The walk to Selina's apartment had been mercifully brief, though Harry spent the entire journey expecting someone to leap out of the shadows and demand to know what a woman in questionable leather attire was doing escorting a clearly underage vagrant through Gotham's less reputable neighborhoods at this ungodly hour. His emerald eyes darted between the shadows with the practiced wariness of someone who'd learned that survival often depended on noticing threats before they noticed you.
"You know," he said conversationally as they navigated around a particularly suspicious puddle that seemed to glow with its own internal light, "in most of the educational documentaries I've watched, this is precisely the sort of situation where the plucky child protagonist makes a series of poor life choices that result in their photo appearing on milk cartons."
Selina's laugh was rich and genuine, echoing off the narrow alley walls. "Educational documentaries, huh? What exactly have you been watching during your grand urban adventure?"
"Oh, the usual fare. 'Strangers Who Definitely Aren't What They Seem,' 'Why That Nice Adult Offering Candy Is Actually Terrifying,' and my personal favorite, 'Red Flags: A Comprehensive Guide to Adults You Shouldn't Follow Into Secondary Locations.'" Harry's tone was perfectly matter-of-fact, as if he were discussing the weather rather than potential kidnapping scenarios. "Riveting stuff, really. Very educational about the various ways one can end up as a cautionary tale."
"And yet here you are, following a complete stranger to her apartment," Selina pointed out, her lips curving into an amused smile.
"Yes, well," Harry said, stepping delicately around what appeared to be either a very flat cat or a particularly unfortunate fur coat, "the alternative was spending another night in that charming cardboard establishment I'd constructed behind the dumpster, and frankly, my standards for acceptable lodging have dropped considerably over the past month. At this point, even a stereotypical 'stranger danger' situation seems like a step up in terms of accommodations."
"Cardboard establishment?" Selina's voice carried a note of something that might have been admiration. "That sounds impressively architectural for someone your age."
"Thank you. I was particularly proud of the drainage system I devised using a series of strategically placed plastic bottles." Harry's emerald eyes sparkled with genuine pride. "It was quite sophisticated, actually. Waterproof, well-ventilated, and with excellent sight lines for monitoring potential threats. I called it 'Château Desperation.'"
Selina found herself genuinely impressed despite the circumstances. Most six-year-olds she knew could barely construct a pillow fort, let alone engineer a functional homeless shelter. "That's... actually brilliant."
"I have my moments," Harry said modestly. "Though I must admit, the property values in that particular neighborhood were absolutely dreadful. Terrible noise pollution from the garbage trucks, and don't get me started on the local wildlife situation. I swear some of those rats were large enough to require their own postal codes."
They'd reached Selina's building now—exactly the sort of place Harry had expected someone with her particular skill set to inhabit. Not quite upscale enough to attract unwanted attention from tax assessors, but definitely several significant steps above "condemned tenement" or "abandoned warehouse with artistic pretensions." The kind of building where the neighbors minded their own business with the dedication of people who had their own secrets to protect.
"Home sweet home," Selina announced as she led him up three flights of stairs that creaked ominously under their feet. The sound echoed in the narrow stairwell like a wooden percussion ensemble warming up for a particularly gloomy concert.
"Charming," Harry observed, examining the peeling paint and water stains with the critical eye of someone who'd recently become an expert in evaluating architectural decay. "The acoustics alone suggest this building has quite a bit of character. And by character, I mean structural problems that probably violate several dozen building codes."
"It has personality," Selina said diplomatically.
"Personality is certainly one word for it," Harry agreed. "Though I think 'death trap with delusions of adequacy' might be more accurate. Still, compared to my recent accommodations, this is practically the Ritz. Does it come with complimentary continental breakfast and turn-down service?"
"It comes with something better," Selina said as she reached her door, key poised in the lock. "Fair warning: I have roommates. Lots of roommates. They're mostly well-behaved, but they can be a bit overwhelming if you're not used to them."
Harry raised an eyebrow with the kind of sophisticated skepticism that seemed far too mature for his young face. "Roommates? In this economy? How fiscally responsible of you. Though given the general ambiance of this establishment, I do hope they're current on their tetanus shots."
"Oh, they're up to date on all their shots," Selina said with a grin that held just a hint of mischief. "They're very particular about their healthcare."
She opened the door, and Harry was immediately mobbed by what appeared to be half of Gotham's feline population.
"Oh," he breathed, and for the first time since she'd met him, his carefully constructed adult facade cracked completely, revealing the wonder of a child who'd never been allowed to have pets. His emerald eyes went wide with delight as cats of every conceivable size, color, and degree of fluffiness emerged from seemingly every surface in the apartment. "Oh my goodness, there are so many of them."
Cats. Everywhere. Draped across furniture like living fur throws, perched on bookcases like particularly judgmental library patrons, winding around his legs with the single-minded determination of creatures who'd identified him as either a potential food source or a new piece of furniture to claim. A massive tabby with one ear missing and scars that suggested a colorful past fixed him with a stare that clearly communicated it was evaluating his worth as a human being and finding him marginally acceptable. Meanwhile, a sleek black female with pristine white paws immediately began purring loudly enough to register on seismic equipment.
"This is..." Harry paused, struggling to find words adequate to express his amazement as a tiny tortoiseshell kitten began investigating his shoelaces with the intensity of a forensic scientist examining crucial evidence. "This is absolutely brilliant. It's like Noah's Ark, but exclusively for cats and significantly more comfortable than a boat."
"I prefer to think of it as a very selective boarding house," Selina said, watching with obvious pleasure as Harry was instantly accepted by her usually suspicious feline family. A gray and white creature that looked like it had been designed by committee to embody every "adorable kitten" stereotype ever conceived was already rubbing against his leg with shameless affection.
"How many do you have?" Harry asked, crouching down to pet the gray and white cat, which immediately began purring with the enthusiasm of a small engine. "And please tell me you have names for all of them, because I absolutely refuse to believe you're the sort of person who refers to them as 'Cat Number Seven' or 'The Orange One.'"
"Officially? Three." Selina's grin was sheepish as she watched him instantly become the center of attention for approximately fifteen cats of various sizes, colors, and degrees of socialization. "Unofficially... well, let's just say I've never been particularly good at turning away strays who need help. Sound familiar?"
"Are you comparing me to a stray cat?" Harry asked with mock indignation as he settled cross-legged on her hardwood floor. He was immediately surrounded by cats who seemed to have collectively decided that this small, damp human was exactly what their evening had been missing. "Because I'll have you know that I am a perfectly respectable vagrant with excellent hygiene habits and only minimal feral tendencies."
"Minimal feral tendencies?" Selina repeated with amusement.
"Well, I haven't bitten anyone yet," Harry said reasonably as a tiny calico claimed his lap with the air of someone staking a territorial claim. "Though I did hiss at a particularly pushy social worker last week. In my defense, she was trying to convince me that living in a group home would be 'character building,' and I felt my position on that matter needed to be communicated with absolute clarity."
An enormous orange tom had decided that Harry's hair required immediate attention and was now attempting to groom it with the kind of thorough dedication usually reserved for professional styling appointments. Harry submitted to this treatment with remarkable patience, though he did wince slightly when the cat's enthusiasm resulted in some rather aggressive grooming techniques.
"They like you," Selina observed with something that might have been surprise. She'd rescued most of these cats from situations that had left them deeply suspicious of new humans, and yet they'd accepted Harry with an ease that was genuinely remarkable. "That's... actually pretty unusual. Most of them are rescue cases—they're typically not big fans of strangers."
"Maybe they recognize a fellow stray," Harry said quietly, his voice taking on a more serious tone as he scratched behind the calico's ears and earned a purr that vibrated through his entire chest. The gray and white cat had discovered that Harry's jacket had large pockets and was systematically investigating each one with the thoroughness of a customs inspector searching for contraband. "We understand each other. We've all learned that sometimes adults aren't safe, and that survival often means being very, very careful about who you trust."
Selina felt that cold, sharp thing twist in her chest again—the same feeling she'd experienced when she'd first seen him huddled behind that dumpster, looking far too small and far too alone. "Yeah," she said softly. "Maybe they do."
A Russian Blue with the most striking yellow eyes Harry had ever seen was now head-butting his free hand with the persistence of someone conducting very important diplomatic negotiations. Harry obliged by providing the requested scratches, marveling at the cat's soft fur and obvious contentment.
"This one's beautiful," he said, admiring the cat's sleek gray coat and elegant bearing. "What's her name?"
"That's Duchess," Selina said with obvious affection. "Found her in an alley three months ago, half-starved and pregnant. She had her kittens under my bathroom sink and refused to come out for two weeks. Now she acts like she owns the place."
"Well, she does, doesn't she?" Harry said reasonably as Duchess settled beside him and began purring with royal satisfaction. "I mean, possession is nine-tenths of the law, and she's clearly taken possession of your heart, your home, and probably your favorite chair. That's pretty much ownership in anyone's book."
"The favorite chair is definitely hers now," Selina admitted. "I made the mistake of letting her sleep on it once, and now I'm relegated to guest status in my own living room."
"As it should be," Harry said with the solemnity of someone discussing matters of international importance. "Cats are obviously the superior species. We're just here to provide them with food, shelter, and adequate scratching services. It's really quite generous of them to tolerate our presence at all."
A particularly bold tabby had begun investigating Harry's hair with the air of a forensic scientist examining evidence, apparently fascinated by its texture and color. Harry tolerated this examination with remarkable patience, even when the cat's scientific curiosity resulted in some rather aggressive whisker-to-scalp contact.
"So," he called out to Selina as she moved toward what appeared to be an ornate French screen in the corner of the main room, "this Bruce Wayne person. What's he actually like? Beyond the whole 'collecting strays like a very wealthy pack leader' thing, I mean."
There was a pause in the rustling sounds from behind the screen as Selina began changing clothes. "What do you want to know?"
"Well, for starters, is he actually a decent person, or is this one of those situations where I'm about to discover that wealthy philanthropists have significantly more complicated motivations than their public relations teams would suggest?" Harry's tone was casual, but his emerald eyes were sharp with the kind of wariness that came from experience. "Because I've had quite enough of adults who present themselves as saviors but turn out to have rather expensive hobbies involving other people's misery."
Selina's laugh was muffled but genuine. "He's... complicated, I'll give you that. But decent? Yeah, he's decent. Almost aggressively decent, actually. The kind of person who probably returns wallets he finds on the street with the money still inside, tips service workers like he's trying to single-handedly fix income inequality, and sends thank-you notes for thank-you notes."
"That sounds almost too good to be true," Harry said suspiciously, gently extracting his fingers from the mouth of a kitten who'd decided they might be edible. The kitten looked disappointed by this development and immediately began plotting alternative approaches to finger consumption. "In my experience, adults who seem too good to be true usually turn out to have very expensive hobbies or very interesting collections of human skin. Or both."
"Jesus, kid, what kind of television have you been watching?" Selina's voice carried a note of concern that suggested she was genuinely worried about his media consumption habits.
"The educational kind, apparently," Harry said dryly as he redirected the persistent kitten toward a more appropriate toy—specifically, the shoelace of his left boot, which immediately became the most fascinating object in the known universe. "I've become quite well-versed in the warning signs of various types of predatory behavior during my recent urban adventure. It's amazing what you can learn from late-night documentaries when you're hiding in twenty-four-hour laundromats and trying not to fall asleep."
"Twenty-four-hour laundromats?" Selina paused in whatever she was doing behind the screen.
"Oh yes, they're absolutely brilliant for temporary accommodation," Harry said with the enthusiasm of someone sharing a particularly useful travel tip. "Warm, well-lit, usually empty after midnight, and the white noise from the machines is quite soothing. Plus, if anyone asks what you're doing there, you can always claim to be waiting for your laundry to finish. Very plausible cover story."
"And how exactly did you come up with that strategy?"
"Trial and error, mostly. Also, I may have overheard some interesting conversations between individuals who seemed to be in similar circumstances. The homeless community is surprisingly well-informed about these sorts of practical matters." Harry's tone was matter-of-fact, as if he were discussing weekend plans rather than survival tactics. "There's quite a comprehensive network of information sharing, actually. Very organized. I was impressed."
"You're terrifying," Selina said with a mixture of admiration and concern. "Do you know that? Most kids your age are worried about homework and whether they'll get invited to birthday parties. You're out here conducting sociological research on urban survival strategies."
"Yes, well, my circumstances have been somewhat atypical," Harry said with the understated delivery of someone describing a minor inconvenience rather than a month of homelessness. "I've found that adaptation is generally more useful than complaint when one's situation becomes... suboptimal."
A sleek black cat with white markings had claimed the spot beside Harry's right knee and was now grooming his jeans with the dedication of someone who took fabric care very seriously. Harry found this attention oddly comforting, even if the cat's tongue was rough enough to potentially cause structural damage to the denim.
"Bruce isn't a predator," Selina said firmly from behind the screen. "He's just... he cares too much about too many things, and sometimes that makes him intense in ways that can be overwhelming if you're not prepared for it. He's the kind of person who reads every parenting book ever written when he takes in a new kid, then proceeds to completely ignore all the advice because his particular circumstances tend to fall outside the scope of conventional child-rearing wisdom."
"What kind of circumstances?" Harry asked, now serving as a climbing structure for three different kittens who seemed to be engaged in some sort of territorial dispute over his shoulders. The competition was fierce but good-natured, with only minimal use of claws and maximum deployment of adorable kitten antics.
Another pause, longer this time. When Selina spoke again, her voice was more carefully neutral. "Well, for starters, there's the money. Lots and lots of money, which comes with its own unique set of challenges when you're trying to raise normal, well-adjusted children. Hard to teach kids about the value of a dollar when you could literally wallpaper the house with hundred-dollar bills and still have enough left over to buy a small country."
"I imagine that does create certain pedagogical challenges," Harry agreed solemnly. One of the kittens had successfully claimed the summit of his left shoulder and was now surveying the apartment with the satisfaction of a mountaineer who'd just conquered Everest. "How does one explain concepts like 'budgeting' and 'saving for things you want' when your guardian could probably buy you a pony on a whim? Or several ponies. A whole stable of ponies."
"Exactly. And then there's the whole Wayne family legacy thing—Bruce's parents were murdered when he was about your age, so he's got some pretty intense feelings about making sure the kids in his care are safe and protected."
Harry went very still, his hand pausing mid-pet on the Russian Blue's back. The cats seemed to sense the change in his mood and adjusted accordingly, their purring taking on a more soothing quality. "Murdered?"
"Yeah. It was..." Selina's voice became quiet, heavy with old grief. "It was really bad. They were coming home from the theater—some show Bruce had wanted to see. Family night out, you know? And some desperate junkie tried to rob them in an alley behind the theater. When Thomas Wayne tried to protect his wife and kid, the guy panicked and shot both parents. Bruce watched the whole thing happen."
"Oh," Harry said softly, and suddenly the idea of a wealthy man collecting traumatized children made a different kind of sense entirely. His emerald eyes darkened with understanding and something that might have been recognition. "He knows what it's like, then. To have your whole world destroyed by adults who were supposed to keep you safe."
"Yeah, he does. Which is probably why he can't walk past a kid in trouble without trying to fix everything that's wrong in their life. It's not just generosity—it's personal." The rustling sounds resumed, accompanied by the soft clink of jewelry being removed. "That circus kid I mentioned? Dick Grayson? His parents were murdered too—fell to their deaths during a performance because some criminals had sabotaged their equipment as part of some elaborate extortion scheme. Bruce took him in the same night it happened."
"And now he's grown up and moved away?" Harry asked, though his attention was partly occupied by a calico kitten who'd discovered that his jacket zipper made fascinating metallic sounds when manipulated properly.
"Bludhaven. About an hour's drive from here. He's doing well—got a job in law enforcement, his own apartment, a girlfriend who's probably too good for him, the whole responsible adult thing. But I think Bruce took it pretty hard when Dick decided he needed some independence. Empty nest syndrome, but with more brooding and significantly more expensive hobbies."
"What sort of expensive hobbies?" Harry asked with the curiosity of someone who'd learned that wealthy people often had very interesting ways of spending their money.
"Oh, you know. Cars. Lots and lots of very expensive cars. And computers. And security systems that probably cost more than most people's houses. And don't even get me started on his collection of... specialized equipment."
"Specialized equipment?"
"Sports equipment," Selina said quickly. "He's very athletic. Lots of... sporting activities. Very physical. Requires specialized gear."
Harry's expression suggested he found this explanation somewhat lacking in detail, but he seemed willing to let it slide for now. "You mentioned another boy. Jason?"
The sounds from behind the screen stopped entirely, and when Selina spoke again, her voice was carefully controlled in a way that made Harry's metaphorical antennae twitch with concern. "Jason Todd. Bruce found him trying to steal the tires off one of Bruce's cars. Kid had guts, I'll give him that. Most people wouldn't have the nerve to target a Wayne family vehicle, especially not one parked outside Wayne Manor."
"Had?" Harry's voice was gentle but persistent. He'd developed an unfortunate expertise in recognizing the particular tone adults used when discussing children who were no longer present tense.
"He died a few months ago." The words came out clipped and final, the tone of someone who didn't want to discuss the details but knew they were necessary. "Accident. Bruce... hasn't been the same since. He's always been intense, but losing Jason hit him harder than anyone expected. Alfred—that's the family butler, basically runs the whole household and probably half of Gotham by extension—he's been worried about him."
"What kind of accident?" Harry asked quietly, recognizing the particular quality of grief that came with sudden, senseless loss. It was a tone he remembered from the few adults who'd genuinely cared about his parents, back when such people had existed in his life.
"The kind that doesn't make sense and shouldn't have happened and leaves everyone asking questions that don't have good answers," Selina said after a long pause. Her voice carried the weight of someone who'd asked those questions herself and found the answers inadequate. "Bruce blames himself, of course. If he'd been more careful, more protective, if he'd seen the signs earlier, if he'd been a better father, if he'd never let Jason get involved in... in Bruce's more dangerous activities. The usual spiral of guilt and self-recrimination that happens when someone you love dies and you're left behind wondering what you could have done differently."
Harry was quiet for a moment, absently stroking the Russian Blue while several other cats arranged themselves around him like a living furry fort of emotional support. The apartment had grown very still except for the gentle chorus of purring and the distant sounds of Gotham's nighttime activities filtering through the windows.
"And you think I might help?" he asked finally. "With the brooding and the guilt and the general emotional dysfunction that comes with losing a child?"
"I think Bruce needs to remember that he's good at this," Selina said, her voice warming slightly. "Good at taking broken kids and helping them become extraordinary adults. Good at providing the kind of stability and support that lets people heal from terrible things. Good at being exactly the kind of father figure that lost kids need, even when he doesn't believe it himself anymore."
"So I'm therapeutic," Harry said with a slight smile that held no real humor but wasn't entirely bitter either. "How wonderfully utilitarian of me. I'm like a very small, very sarcastic emotional support animal."
"You're not therapeutic, you're family," Selina corrected firmly. "There's a difference. Therapy is something you do to fix problems. Family is something you are, regardless of whether it fixes anything or not. Bruce doesn't need you to cure his grief—he needs you to let him remember how to hope again."
"Hope for what, exactly?" Harry asked, though his tone suggested genuine curiosity rather than skepticism.
"Hope that the good things he does matter more than the bad things that happen. Hope that saving one kid can make up for not being able to save another. Hope that love is stronger than loss, even when loss feels like it's winning." Selina's voice was soft but certain. "Hope that broken families can be repaired, even if they don't look anything like what they used to."
The French screen folded back with a soft rustle, revealing Selina in dark jeans that actually fit properly, a simple black sweater that looked comfortable rather than strategic, and boots that were clearly designed for walking rather than rooftop acrobatics. Her hair was loose around her shoulders instead of pulled back into a severe style, and without the dramatic eye makeup, she looked younger and softer—more like someone's concerned older sister than a legendary thief.
"Better?" she asked, doing a small turn to show off her decidedly civilian appearance. The transformation was remarkable—she'd gone from dangerous and mysterious to approachable and warm without losing any of her fundamental Selina-ness.
"Much more approachable," Harry agreed, though he was distracted by the fact that the calico in his lap had discovered that his jacket pocket contained the wrapper from his protein bar and was making increasingly determined attempts to extract and examine this fascinating artifact. "Though I have to say, the whole 'mysterious woman in leather who probably has very interesting stories about cat burglary' look did have a certain dramatic flair that this outfit lacks. This ensemble suggests you're more likely to offer me homemade cookies than to teach me how to disable security systems."
"Trust me, dramatic flair is the last thing we want tonight," Selina said, pulling on a leather jacket that was significantly more subtle than her previous outfit—black, but clearly designed for warmth and practicality rather than intimidation and flexibility. "We're going for 'concerned citizen bringing homeless child to safety,' not 'international cat burglar delivers mysterious package to reclusive billionaire who definitely doesn't have any secrets of his own.'"
"Is that what you are?" Harry asked with the kind of casual curiosity that suggested he'd been piecing together information during their entire conversation. His emerald eyes were bright with intelligence as he looked up at her from his position on the floor, surrounded by her feline family. "An international cat burglar?"
Selina paused in the middle of checking her appearance in a small mirror, meeting his eyes in the reflection with something that might have been resignation. "What makes you ask that?"
"Well, let's see," Harry said thoughtfully, gently relocating the calico so he could count off points on his fingers. "First, there's the name. Selina Kyle does have a certain reputation in certain circles, and I spent quite a lot of time in those circles during my recent urban adventure. The kind of circles where people discuss theoretical security vulnerabilities and share amusing anecdotes about theoretical jewelry liberation."
He held up a second finger. "Second, you seem remarkably well-informed about security systems, escape routes, and the particular psychology of wealthy collectors. The sort of knowledge that comes from professional experience rather than casual interest."
A third finger joined the count. "Third, there's the whole 'I know exactly how to approach a skittish child without triggering their flight response' skill set, which suggests extensive experience dealing with nervous marks who might bolt if startled."
"Marks?" Selina asked with amusement.
"Fourth," Harry continued, undaunted, "your apartment is furnished with the kind of expensive items that don't typically show up in the homes of people who work conventional jobs. That sculpture near the window, for instance, looks suspiciously like the one that was reported stolen from the Gotham Museum of Fine Arts three months ago. Though I suppose it could be a replica."
"It's not a replica," Selina admitted with a rueful smile.
"And fifth," Harry said, holding up his final finger with the air of someone presenting conclusive evidence, "you've been remarkably evasive about your actual profession, which generally means it's either illegal, embarrassing, or both. Given the evidence I've already presented, I'm leaning toward illegal but not embarrassing. Probably quite lucrative, actually."
"You really are too smart for your own good, aren't you?" Selina said with a mixture of admiration and concern. Most adults wouldn't have put together that much information from their conversation, let alone a six-year-old who was supposed to be traumatized and exhausted.
"It's been mentioned," Harry said dryly, carefully disentangling himself from the pile of cats as he prepared to stand up. Several of them protested this development with plaintive mews, clearly feeling that human-shaped furniture should remain stationary for their convenience. "Usually right before adults start explaining why my particular brand of intelligence is inconvenient for everyone involved. Something about 'too many questions' and 'inappropriate curiosity' and 'stop asking why the social worker's car smells like alcohol, Harry.'"
"Your intelligence isn't inconvenient," Selina said firmly as she watched him brush cat hair off his clothes with practiced efficiency. "It's an asset. It's the reason you've survived this long on your own, and it's going to be the reason you thrive with Bruce's family instead of just surviving."
She turned to face him directly, her expression serious. "But yes, since you asked so politely and demonstrated such impressive deductive reasoning, I do occasionally acquire items from people who have more money than sense and significantly more expensive toys than any reasonable person needs. I prefer to think of it as redistributing wealth to those who appreciate fine craftsmanship more than the people who originally purchased it as tax write-offs."
"Stealing, in other words," Harry said with the matter-of-fact delivery of someone stating an obvious conclusion.
"Liberating," Selina corrected with a grin that was equal parts mischief and affection. "There's a difference in philosophical approach, if not in legal terminology. I target people who won't miss what I take, and I make sure the profits go to causes that actually need the money. Robin Hood with better fashion sense and significantly superior climbing skills."
"And Bruce Wayne knows about your... liberation activities?" Harry asked, his head tilted slightly in curiosity. The angle made his emerald eyes catch the light in a way that was both innocent and unnervingly perceptive.
Another pause, longer this time, and Harry caught something flickering across her expression—guilt, maybe, or possibly regret mixed with something more complicated. "Bruce and I have a complicated relationship. We don't always see eye to eye on methods, but we generally agree on goals. He wants to make Gotham safer and better for everyone who lives here. I want to make sure the people who get ignored by conventional help have someone looking out for them. Sometimes our approaches overlap in interesting ways."
"That's not really an answer to my question," Harry observed with the kind of polite persistence that suggested he'd had extensive practice dealing with evasive adults.
"No, it's not," Selina agreed without apparent embarrassment. "But it's the answer you're getting tonight, because some conversations are more complicated than others, and I'd prefer to have them when you're not exhausted and running on adrenaline and protein bars that probably expired sometime during the previous administration."
Harry studied her face with the intensity of someone who'd learned to read adult expressions for signs of danger or deception. After a moment, he shrugged with the practical acceptance of someone who'd learned to pick his battles carefully. "Fair enough. Though I reserve the right to ask follow-up questions once I've had adequate sleep and proper nutrition. And possibly after I've had time to conduct additional research on the theoretical intersection of billionaire vigilantes and cat burglars with hearts of gold."
"Deal," Selina said, though her expression suggested she wasn't entirely comfortable with how much he'd already figured out. "You're going to fit right in with Bruce's family, you know. They all have the same talent for asking inconvenient questions and drawing uncomfortable conclusions from insufficient evidence."
She looked around the apartment, where her cats had claimed every available surface and several that shouldn't technically have been available. Duchess was holding court from the back of the sofa, while the massive tabby had taken up residence on a bookshelf that probably wasn't designed to support his considerable bulk. The kittens were engaged in what appeared to be a coordinated assault on a feather toy that had seen better days.
"Alright, everyone," she announced to the room in general, "I'm heading out for a few hours. Harry needs to go meet some new people, and you all need to not destroy anything while I'm gone. That means you, Bandit," she added, fixing the orange tom with a stern look, "stay away from the curtains. And Duchess, the expensive vase is not a climbing structure, no matter how much you enjoy the challenge."
A chorus of meows answered her, ranging from plaintive to demanding to thoroughly indignant, as if the cats were conducting a complex negotiation about the terms of her temporary absence. Several of them fixed Harry with looks that clearly communicated their opinion that he should stay and provide additional petting services rather than leaving with their human.
"They're protesting," Harry observed with delight as the Russian Blue fixed Selina with a look that clearly communicated its opinion about humans who made plans without consulting the feline members of the household first. "It's like a very fluffy labor dispute. Are you sure you shouldn't negotiate better terms before we leave?"
"They always protest," Selina said, grabbing a set of keys from a small dish near the door. "They're cats—protesting is basically their default state of existence. If they're not complaining about something, it usually means they're plotting something worse."
"That sounds like excellent preparation for dealing with Bruce Wayne's household," Harry said, taking one last look around the apartment and the cats who'd made him feel welcome for the first time in weeks. "If I can handle the political complexities of feline diplomacy, I should be able to manage whatever interpersonal dynamics await me at Wayne Manor."
"Ready to go meet your new family?" Selina asked, though her tone suggested she understood exactly how loaded that question was for someone in Harry's position.
Harry carefully extracted himself from the few remaining cats who'd been hoping he might reconsider his departure. He earned several disappointed mews and one distinctly accusatory glare from the tabby who'd been using his leg as a pillow and clearly felt that human furniture shouldn't be allowed to relocate without proper notice.
"As ready as one can be for a potentially life-altering encounter with a traumatized billionaire and his collection of household staff, adopted strays, and whatever expensive hobbies he's using to cope with his emotional damage," Harry said with the kind of philosophical acceptance that suggested he'd learned to approach new situations with realistic expectations. "Though I have to say, if his definition of 'family' is anything like yours, I'm cautiously optimistic about the whole arrangement."
"What do you mean?" Selina asked as they headed toward the door.
"Well, you've created a home where everyone who walks through that door gets unconditional acceptance, adequate food, comfortable sleeping arrangements, and all the affection they can handle," Harry said, pausing to look back at the cats who were watching their departure with obvious disappointment. "If Bruce Wayne's household operates on similar principles, I suspect I'm going to like it there very much indeed."
"Kid," Selina said, holding the door open for him with a smile that was equal parts affection and hope, "I think you're going to fit right in."
"I certainly hope so," Harry replied as they stepped into the hallway. "Because frankly, after tonight, I'm not sure I could handle any more emotional upheaval. I've reached my quota for life-changing encounters with mysterious strangers who turn out to be significantly more complicated than they initially appear."
"Unfortunately," Selina said as they started down the creaking stairs, "you're about to meet the most complicated person in all of Gotham. But don't worry—I have it on good authority that he's worth the trouble."
---
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