I don't know if I can really articulate how much I want to wipe that sneer off his pretty face. And that's what this is all about, of course. Not the money, not the glitter, not the press; I don't really care about any of that anymore. It's lost its shine, the thrill, the unnamed something that made me keep going out, night after night, putting my body through hell and getting by on two, three hours of sleep per cycle… Now I put on the leather and the claws for something else entirely.

I guess it's not surprising. The papers have been calling it for months. Maybe it's because our names go so well together – this town has always had a thing for rhymes – or maybe it's because of the whole hero/villain complex. I don't know. But what I do know is that now, like it or not, my mild interest in the Batman has grown into something more like an obsession. That doesn't mean I have any feelings for him, of course; how could I? All I know about the man is that he's tall, and scary fast, and stern as hell. That he's never hurt me, not really, no more than I've hurt him. That he's had chances to take me out for good, or at least to get me locked away for a long, long time… and he hasn't taken them. Or maybe I'm just better, faster, just enough to win those few seconds that make all the difference. It's hard to say, since the part of his face that isn't covered never moves more than what's necessary for understandable speech, and his eyes…

Let's not go into that. I pride myself on being able to read people, especially people who don't want to be read, and he's always been something of a sore spot there.

I guess it's not really a sneer, what he does. In fact, that's kind of the problem. If he sneered at me, like Two-Face does, I could handle it. If he leered at me, his eyes snaking around my legs like the Penguin's do, I could work with that. But he's too good for plebian emotions like lust or superiority or rage. The most I've been able to get out of him is a little quirk of irritation, just a twitching of one of the muscles in his jaw that brings his mouth up into a slant, lips thinning, those blue eyes slate-dark and shuttered…

Right. Enough of that. Back on track. I'm not some sighing schoolgirl, and he's not the captain of the football team. He's Batman, the shadow, the mystery. And me?

I'm Catwoman. I'm everything he hates.

Time to have some fun.

When he caught up with me, it was on the biggest bridge in Gotham. I was climbing as fast as I could, thanking Bast for the parkour training my college boyfriend had insisted upon. Lips parted, eyes intent on my target, I sprang from the thin bar of scaffolding to one across the chasm that was gradually increasing as I ascended. I caught it, the metal biting through my gloves. I let out a small cry of pain that was swallowed by the wind as I swung up and used my momentum to fling myself down two rungs. I heard the crash of feet hitting the steel plates at the base of the bridge, and froze. It was dark; the bridge was lit, but not well. He might not see me. If I just – stayed – still –

There was a snap of cape in the wind and the scaffolding trembled beneath me. He was climbing, moving fast, his body flying from rung to rung. Shit.

"Careful," I called, deciding it was time to stop pretending he wasn't coming for me like a ninja with the force of a freight train. "Breezy up here."

"Good thing you have nine lives," he retorted, somehow managing to sound cool. He was at the top of the scaffolding now, pausing briefly before beginning his descent on my side.

"Oh," I said, pouting a little, putting a heavy dose of sarcasm into my voice, "now, that was a bit trite."

"Damn," he said flatly, and I figured I should maybe start climbing down myself.

"Gotta think on your toes!" I illustrated this by jumping the last twelve feet or so, landing in a low crouch. "We have a witty repartee to maintain, after all!"

"The only thing you're going to have to maintain is your cell," and he was on the ground too, and why wasn't I running? Distracted by that zinger of a comeback, perhaps. Don't joke, Selina, I told myself, trying to force my legs to move. It wasn't working. He was a few feet away, the end of his cape whipping around his knees, and I realized that he wasn't wearing the standard uniform. The cape was there, obviously, and the opaque bulletproof armor with the wicked little bat insignia on the chest. But the heavy black cargo pants weren't his usual fair, and with them tucked into oh-so-sturdy combat boots, he looked like some sort of amalgam of a superhero and G.I. Joe.

"Nice pants," I said, giving him my trademark smirk. "What are you advertising, Black-Ops?"

"Ha." He didn't sound amused. "Give it back."

"What, no 'please'?"

"Please."

I flinched back, throwing up a hand.

"So dry!" Stepping closer, I reached out and drew a finger along one pointed wing of the insignia on his chest. And there it was again. The want, the need. It's more than a desire, more than a lust; I am compelled to break his calm. I want to see him without that iron control. I want to see him beg.

He stepped back, out of reach. I laughed.

"Careful, Tex. I'd hate to see you get a splinter from that stick up your ass."

"Elegant as ever," he said, the barest hint of a drawl to it. Not for the first time, I wondered just who was behind that mask. I like to think I wonder less than the rest of the known world, but there are times… He tilted his head, staring me down. "Now, are you going to make this harder, or are you going to give back the necklace?"

"Well, I'm not giving it back. So I guess I'm making things… harder." Tongue in cheek, I smiled at him.

Ok.

So it was a bit below me.

But I swear to Bast, there was a flicker. It was difficult to see, being dark, but his eyelids twitched. He almost blinked. And if he'd blinked, I would have won.

Obviously, it was time to try harder.

"You could just call the cops, you know," I purred, taking another step to eat the distance he'd created. Two more and his back would be against the bridge railing. He didn't step back again, but I was reasonably sure I could convince him.

"I'd rather not complicate matters," he said, and every single word added, because I don't need cops to do my job.

"Right." I lifted a finger, slowly, dragged it along the other edge of the insignia. It was sharp, tough, and might have cut me had it not been for the gloves. "What if I like things complicated?" And although I couldn't quite bring myself to say it as throatily as my film noir icons would have, I think I managed to hit at least two levels of sultry.

This time, he didn't just step back. Instead, his own hand flashed up and grabbed my wrist, yanking my fingers away from his chest. He didn't throw me down or kick my feet out from under me. He just held my hand away, fingers tight around my wrist, blue eyes glinting in the dark.

"Let me go," I said, and for the first time felt a quiver of some distant relative of fear. He wouldn't hurt me. He never hurt me. And if he tried… Well. Parkour wasn't the only thing I'd trained in. He didn't answer, and I tried jerking my arm down. The movement made my free arm swing up automatically, and he just caught that one too. Trapped, somewhat stupidly, I frowned at him. "You're not being very sporting tonight, Bats."

"Don't call me that."

It was the first thing he'd said in what felt like minutes, and I was actually a little surprised.

"What, Bats?"

His grip on me loosened. I took it as embarrassment, and grinned at him. When I lowered my arms, he let me, fingers slipping from my wrists.

"What would you prefer I called you?" I asked, as irreverently as possible. When he didn't answer, I swayed a little closer. Just a crack. All I needed was a crack, and then I'd know how to keep picking at it, clawing my way through, through those damned stony defenses of his… "I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours." I was lying, of course, but he knew that. It was the game. It was all the game.

As if he were reading my mind, the way I sometimes suspected he could, he said,

"I'm not playing."

"What?" Innocent, Selina. You're totally innocent.

"Your little games. I just want the necklace."

And it hurt. A little. More than I expected it to, actually.

"Fine," I snapped, and then cursed myself for allowing the weakness. Regaining my cool, I stepped back from him. "But I'm still not giving it up. Not without a price."

"I'm not buying back what you stole, little thief."

"I didn't say anything about money." There was still time. This could still be salvaged. I wasn't done with him yet.

"I could just take it from you."

"And yet," I said, allowing my eyelids to shutter, "here we are, talking about it."

"You could just run." Goddamn, he was gruff.

"I think I prefer chasing." And now, move forward now, and yes!

He stepped back, almost unconsciously, and I refused to give back the ground I'd gained. Both hands going to his shoulders, I leaned in and let my left leg drag back, arching my torso into him, my face turning up.

"Mmm, yes," I purred, hissing the end. "This is more like it."

"What do you want?" he asked, and was that a hint of amusement in the dark voice? The instant it took me to decide that yes, it was humor, was long enough for him to shake his head. "For the necklace," he clarified, and I fought to keep myself from blushing. Right. Score one for the Bat.

"What do I want? What do I want?" I shook my head, an evil idea rising from the bite of embarrassment. "A kiss."

"What?" He sounded genuinely taken aback, or at least as taken aback as it was possible for him to sound.

"You heard me." I tilted my head, sliding my hands over his shoulders, crossing my wrists behind his neck. "What with the papers screaming it at me all day long... A girl starts to wonder."

"I'm not kissing you."

"Then hit me," I countered, studying the mask, the eyes behind it. Searching for the flicker, the sign, any hint that his façade was anything but solid. It didn't come… but he didn't hit me, either. He didn't move at all. I felt a great sense of tension, radiating out from his shoulders, his jaw; it was the sort of thing where you imagined that, if you were to move even slightly, something might explode.

I leaned my head closer to his, aware of his warmth, his tallness, the eyes like shattered night skies.

"Just one kiss," I whispered, and suddenly it was all catching up with me, the rush, slamming into me like hard wind. I wanted to draw back, to retreat, to run – but then there was a pressure on my hips, my lower back. Hands. His hands. I gasped a little, I think, something to agonize over later.

Slowly, as if each fraction of an inch that he moved were something profoundly not allowed, the dark knight lowered his head towards mine. I felt his lips brush against mine, a touch so light it made my mouth tingle. Like being kissed by a ghost. Then, he drew away, blue eyes still open, still watching me, and I admit it. I got a little angry.

"No," I said, and maybe in the morning I would care about how breathless I sounded. "Not good enough." I caught him by the back of the neck and dragged his head back down, and for once he didn't resist.

This time, the kiss was hard. He wasted no time, lifting me just high enough to spin us around and push me back up against the rail. I hadn't expected his hands to slide up my back with just the right amount of pressure to make me shiver. Hadn't expected his tongue to be clever enough to get me gasping into his mouth in seconds. Hadn't expected to feel it to my very bones when I opened my eyes and saw that his were closed, finally, not watching me, searching me, dissecting me. He was here, right now, the man behind the Batman, with me.

After a minute, two minutes, some number of minutes during which I found the contours of his back beneath the straps of the armor he wore, we pulled away. I was breathing hard, and gratified to see that I wasn't the only one.

"Was that good enough?" he asked, voice a little rougher than usual.

"Enough for this," I replied, and reached into the hidden pocket at my thigh. Tossing him the ring I'd stolen from the collection upstairs – not nearly so well-known as the necklace, and so not nearly so quickly recognized as missing – I backed away.

"The necklace," he said, catching the ring deftly and slipping it into one of the many not-so-hidden pockets of the cargo pants.

"You'll have to earn it, bat boy."

And as I turned to run again, I caught a flash of teeth. My own lips tugged up in an answering grin that I'm pretty sure had a fair dose of stupid in it.

Then, not daring to look back, I took off down the end of the bridge. He'd chase me.

I was sure of it.