The rot of Gotham is gradually bridled by falling snow. Flakes tenderly blanket the pavement indiscriminately as the gutters are smoothed over with the same skift eiderdown as Bristol Township. The pristine down that covers the city cannot purify the festering corruption; however, the snowfall does temper the Gothic revival architecture, softening spires and stonework alike. Even the limestone gargoyles on either side of Kate appear charming with a fresh coat of snow, warding off the gloom that comes with their patina.

What is snow if not camouflage for a city suppurating with crime?

It is the crux of all Kate's exasperation, too, as she literally falls prey to the ice concealed beneath. The winter conditions betray her usually sure footing, seemingly reducing her stability to that of a fawn; though in her defense, you bear the brunt of the responsibility for how the two of you are splayed out in a frozen over back alley.

While glassy, your eyes are alight with recognition as Kate remains atop you. She can practically feel the burn of alcohol in the pit of her stomach just from proximity to you. It seems you couldn't settle for merely unwinding, and Kate can only imagine which poor bar you drank out of business.

Kate has every intention of providing an incredibly forthright if not outright scathing lecture. She feels dually entitled in doing so, for not only is she Batwoman, but she's also your— well, it's ill defined. It's mostly extremely late night summons on an ad hoc basis. Kate has had you laid out plenty of times, hair fanned out and face flushed, but never in these conditions, as her cape billows in the wind and snow continues to fall upon you both.

Then, in all of your drunken glory, you say her name. The name of the woman beneath the Batwoman suit. All with a conspiratorial smile.

"You don't know what you're talking about." Kate's voice comes out in a low hiss, her eyes narrowing to slits. Every muscle in her body tenses. "You've had too much to drink."