[ Chinese Restaurant, Gotham City ]
Catwoman had spent too many years lurking in Gotham's shadows. The constant contact with criminals, the endless parade of scumbags—maybe that had numbed her to people, especially men. And with Bruce, it was complicated. They had known each other since they were kids. That kind of history blurred the lines. Somewhere along the way, their bond had begun to feel more familial than romantic. Trying to cross that threshold—turning something that felt like family into something intimate—wasn't easy. It took more than courage; it took a level of psychological rewiring that Selina wasn't sure she had in her.
Bruce, unfortunately, wasn't equipped for that kind of emotional navigation either. His parents had died when he was only eight, and it was Alfred, the aging butler, who took over the role of parent.
In his youth, Alfred understandably didn't have "the talk" with a grieving boy. And by the time Bruce was ready to discuss adult relationships, Alfred was practically buried in formalwear and old bones. Asking a man whose hormones had long retired about love and intimacy to explain the chaos of women was almost cruel.
And looking closely at Bruce's life, it wasn't hard to see why his emotional intelligence was... stunted. Unlike Oliver, who at least had twenty years of wild partying and romantic disasters behind him before stepping into the hero game, Bruce had thrown himself into vengeance before he even hit puberty. Then came the mission to save Gotham, the bat symbol, the brooding nights, the endless crime—there was barely time to sleep, let alone explore relationships.
Add to that the fact that there were hardly any men around to talk to.
Alfred had already retired from such topics, both physically and mentally.
Robin saw him as a mentor, a father figure—someone you trained with, not someone you chatted about your love life with.
Commissioner Gordon? Technically, he'd had a marriage, but that was its own mess. His wife had been entangled in a lifelong identity crisis over her sexuality, and eventually left him and Barbara behind. In all honesty, Gordon had been flying solo for so long that he wasn't much better off than Bruce when it came to offering wisdom on women. So, not exactly a dating guru.
So in the end, Batman's feelings for Catwoman had become a slow-burning drag, an emotional tug-of-war stretched thin by time and silence. And Catwoman, ever the ostrich when it came to emotional clarity, just kept waiting. Neither of them made a move. If nothing unexpected had happened, they might've eventually ended up together by default—Not because they were perfect, but because they were the only ones left standing.
But the universe, as always, refused to play nice. Talia al Ghul's sudden entry shattered that unspoken stalemate. Nanda Parbat, with its humid subtropical climate and heated tempers, had no time for vague romantic hesitations. Talia was bold, burning with intensity, and utterly uninterested in whether Catwoman had any prior claims. She pulled Batman into her arms—and into bed—with all the decorum of a war general claiming a strategic outpost.
Ra's al Ghul, ever the supportive father-in-law, had long regarded Bruce as the ideal heir. "A good son-in-law," he declared to his acolytes, beaming with pride. In a gesture of twisted goodwill, he even brewed a long-lost alchemical concoction—half mysticism, half ancient science—to ensure a successful union. Ten months later, Damian Wayne came squalling into the world, a living example of destiny hijacked by high-level chemistry.
Bruce, upon discovering the full extent of this plan, had no real outlet for his fury. Ra's hadn't acted out of malice—on the contrary, the man had given him everything: martial arts training, his daughter, and even the last few drops of a nearly extinct elixir. He'd asked for no dowry, expected no repayment. If there were awards for National Model Father-in-Law, Ra's would've swept the category without contest.
Talia, for her part, wasn't really at fault either. She'd given birth to his own son, not someone else's. Her only sin was decisiveness.
With no one to blame and no idea how to handle it, Batman did what he did best—vanish. On a stormy night, without a horse or a GPS signal, Bruce ran away. He spent years wandering the world, waiting for the consequences to cool down before creeping back to Gotham like a thief returning to the scene of the crime.
Talia, unsurprisingly, did not take it well. She had power, a child, and a vendetta now—and she chased her husband across continents. Ninety-nine percent of Gotham's current mess could probably be traced back to this romantic disaster.
Catwoman was left in the wreckage—confused, hurt, and unsure of her place.
She didn't know what to do anymore. On one side was Gotham—her home, her city, the cradle of her sins and salvation. On the other side was a war she didn't want to fight. Talia had crossed continents with her child in tow just to find Bruce. And sure, maybe snapping his spine was a touch dramatic, possibly even domestic violence depending on the legal angle—but maybe that was their idea of pillow talk. Who was she, really, to get in the middle of that kind of madness? No matter how she framed it, her role in his life always circled back to the same word: lover. Temporary. Optional.
Today, though, she found herself sitting across from Thea—who had time to kill and seemed to enjoy listening to her personal drama. So, she let it all out. They weren't close. They barely knew each other. But Thea wasn't emotionally tied to Team Bat, and they'd soon go their separate ways. That made her the perfect confidante. No risk. No stakes. No judgment.
Thea didn't need much. After a few lines, she understood the full picture of the mess. Internally, she sighed. It wasn't a hard problem to fix. It just looked that way because these people had complicated it to Shakespearean levels.
Bruce, the self-taught psychology nerd, was brilliant in theory and hopeless in practice. He'd read enough books to diagnose every criminal in Arkham... yet couldn't diagnose his own emotional constipation. No wonder he'd spent thirty years playing monster-under-the-bed with Gotham's criminals. That was his safe space. That man had never learned how to just be a person.
He had all the knowledge, but none of the real-world sense. Just look at Gotham—if book smarts were enough, it wouldn't be a war zone.
Thea hadn't read any psychology textbooks on Catwoman's situation, but she didn't need to. As she could tell, the solution was straightforward. Catwoman wanted to fight. It didn't matter if the enemy was the League of Assassins or just Talia's perfectly arched eyebrow. The desire was there—burning quietly beneath the guilt, the pride, the years of waiting. But Batman's eternal hesitation had left her hanging, one foot on the ledge, waiting for someone to give her a reason to jump.
If Thea were Batman, she could have fixed it with a few sharp, honest words. But she wasn't. So she took the scenic route: misfortune comparison. A time-honored trick from real-life therapy-by-friend. Someone complains? You don't offer sympathy. You offer tragedy.
It was a trick as old as conversation itself. Someone would say, "My dad left when I was twelve and I had to grow up too fast." And then you hit them with, "Well, my grandfather was killed by invaders when I was nine, and I still turned out alright, didn't I?" Add a few words about the importance of happiness, and boom—instant perspective. The grieving party would nod, rebalance, and bounce back at full health.
That was exactly what Thea deployed now. She offered Catwoman a carefully curated version of her own tragic backstory—heartbreaking enough to evoke sympathy, but not so specific that it exposed her connection to Malcolm. She spoke of how deeply she missed her father and brother, of how her mother's possible remarriage felt like betrayal, of the coldness that clung to her despite her wealth. The delivery was flawless. Anyone who heard it would be shaken. Catwoman was no exception.
Compared to that, her own past suddenly looked like a scripted hardship from a children's book. Materially, sure, she'd struggled—but she still had her freedom, her roots, even moments of joy. And when laid beside Thea's tale of emotional upheaval and family disintegration, it felt small. She didn't say it out loud, but she felt it deep down: So that's it? That's all I've been complaining about?
Then Thea took it one step further—venting about how hard it was to be rich. Shareholders spying on her every move, corporate rivals scheming like comic book villains, and criminals constantly trying to kidnap or extort her. She painted a picture of wealth not as privilege, but as a gilded prison lined with anxiety and betrayal.
Catwoman, who once thought Bruce's life was simply tragic because of his parents' murder, now found herself re-evaluating everything. She thought of those greedy, shark-like shareholders at Wayne Enterprises—the ones Bruce had spent two decades wrestling into submission. Their hunger for profit was so insane they'd risk everything, even their lives. No wonder Bruce looked so tired all the time.
As Thea's monologue grew more impassioned, Catwoman could only nod along, overwhelmed. For the first time, she began to genuinely believe it: the rich didn't just suffer—they suffered differently. Quietly. And often, alone.
To Be Continued...
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[POWER STONES AND REVIEWS PLS]