This took way longer than I thought it would considering I only wanted to write about two pages. Thank you so much to JaneScarlett for reading and fixing and shifting! Thanks for listening to me go on and on. Also thanks to Lisa and Kevin for being very helpful and enthusiastic! Please review! Would be so grateful!

Disclaimer: I love Batman. Also Catwoman. But neither of them belong to me. Nor does The Dark Knight Rises. Or I'd be way richer.

Need

Even after she got what she wanted, it wasn't enough. That's the way it always was with her. Her mother had once said: give Selina your hand and she'll tear your arm off. Well, Mom, Selina'd tear off your whole goddamn head now.

Selina sat cross legged on the floor of her living room looking over what remained of the charming objects she had collected over the years, tracing the pattern on her Persian carpet with one red lacquered fingernail. Just junk. It had nothing to do with who she really was, no more than her name did. Selina Kyle. Pretty soon, Selina Kyle would cease to exist. She would take enough to start a new life and never look back. She should have been happy that she'd gotten what she wanted in the end. Should have been glad her life didn't end in Blackgate prison. But Selina was seldom content, she felt that content people often became boring and sloppy. Need kept you alert, kept you sharp as a tack.

She'd been a street kid, an alley cat, looking in windows at things she couldn't have but desperately wanted. She wanted a father, for starters, but Mom had never obliged. Sometimes she wanted a brother or a sister; but only on the days she was feeling generous. She wanted a pony, and that doll and those glittery pink jelly sandals.

The need, the doing without, made her angry. Before she had figured out how to get what she wanted, how to channel her anger there were years of watching other kids parade around in the newest fashions, playing with their fancy toys, and going on trips to Disneyland. All Selina had were hand me downs and books… and the anger she polished daily, until it glittered like a diamond. But anger without direction was no use at all. It turned inward and made you bitter. She needed an outlet.

Selina had learned pretty early on that small skinny kids who read books and hid behind shaggy bangs got picked on. Her mother had told her to stay quiet and keep out of trouble…but sometimes trouble went looking for you. The day a bigger kid pushed her to the ground and stole her new backpack was the day she decided: this was her outlet. You had to speak up. You had to beat that bigger kid up before he even thought of beating on you. The mirror showed a small, pale girl, skinny and defenseless. But tough was a state of mind. Much to her mother's despair she took up karate, saving her allowance and babysitting money for lessons. She ran in the park every morning and did a hundred sit ups. And the next time a bigger kid tried to pick on Selina Kyle, she showed them a thing or two.

That was when it dawned on her: she would never again need to go without, she could take whatever she wanted. Pair your physical strength with a bit of research and street smarts, and you could unlock any door in the world. When puberty hit -after the pimples cleared up, and the braces came off- she learned she had another advantage. A pretty smile and a short skirt went a long way. She learned, once you got past all the work of reshaping yourself, all you needed was the right reputation. With that, it was all smooth sailing: people paid attention, offered up their treasures, and you didn't even have to get your hands dirty… much.

Yes, she learned to take what she wanted. She learned it so well she almost forgot she had ever gone without. Almost. You never quite forgot the dull ache of hunger; the sheer blind need more poignant than anything she had ever felt, and ever would. And they could afford it, those people. There was a freedom in taking from the rich, spitting metaphorically in their faces. But then there was a new need, after that had grown stale. There was no protection for the downtrodden seeking their way up; but there were laws to protect those born with that kind of money, and even laws to protect those who got rich by standing on the corpses of everyone else. Selina had learned the hard way to take what she wanted, and now she learned the consequences in the same fashion. The memory of Blackgate sent a shiver down her spine. Seemingly, not all reputations were good ones. If she ever wanted out of this vicious circle, she had to find a way to leave Selina Kyle behind. It all came back to need, it was never enough.

He never knew need. Not him, not Bruce Wayne, billionaire heir to the Wayne empire. The little prince. She'd read about him, how he'd been before his self-imposed exile. She'd thought to herself it would have been fun to take him then. When he'd been jumping out of planes and buying hotels at the drop of a hat, dating supermodels and actresses and other men's wives just because he could. She figured she could have crushed that Bruce Wayne with one well placed stiletto heeled boot. But the recluse Bruce Wayne, the broken man; she hadn't wanted to bother with him. Too easy, no spice to it. And though she would never admit it to herself: she pitied him. She prided herself on only stealing from those who had plenty to spare, people she felt deserved it. Strangely, crippled orphan Wayne holed up in his manor didn't exactly fit her main target group.

All the same, when they handed her the opportunity she took it without questioning. All they wanted were his fingerprints. That was it, simple: five little smudges in exchange for a program that could erase Selina Kyle and give her a new life. It was easier than she thought it would be. Black dress, white collar and cuffs, and no one even blinked at her, despite a few concessions of her own: the Prada heels, the Wolford tights, the diamond studs. Those small details could blow the con wide open, but Selina didn't mind. Sometimes you needed to play with fire to keep it interesting.

She had walked right into the room with the safe so easily that later, she had to laugh. And after she took his prints, there was the loveliest prize waiting for her. It fit her so well, Martha Wayne's pearl necklace; it must have been made for her. That was when he showed up. He disappointed her, or else exceeded her expectations. This man who walked with the help of a cane, his eyes dead, his beard scraggly and his mouth a thin line of rigid despair. But there was something about him: a power, an energy washing off of him in waves. A force to be reckoned with, even if he was thin and wasted and crippled. He must have felt something too, because soon they were playing their little cat-and-mouse game. Cat-and-bat, she amended later.

When she thought about it afterwards, she figured her actions must have catapulted him back to life. She saved him and doomed him in one fell swoop, had brought the Batman out of hiding. Batman: the only man in more than a decade to make her blood race and her mind whirr. Of course he wasn't really a man. He was a symbol, an idea, justice personified. She saw that now. Batman and Bruce Wayne: they were one and the same, it transpired. It made sense. The first two men she had been genuinely interested in, in years. One and the same. Figured.

Then she betrayed him. And she told herself what she had been telling herself for years: every man for himself. Every woman. Take what you can before they take from you. Strike first before they could even think of cutting you down. He wasn't anything to her, simply a man she'd betrayed. She tried to tell herself anyone would have done the same if asked to choose. He would have sold her too, if his life depended on it. But she knew he wouldn't have, not him. He had faith in people, in the city of Gotham. He believed there were still things worth fighting for, still things worth dying for.

Well, he's dead now. Fool. She tried to shake off the despair that came with thoughts of Bruce. He saw more to her. She had wanted to be more because of it. A hero, someone who fought for a greater good and not just for the things they wanted to own. Reflected in his eyes had been a woman she had barely recognized. Someone wise and strong, a better woman than she was. If he had lived, maybe she could have tried to be her. Not on her own though. Her way was the only way she knew, the only one she'd known for years. But when he came back from the pit, no longer broken, that was when her way stopped making sense.

It was hard packing up her life. After years of dreaming of all the pretty things she thought she would never own, she'd become something of a hoarder. That pretty bracelet set she'd lifted in Paris. Those Russian icons from the St. Petersburg job, framed in jewel studded gold. She'd planned to sell them, but how could she? It wasn't so much the objects themselves but the thrill and freedom she associated with them. The clothes were even harder. She dug through her closets pulling out dresses and silk blouses, velvet trousers and shoes in every color of the rainbow. Leather jackets and the good black cashmere coat and all the lacy undergarments. She would buy new things for her new life. New clothes without memories. She stroked an alpaca cardigan in a deep mulberry color; it felt kitten-soft beneath her fingertips and had always looked good on her, flattering and sexy and demure all at the same time.

No; she'd leave everything behind. The clothes would fit Jen; she was always borrowing them anyway. Always travel light, Mom had said, and all you need to look elegant is one black dress and a string of pearls. Well, Selina counted about twenty black dresses and the only pearls she wanted were back in Wayne Manor where she could no longer get to them. Actually, she probably could get in and take the pearls; it would be easy as pie. Hardly a challenge though and it felt wrong in light of his death to break in. The Manor was like a tomb now, though Alfred Pennyworth had revealed to her Bruce had left it to the State and it was being turned into a home for boys. He should have done that from the start, she thought. But then, she supposed the Manor was part of his mask, like the tailored suits and the silly girls he wore like accessories.

After careful deliberation she packed a small bag with essentials, a few items she couldn't leave behind and her toothbrush. Always pack a toothbrush, Mom had said, the one thing you don't want to share. She set the bag aside and started folding up the remaining clothes. It would be easier just to leave everything to Jen and have done with. The younger girl was always getting into trouble, and once she left behind Selina Kyle there was no going back. She wouldn't be there to bail Jen out, make sure she was eating right and that she wore a scarf when it was cold out. Unbidden, a pang of regret shot through her. It hadn't all been bad. She wanted out, but there were still things worth staying for. Not enough though, she reminded herself.

It would have been harder still, if Bruce were alive. I like your apartment he'd said. He'd stood here, looking around as if he owned it all and she'd liked his expression despite herself; the look of inbred arrogance. Selina had considered, briefly, asking him to stay. But that would have been ridiculous.

He's cute, Jen had said warily when he had gone. She'd been jealous, Selina knew, but she hadn't been in the mood to dissuade her of those feelings; simply taken the younger girl by the chin and kissed her quickly, her lips barely grazing the corner of Jen's mouth. Shut up sweetie, she'd replied, the words both admonishing and an endearment.

That was when Bane's men had arrived to make her a deal she couldn't refuse. Bane came in after them. His voice like silk, his words like poetry, and the sheer size of him so intimidating she could barely squeak out an answer when he told her his plan, that she would bring him the Batman. He didn't threaten her. Selina could see the set of his muscles beneath his clothes. He could snap her neck with one hand. She still felt trapped, remembering Bane standing over her, his large hand caressing Jen's shoulder. He could kill Jen, he could kill her. He was so powerful he didn't even need to use violence; tenderness was so much more threatening.

Too many thoughts; too much remembering. She needed to get out or she would go crazy. There was a jacket and a cashmere scarf on the floor, both belonged to Jen. When Selina Kyle was gone and Jen was alone, no one would pick her things up off the floor. No one would hang up Jen's laundry and unearth the dirty dishes from under the bed. She shrugged those thoughts off like a discarded outfit. It was no use thinking of what she was leaving behind. Selina slid her feet into worn flats, gave herself the once over in front of the mirror and rushed outside.

One more walk around her city. One last time. In the months of Bane's rule she had often walked like this. Slowly touring the sites of destruction, taking it in. After Blackgate she was lucky to be out, free, sleeping in her own bed. I led him to his death, they should have locked me up forever, and they almost did. That was her guilt talking; they didn't send her to prison because of Batman. They sent her there because she was a criminal. But whenever she thought of Blackgate, she thought of Bane breaking his back as she watched. She just watched, the helplessness of the situation tying her stomach into knots. There was nothing she could do to help him, her sense of self preservation was simply too strong. She was no hero, not Selina Kyle.

She walked aimlessly down the main street at first and then down the smaller streets. It had finally stopped snowing, everything was thawing. Selina could smell spring in the air, that earthiness and the scent of damp asphalt and the sharp, bitter smell of something burning. The ice patches had melted away and she started to run as she so often had when it felt like her thoughts were crowding liked the jolt that ran through her bones when her foot hit the pavement, the sharp regular rhythm of her soles on the ground. She'd taught herself to run years ago in high heels, figuring if she could run in stilettos then she could really run. And if she could run in heels, then she could fight in heels. She'd twisted her ankle once, but only once and never again. When she ran everything else went away and all that was left was bunch and flow of her muscles. The streets all blended into one. The signs were fluorescent blurs. Tears started to flow from her eyes. She told herself she wasn't crying, it was just the wind. Then she stopped, pressed her hand to the wall to steady herself and forced her heartbeat to slow.

She looked up, taking in her surroundings; her feet had carried her to the statue. She'd seen it once before in person when they first unveiled it, and since then in the papers. It looked stupid. She wished she had a can of spray paint with her so she could vandalize it. They'd called him a criminal over and over again. They'd reviled him for murdering that white knight, goody-goody Harvey Dent. Then, of course, it turned out the man was a lunatic. Batman was the real hero, taking the blame for Dent's crimes so that Gotham could have their Easter Bunny and Santa Claus and Pope all rolled into one. Then he saved the city from Talia al Ghul's bomb, saved them from Bane's revolution. And this was the thanks he got? This crappy ass piece of art? Selina was selfishly grateful Gordon had agreed to keep her involvement in the city's liberation silent. What kind of monument would they have erected in her honor? She shuddered to think.

She had betrayed him, but he came back. For months she'd dreamed of him bleeding as Bane broke him, dreamed the gate melted between her fingers and she managed to save him. She dreamed she told him the truth before they arrived, and together they forced Bane out of Gotham; or else that she took Bruce home and nursed him back to health. Each dream was more ridiculous then the last, and it always ended the same: he thanked her, kissed her and whispered that they would protect each other now. Sentimental bullshit.

When he came back, her first reaction was insane happiness. She didn't even think of Bane, of the shambles that had become Gotham; she didn't think of Clean Slate and her one chance of freedom. Her first thought had been to take him and leave. All the possibilities unfolded in front of her like backwards origami. Batman dashed all her hopes with his heroics. He couldn't let it lie, had to sacrifice himself for his city. What had been his reward? An ugly statue. She wanted to kill him, but he was already dead.

Selina sank down on her knees at the foot of the statue. It must have looked like she was praying… but no, she was grieving the only way she knew how, with a heart full of anger. All at once she was very tired, an ache spreading through her limbs like a flu symptom. She took a cab and she kept her eyes closed all the way home. The sooner she left the ghosts behind her, the better.

She sensed him in the room before she even saw him. That shaky feeling in her limbs, and head full of the past made her think she was dreaming again. Bruce Wayne, his hair was damp and face smooth, was reclining on her coach. Relief washed over her, an unexpected feeling of normal in an unexpected situation. Her heart beat faster, and skin flushed, and it felt like her senses were all heightened because she could smell him from here: plain soap and antiseptic ointment, and a burnt scent beneath it all. The same scent that had pervaded the air in Gotham ever since Bane's occupation. It got into all your belongings, your skin and hair; there was no escaping that invasive smokiness.

Smelled like danger. It suited him.

He stood and walked towards her, looking at her in expectation, wariness in his expression and hope.

Alive. Alive, not dead and gone after all. Her heart contracted, though she forbade it to. He opened his mouth to speak. What the hell can you possibly say to me? she thought furiously. She bridged the gap between them with one smooth stride and punched him full in the face.

"I cried," she said. "Your plane went down, we could see the mushroom cloud hanging over the ocean and I cried."

He raised his hands, but she couldn't tell if he meant to touch her or protect himself against her.

"I cried again when they put up the statue. Gordon, your butler; they saw me. I never cry, not real tears, not in public." She punched his arm, hard, not holding back. She liked it when he winced in pain. She moved to hit him again but he was too quick for her and caught her wrists between his hands. When he moved she could tell he was hurt -battle injuries probably- the batsuit wasn't protection enough. Under his clothes, she imagined his body must be a mass of bruises. She hoped so.

"Selina, if I could have told you I would have. That was the only way I could do it. Everyone had to think I was dead. Or it would never end." There was a catch in his voice, bare emotion. But Selina knew all the tricks; knew how to fake tears, how to make her lip tremble, how to say 'I love you' and make it sound real.

"Spare me." She twisted out of his grasp and struck him again, so hard blood flowed from his lip. Her knuckle had caught on his tooth but it was worth it. He stepped away from her and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I guess I deserved that," he said ruefully. "Look…" Bruce began, spreading his hands.

It should have been enough but she still wanted to hurt him. She pulled back her arm to hit him again and he rushed her, his body slamming into hers with a dull crack. He trapped her against the wall, making the picture frames rattle. The neighbors would hear; but this was Oldtown. Worse things happened here every day, even before Bane 'liberated' the city. She tried to wriggle out of reach, but his knees held hers. A scream threatened to escape from her; she could feel it building in the pit of her stomach but wouldn't give him the satisfaction. When she felt his grip loosen, she tried to head-butt him. Her gun was stuck in the waistband of her jeans against the small of her back, but she couldn't break free to reach for it, and even if she could, she wasn't sure if she would be able to point it at him. Bruce slammed her against the wall again, pinned her shoulders back with his lower arms and grabbed a handful of her hair. He pulled it hard, pain shooting through her scalp, but she didn't let it show.

"I'm here now," he said. "Stop fighting and listen to me. I'm here now."

That was true enough, she thought. He let his hands slide down to her upper arms, and his fingers dug into her flesh viciously, enough to leave marks. He shook her again.

"Ok. Ok," she said. "You're here. What do you want?"

Bruce was silent so long she thought he might shake her again, and she was dimly aware of the glass crunching underfoot from when the picture frames shattered against the impact of her shoulder blades. She tensed in anticipation: if she knew where he was injured, she might drive a long fingernail into the area and twist free. Instead he leaned into her, his stance intimate. Not the intimacy of an opponent, the intimacy of a lover. Thrown, Selina gasped in shock. His hands on her arms softened until it seemed like he was caressing her rather than holding her in place. The caress was more threatening than a punch. Against her will, she could feel her defenses lowering, her body reacting to his touch. She hated herself then.

"I spent eight years as a recluse," he said. She already knew that. "Because of a woman: Rachel Dawes. She was my hope for a better life. She knew me better than anyone and I thought I knew her too."

He paused then, a darkness passing over his face like a shadow. "I didn't know her, though. And I didn't know Miranda either. Talia. I've been foolish about who I put my trust in."

"Hell, yeah." Selina said with vehemence. His sharp look silenced her in a hurry and she felt a little foolish. This sort of conversation, fraught with emotion, made her uncomfortable, she had to bite her tongue to swallow the rest of her clever retort.

"You can tell me I don't know you, and that would be the truth. I mean, I must be crazy; you sold me out, left me for dead. But I know you regretted it after."

Selina swallowed. Five months. Five months of regret. Of playing that scene over and over in her head. She could have warned him, could have helped him, together they might have stood a chance.

"I never regret," she said, but her voice sounded weak and unconvincing in her own ears.

"And the man you led to Bane that day could never have saved the city. I needed that time away; I needed to rise above myself. Perverse as it sounds, I needed you to betray me."

Selina laughed then, a harsh laugh, from the chest. "A bit full of yourself, aren't you? What am I, Judas? Is this my 30 pieces of silver?" She slid her hand into her pocket and pulled out the USB stick.

Bruce gave her a small smile and covered her hand with his own. Selina twitched but didn't pull away from him.

"Point taken," he said. "But then again, didn't Judas betray Jesus because he cared?"

She shrugged, the color rising in her cheeks unbidden, she was usually so good at masking her emotions.

"We can leave together. You said so yourself. I don't know you, and you don't know me but…" He broke off there, the expression on his face full of naked hope.

She could have made it difficult for him then; it was in her nature to want more than what was offered. She could have made him beg if she had wanted to. As it was, she let his words hang there in the air between them, savoring the moment before she replied.

"What makes you think I still want to? You died, remember? Death changes things." It came out bitter, when she was aiming for light and playful.

He looked so crestfallen then, she wanted to laugh or cry. He drew away from her; his body tense, his expression guarded. It was obvious he was prepared to go if she insisted on it. Once, she might have asked him to leave just to see him squirm. Once she might have kicked him out and laughed as he lay in the gutter. But not now. He said he saw there was more to her. Well, there was more to him then Batman or Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy. Here was a man, like her, still searching for the right path. She suddenly knew what she had to say to him.

"We'll find new people to be. New cities to be them in," she said at last. "We can get to know them together." She took his hand firmly in her own and squeezed it.

"Oh," Bruce said, the word escaping his lips in a long huff of breath.

She kissed him then, because there was nothing else to say.

When they fell into her bed, still fully clothed, she felt a moment of blank incomprehension. Bruce Wayne was alive, in her arms. How did it come to this? Laughter or tears were working their way through her and she buried her face against his neck as she struggled to regain control over her emotions. If she wasn't careful she'd say something sappy.

"Jen might come home any minute," she said instead, between kisses. Each kiss was rougher than the next and she tasted blood from his split lip. Bruce recoiled in pain but then caught her face in his hands, kissing her so hard his teeth grated against hers. She thought those warning words might turn him off, but his passion seemed to intensify. He undressed her rapidly, expertly; his hands were calloused and her skin felt raw beneath them. She pulled his sweater off over his head, and hissed at the sight of his naked chest. It was worse than she imagined: purples and greens and yellows of bruises new and old. And the scars: some white and faded; others angry and scabbed over. Upon his chest was the story of Batman's life. There were more bruises on his thighs she discovered, when she removed the rest of his clothing. Not even his toes had been spared: two sported band aids, the nail on the right big toe was black. Absurdly, the sight of his injuries inflamed her. She kissed him fiercely where she had punched his arm, on the dark bruises on his ribs, and on the scars. When they started their new life together they could have new clothes, new cars… they could have new names, they could be new people. But some things would remain. She paused a moment with her hands in his, and he looked at her, his eyes glazed over with need. With one finger Selina tested his split lip, causing his breath to hiss out between his clenched teeth.

"I didn't..." she began; but Selina Kyle never apologized, and she couldn't quite force the words out.

"It doesn't matter." He covered her body with his; he was heavy, deliciously so, and Selina wriggled beneath him in anticipation. He paused for such a long moment that she wondered if he had changed his mind. The expressions flitting over his face changed so rapidly she could no longer interpret them. They were never on the same page, she thought suddenly. When he had wanted to join forces; she had betrayed him. When she had wanted to run away together; he had wanted to sacrifice himself. She wanted recklessness, and now he was being cautious.

"Something wrong?" she asked. Her legs were beginning to lose feeling beneath his.

"What about Jen? " he asked, rolling to his side and leaning back on one elbow. "Shouldn't I tell you the escape plan?"

She pushed him onto his back, her knees on either side of his thighs. Fuck caution.

"You were dead. Now you're not. You want to spend this time talking?"

"Selina…" He trailed his thumb along her collarbone and between her breasts.

"Hurry up then," she advised.

Quick as a flash she was on her back again. His lovemaking was without much decorum, but Selina wasn't complaining; after all she had told him to hurry up. The plainness of it excited her. They fucked like they fought; no wonder fighting had been so exhilarating. When it was over and they lay slumped against each other, she felt like he looked: black and blue all over.

It took all her willpower not to fall asleep with her head pillowed on his shoulder. She hadn't been entirely honest about Jen; she was out with friends, partying. People were partying harder nowadays, celebrating their city. It was a good time to be in Gotham, a time of hope and all Selina could think of was getting the hell out. She swung out of bed abruptly.

"I need to shower and go to an appointment. You need to crawl back into your bat cave or wherever you're currently hiding."

"I'll contact you within the week," Bruce said, kissing her quickly.

She turned the hot water up as hot as it would go, and borrowed Jen's apple scented body wash. Fool. Pathetic fool. He came back to her from the dead, and she let him go. Now he might never return. There was no way to reach him; there was no one she could tell about this. It would have been better to go with him. No. It would have been better to make some sort of declaration. Instead she'd fucked him and told him to leave. The little black dress clung to her thighs and hips where her skin was still damp.

Never mind she told herself, she could make it on her own, always did. She stood in front of the mirror and dried her hair with a hand towel. Fool.

When she put the towel on the edge of the sink and looked into the mirror, her heart did a flip. Bruce stood directly behind her. When she turned to face him he held her shoulders in place, then fastened something around her neck.

"Suits you," he said, dropping a kiss on her right shoulder. Selina looked down at the necklace; the pearls were smooth beneath her fingers. When she turned to face him, to say thank you, he was gone. As if he had never been there.

"I hate when he does that," she said aloud, smiling to herself. Her reflection smiled back from the mirror. Now she had all she would ever need: one black dress and a string of pearls.