This is the story that wouldn't go away. Believe me, I tried.

I wasn't really sure what to do with it at first, and then . . . then Selina turned up and after that it was out of my hands. I'm still not entirely happy with the way it ended up. But I'm learning to live with it . . .

This could be read as part of my "And So It Is" universe. But it doesn't have to be.

Thanks for reading.

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It begins on a rooftop. All good Gotham stories begin on a rooftop. All the interesting ones anyway. And this is very interesting, she thinks, rolling over to rub her back up against the still warm tiles.

So, curiosity killed the cat. Well, if she had a solid silver nickel for every time someone's said that to her she'd have a whole lot of nickels. And yes, she's still curious and no sir, she sure as hell isn't dead yet. There's still life in this little body, she murmurs, stretching her spine notch by notch along the ridges.

Tomorrow, and Selina has learned this the hard way, can take care of its own damn self. And mostly it does.

Life got a whole lot simpler once she embraced her feline side. If she can't eat it, fuck it, wear it or figure out some way to make it squeak, then she just ain't interested. There's always something sparkly and desirable, some little gilded toy that she's just itching to get her paws on.

But right now, she's just watching. And waiting. Sometimes you have to do a little legwork to end up in the right place at the right time. It's the only way to make it look effortless . . .

Already this evening she's watched the Penguin leaving his offices, waddling awkwardly across the pavement the few short yards to his limousine and clambering in like a landlocked swan. Before his chauffeur shuts the door behind him she hears the girls inside the car giggling delightedly. Feeding time at the zoo.

Of course, now it's actually feeding time at the Zoo and it has been ever since he moved in there a couple of years back. Sure, a couple of the Board members made a formal complaint at the time. Anybody else would have had one or two of their poncy beachfront houses burned down, maybe a couple of their more distant relations knocked off in freak fishing accidents, just to be on the safe side. You have to let people know where they stand. On very thin ice, in some cases.

All the Penguin did was write out a couple of cheques, call in a few favours. Now he's on the Board.

At first they tried to say that the shareholders wouldn't like it. Then they found out exactly who was holding on to their shares. She admires that sort of ruthless conduct in a man.

Oh Oswald, she thinks as she twists gracefully up over the line of the roof, what a beautiful future we could have built together. A shared appreciation of sushi, an equal appetite for criminal gains.

But it is not to be. She is The Cat Who Walks By Herself, all on her wild lone. And she makes sure that no one forgets it. Not even the Bat. Instinctively her blue eyes turn toward the dark sky and she is almost disappointed to see that the only light between the tattered clouds is that of the moon.

Two quick flips and a jump later and she is safely across the roof of the nightclub and slipping down an abandoned fire escape ladder. One hand holds tightly onto the iron rail while her legs swing out to stretch over to the edge of the fire station. She knows that at this time of night the Joker is more than likely to be prowling the boundaries of his territory and she respects the rules of territory even as she breaks them.

She pulls her body up onto the next ledge and slowly kicks her legs up into the air. For a moment she is poised, balanced, both hands resting on the brink. Then she lets her legs drop down to arch over her head and springs back to her feet, hand resting on the handle of the whip in her belt. Nobody does it better, she sings to the smoky jazz bar in her head, curling her lip like Marilyn hitting the bourbon barrier. And the crowd go wild.

A moment later and there is only a slight breeze to mark where she has been standing.

Now she lies comfortably on her stomach, elbows tucked against the slates, leather wrapped face peeking out over the edge of a gutter. Sapphire eyes look down into a closed square of garden, fenced neatly around by a set of Gotham's more attractive older tenements.

She'd thought she might be able to find something worth taking home. It's a respectable area. A nice set of pearls to lay by in tissues for her declining years, something to wear demurely above a cashmere twinset when she bats her eyelashes at society bachelors. Maybe one society bachelor in particular. One who might just drop out of the sky in a jet black cape and whisk her away at any moment.

She hugs her pretty little secrets tightly to her chest, delighting in her power. Swears that she will never tell a soul. There's always the possibility that a certain Mister B. Wayne might one day require some . . . persuasion to see exactly why he should pander to her every whim. It would be a terrible shame to throw away her most deadly weapon on some careless chance.

Your secret is safe with me, she whispers into the night air, curving her lips around the words like so many scarlet kisses.

And besides, she reflects ruefully, having a butler automatically qualifies you as a Dog Person. But Batman? She isn't quite so sure what kind of person he is.

Something moves with a whispered rustling in the darkened shrubbery beneath her and she draws back from the edge with the stealthy twitch of a wild animal. Her pupils widen to take in as much moonlight as possible.

Below her the Scarecrow steps quietly out of the bushes and stands for a moment motionless on the edge of the lawn. Her head sneaks back in from the edge of the roof, keeping carefully out of sight.

Professor Crane makes her nervous. He makes everybody nervous. He's as crazy as a blinded horse and about as predictable and it wouldn't matter so much if he couldn't sound so sane.

She wonders just what he's doing tiptoeing through Gotham's back gardens anyway. Up to no good, that's certain. Cautiously she peers back out over the edge, keeping her head down. She's had one run in with the Scarecrow already, and the memories that she buries every time she slips into the leather are never far below the surface as it is.

The Scarecrow isn't the only thing moving in the garden. From the dark strip of hedge behind Crane a little grey cat steps out into the moonlight. One of Gotham's many abandoned strays, ragged coat a little dull, the dents of its ribs showing all along the thin sides. How she wishes she had room for them all. At least this one seems alert, full of its own self importance. On a mission.

But it's a cat after all. On a mission can very quickly turn into oooh, what's that over there? She should know.

Crane's back is still turned to the hedge, hands rummaging through his coat. Selina wonders just what he's looking for then quickly decides she doesn't want to know. Even her curiosity has its limits and the Scarecrow's pockets are best left alone by those who don't want a free do not pass go, do not collect two hundred bucks all inclusive ticket to Arkham.

The cat sniffs the air inquisitively, head held high. Its long whiskers bristle. She guesses that to a cat's nose Crane smells pretty damn freaky. Animals can smell madness. Hell, even the humans can smell the madness coming off that one, she thinks and the hairs on the back of her neck slide slowly to attention.

She watches as the small cat pads slowly up to stand behind the Scarecrow. Brave little hustler, she thinks and she smiles deep down inside because one of her hands is resting on her hip and Crane doesn't know how very very close he's coming to getting the whipping of his life.

"Hey!"

The cat wraps itself sensuously around Crane's bony ankles, stares up at the mask with big yellow eyes like Chinese lanterns all aglow. And it squeaks.

"Shoo!" The Scarecrow hops awkwardly out of the cat's path, flapping his long arms in exasperation. "Go on, scram." He taps at it gently with one foot, balanced spinning on one leg like an ungainly heron. Tap, tap, tap.

She tenses, sliding along down on her stomach towards the edge of the roof. That creep lays one hand on that dear little creature and she's going to take his pretty head right off. She's going to show him the meaning of fear.

The little cat looks up at him solemnly, grey tail raised high in the air. "Mewk?"

"Shoo! Be off with you." The doctor appears mildly agitated, backing away from the little cat's eager advances.

"Mewk?" The cat scoots up to him and presses its chin firmly up against his shin. Its big eyes lock pleadingly onto the mask.

"Fine." The Scarecrow straightens up. Before she can make a move he has whipped a spray can from somewhere deep inside his sleeve. He shakes his masked head and tuts. "I warned you." He gives the can a quick shake and expertly fires a couple of squirts down at the cat's face.

Selina is outraged. How dare he! She'll show him what happens to the kind of lowlife sneaky scum who would try to paralyse a helpless little kitty with fear toxin. Poor little beast. It'll be terr . . . Her thoughts break off in a neat line like a hard candy bar snapping.

The cat is rolling over and over on the ground at Crane's feet, seemingly in ecstasy. She can hear the purring rippling right across the garden.

Interesting . . .

The Scarecrow stares down at it. The spray can is hanging uselessly in one hand. He looks confused. Yeah, there are some times when even wearing a mask isn't quite enough to hide what you're feeling, sunshine, she thinks, half sympathetically.

"You like that?" Crane sounds appalled. Like the bottom just dropped out of his little world.

And the evening just turned out to be a whole lot more entertaining than she had ever dared to hope. She settles back down on her haunches, ready to watch the show.

The Scarecrow stoops forward and scoops up the limp grey body. If anything the purring gets louder. He holds the cat up in front of his face, thumbs hooked under its armpits, its backlegs dangling down.

"No fear? Hmmm." He transfers the cat's weight to one hand, tucks it under his arm. His fingers go down into a pocket and come out grasping a note book. He lifts the cat back to its position a few inches from his face. "Pupils marginally dilated, respiration . . . normal . . ."

The cat stretches out one paw and playfully taps the side of Crane's head. One of its claws hooks into the canvas fabric of the mask and it tugs experimentally on the material.

"Ow! Quit that."

He pulls the cat away. Most of the mask comes with it.

"Ow!" He drops the note book and wrestles awkwardly with the little paws, frantically struggling to disengage cat from sack. The cat thinks it's a great game.

"Hey! Hey! Not the eyeholes." There is a brief scuffle which terminates in cat and mask ending up hopelessly entwined in Crane's hands. He blinks in disbelief, hair falling over his face in a tangled mess.

"Did you do that deliberately?" His voice is accusatory.

"Mewk?"

Crane sighs. "You're a brave little fellow aren't you?" The cat tucks its head neatly under his chin, closes its eyes and starts purring like the twin rotors of a Green Giant Helicopter preparing for takeoff.

Crane looks down at the small grey cat cradled in his arms and then, briefly, up at the sky. Runs his free hand gently through his hair and she doesn't need the surround sound up to know that he's sighing again.

Then he puts the cat and the mask down, carefully unhooking its tiny claws one by one from the front of his shirt. It falls over limply on its side and presents him with a small expanse of fluffy grey tummy. Crane looks at it with suspicion and then gradual comprehension. "Okay, I get it."

He kneels and scratches inexpertly at the soft fur and she feels her heart begin to melt. Perhaps she's misjudged him in the past. Well, so he's killed a few people, driven quite a few stark staring crazy. But obviously he's a Cat Person and that makes him kind of a good guy in her book. When he gets up and walks away into the shadows, leaving the cat rolling hopefully over on the leaf littered dirt, she almost feels apologetic.

Selina watches the cat for a while. It chases a few bugs, pounces on a leaf fluttering along the ground and kills it dead. Only after it attains complete satisfaction that that particular leaf is never going to trouble anyone again does it turn its attention to a thorough wash behind the ears. The little pink tongue travels raspily across the small grey paw and, watching curled sleepily on the warm tiles above, she sinks into a peaceful trance.

Crane's reappearance ten minutes later takes her completely by surprise. He's holding some kind of sharp metal implement in one hand and it flashes in the moonlight like silver on the blade of a scythe. She's almost up on her feet, ready to drop down into the garden and beat seven shades of shit out of the doctor's skinny body. Fear gas be damned, no-one messes around with a cat on her watch and gets away with it.

Crane's hands move rapidly, slim unexpectedly strong fingers curling like snakes. She pauses momentarily on the edge of the roof, breath caught like a trapped rabbit in her throat. The little cat lifts its head and looks up into the doctor's pale face with bright trusting eyes.

"Mewk?"

He looks down on it half scornfully as it curls around his legs. Then he carefully maneuvers the can out of his pocket and twists the tin-opener onto the edge. The breath slides out of her mouth in one long cold rush of air.

She's never seen Crane smile like that before. It's . . . disturbing. He looks almost normal.

The next evening she just happens to be hanging around the same rooftops. Pure coincidence, she tells herself and it's the kind of lie she can live with.

The little cat is scuffling around at the base of the hedge, its tail twitching with purpose as it tracks down its prey. She can hear tiny snuffling noises as its nose burrows under the leaves.

When the Scarecrow appears in the shadows at the end of the lawn it stops rummaging and trots expectantly up to the dark figure.

"Mewk?"

The next night it's already waiting at the end of the lawn. Kitty whore, she thinks with a wry smile.

It turns out there's always some excuse to be hanging around that part of Gotham at about midnight. One day she realizes it's become a routine. She never used to believe in routines. Regularity has always made her feel imprisoned. Trapped. But this, this isn't about being caged. This is about something else.

She didn't use to believe in good and evil. Then stuff happened. Stuff happens to everyone. Some of them deal with it better than others. She always thought she was one of those people and then bam! one day she's ripping up strips of leather to make a suit and it turns out that the body she's kept covered up for so long is the body she's always needed. It's all old news now anyway.

Good and evil are just two sides of the same coin, she thinks, and she remembers that even Harvey wasn't always like he is now. She guesses that maybe, some place in the distant past, Crane wasn't either. It's kind of comforting.

Two weeks later Crane doesn't show up. Selina waits for what seems like forever, staring into the darkness at the bottom of the garden. She can't believe that she let herself be fooled into thinking he actually cared. Nobody really gives a damn about anybody, she thinks and she knows that she was weak and stupid to have believed anything else in the first place. Sometime she really hates herself.

The little cat sits patiently waiting and its misplaced faith almost breaks her heart. It's only as she is turning away that she hears the rasp of exhausted breathing that is coming slowly up the path. Crane's coat is ripped all down one side and he is limping, one foot dragging along the ground as he walks. He crouches down beside the cat and his hands are shaking as he pulls back the lid of the can.

She has a suspicion she may know what's been going on.

A few minutes later Batman drops silently down the slope of the roof and lands neatly behind the Scarecrow. Mentally she holds up a little white card over her head with a big black 9 written on it. A little stiff on the landing. Probably hampered by carrying that gun. Does anyone really need a gun that big? Wouldn't a little one do the same job just as effectively? Her fingers quickly trace the outline of her own pearl handled Beretta. It's not about size, she thinks . . .

"Dr Crane?" Oh she loves it when he makes his voice go all deep and cross like that. She's missed him so much.

The Scarecrow freezes. She wonders if she should intervene. When he turns slowly around he is holding the little cat pressed hard against his skinny chest. It's purring. He looks across the narrow lawn at Batman and his eyes are soft and blue behind the mask.

"Put the . . . cat . . . down." The black clad shoulders drop ever so slightly.

Sometimes, she thinks, she can almost find it in her heart to feel sorry for Batman.

Crane's arms are tightly wrapped around the little furry body. "How do I know you won't hurt her?"

"How do you . . . Oh for Christ's sake. I won't touch the cat. Alright? Now put it down."

He looks up sharply at the balustrade behind which she is lying concealed. "And you can wipe that smirk off your face as well."

She wishes she knew exactly how he did that. It's not natural.

The Scarecrow studies Batman's face with suspicion, but as ever the mask is inexpressive. Both masks. Boys, she thinks and she shakes her head.

"If I come quietly will you let the cat go?"

Batman tries to keep the irritation out of his voice. She can always tell when he's annoyed. It makes her spine feel funny. "Crane, I don't want your cat."

The Scarecrow processes this information. Nods and very gently lowers the cat to the ground. It turns and presses itself briefly against his leg, rubs the front of its head against his hand. When he struggles up to his feet it watches him with quiet interest.

The Bat moves forward to put one hand down hard on the Scarecrow's shoulder and the cat jumps nimbly out of the way.

"Move." He pushes Crane roughly forwards and the doctor stumbles on his bad leg and almost goes down. Batman's hand keeps him up on his feet with more force than concern. "Walk."

"I've changed my mind." Crane's voice is low and sulky.

"About what?"

"Coming quietly."

Selina tenses, fascinated. The Scarecrow wriggles out from under Batman's hand like an eel, twisting away. One hand is down in his pocket and the long torn coat flies out behind him like a stage curtain. He spins, and the spray can waves in front of Batman's face.

Do it, she screams silently into the air. Knock him out. Once Crane has made good his escape she'll have a whole new toy to play with. She can take him home. Nurse him lovingly back to health and earn his undying gratitude. This is all turning out so well, she thinks and she raises her head a little higher over the rail, staring down at the scene below.

Batman's hand is firm on the gun but she can see the concern pulling at his mouth. She guesses she isn't the only one who buries some bad memories when she puts on her mask. No-one who's managed to survive one dose of Crane's toxin ever wants to go back for a second round. Must be how he's managed to survive for this long.

Of course she would just shoot him and let the police force pick up the pieces. But Batman's far too noble to do that. Although she wouldn't put it past him to put a shot in the doctor's ankle. And then make him hop to Arkham.

Crane giggles. "May your dreams be dark . . ." His finger pushes firmly down on the trigger of the can as he limps backwards out of Batman's reach. There is a sad little sputter. The Scarecrow looks wildly at the can. Gives it a shake and tries again. There is no satisfying hiss of gas. Only the dying murmur of an empty spray.

Up on the roof Selina rolls her eyes in disbelief. One golden chance, one perfect opportunity and he blows it, she thinks in disgust. So much for the Florence Nightingale act. If you want a job done properly . . .

The Scarecrow is backing away, the can hanging down between the long pale fingers. She can see the smile forming on Batman's lips and it isn't a pretty one. Behind Crane the little grey cat looks up briefly from its dinner and shuffles round to get a better look at what's going on. When the Scarecrow's reversing feet finally bump into it, it is a beautiful moment. She only wishes she could have filmed it for more relaxed viewing at a later date.

With a muffled curse Crane topples slowly to the ground, crumpling as he falls, hands flung out wide in the useless struggle to keep his balance. Batman pounces. Almost experimentally one of the Scarecrow's arms lingers still outstretched behind the Bat's back, the spray can still clutched between the fingers. Then he hits Batman across the back of the head with it. It sounds like a axe hitting a tree. She winces involuntarily.

There is a second of silence. Then Batman is up on his feet, holding the Scarecrow up by the shoulders. He shakes him like a terrier shaking a rat. Never a good idea to provoke the Bat unnecessarily, she thinks, and she strokes the thin white scar above her eyebrow with one gloved fingertip.

Crane struggles and twists under Batman's iron grip, feet frantically pushing against the dirt.

"I can't go to Arkham. Not this time." He sounds genuinely distressed between the gasping breaths. Of course, Crane almost always sounds genuine.

"Why not?" The mistake Batman makes, she thinks, is in allowing himself to be lured into these conversations. Sometimes she almost wonders if he kind of likes it.

"Who's going to feed her?"

"Mewk?"

Batman looks down into the Scarecrow's mask, and, if looks could kill, Selina thinks to herself, that one would be the type to do it very slowly. With a lot of gratuitous pain before the end finally came.

"You wouldn't want a little cat to starve, would you? You're meant to be the good guy here." Crane sounds like an injured twelve year old girl.

She has to stuff her hand into her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Batman would have been better off with her nursing skills, she thinks. She could almost believe that Crane had set all this up from the beginning.

"Fine." Batman hauls Crane into a fully upright position, gives him a final shake and pulls off the sackcloth mask like he's unwrapping a present. The psychiatrist's tired face is very white in the moonlight, big dark eyes staring up at the Bat like a Christmas calendar kitten. The grey cat steps carefully up beside them, tail twitching and bumps affectionately against Crane's trembling legs.

"Mewk."

Batman looks down at the little cat. "Fine. I'll feed her."

His right hand is gripping the doctor's narrow shoulder so tightly that she can almost hear the bones grinding. Crane doesn't even seem to notice. He turns the doctor to face towards the bottom of the garden with a rough shove to the back of Crane's head, but she can see that the anger has gone out of him.

"Do you promise?" Crane's voice is weakening now but she can hear the smugness beneath the surface.

"Yes."

"Every night?"

"Yes." The Scarecrow's conqueror sounds less than triumphant. It seems to be a Pyrrhic victory.

"She doesn't like rabbit . . ."

"Crane . . ." The warning note rumbles darkly behind the words.

Then they are gone. The little cat stands watching the way they went for a few moments. Then she sits down and very deliberately starts to wash her paws.

Up on the rooftop Selina sits with her arms wrapped around her knees and giggles until her toned body shakes like a tied up politician. Still, she feels she has a civic responsibility to make sure that the Bat keeps his word.

So every night at about half past midnight three things happen simultaneously across Gotham.

A black caped vigilante pauses in the midst of roughing up some hoodlums in a back alley. Pushes one man disdainfully to the side and lets him drop face down to the dirt.

"Excuse me. I'll be right back."

A slim leather clad body slips away from the front of the jewelers stores, shimmies elegantly up a drainpipe and waltzes away across the tiles. "Give my regards to Commissioner Gordon, won't you?" she calls back at the hopelessly running policemen filling the street behind her.

And a small grey cat sits in a moonlit garden quietly washing behind its ears and wondering where exactly its dinner has got to.

Some nights dinner drops down from the skies, places a small bowl carefully on the ground and zips away to the rooftops far above. Sometimes dinner comes in a big black tank that wakes up some of the neighbours and makes some of the others swear to give up whatever tax fraud they're engaged in just as soon as it's safe to leave the house. Sometimes dinner smells strangely of blood and cordite and other things and the little cat's nose wrinkles up, but it eats it all the same.

Selina notices that the cans of food get gradually fancier. One night a little pink catnip mouse appears under the grey cat's favourite stretch of hedge. She blames Alfred.

It takes three weeks of nightly kitty feeding before Batman finally cracks. He breaks the Scarecrow out of Arkham, conscientiously removes all the hallucinogens from his clothing, explains a few basic rules and gives him a lift as far as the corner of the block.

The Bat tries not to act embarrassed when the little cat comes running out at the sound of the Batmobile. And puts two front feet up against the side of the car. Still, at least Crane has the grace not to mention it. On this occasion.

Enough to make a cat laugh? She almost dies.

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Thanks for reading. All reviews much appreciated :-).