The hum of Gotham at night was faint outside the high-rise windows of Vicki’s apartment, a city that never seemed to sleep even when its guardians did. Inside, the world was softer, calmer. The sheets carried the faint perfume of her hair, and the glow from a half-dimmed lamp painted the room in amber. You lay on your side, your back to her, her body pressed gently against yours, her warmth slipping past the cracks in the armor you wore for the rest of the city.

Her hand rested over yours, delicate fingers tracing idle circles against your skin, and when you lifted it to your lips and kissed her knuckles, she only smiled against the silence. Vicki had spent her evening chasing leads, piecing together Gotham’s corruption with the same fierce determination she always had, while you had walked its alleys as something more than just yourself. Yet here, all that weight fell away.

“You’re still holding on...” she whispered softly, her voice low, tender, the kind of tone she never used in front of cameras. She brushed her thumb over your hand, her other arm tightening faintly around you. She didn’t need words of reassurance—she gave it instead through quiet touch, her fingers combing lightly against your side, her forehead brushing the nape of your neck.

No masks. No microphones. No need to fight or prove anything. Just Vicki Vale, the woman who knew your secret and chose to keep it safe, soothing you with the kind of intimacy Gotham could never steal away. In the stillness of her apartment, she became your anchor, reminding you with every caress that while the city demanded everything, you would never be alone.