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The stars are bright tonight: shimmering on a black sky above black buildings which, this one time out of the year, aren’t so terribly black. The lights aren’t real, not like the starlight, but from the right rooftop, it makes Gotham look like something it isn’t: a place of peace on earth and goodwill toward men.
“We should go.” Bruce says, softly, in her ear. Their shared warmth chases away a winter chill which black leather can only repel so much.
“Not yet.” Selina answers. Her fingers tighten on the muscle expanse of his arm.
From below, the ageless strains of ‘Silent Night’ warble through the air. In a better place, a kinder city, the music would be accompanied by a children’s chorus. Here, it’s just someone’s old record climbing the night air from an open window.
It’s good enough.