Maybe it was all those years spent in Gotham's shadows, surrounded by villains and monsters, but Catwoman had always carried a quiet distance toward people—especially men. Having known Batman since childhood, their bond had long taken on a sibling-like quality. Perhaps that was the root of the problem: when someone feels too familiar, crossing that line from family to lover takes more than a little courage.
And then there was Bruce himself. The man had lost his parents at eight, raised solely by Alfred. When Alfred was young, he couldn't exactly sit down with a little boy and talk about romance; by the time Bruce grew old enough to discuss such things, Alfred was half-buried already. Talking about women with an old man whose body had long since retired from the business of hormones—that was a cruel kind of conversation.
In truth, Batman was simply dense when it came to love. Unlike Oliver Queen, who'd spent twenty wild years chasing skirts before donning a mask, Bruce had dedicated his entire life to vengeance, redemption, and terrorizing criminals. His schedule left no room for moonlit strolls or candlelit dinners.
And with such a tiny circle of confidants, who could he even talk to?
Alfred? Too old—immediately disqualified.
Robin? His student; you don't talk women with your apprentice.
Commissioner Gordon? Well, Gordon had technically been married, but his wife had spent half her life wavering between men and women, then left him and their daughter behind. Gordon himself had been a lonely bachelor for decades—not exactly an authority on romance.
So Batman's feelings for Catwoman simply stalled. She didn't know what he really thought, he didn't know how to express it, and both of them avoided the topic like ostriches with their heads in the sand. Still, if nothing unexpected happened, they probably would've ended up together eventually. After all, at a certain age, "whoever's still standing" becomes the perfect match.
But! Then came Talia.
Talia al Ghul of Nanda Parbat, where the air is tropical and the women even hotter. Passionate, direct, she didn't care about Catwoman's subtle territorial claims—she dragged Batman into a "friendly sparring session," and that was that.
Ra's al Ghul, the Demon's Head himself, was delighted. His favorite student, his daughter's chosen partner—it was perfect. He even praised Bruce publicly as "the ideal son-in-law." To make sure the union stuck, the old man brewed up an ancient alchemical aphrodisiac long thought lost to time. Ten months later, Damian Wayne entered the world, screaming his lungs out. A true case study in "knowledge changes destiny."
When Bruce finally pieced the story together, he couldn't even find someone to be mad at. The old man's intentions had been "pure"—he'd trained him for free, given him his daughter, asked for no dowry, and even used up priceless extinct herbs to ensure the Wayne bloodline continued. If there were a National Father-in-Law of the Year award, Ra's al Ghul would've won it unanimously.
As for Talia—well, you couldn't blame her either. She'd borne his child, not someone else's.
So Batman did what he did best: he ran.
On a moonless night, without white horse or disciples, Bruce Wayne vanished. He spent years wandering abroad until the storm died down, then returned quietly to Gotham. But Talia was furious. She crossed continents to find him—and today's Gotham chaos? Ninety-nine percent of it traced straight back to that family drama.
Now Catwoman sat there, equal parts aggrieved, hurt, and anxious. She didn't know what to do. She didn't want to abandon Gotham—it was her home. But she also couldn't bring herself to fight. After all, a wife chasing her husband with a vengeance—sure, snapping his spine was a bit much, but domestic violence was still a kind of affection, wasn't it? Maybe that was just how they expressed love. Who was she to interfere?
From her own perspective, she was little more than the "other woman."
And today, by some stroke of fate, she'd found Thea—a rich young woman with time to kill and a talent for listening. Since they'd only known each other a few days and would soon part ways, Catwoman finally let it all spill out, venting every ounce of her frustration.
Thea needed only a few sentences to piece it together. Honestly, she thought, this was such an easy problem—and they've managed to turn it into a soap opera.
Batman, master of psychology, expert on trauma, and yet… when it came to life? A giant in theory, a midget in practice. No wonder he'd spent thirty years scaring the same criminals in circles.
Sure, "learning is for application"—but clearly he'd read too many books and used none of them. One glance at Gotham's current hellscape was proof enough that his "psychological insight" was useless.
As for Catwoman, Thea quickly saw the real issue. Deep down, Selina wanted to fight—not necessarily against criminals, but against her own uncertainty. What she lacked wasn't courage, it was a justification—a mental step she couldn't quite take.
If Thea were Batman, she could've fixed this in three sentences. But since she wasn't, she had to take the scenic route.
Her strategy: the misery competition.
When someone pours out their troubles, the quickest way to pull them out of self-pity is to out-suffer them.
"Oh, your dad left when you were twelve and you were raised by your mom?"
"Well, my grandfather was killed by Japanese soldiers when he was nine! And look at me—I turned out fine. You just have to stay positive, right?"
The listener, suddenly aware that there's always someone worse off, instantly gains perspective and emotional equilibrium. A full recovery achieved through comparative suffering.
That was exactly Thea's move now. She painted her own tragic life in dramatic colors—carefully edited, of course. Malcolm was left out entirely. She spoke of missing her father and brother, her mother's near remarriage, her misfortunes and loneliness, all spun so vividly that even the ceiling fan seemed to weep.
Catwoman was stunned into silence. Compared to that? Her own life didn't seem so tragic after all. Sure, she'd been poor, but she hadn't endured half the trauma Thea described. She could practically see the five glowing words floating above her head: "It's really not that bad."
Then Thea took it further—lamenting the hardships of the rich: scheming shareholders, corporate sabotage, kidnappings, ransom plots. "You think being rich is easy?" she sighed. "It's exhausting just staying alive."
Catwoman instinctively imagined Bruce's life: parents murdered, greedy Wayne Enterprise shareholders snapping at his heels, a man who'd spent twenty years fighting boardroom vipers and street thugs alike just to maintain control of his family legacy.
By the end, she could only sigh deeply.
So even the rich weren't happy. Their burdens were just… heavier in different ways.