, and he would be there, waiting. Nights when he wouldn't.

Caresses between sheets; Whispered words against pillows; Kisses on lips, on shoulders, on thighs; Kisses against headboards, against cushions, against walls and windows and fire escapes.

Kisses that would sear, that would sting; kisses that would hurt more than they healed, and healed more than they hurt. Such anger and love and confusion, and the most profound understanding Selina has ever known.

That is how she knows he is not really gone. Not really dead. Not yet. She would feel that.

And besides, he's Batman, he's the star of the show. Without him, Gotham crumbles. Without him, they are all lost. He has to come back. She only wishes he would hurry up and do it, goddammit.

Still. While he's gone… it hurts. Selina hates to admit it, hates the realization that she has come to depend on, to need another human being. And the fact that it's Bruce… God, could there be more irony? They both based their entire lives on the idea that neither of them could admit any weakness, to or for anyone or anything. And there they were, dancing around the fact that the whole concept is faulty. Outdated. Obsolete.

Wrong.

Because the truth is that they need each other like oxygen.

And now, here she is, dealing with that fact alone. And if he doesn't come home…

No. She cannot go there. That road leads to terror and a whole lot of potential realities she cannot bear to face. Not right now.

Selina gazes around the room, wondering why she came. Wayne Manor is the most well-guarded facility this side of the Pentagon. The fact that she holds the disarmament sensor and passcodes for every door in the place does nothing to change the fact that not one of the highly-trained vigilantes in residence knows that she is here, and will therefore not be expecting her, should they chance to pay a visit. Selina does not relish the idea of having to fight off some misguided attack from one of Bruce's kids.

She chuckles slightly. It grates in her sore throat. Then she sighs.

The past couple of months have been hell. Gotham has become a madhouse without Batman there to guard its streets. Too mad even for Selina. So, in her infinite wisdom, she had the brilliant idea to suggest to Harley and Ivy that they team up against the looming threat of annihilation. Pam had been so enthusiastic, she'd even insisted they start the whole 'sisterhood' thing off with a bang by sharing deep, dark secrets – namely, Batman's secret identity. Selina had politely declined to provide a hypothesis, whereupon Ivy had bound, gagged, and drugged her into giving the information up, willing or no.

Selina snorts into the covers.

Never thought I'd be grateful to Talia for anything. The only good thing that woman ever brought into Bruce's life was Damian, and even then, the kid's a spoiled, self-righteous brat. Selina smiles fondly.

Like father, like son.

She pictures the boy's face, soft and round, childlike, for all he tries so hard to be an adult. She suddenly wants to card her fingers through his dark hair, so very like his father's. But he probably wouldn't appreciate the sentiment.

Selina rolls onto her back, staring up at the ceiling with tired eyes. Talia's little mind trick had certainly worked. Pam hadn't gotten anything out of her but curses and a string of conspiracies so wild even Harley had cracked up at their ridiculousness. Whatever else Selina may think of her, Talia does seem to genuinely care about Bruce's safety.

The thought does not sit well with her. Selina prefers to think of Talia as a conniving side-character, a jilted love interest that refuses to lie down and be forgotten along with the rest of the super-flings and bimbos in Batman and Bruce Wayne's respective lives. Compassion and gratitude are not emotions that come naturally when thinking of the assassin-toting daddy's girl. Even when Talia had come back to save her life after her daddy's minion's attack, Selina had known the other woman had only done so to prevent her rival from becoming a martyr in Bruce's eyes. After all, Selina knows, perhaps better than anyone, you can't win against a ghost.

Selina closes her eyes, curling onto her side in the middle of the big bed. She imagines his form beside her, warm and heavy and breathing. She craves the weight of his arms encircling her, of his lips in her hair, whispering her name. She misses the heat of his body against hers. Safety is not something either of them is familiar with, but in these moments, however fragile, safe is a feeling they have shared. She can almost feel his hand, splayed across her midsection like so many nights before. Selina sighs, wrapped in the memory of his embrace.

The tears fall silently down her cheeks now. She'll leave soon.

She awakens to bright sunlight and the sound of a shotgun loading. Selina shoots upright, her head swimming, black spots forming before her eyes. She whips her head around, her vision bleary, lashes glued together by mascara. Disoriented, she nearly falls back onto the mattress.

White walls, white floor, no cats, not her apartment…

"Ms. Kyle…?"

Selina squints in the direction of the voice, blinking against the fog clouding her mental faculties.

Alfred Pennyworth stands in the doorway before her, lowering a model 97 Winchester.

"Well. I must say, this is rather… unexpected," he says, regaining some of his patented British poise.

"Alfred," Selina mumbles. Her mouth is as dry as cotton, and her voice hitches. She groans, running a hand through her hair. The short, dark strands are sticking out in clumps. He gives her a moment, then, with nothing else to do, speaks.

"Shall I fetch you something to drink then? Perhaps something to eat as well? I have just put Master Dick's favorite in the oven."

"No, thank you," she manages. Then, more strongly, "The kids awake?"

"Not as of yet, no."

Selina takes a deep breath, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. The fabric is damp where she slept, the whole thing wrinkled and streaked with dirt.

"Sorry about the laundry," she says, then nods to the gun still in the old man's hand. "You gonna shoot me?"

"No, miss," Alfred replies, setting the Winchester aside to lean against the doorframe. "But I would insist you stop by the kitchen before you take your inevitable leave. I refuse to allow anyone to leave the," - he stumbles over the word – "Wayne household in such a state of disorder. Do allow an old man his indulgences, my dear."

Selina attempts a smile, but it falls flat at the mention of Bruce's name. That tiny hesitation, that nebulous tell – revealing that all is not right. All is, in fact, very, very wrong. Selina's face crumples.

"Alfred," she whispers, barely daring to look at him. She forces her lips to form the words. "I miss him."

There is a quiet pause, during which the whole world seems to have shrunk to these four walls and the two of them. The old man simply looks at Selina for a long moment. She can only imagine what he sees: a woman, by no means small, but infinitely delicate, dwarfed by the immense white bed, its pervading emptiness gleaming in the morning light behind her bedraggled silhouette. His eyes are worn and sad when they meet hers.

"As do I, Miss Selina," he responds quietly. Selina bows her head under the weight of his statement.

"You know," she says, injecting as much false cheer as she can into the syllables. "I think I will take you up on that offer of breakfast. I feel like I got hit over the head with a lead pipe."

"And did you, Miss Kyle?" His eyes are shrewd, clinical. Selina recognizes the surgeon in him coming to the forefront. She smirks.

"Maybe on the shoulder." He nods.

"Breakfast and medical check, then." Selina does not try to argue with him. He'll win. Instead, she raises her head to look at him.

"What do we do now, old friend?" Her tone is half amused, half heartbreak. "What the hell are we going to do now?"

Alfred's voice wavers for a moment. When he speaks, it catches in his throat.

"We do the only thing we can, Miss Selina," he says. "We carry on."

"You look like hell," Dick says, coming into the breakfast nook. Selina shifts on the counter, biting into a muffin.

"Speak for yourself, kid."

Dick's face is haggard. His skin is nearly grey, and his eyes are bloodshot. Selina fears she may not look much better.

"Rough night," she asks. Dick rubs the back of his neck, rolling his shoulders.

"Yeah," he replies, looking at the ground. He pauses a moment before asking, "You?"

"You could say that." Selina pops the last morsel into her mouth, trying not to burn herself as she fishes another muffin from the tin. "Alfred insisted on a check-up, so I haven't left yet."

"You spent the night here?" He doesn't sound surprised. Though she probably looks like she spent the night in a drain pipe. She did take the time to clean the grime from her face and made an attempt to tame her wild hair, but the drowned cat she resembled when she woke is now probably, at best, only half-drowned.

"Wasn't exactly part of the plan," she replies. "But yeah." A meaningful look passes between them. He won't ask.

"So, Alfred patch you all up," he asks by way of changing the subject.

"Yup." She flicks her right shoulder lightly. "Severe bruising and two stitches, but nothing dislocated. Lucky me. Now, I'm just downing some breakfast before your greedy paws swipe it all away."

"Hey, Tim helps," he laughs. "And Damian. Jeez, kid could eat a bakery out of house and home."

"Like you're any better." Selina smiles, holding a fresh cup of coffee to her lips.

"Says the woman stealing my muffins."

Selina raises an eyebrow, giving him that one.

"You off now?" He says as she hops down from her perch on the counter. "You could stay for a bit. I'm sure Tim would like to see you."

"Would he now," she snorts, sipping the last of her coffee.

"You did save his skin last night," he points out.

Selina waves this away. "That's just good business."

"Selina," Dick warns, and it could almost be Bruce talking, but for the hint of amusement in his tone.

"The baby bird doesn't owe me anything," she says, keeping her eyes on her mug as she sets it in the sink.

"He might feel differently about that."

Selina sighs, shaking her head. "Not today, Dick. I've got to get going. Maybe next time."

He touches her arm lightly as she turns from him, stopping her.

"Next time," he says softly. "Use the front door."

"I'm a little old for you, kid," she jokes halfheartedly. He gives her a look, which she chooses to ignore.

"Just think about it," he says. She shrugs on a coat, borrowed from Bruce's closet, not bothering to hide the way she holds it close for a minute, breathing in his fading scent. It effectively covers her catsuit, all except the boots, which are mercifully dry. She reminds herself again never to sleep in wet Kevlar.

"Sure," she says.

She is almost out of the kitchen when he calls:

"Selina."

"Hmm?" He looks at her, somewhat at a loss.

"What will you… what are you doing now?"

Selina exhales, smiling mirthlessly. Then she raises her face to the skylight, where the sun is fighting last night's clouds to maintain its grip on the sky.

You'd better come back, Bruce.

When she looks back at him, her eyes are fired with its light, glowing like emeralds, infinite in their mercurial beauty.

"I'm carrying on, Dick."