AN: No, I didn't create nor do I own the characters in this story, nor either of the franchises they come from. And no, I didn't earn anything from publishing it. Please stop asking.
"Mr. MacLeod?"
The old man wore a burgundy velvet smoking jacket with black satin trim and black satin pants, and would have seemed Hugh Heffnerish if he hadn't projected such a thick air of straight-laced propriety. He solemnly shook each man's hand and bade them enter the mansion, waiting until they were all standing inside before saying, "Welcome to our fair city, gentlemen. I'm Bruce Wayne."
In his study they all sat in antique chairs. "Mr. MacLeod, I'm puzzled as to why you undertook such a formidable journey after my last communication," Wayne said. Methos smiled at the extreme formality of this speech, earning a warning glance from the Highlander. "I thought I'd assured you that it wasn't necessary."
"It was necessary to me, Mr. Wayne. I sold you the sculpture in good faith, but I've since come to believe that the item may not be an authentic Timotheus. Mr. Pierson is an expert on Greek sculpture and can quickly determine that."
Methos smiled his best Greek-sculpture-expert smile. In fact, he knew little about the work of Timotheus or that of any of his contemporaries.
"Well, Mr. Pierson, you're welcome to examine the piece, since you've traversed all this distance," Wayne said seriously. Methos stood and glanced for a moment at a bronze bust that was sitting on the desk, next to a dusty bright red phone decades out of style. "No!" Wayne exclaimed, seeing Methos's brief interest. "I mean, that's not the right bust. The Timotheus is over here."
Proceeding to a shelf, Methos lifted the bust and turned it face down. His eyes narrowed in concentration as he sought a mark too subtle to be detected by anyone not specifically looking for it: a set of curls at the nape of the neck forming a lower-case Greek letter epsilon, Renaissance sculptor and expert forger Milius Vannilli's little-known trademark. Meeting MacLeod's questioning eyes, he gave a short nod before addressing Wayne.
"I'm sorry to say, this is not a Timotheus." Methos began to explain, but Wayne interrupted.
"It's quite all right, Mr. Pierson. I am in fact fond of the sculpture, and in any case, Mr. MacLeod, it's clear that you were acting in all honesty. I choose to retain ownership of the bust, regardless of its origin."
Methos was about to ask, "Is that really how you talk?" when MacLeod responded with, "That's fine, but I insist on giving you a partial refund, since the piece is not what I thought I was selling you."
A sudden crackle from an unseen police scanner delivered a message about a "459S in progress" at Pearly White Dental Supply.
"No refund is necessary," Wayne said suddenly. "But I'm afraid that I've just recalled an urgent matter I must attend to." He began walking them both toward the study door with apparent urgency. "I appreciate the effort you've made to do the right thing, Mr. MacLeod. Honor is something that, in these woefully troubled times, is sorely lacking. Please, think no more of altering our transaction. If you could see yourselves out, I'd be most grateful."
They were nearly out the front door when they heard the cry of a man in trouble and raced back to the study. At first, it seemed they'd entered the wrong room. Where once there'd been a wall of bookshelves, there was now an opening exposing two poles such as firefighters used for quick descents.
"'Bruce?'" Methos said, reading the signs labeling each of the poles. "'Dick?' Why on earth would he name a pole after himself? Why name a pole at all?" Oddly, it was only after saying this that he noticed the large black letters on the wall of the shaft that read, "Access to Batcave via Batpoles."
"Mr. Wayne!" MacLeod was crouched at the edge of the shaft and peering down. "Are you all right?" Standing up, he prepared to take action.
"You're not seriously…" The statement died as MacLeod leapt onto the "Bruce" pole and disappeared. Cursing quietly, Methos considered leaving the manor as planned, but his lack of the rental keys decided for him. Feeling like a bloody fool, he used the "Dick" pole to follow the other two men.
Wayne lay on the floor near the bottom of the pole, trying to get to his feet as MacLeod urged him to remain still. At least, it seemed to be Wayne. This man was clad in a costume of some sort, which appeared to have been inexpertly donned. Twisted gray tights were on his legs, and one bare arm hung out of the gray leotard-like thing that Wayne was struggling to adjust. Methos hardly noticed the representation of a bat on the front of the leotard. He was too busy staring at what looked like some sort of helmet lying on the floor. A helmet with eye holes. And pointed ears. He picked it up in wonder.
"You need to stop moving," MacLeod admonished the man gently. "You may have hurt yourself in the fall."
Pushing his arm through the sleeve of the leotard, Wayne said, "You don't understand, this is extremely urgent."
"Yes, always good to get a jump on the Halloween season," Methos said as Wayne struggled to his feet and adjusted his black cape. Noting Wayne's frantic glances about the floor, the older immortal held out the helmet-thing. "Here's your hat. What's your hurry?"
"Mr. Wayne," MacLeod said, actually putting himself between Methos and the mortal as though to pretend that his friend wasn't really there, "you're limping. Let me call someone or drive you to the—"
"There's no time! I'm the only one who can stop him!" He turned and stepped further into the room… which Methos now saw was not so much a room, as a cave. It was full of dusty equipment that was vaguely reminiscent of some kind of laboratory, though the technology was laughably out-of-date. With amusement he noted that everything was labeled with signs, including BATWATER over the water dispenser.
Wayne was hobbling toward a black monstrosity that resembled a car and carried the same bat-logo as Wayne's costume. He went down a couple of feet short of the vehicle, and MacLeod ran to his side. Wayne gripped the Highlander's shoulder and gave him an outrageously sober gaze. "Mr. MacLeod, I can't possibly hope to make you fully understand the gravity of this situation, but I need your help. There's a sinister fiend on the loose, preparing to unleash a dastardly plan on an unsuspecting populace."
Unable to help himself, Methos laughed. It was truly just too much that MacLeod would have finally come across someone who took the honor-and-service extreme to an even further extreme than the Scot. Fortunately, even the duty-bound MacLeod wouldn't go in for prancing about in silly costumes and Halloween hotrods…
"There's a barrier ahead!" shouted MacLeod, moving to apply the brakes.
"It will flatten as we approach. Don't slow down," Wayne said with an eerie calm. "We can only hope we aren't too late. Turn left up there, then right two lights down to the Pearly White Dental company."
Cramped in what passed for a back seat, Methos fumed. "So, we're off to stop a circus clown from helping himself to some Novocain and fluouride?"
"Something far more menacing than that, I fear, Mr. Pierson." Wayne pulled a newspaper clipping from somewhere and handed it to him as MacLeod negotiated a high-speed left turn. On it was an ad for the grand opening of Happy Hal's Balloon-A-Grams, with a drawing of a grinning clown wielding a fistful of helium balloons.
"Oh, well, this puts it all in perspective," Methos said.
"Mr. Wayne, I'd really like to know a little more about what we're—"
Raising a hand to silence MacLeod, Wayne said, "Please, I'll have to ask you to refer to me as Batman. A secret identity is not something to be squandered." He turned a questioning eye backward as Methos began laughing again.
"Adam understands secret identities very well," MacLeod said, making a right turn. "Isn't that right, Adam?" The laughter quickly subsided.
The block which housed the Pearly White Dental company was awash in flashing lights.
"Too bad, B.M.," Methos said. "Cops made it here too bloody fast."
"I'll never fault those dedicated public servants for doing their often thankless jobs well," Batman answered. "However, our response time is clearly not what it once was."
"Yours and… Dick's, I presume."
Sighing, Batman seemed to tire. "We made a fine team, but alas, his path was destined to diverge from mine. Funny how an MBA can turn a boy's head." Shaking his own head, he turned to MacLeod. "There's nothing we can do here. I know where we need to be…"
"Why couldn't we just take the elevator?" Methos demanded as MacLeod helped him through eighth-floor window into Happy Hal's. Batman leaned against a wall gasping for Batbreath, after an invigorating Batclimb using the Batropes. Methos privately hoped he would burst a Batlung.
"Element… (gasp)… of surprise… (gasp)…"
"Do you have an inhaler or something?" MacLeod asked. All heads turned as a door burst open and a clown walked in.
"Ooooooh, my! Look what the Bat dragged in!" he exclaimed, filling the room with gales of raucous laughter. Batman straightened and moved toward the clown, his square jaw jutting forward.
"So, it seems I guessed correctly. It's been a long time, Joker."
"That it has, O Capèd One, that it has!" The Joker made an exaggerated expression of surprise and looked around the room. "But where's the Boy Blunder? Off having a midlife crisis?"
"He's living a life of decency with respect for the laws of society," Batman said forcefully, "something that would be entirely unfamiliar to you. I'll bet you thought no one would tumble to your plan to deliver balloons filled with nitrous oxide to banks and jewelry stores across the city."
"Laughing gas," Methos murmured. "Figures."
"I admit I'm surprised to see you pop up, Batman, but you won't be deflating this plot." Two pairs of henchmen dressed in face paint, frizzy red wigs, and baggy polka dot pants appeared from the shadows. Batman struck a defensive posture as they approached him and his reluctant cohorts.
Batman's fighting style had apparently once served him well, but he was older now and out of training. Fortunately, MacLeod's martial arts proficiency more than took up any slack, and Methos, as always, managed to look out for himself quite well. He was sure he'd actually heard one of the henchmen say, "Oof" as he'd kicked him in the stomach.
The henchmen defeated, MacLeod and Methos turned to find that Batman and the Joker had now faced off. There was much gasping, errant swinging, and grunts and groans as Good vs. Evil hit the Senior Tour. All seemed well until Batman yelped and the Joker easily pushed him away, tossing a syringe to the floor.
Holding his arm, Batman rasped, "You didn't…"
"Hahaha! Penicillin! I saw your MedicAlert bracelet the last time we fought. Now, don't look at me like that. What's a little anaphylactic shock among friends?" Cackling again, he skipped toward the door. "The Caped Crusader, felled by a common antibiotic! It's a regular Batastrophy, I tell you!"
Already wheezing, Batman grabbed something from his belt and aimed. A cable shot out and wrapped around the Joker's ankle. Landing with a sickening thud, he screamed, "You Batstard! I think I broke my hip!"
"…And that's when I decided to add a vial of epinephrine to my utility belt," said Bruce Wayne, back in his study and out of costume as he relayed to MacLeod the events leading up to the onset of his allergy to penicillin. He was using MacLeod's rental car keys to scratch some tarnish from the poles as Methos kept checking his watch.
An exclamation followed by metallic clacking made the old immortal's heart sink. Amid Wayne's sincere apologies, Methos agreed to use the "Dick" pole to retrieve them.
"Hit that button that appears halfway down," Wayne instructed. As Methos slid away, the mortal looked at MacLeod. "I know I'm too old for it, but society could still use someone to fight for decency and honor."
Returning Wayne's gaze respectfully, MacLeod answered, "We all fight for them, in our own ways."
Wayne nodded and seemed undisturbed when Methos's voice rang out from below. "Bloody hell! What the devil am I wearing?"
"I hope your friend looks good in orange," Wayne said with a ghost of a smile.