Gatsby, apartment: Robert/Selina
[She contacted the good doctor a few days after she'd settled in Gatsby. After all, he was insistent that she needed a check-up. Those few days had done her good. Gone were most of the circles beneath her eyes, and she'd lost the gauntness that a month of illness had left on her bones. She'd even gone prowling the night before, black and her whip and this city was more like Gotham at night than Marvel had ever been. There was something dirty beneath all the 1920s glitter, something appealing in the underground-clubs and dark jazz that was starting to sift through panes of glass into the open streets. She'd found a corner of roof, and she'd looked out over the nascent city, and she'd breathed. She was still too tired for much more than that, but it was air in her lungs, and she'd been a woman drowning.
Her patron had gone home for the evening. Home to his wife, home to their mansion on the water. She was glad to see him go. She'd propped the door open for Robert's visit, and the phonograph played jazz, and the apartment smelled of sex, and she was wrapped in a robe of black silk that matched the black-on-white of the deco apartment in a slightly rundown building that was filled with women who lacked wedding rings.
She knew the Bat was busy with the Joker. Knew he was busy with Gotham. She was grateful for the extra few days before seeing him, days to find her claws again. Assuming he actually managed to come.]