. (spacecowboys) wrote in rooms, @ 2015-07-10 00:52:00 |
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Entry tags: | !marvel comics, *narrative, selina kyle |
[Narrative]
Who: Selina
What: Narrative
Where: Selina's Marvel penthouse
When: Immediately following dinos
Warnings/Rating: Nope
To say she was insanely glad to be somewhere with running water? Would be an understatement.
Oh, the kitty cat knew all about roughing it. Seven years with the JLA, and she'd been in all types of unfortunate places. But she was out of practice, and she'd gotten used to the opulence of the Egyptian, to her penthouse there. And roughing it? Roughing it had taken some getting used to. It wasn't that she was out of shape, because you could never be out of shape in Gotham, but she was used to soft towels, soft blankets, and an endless supply of firepower. And the island greenery of dinosaurs? Hadn't possessed any of that.
So, the kitty cat was glad to be home.
Home, because she had to start thinking of this place as home, didn't she? Marvel, smog and sunshine and aliens, and not one gargoyle grinning lewdly at her from a rooftop. She still couldn't articulate how a place could be in the bones, in the blood, part of someone. But Gotham was all those things, and this? This was just a city. Unoffensive, and she had people here, and it was as good a place as any. She'd meant it when she told Stephanie that hiding in another door was pointless, and she'd learned that the hard way.
Whatever she was running from? It was always right there with her. There was no such thing as running away from yourself.
She walked into the penthouse, and she dumped everything near the door; the cleaning lady could deal with it in the morning.
Heavy footsteps, and Selina trudged through the large space and into the bathroom. The water ran hot, and Selina showered before climbing into the muscle-deep scald that she'd so craved. It was wonderful, and she almost forgot how miserable she and Stephanie had sounded as they left that island with its extinct creatures.
Extinct. Fitting word.
She soaked until the water cooled, and then she found herself in front of the mirror, red silk robe and her own reflection. She should contact Robert about his silly little tests. If that gamma radiation hadn't killed her when she was so sick she couldn't get out of bed? It wasn't going to kill her now. But like she'd told him? She had no place she needed to be. Did she?
Oak-moss eyes stared back at her from the mirror, and Selina stared back. She had nothing to steal, nothing to run, nowhere to be. No point in stealing when no one cared. The mobs were done, and the batfamily had Gotham back in hand. She wasn't Eddie; she had no little virgin lover to quicken her. What did she have?
She chuckled at the woman in the mirror.
Right.
Wet hair against red, and she bled water along her skin, and it was impulse, really. Everything was, and that was probably part of the problem. She reached for a pair of scissors and, steady, she cut. Long, dark strands of hair fell onto the floor, curled around her toes. Years spread themselves out in dark brown against the purity of the bathroom sink.
The scissors clattered to the floor, and Selina slid along the wall to sit among those years and years. Knees up and hands fisted at her nape, head bowed.
And she laughed.