Chapter Text
Friday, September 4th.
The nocturnal hunt is silent in the disquieted darkness. The rabid city sleeps and yet the hand that feeds it has once more been bitten. Old wounds have been awakened as the media turns on the bat.
I sit in the shadows, unmasked; the playboy bachelor. Each sip of the opulent whiskey on my tongue loosens the other mask that hangs heavy over my eyes. A low, melodic jazz number hums in the air, a tuning fork trying to centre my thoughts. The scent of tobacco and clove are thick in the air, just as prevalent as the stench of secrecy clinging to the other high paying clientele, come for privacy. Seven figure businessmen trying to strike a deal outside of their high rises, married philanderers with hands upon the bare knees of their mistresses, celebrity alcoholics trying to conceal their addiction from the public.
And myself, trying to hide from the toxicity that is my relationship with a city that both loves and loathes me. A bat shrouded in the far corner of a Metropolis millionaire jazz club.
I should be surprised when the velvet cushioned chair across from the cabaret table is pulled out. But I am not. He has a habit of doing this, finding the bat at its most vulnerable as if sensing the raw edges, hoping to worm his way in.
He is always barricaded.
No one gets in.
The strands of my still rain-slickened hair hang in my eyes as I avoid his gaze, jaw clenched with unease.
His frame takes up most of my periphery, a presence hard to ignore.
“As I live and breathe.” His voice is deep. Soft yet commanding. Perhaps this is the true tuning fork. “Bruce Wayne?” He is quiet, words only spoken for my ears. “ The Bruce Wayne?”
His teasing, his very presence is the sun trying to break the clouds.
It grates me.
It softens me.
I hate him.
Keeping my face forward towards the small stage I glance sideways at him. He’s tried his hand at discretion for once, whether it is because we are in his city, or because his wallet does not drag as mine does, I do not know. The sun sits, face partially hidden beneath the hood of a sweatshirt, glasses casting angular shadows on his already angular face. The slight buttoning of his nose is accentuated by his brilliantly effervescent smile.
He tilts his head wordlessly asking me to come play with him.
I look away, not taking the bait.
This is a scenario that has played out before. I cannot fathom why he persists, what his otherworldly interest is. What project he presumes I am.
I cast my eyes away from him, calloused fingertips mindlessly playing with the intricate shapes cut in to the half full glass before me.
I can feel the piercing blue of his eyes taking me in, watching as I grip the glass and throw back the remaining amber, fire pouring down my throat, warmth radiating through me from my heart to my forearms.
“Can I take you home Bruce?” He asks with a familiarity he has chased but not earned.
Only a handful of falsified friendships in the upper echelon have earned such fraudulent familiarity.
“I’m not going home tonight.” My voice is blunt, cold, uninterested. It is the only emotion I’ve deigned to show him. Have beared to.
“Then come to mine. At least until you sober up?”
Chipped nail clinking against the glass, I rub my tired eyes, half expecting to see my fingers covered in black as I pull my hand away.
Out damn spot.
It’s hard to remember sometimes who I am at any given time.
I don't want to look back up in to the earnestness, in to the sincerity of his radiance, to see the contrast of him against such a backdrop as this, the darkness of my refuge. I know it would sting.
But I do anyway.
The playfulness of his smile is toned down, serious but soft, every bit as earnest as I’d imagined.
I cannot help but fixate, as I have in the past, at the ebony curl dangling upon his forehead wanting desperately to return it to the mass of soft curls on his head, to its rightful place, bring order, alignment.
The chair scrapes backwards as I stand, shoving my hands in to the pockets of the overpriced trench coat I’ve costumed myself in.
“Have it your way Kent.”