Part I

It was common knowledge that costumed heroes from other cities were not welcome in Gotham. Gotham's self-appointed protector, The Batman, was territorial and possessive. Still, other heroes were not completely unknown here, and one of the most frequently sited was nearby Bludhaven's masked vigilante, called Nightwing.
The reason, unknown to the public of course, was that Nightwing was the adult incarnation of the first Robin, Batman's protégé. As Robin, Dick Grayson had been trained by Batman; As Dick, he was raised as a son by Bruce Wayne.

Thus, when Nightwing chased a fleeing burglar into Gotham City, he did not call in an alert to Batman as another hero might. And when he apprehended that burglar, turned him over to the GCPD, and noticed it was nearly dawn, he decided to catch a few hours sleep at Wayne Manor before making the long drive back to Bludhaven. He stopped at a gardening shed on the edge of the Wayne property, a shed with the words "Fort Grayson" painstakingly carved into the door in a 12-year-old's handwriting. There he quickly changed into civilian clothes and headed for the kitchen door from whence Quartermaster Alfred had kept Fort Grayson supplied with chocolate chip cookies and peanut butter sandwiches throughout his childhood at the Manor. As he slid his key into the lock he heard movement inside, and so opened the door with a cheery: "Surprise Alfred!"

There was a yelp, and a blur of brown hair and white something threw something wet on him.

It was orange juice. And the blur was a rather statuesque woman wearing one of Bruce's sweaters over tight fitting riding pants, holding a white cardboard carton, and looking like she'd just seen Hamlet's Ghost. She spoke with the passion of one who's just been startled out of all coherence:

"Would it KILL you people to fucking knock once in a while, - clear your throat - ring a doorbell instead of just sneaking up on people"

Then she got hold of herself, shot a smile at this poor schnook she'd just doused with orange juice, and laughed at some private joke.

"No, I guess that's too much to ask, considering. Hi. You must be Dick."

"Yeah," he answered reaching for a kitchen towel and mopping himself off. "and uh, you would be ?"

"Call me 'Lena." She offered her hand. "Sorry about that; you startled me." She picked up the carton again, filled two glasses and placed them on a tray.

"I figured. Um…" He paused, a confused "how can I put this" pause … "who are you and what are you doing here?"

She smiled. "I told you, my name is Selina, and I'm making breakfast. - It's Alfred's day off, and I assume you've experienced Bruce's cooking."

"Selina?" muttered Dick under his breath. She didn't hear. She had turned her back to him and was - frying eggs? Yes, she was frying eggs on the stove. Dick allowed his eyes to travel downward - the sweater extended to the top of her thighs, and he saw the "riding pants" were, in fact, the muted purple leather of Catwoman's costume. The legs that gave them shape were - absolutely unmistakable.

Something that Bruce had never realized, Dick reflected, was that he himself had been a grown man when he first encountered Catwoman, Poison Ivy, Harley Quinn and the rest, while Dick was just beginning the hormonal rollercoaster known as puberty. He had memorized every contour of each woman's body, could have picked them out of a lineup naked (a recurring fantasy from ages 15-17).
He blushed at the memory, and tried to make his voice sound casual as he spoke:

"So Bruce - isn't up yet?"

She turned, her eyes dancing with amusement.

"No, we got in late. - But I'll tell him you're here; I know he'll come right down." She picked up the tray and started for the door. "Help yourself to coffee and eggs, there's plenty."

His confusion must have showed because she added: "Rod Serling will be by later to make lunch."