Ordering was simple enough. The mission? That was the problem.
Jude kept his expression neutral as he took Selina's order, pen moving across the pad with practiced efficiency. Bruce barely spoke—whether that was normal for Gotham's favorite playboy slash Dark Knight or a symptom of whatever had him acting strange, Jude couldn't tell. And he sure as hell wasn't going to ask. The last thing he needed was Bruce figuring out that his waiter knew exactly who put on the cowl at night.
As for whether Selina had figured out that he knew her secret identity? Jude had no clue. But honestly, it didn't matter. Only one person in Gotham obsessively built contingency plans for every possible scenario and kept files on his own allies.
Catwoman operated on instinct and whim.
Which worked in his favor tonight. The pieces were in place—Valentine's Day, romantic atmosphere, high-end restaurant, and Bruce accompanied by a woman who was clearly interested in more than just dinner.
Festivals were always the best opportunities for a little strategic salesmanship.
"Your order is ready," Jude said smoothly, setting plates before them with the practiced grace of someone who'd survived multiple shootouts while carrying trays. "Please enjoy."
He stepped back to a respectful distance, ready to fade into professional invisibility. But Selina had other plans.
She turned to Bruce with a smile that was all feline mischief. "You know, I could swear I've seen you before."
Jude's blood went cold.
"Ma'am, I'm fairly new to this establishment," he said quickly. "Perhaps you're thinking of—"
"No, no." Selina's eyes sparkled with amusement as she studied him. "I'm quite certain. Though the uniform was different. Red, if I remember correctly?"
Fuck.
"Apologies, ma'am," Jude interrupted, perhaps a bit too loudly. "I believe your next course will be ready momentarily. I should check with the kitchen. If you'll excuse me—"
He retreated before she could finish connecting the dots.
One mention of his Falcone connections and his undercover work at Maroni's flagship restaurant would be spectacularly, catastrophically blown.
Selina's soft laugh followed him. Even off-duty, she couldn't resist playing with her food. But Jude wasn't a ball of yarn to be batted around for entertainment. He had a mission to complete, and watching two people flirt over expensive Italian food wasn't part of the job description.
Besides, he wasn't hungry. Not for romance, anyway.
"What? Who's here?"
In the kitchen, Maroni looked up from his newspaper, face cycling through surprise, calculation, and something close to panic. He threw down the financial section and strode toward the dining room with the bearing of a man about to greet royalty.
Two minutes later, he returned with considerably less dignity.
Jude watched from his station as Gotham's second most powerful crime lord sulked back to his office after being dismissed with matching ice-cold stares from both Bruce Wayne and his date. The rejection had been swift, brutal, and entirely mutual.
Maroni picked up his newspaper again, snapping it open with more force than strictly necessary.
It made sense, in a depressing sort of way. As the number two crime family in Gotham, Maroni probably spent half his life swallowing slights like this—too powerful to ignore, not quite powerful enough to command respect from people like Wayne or Kyle. He endured it the same way he endured Falcone's dominance: professionally, with gritted teeth and careful planning.
Jude felt an unexpected flicker of sympathy. Then he remembered Vernon Wells counting Maroni's cash while selling out Harvey Dent, and the sympathy evaporated.
He had his own problems. Like getting Bruce Wayne to eat chocolate before the night ended.
Offering it directly wouldn't work—too obvious, too pushy, and Bruce Wayne didn't eat food handed to him by strangers without reason. Jude needed an angle. A reason. Something that made the chocolate feel like a natural part of the evening rather than a sales pitch.
The restaurant settled back into its Valentine's Day rhythm. Other patrons, having witnessed Maroni's rejection, decided against attempting their own social climbing. Bruce's body language screamed leave me alone, and in Gotham, smart people listened to those kinds of signals.
The peaceful interlude lasted through the main course.
"Bruce, you haven't said anything all evening."
Selina's voice carried a note of concern that cut through the ambient restaurant noise. Her eyes had narrowed to cat-like slits, all playfulness gone. "Is something wrong?"
"Selina, I..." Bruce started, then seemed to lose the thread of whatever he'd meant to say.
Jude, refilling water glasses two tables over with his enhanced hearing dialed up, caught every word.
Bruce sounded wrong. Not tired-wrong or distracted-wrong. Something deeper. He couldn't seem to articulate what was bothering him—his thoughts scattered like he was wading through fog. But his body seemed oddly relaxed, loose in a way that didn't match the confusion in his voice.
And there was something about the way he kept looking at Selina. Not with his usual focused intensity, but with a kind of addicted fascination, like he was seeing her through a filter that made everything else fade to irrelevance.
"I feel tired," Bruce said finally, and it sounded like an admission of defeat.
The coldness in Selina's eyes melted immediately. She sighed and reached across the table, her gloved fingers finding his hand. "You really do look exhausted."
She'd probably been hoping for jealousy earlier—testing his reactions, pushing boundaries the way she always did. But instead of possessive boyfriend, she'd gotten whatever this was. Distant. Dazed. Almost vulnerable.
Selina's expression softened further. She'd made him dance in the snow at the cemetery, chased him through Gotham's frozen streets. Maybe she'd pushed too hard on a day when he was already running on fumes.
"Alright, Bruce. I'll let you off the hook tonight." Her smile was gentle, almost tender. "But you owe me. One perfect Valentine's Day, no substitutions."
Bruce nodded, stiff and mechanical, his face blank.
"Ahem."
Both of them looked up. Jude stood beside their table, silver tray balanced perfectly, his most professional smile fixed in place.
"Mr. Wayne, Ms. Kyle—I couldn't help but overhear that perhaps the evening wasn't quite perfect." He set the tray down with a flourish. "May I suggest that what Valentine's Day really needs is the right dessert?"
Two pairs of eyes dropped to the white chocolate creation on the tray.
"This is a specialty dessert reserved for our most valued guests," Jude continued, his tone smooth as the chocolate itself. "We call it Snow Valentine's Day. Please, enjoy our compliments."
The aroma hit first—rich milk chocolate, cream, something else beneath it that was harder to identify. Complex. Layered. The kind of smell that bypassed rational thought and went straight to pure craving.
Selina's hand moved unconsciously to her waist, where her Catwoman suit would normally sit. She'd been strict about her diet since taking up nighttime acrobatics. Chocolate definitely hadn't been on tonight's menu.
But this dessert smelled incredible.
Jude stood perfectly still, watching them both waver. His advanced culinary skills, the milk from the Horn of Plenty's infinite supply, and the recipe he'd purchased from the system shop—all of it combined into something that bypassed normal human resistance.
SYSTEM: Valentine's Day Milk Chocolate
Exclusive Recipe Cost: $3,000 asset points
Note: "Candy doesn't need meaning. That's why it's called candy." — Charlie Bucket
Three thousand dollars' worth of chocolate, distilled into pure temptation.
Bruce's reaction was different from Selina's simple hunger. When the scent reached him, something shifted behind his eyes. The calm, obsessed haze he'd been moving through began to crack. His brain clawed back toward functionality, grasping for clarity through whatever was clouding his thoughts.
Something is wrong with me.
The thought surfaced with sudden, sharp certainty.
What is this green covering everything? When did the world turn this color?
He couldn't answer his own questions. But instinct—the same survival instinct that had kept Batman alive through years of impossible odds—made the choice his conscious mind couldn't articulate.
With the small sliver of rationality he'd just reclaimed, Bruce picked up his fork. His movements were careful, deliberate, almost mechanical. He brought the first piece of chocolate to his mouth.
The fog receded another inch.
Another bite. The confusion in his eyes lessened fractionally.
Another. The green filter that had been drowning his perception began to crack.
He ate methodically, systematically, each piece of chocolate burning away more of whatever had wrapped around his mind like a shroud. Selina watched with growing concern, but didn't interrupt—something in his intensity warned her not to.
When the last piece disappeared, Bruce's eyes finally cleared completely.
The rose he'd carefully tucked into his jacket—the one he'd bought from a flower girl in a green burqa earlier—withered instantly. Petals blackened and curled. Within seconds, it had transformed from fresh-cut beauty into a dead, brittle branch.