Bruce Wainright has (onerule) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-12-20 21:00:00 |
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Entry tags: | batman, catwoman, door: dc comics |
Who: Bruce and Selina
What: A Christmas gala.
Where: Gotham, some Wayne-owned ballroom.
When: Immediately before group plot.
Warnings/Rating: None.
Gotham could be on the brink of destruction (and it had been, more than once), facing total annihilation, and the rich would still dress in their very best, expensive fabric coupled with sparkling jewels, in order to make an appearance. The wealthy and powerful of the city certainly enjoyed their galas, their balls, and their functions, and it was pure hypocrisy which resulted in the majority of these gatherings to be held in the name of charity. Few truly cared about the humanitarian aspect, however, and saw money as bits of paper they had so much of that parting with some of it was hardly worth a second thought. It was why Bruce regarded them with such distaste, and didn’t often make an appearance at such events. When he did, he never stayed long, but it was quite a different story when he was the one throwing the party. The Wayne Foundation often hosted charity balls and galas, and unlike the others, Bruce financed them himself, and ensured all funds donated went to those who needed it most. Of course, that aspect was rarely ever publicized; instead, it was all about who was seen with what rising celebrity, or the newest political face in town. Gossip sold more papers; whether it was Bruce Wayne or the Batman, that remained a constant.
With Christmas fast approaching, tonight’s ball was for underprivileged children, those who would, without assistance, have nothing for the holidays. All donations would ensure that the poorest of the poor in Gotham had warm clothes, food, and toys to keep their spark of hope alive, and while it wasn’t nearly enough, it was a start. Gotham, he’d learned, could not be saved in a day, or a year, or even two. Progress was slow, but he counted each new step as a victory nonetheless. As CEO of Wayne Enterprises, Bruce Wayne had to make an appearance, and he had to make one for more than all of five minutes, enough for cameras to flash and little else. Usually, it was Alfred who would insist that he go, but in his absence, Bruce had needed to find the motivation to put his duties as Batman aside for one night and step out into the spotlight once more.
Had anyone asked, he would have denied to his dying day that Selina Kyle’s presence was something he looked forward to. Batman could look the cruelest, most depraved criminals in the eyes and not flinch, he could predict the movements of madmen and maniacs before they had taken even one step, but when it came to women, especially her, he was hopelessly out of his depth; and even as he pretended otherwise, he knew it.
By Gotham’s standards, Bruce arrived fashionably late. The telltale Lamborghini gave him away as soon as he pulled up, and after forcing smiles for the wave of press which bombarded him, he made his way inside, where he was greeted with smiles that were just as false as his, plastered on by people he could, in reality, barely stand, but was forced to tolerate on a regular basis. As always, he was arguably one of the best-dressed men in attendance, clad in a sleek, immaculate tux, and he pretended to sip a flute of champagne as he moved about, discreetly scanning the room time and time again for a certain green-eyed feline. He was almost certain she would come, even if his diamonds hadn’t received a response in the most traditional sense. That had, admittedly, puzzled him, but he didn’t think he’d misstepped anywhere along the way; she had asked for diamonds, hadn’t she?
Bruce Wayne might have made a habit of avoiding Gotham's charity balls, but Selina hadn't. The kitty cat wasn't normally on any guest list, but guest lists didn't deter her. She could normally be found in the kitchens, waiting for the opportunity to hold out a serving platter as she helped herself to the contents of someone's pocket, or harmlessly lost in the art wing of someone's private residence, an honest mistake made while coming back from working a coat room. She could be a guest - haircolor varied - one without striking green eyes, and whom no one noticed as she worked a room because she was too plain, or because she was too noticeable. She saved being herself for very special occasions, because being unrecognizable was important for a thief. But sometimes, sometimes being memorable was the only thing that mattered. Usually, it was for a very big job, one with a very big payoff. But tonight? Tonight it was for fun.
Selina hadn't been back to the manor (with the exception of a brief stop to drop off that box the diamonds had arrived in) since the incident with the toxin. The only person she'd seen in Bruce's little feathered family was Damian, and that meeting had been a combination of kitty loneliness and a need for information. She was finding it harder than she expected to keep her paws out of the Batfamily, but she'd been keeping track (kitty cat's always did), and she knew Damian was making good progress. After all, hacking into the comms was kitten's play, and Selina never denied herself information. Knowing what was going on with the feathered heroes was important for a thief; at least that's what she told herself.
Life in the greenhouse was unnervingly quiet. It was like all of Gotham was asleep, was waiting. The kitty cat hated it, and she was actually looking forward to disappearing to Egypt the following week. She would have gone for Christmas, left Gotham and its quietness behind, but she knew Blondie would never give her multiple days during the holiday. But it was close enough, and she was fairly sure she could count on Blondie and the antihero to do something sickeningly family oriented that would give her an excuse to stay out of Gotham on Christmas day.
But that was all melancholy, and the kitty cat wanted to shake off the doldrums. Who would have thought that abandoning a little family of do-gooders would have been so hard? Not her.
The dress went missing from a designer store two days earlier, as did a pair of silver-tipped stilletos and a pair of full-arm evening gloves. She'd "borrowed" someone's credit card at one of Gotham's most upscale salons that morning, and she had seemless, inky extensions that were twisted up in an elegant updo, and the diamonds were her only accessories. She arrived at the charity ball well before Bruce did, because casing a room was a habit, and she danced with three husbands before Bruce walked through the door, getting a bigger thrill out of making their wives glare than she'd gotten from anything in the past few quiet days.
Oh, and the kitty cat knew precisely when Bruce arrived. The mutter that chased across the ballroom couldn't be blamed on anything else. Even her dance partner commented on it, and Selina gave him an entertained little smile as he regaled her with stories about the eccentric billionaire who was throwing the evening's gala. The truth was, quite simply, that Selina hated these people. Her fingers were itching to slip into a pocket, and she wanted nothing more than to fleece one of them, just to make them realize they didn't control everything in Gotham. But her black-gloved hands slid over her dance partner's shoulders instead, and she glanced over his shoulder with bright green eyes that were, without a doubt, looking for trouble.
It was downright impossible for Bruce to take one step without being pounced upon by one or more members of high society, whether it was a woman looking to sink metaphorical claws into the Wayne prize, or a man looking to woo the eccentric billionaire into the deal of the century-- for one of them, at least. Society widely viewed him as a man with more money than brains, skilled at throwing parties and providing entertainment but not much else. It was a tiring act to uphold, especially since it clashed with his true nature, yet with time it had become as familiar as breathing. Therefore, he had nothing but smiles and the sort of humor that elicited laughter to his face and dismissive eyerolls behind his back. None of it bothered him, however, and he moved about as though he was untouchable, managing some tricky handling of champagne and wine glasses to give the illusion of intoxication, when all he’d really had was a sip or two for appearances sake.
When he finally did catch sight of Selina, it wasn’t her eyes which caught his attention, or even the very flattering dress; no, it was the diamonds. He had a very good memory, and no one in attendance wore anything like them. There was a brief spark of pleasure that she’d worn them, quickly shoved aside, before he set to work luring her dance partner away. No woman would turn down a dance with Bruce Wayne, who actually held his own on the dance floor quite well, and it was pure coincidence that his woman of choice just so happened to be the jealous wife of the man Selina currently had all twisted up in her charms. Men were funny creatures, so quick to let their eyes wander, yet surprisingly possessive when another moved in on what they perceived as their territory. To give him his due, however, Bruce did intentionally put on a show-- their waltz was far too close to be considered decent, consisting of a whole lot of whispering and coy giggling which eventually became too much for the husband to ignore, even with someone like Selina to serve as a distraction.
Bruce, for his part, feigned confusion when the man approached to reclaim his wife, and gave the woman a wink as pair retreated, causing a brief wave of laughter to rise from a nearby cluster of millionaires before the usual chatter and conversation, just above the music, replaced it. He didn’t look at Selina as he lingered beside her, not right away, and for once, he wasn’t overly concerned about what she might steal tonight. “Nice dress,” he remarked, low enough to remain between the two of them, and something like a smile tugged at his lips as he finally did glance her way.
Selina noticed Bruce's little game well before her dance partner did. She noticed him, then she noticed the woman, then she noticed the lack of distance in that waltz. Now, the kitty cat had been pawing after this particular billionaire for the better part of a year, and she knew that he was very, very hard to get on the dance floor. Add it all up, and she wasn't surprised when the man in her arms became stiff with displeasure. Sigh, and she had so been counting on a subsequent, friendly visit with the man to see the jewel encrusted daggers he claimed to own. Now she'd just have to let herself into his manor home, and really, only the Dark Knight was to blame. "He doesn't dance as well as you do," she told her dance partner, who lit up with smugness like a Christmas tree. But the game was up, and she let him go without protest and only the slightest prick to her pride. After all, the man would be back once he had his wife back on the leash - that was just the way men were.
She didn't look over at Bruce, when she found him at her side, but the whispered comment about the dress made her grin. "You only like it because I can't hide anything I steal inside it." Her tone was wry, entertained, and it hid a well done and a game on. "The first time I met you," she continued, emphasis on that you, indication that she wasn't talking about this him at all, "it was at a party like this. You hit on me. I thought you were the most boring man in the room." She turned then, a self-satisfied smile on her lips. "But then you didn't give me diamonds." She looked him over, a slow drop of thick black lashes, and a regard so blatant that few people in the room would have the confidence to pull off, even as her black-gloved fingers slid along the stones at her throat. "Are you going to ask me to dance, Mr. Wayne, or are you going to wait for my previous dance partner to come back to me?" The question was accompanied with a tiny wave of fingers to the man in question, who was desperately trying to get the kitty cat's attention over his wife's shoulder. Men. So predictable.
Turning a blind eye to crime simply wasn’t in his nature, but Bruce had priorities, and a rich man’s trinkets, purchased with money which would be better spent on those who truly needed it, ranked well below Ra’s and his insane determination to destroy Gotham, or the threat of organized crime, or whatever the Joker was currently planning. Oh, some were tolerable; there were men and women his parents had known, who at least made an effort, but most were viewed with little more than contempt and disdain, with their inflated egos and belief that their wealth somehow gave them the right to look down upon all others. Most might believe the Bat saw in black and white, but he’d traveled the world for seven long years during which he had no money, no influence, and no one knew who he was. He knew shades of gray, even if he sometimes forgot the lessons he’d learned long ago. Thus, he gave little thought to the man and his wife, or whatever ornate daggers he’d just put in peril.
“That’s not the only reason,” he countered. “It’s simply an added bonus.” It was a very nice dress, that had been an honest observation, and Bruce could appreciate a woman who looked good in black and backless as much as any man. Months prior, any implied comparison of himself and her version of Bruce would have made him tense, shut down entirely, but he’d accepted the fact that he was not, and never would be, each of the men she and the others had known. He was himself, and perhaps that was slowly becoming enough. “I am terribly boring,” he agreed, deadpan. “The tabloids flatter me. Do diamonds make me more interesting?” He raised his eyebrows, as though it was a serious question to which he was genuinely curious about the answer. To give him his due, he met her gaze steadily, without so much as a chink in his armor, as a lesser man might have revealed. He followed her line of sight to the man in question, actually turning in his direction, and flashed one of his infamous camera-ready smiled, accompanied by a wave in an exaggerated mimic of hers, before turning back. “You’ve made quite an impression on him,” he remarked, before offering a hand. “May I have this dance, Ms. Kyle?”
"Don't underestimate me," she warned him, green eyes lighting up with the perceived challenge. There wasn't much room in the dress, true, and there certainly wasn't anything underneath it, but that didn't mean the kitty cat couldn't manage to go home with a trinket or two. She swayed against his side, a careless movement, all easy grace and lithe confidence. "Actually," she corrected, "you're less boring than he was." It was, for her, perhaps the highest compliment that she could give, even if she downplayed it with a seductress' smile. "Diamonds make everyone more interesting, but only for the amount of time it takes to steal them." She met his direct look with one of her own. "You look better than you did the last time I saw you," she added, a casual compliment from a casual acquaintance - if anyone was listening, that was. "I was starting to worry you would have lost that billionaire's glow. After all, it's so appealing." And that was no compliment. They both played at fronts, at covers, but she didn't like his very much. It reminded her too much of everyone who ignored what happened outside of Gotham's glittering ballrooms. The kitty might not wear an antihero mantle, but that didn't mean she liked Gotham's wealthier citizens, not in the slightest.
She took his hand when he offered it, casting a lingering look at her previous partner. "Any woman under thirty would make an impression on him," she asserted, stopping in the center of the ballroom floor, brushing questionably close to a few couples along the way. It would be nearly impossible to steal anything without notice there, deep in the crowd. The kitty cat did like challenges and, if Bruce was entertaining enough, she might even forget about all the prizes in the surrounding pockets for a few minutes. One of her hands remained closed in his, and her other hand slid over his side, to his shoulder, and then rested lightly along the back of his neck. "I was blonde at the time," she said, continuing her story about her first meeting with her Bruce Wayne, "and he came up to me and said he was sure he knew every beautiful twenty-two year old in Gotham that could afford a thousand dollar dinner. Tell me you would have done better," she urged, and her green eyes darkened with memories that weren't anywhere near as welcome as the jewels she might manage to lift off unsuspecting partygoers.
“Underestimate you?” Bruce feigned shock, as though the prospect hadn’t occurred to him, not once. “Never.” Oh, she was more than welcome to attempt slinking off with a prize or two by the end of the night, and he found that he relished the challenge which came with the thought of stopping her before she could succeed. There was a flicker of something like surprise in his eyes when she said that he was less boring than her Bruce, which he hadn’t been expecting, but he was adept enough at wearing masks to hide what lay beneath that it disappeared as quickly as it had made its appearance. “I’m flattered,” he remarked dryly. As for looking better, that much was true; he did. Rest had given him back his strength, and from there, he'd begun training and building himself back up to what he had been before the toxin, making up for lost time. He hated looking in the mirror to see weakness reflected back at him. "No need to worry. My billionaire glow is still going strong, as you can see." It was casual, yet he was no more a fan of this particular cover than she was. Necessity was the only reason why he used it at all.
He tipped his head in a gesture of agreement, as her previous partner seemed horribly shallow indeed, and made careful note of who she brushed against despite the fact that he doubted she would make a move just yet. Perhaps he could provide an adequate distraction, though it was more than most in attendance deserved. The hand which held hers remained so, while the other found the small of her back, most of the slight pressure coming from his palm while the touch of his fingers was feather light. His expression never changed as she continued her story, not even a flicker in the midst of calm, while in truth he took no particular enjoyment in hearing about the man she was in love with, the man who was gone, and might only ever exist here if he were to leave and be replaced. It wasn’t so long ago that he had believed that might have been for the best. “Not a bad approach, but yes, I would have done better,” he said, wondering how he would feel if he’d progressed to the point where he would have met his own Selina, only to arrive here and know that he would never see her again. “I’d have informed you that I simply could not let the night end without knowing the name of the most ravishing woman in the room, to the point where all others paled in comparison, and asked what it would take to ensure that you attended every such event in the future.”
Had she known his thoughts, she would have laughed at his use of the future tense. Her prior dance partner's watch was already in Bruce's suit pocket, along with a bracelet belonging to the woman she'd brushed up against, and she was just waiting for him to notice the weight. Just because she couldn't fit anything beneath her dress didn't mean he didn't have perfectly good pockets for her to borrow. She caught the flicker of surprise in his eyes with an upsweep up her own green ones, and she quirked her head just a hint, just enough to ask the question without actually asking it. "Are you?" she asked, when he assured he was flattered. There was disbelief in her question, a challenge in the tilt of her head and the quirking upward of her lips. "Who said I was worried?" she countered a second later. "I never worry, Mr. Wayne. Don't you know that too much worrying will give you wrinkles?" As if she had anything to worry about at her age. As for his cover, it was good. But then her Bat's had been too. Good enough that she'd never seen through it.
She was looking for chinks in the armor, but he gave her none, and she was left feeling like she hadn't managed to crack a safe she'd thought would be easily broken into. Her lips turned down for a second, and her expression turned thoughtful, but it was a blink of a thing. Her confident expression was back on her face within a moment, and she was grinning by the time he was telling her how he would have approached her back then. "Too bad for both of you that billionaire come ons aren't the kitty cat's style. What would you have said?" Because they both knew this was a facade for him. He was much more Bat than he was Bruce Wayne, so much so that she suspected this was the real mask. Her gloved fingertips slid along the nape of his neck, careless and light. She moved closer, curves against the hard muscled planes he hid beneath that tux. It looked, to any onlooker, like excessive intimacy, but it came with a whisper to his ear, one low enough that only he could hear. "I ran into Dickie. He lectured, and he cried - literally - and he got me thinking about the things I left behind." She moved back then, put that decent amount of space between them again. "Do you think it's wrong? Moving on without them? Forgetting and finding new things that matter the way they used to?" And maybe that pertained to her more than any of them. She had no one here from her timeline, no one here she'd known before. As Dick had pointed out, the majority of them came from the same place. But Bruce only had Jim Gordon, and she wasn't sure that counted.
Bruce was well enough acquainted with his own body that any change in weight, however slight, would be noticed. He knew how suits felt, what they added to his own mass, whether they were made of kevlar or fine Italian wool, and the fact that he had yet to comment upon it was an indication of choice rather than a lack of knowledge. While he had grown tired of the people they were surrounded by over the years, even more so in the past few months, he still had no intention of aiding and abetting a crime, however justified Selina might feel. “I expected to be perpetually trapped in his shadow,” he said simply, as though commenting upon something as mundane as the weather. The truth was that he had expected as much from everyone, and even though some, like Damian, seemed willing to accept his differences, he still felt the other Bruce’s absence hanging over his head at times; it was not a feeling he relished whatsoever. As for worrying causing wrinkles, he smiled, and his facade dropped just for a moment; a flicker of something weary and honest, nothing like the false grins of the billionaire, too quick for anyone but her to see. “So I’ve heard. You’re right not to worry, Miss Kyle, you’re far too young for wrinkles.” He didn’t necessarily see himself as old just yet, still relatively safe in the bubble of early thirties, but his lifestyle aged him, and he was aware that he was certainly older than her.
That thoughtful shift in her expression didn’t go unnoticed, but for the moment he let it pass. No, she certainly wasn’t the type to fall for a rich man’s wiles, feigned or not, and he played at consideration when she asked what he would have said. She was right in thinking he was more Bat than Bruce Wayne; if it was possible, he would have simply discarded the latter entirely and dedicated himself entirely to Batman. Only Alfred had prevented that, and now, he had his adopted brood to keep him connected to the real world; on his own, that tether might fray to the point of breaking. “I would have asked if you ever found it tiring, attending charity balls and galas where the rich showcase their wealth as though the world revolves around them and them only,” he said after a moment, lowering his voice, “and how long you intended to do what you do.” He reacted to the press of her body against his, the closeness, smoothly, letting his gaze wander as she whispered in his ear. “He cried?” His eyebrows raised as she pulled back, but her question sobered him, like cold water on a fire. “I had no them. Not like the rest of you did. There was Alfred, and Lucius, and I suppose Gordon in a sense, but we were--are--not exactly close.” His volume remained low, hushed, not particularly wanting this conversation overheard. “Alfred was the one who knew me best, and he would want me to move on. To find new things,” he said, “but not to forget. I won’t forget. I can’t. You can dwell on the past, but it will accomplish nothing, and you will be trapped in a sort of stasis where you move neither forward nor backward.” He paused, and sighed. “Or so he would say. I’m not the best person to give advice on this particular topic.”
"Everyone here is in someone's shadow, Bruce," she assured him, confident purr and with none of the weight the statement called for. Even the ones who were from the same place had to deal with the rest of them, with either not being known or not being right. It was something they all shared, and that was something the kitty cat was just now coming to realize. It didn't take the sting away entirely, but it certainly helped soothe it. She liked when the facade dropped, liked that look on his face that was always hidden behind the cowl. Oh, the kitty cat knew the difference, could discern it from the way his mouth was set. "When should I start worrying, Mr. Wayne?" she asked, the flirtatiousness back in her demeanor. "Twenty-five? Thirty?" She knew she was much younger than the version of herself that he was eventually supposed to meet. She knew she was much younger than the Cat anyone here knew. But there were good things about youth, and every single inch of those good things swayed against him for a moment, intentional, curves over taut muscle. As for helping herself to more jewels, she was entertained just then. A bored kitty cat was a dangerous kitty cat, but she wasn't bored just then, despite all her negative claims about billionaires. "You feel different without your normal, boring suit," she said, green eyes alight with teasing.
"What is it that I do?" she asked when his voice dropped. Oh, she knew what he meant, but she asked the question anyway. Her gloved-claws dragged across the nape of his neck as she considered his first question. "I only attend things like this for work. I don't do it for fun," she admitted. Oh, there was fun to be had in fleecing these people, but it was his doing. With him here, it was a challenge to get anything out the door. She knew he'd probably already felt the shift of weight in his pockets. He was good, and that made it fun. "I don't have a handler here. Back home, Gwen would send me on assignments. Not all of them were entertaining," she explained. "But I'll tell you a secret, Mr. Wayne, you make it even more tempting for me to borrow things here," she admitted. Everyone else in the room was boring. It was as simple as that. "The kitty cat could never resist a challenge."
As for Dickie, she hummed her agreement. "I don't know who's better off. You, not having anyone to lose, or me, losing everyone." She brushed her lips against his jaw when he sighed. "Stop that, or I'll start thinking you're bored with me. Do you think I could find someone in the room who wouldn't be?" she asked, pulling back and looking around the dance floor intentionally, catching a few eager eyes. It was the dress. The less fabric a woman wore, the more men wanted to touch her. But she looked back at him a second later. "I would have to agree with Alfred just this once," she said, meeting his gaze with her momentarily serious one.
“I suppose they are,” he agreed, though privately Bruce thought that those who did not exist could not cast shadows, certainly not as large as a man like Batman, regardless of what world he came from. She didn’t say it like the prospect was something terrible, however, or as weighing as it had seemed to be in the progress, and he wondered whether or not that counted as progress. He felt a faint, distant spark of surprise at the realization that she was younger than twenty-five; he knew she was young, but he always seemed to forget how young, and that there was fewer years between her and Damian than there was between her and himself. “Thirty seems to be a good starting point,” he told her, and it was nothing short of superhuman restraint developed over time that kept him still when she swayed against him. Youth certainly did have its benefits, she was a prime example of that, but while he surrounded himself with supermodels and ballerinas and socialites in public, none of them ever accompanied him home. Not to the Manor, at least, and even so, it had admittedly been a long time. “This isn’t my normal, boring suit?” He sounded surprised, even looking down at himself, as though confirming that he was indeed wearing what he thought he was. “I can’t imagine what you’re referring to.” His method of teasing wasn’t as blatantly obvious as hers, but it still was there if one knew where and how to look.
As for what she did, there was no hesitation whatsoever before he responded. “You’re a thief.” There was no judgment in it, nothing disapproving; it was mere fact, like the sky being blue or Christmas coming once every year. “You... procure items by what would be defined as illegal means,” he added. “Items such as the ones currently in my pocket.” He smiled, and there was a challenge there, because in this, they were evenly matched, and Bruce so rarely met anyone who challenged him in a way that didn’t involve attempted murder. “It’s nice to know you consider me a challenge, though if this isn’t what you do for fun, I wonder what is.” The thought of Selina with a handler was one he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around, as she seemed much too intent on freedom and living in the grey between black and white, but then again, everyone here was different in their own way from the worlds they’d come from.
He had no answer for that predicament, about who was worse off, and she pulled back while he was searching for one, a way to decide between having something to lose and having nothing, while knowing what could have been. “Not all sighs are indicative of boredom,” he informed her, aware of every single pair of eyes which fixated on her when she looked around. Bruce had never been particularly skilled at accepting advice, whether it was from Alfred or someone else, but as he met her gaze he pulled her forward, against him once more, and there was something decidedly possessive about the hand at her back.
“I think,” he began, but that was as far as he got before the hotel’s magic decided to intervene, and then, then he was somewhere else entirely.