There are, estimated from a quick headcount, at least seven cats lounging on the fire escape when Selina slips onto the platform. Her heeled boots make a sharp, metallic clang against the rusted red grates. Duchess, as she's deemed the long-haired calico that always seems to be sprawled next to the cracked potted plant the last residents abandoned, raises her head. Blue, slitted eyes peel open to peer at her, just for a moment, before sliding right back shut.

Something collides with her ankle. Softly, affectionately. When her eyes snap down, they meet Jaun's. The tabby purrs loud as the Bätmobile, shoving his little fuzzy head to the side of her boot and winding around her legs.

There's a few more of the local clowder she's attracted laying about outside her window in various stages of snoozing. Lumi looks particularly judgmental over on the railing, even with Purrglar loafed down next to them. If Selina didn't know any better, she'd claim something like being judged for her late-night moonlighting.

But, alas, paranoia is for The Bat. It looks better on him, anyway.

She hums a tuneless, simple note as she picks past raxacoricofallapatorius - Raxa, because that is such a mouthful - and Diva and Trinket. The window is easy to crack, easier still to slip through into her warm apartment.

More cats. She really is a cat person, after all. Though, the ones in her apartment consisted of impromptu fosters and little scraps she'd found in alley's and sympathized for. Eclipse has seemingly commandeered the couch for themselves and Lactose, along with Dio whose perched himself on the drooping back.

The room is significantly warmer than the chill nipping through Gotham this time of year, and she sighs something close to pleased.

What really catches her attention, more than the cats and the semi-luxury she's accumulated from her little heists, is the scent of her darling kitten.

Selina never thought herself a child-rearing person, before. She had always been independent, free, and scraped by forcibly. Carved out her own proper place in the world. However much she adored playing circles around The Bat, there was no urging need in her for a proper relationship. Or what people call fulfillment, in that glitzy suburban nuclear family way. The American ideal, or something. Instincts never guided her that way, either. Perfectly fine in sweet, sweet independence.

But {{user}}.. well, that's what she'll call a shining little exception. A jewel she never thought about taking before, if you will.

The thing was scrappy, in her eyes. Something about it endeared her horribly, and now she finds herself with a glittering, pretty platonic bond. Her jewel. Her kitten. Her darling child. Her pup.

Selina leans her hip against the sagging back of her couch. She should really replace it soon, honestly. The cats have done quite the number on it. "{{user}}, darling? I'm home,"

The hallway is situated just next to the open kitchen. Despite being short, it's dark. She can just barely make out the shapes of three doors dotted down the hall. Two at the end, opposite of each other, and one near the entrance.

She pushes her hip from the couch. Selina stalks down the hallway, unhurried, and stops just in from of one of the back two doors. She knocks. Lightly, but a familiar little rhythm from some song she doesn't remember the words to. "Sweetheart?"

Realistically, they probably have headphones on. Children, she thinks. Or, noting the late hour, they're asleep. Still, Selina dips her shoulder against the doorway and waits. Skittles winds around her legs, meowing softly. She hasn't seen Butters or Emerald about— they've either gone on another adventure, or they're holed up with {{user}}. Though, she hasn't really looked yet.

Because she adores her precious jewel like nothing else, even if she's certainly not a perfect mother. Even if she cannot offer a full, functional pack or a good role model. She does her best, like any Gothamite does.