Masquerade
Somewhere along the line, way back when, someone had decided upon a list of requirements for wealthy bachelors. For some reason, high on this list, it was decreed that all of these rich, single men would have to throw lavish parties at least once a month, effectively flushing both their money and, in the end, their booze down the drain.
Bruce Wayne hates the man who thought up this list of requirements. He hates him more than dark alleys, murderers, psychopaths, and bats at the moment, in fact, and there are three main causes to this blazing hatred that is steadily building in his stomach.
Number One: At least a hundred people are currently cavorting around the newly rebuilt Wayne Manor, probably having sex in rooms that Alfred will end up having to clean.
Number Two: They are all masked, as for some reason unfathomable even to himself, Master Wayne has chosen to host a masquerade this time around. (He has the feeling that Alfred had somehow conned him into it without him noticing, because he certainly does not remember agreeing to it.)
Number Three: Alfred's choice of a mask for him was unfortunately inspired by his terrible sense of humor.
"I rather liked the irony of it, Master Wayne," was his amused response when Bruce had, with an expression of pure anguish on his face, held up the cheap imitation of his own Batman mask and let it dangle like a dead rat from his fingers.
He is still having trouble bringing himself to pull it over his head. There is the niggling, irrational fear in the pit of his stomach that someone will recognize him from wanted posters and the five o' clock news. That he will be no more than one step from the door before he is arrested and carted off to prison. Or Arkham.
That and it seems plain wrong, somehow, to have to wear a rubbery knock-off of his mask when he has a perfectly suitable one of his own. One that doesn't smell like the local Joke Shop.
Bruce is still struggling to make himself just put the damn mask on when Alfred takes pity on him and puts a hand on his shoulder, steadying him.
"You know, Sir," he says, "I was just thinking that you might enjoy not having to act in front of everyone for once."
Bruce looks up at him, the dark makeup around his eyes that he always wears along with his mask making his eyes look bottomless. "What do you mean?"
"Well, you won't really be in a mask, will you, Sir? I thought it would be nice not to have to pretend to be anything for a while," replies Alfred, clapping his hands over Bruce's, which are still clutching the cheap imitation mask. "When you go out there, no one is going to know that you're Bruce Wayne, and no one's going to suspect that you're Batman. You don't have to be either, tonight, Master Wayne. Let someone else be in control of the world."
"It's a nice thought, Alfred, but these people -"
"Maybe," Alfred says, cutting him off. "You should just go out there and let yourself have fun, Master Wayne. While we're still in the calm after the storm, if you will. Soon enough, you'll have to be out there on the streets again."
Bruce sighs, looks down at the mask and its empty sockets for the seventh time that night. "Alright, Alfred. But if I get myself arrested..."
"Then it was all my idea, Master Wayne," Alfred finishes, nodding.
------
Alfred is right.
Well, in a sense.
Bruce has been leaning against the refreshment table for over an hour now, simply watching his guests chatting and dancing before his eyes, not one of them staring at him or muttering about his choice of a mask. He doubts if any of them even know it's Bruce Wayne underneath, since he has yet to be asked where the bathroom is and only one person has acted sycophantic in the least. And that was only to tell him that his mask looked great.
He isn't socializing, of course, because that would be giving Alfred far too much satisfaction, but he's just started another glass of good champagne and... no one has yet asked him to make a speech or put his hands where they can see them.
It's... nice.
Or it was nice, before the man in the corner pretending to inspect the champagne started staring at him. For a long time, his dark eyes were stuck on Bruce's face, then, slowly, they roamed down his body before coming back up to look him directly in the eye. Bruce doesn't recognize the man, of course, because he's wearing some elaborate, sparkly mask that seems like it was intended for a female circus performer. It's white with blue circles around the eyes, red around the lips, and has sequins dotting it here and there. The only part of him not covered by the mask are his lips, which are painted bright red. The man's hair has been dyed green for the occasion, straight and pulled back into a ponytail. And he's staring at Bruce like he's the tastiest thing on the table.
He speaks before Bruce gets the chance.
"It's pathetic, isn't it?" he says mildly, and Bruce thinks that he must know him from somewhere, because his voice has this familiar lilt to it. "These... people, prancing around, having a jolly old time while the rats too unfortunate to buy their way into Bruce Wayne's social circle drown in their excess. Sometimes I think the murderers are doing those less fortunate ones stuck down in the Narrows a favor. Putting them out of their misery."
Bruce makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat and tries not to focus on the man's mouth when his tongue roves over his exposed bottom lip in a thoughtful way.
"But you know who I feel the sorriest for?" the man continues. "Mister Bruce Wayne himself. I hope he doesn't think these clowns are his friends. He probably knows them better now, with their faces covered, than he does at any other time. Gold diggers and playboys wiggling themselves into the mold that shapes Gotham's finest in the hopes that they'll eventually gnaw their way inside.
"And then," he clicks his tongue, tilting his head as he stares at Bruce, searching for a reaction, "they complain," a small chuckle, "when their city starts to rot. Then it's, 'Batman, save us!' when now, you couldn't find a single person in this crowd who doesn't think the big Bat is either a criminal or a myth."
He presses his palms into the table and makes a noise of disgust. "You know what I mean though, right? You're someone brave enough to stand in Wayne Manor with a Batman mask on his head in the midst of all these influential citizens."
His eyes gleam. "Or maybe you're just crazy."
Bruce actually laughs, surprising himself. "It's hard to tell the difference, these days."
"Exactly!" The man chuckles. "How can you tell the psychopaths from the heroes when they're all running around incognito?"
Somewhere during all this mostly one-sided conversation, the man with the familiar voice had sidled his way over and now he is hip to hip with Bruce. Bruce finds that he doesn't entirely mind it. There's a pleasant buzzing that's started at the base of his skull and he can't recall whether he's just finished his second glass of champagne or his third.
"See that girl?" the green-haired man asks, pointing to one of the younger attendees, dressed in a sparkling red dress. Bruce nods. "Well, she has a thing for grand Master Wayne's butler."
Bruce scoffs, forgetting temporarily that he is grand Master Wayne, while the man takes a generous sip from his own glass and snorts. "No, no really. Watch. In about ten seconds, she's going to ask him to get her a drink, again - this is the third time, you see - and about two seconds after that, she's going to slip one of those straps down her pretty little shoulder and say something along the lines of, 'Oh, never mind, I don't think I could handle any more. I'm just the littlest bit tipsy, and I've never drank this much before.' This, she thinks, will lure him in. And if that doesn't work, she's going to just oh-so-lightly tip herself onto him. Whoopsie-daisy. Were those my breasts against your varicose veins?"
"That isn't going to work," Bruce says. "Alfred would never."
The man gives him an interested look from behind his mask before raising his glass to his lips again.
"Besides, how could you have noticed all of this? You've been looking at me this whole time."
Laughing, the man licks his lips again, probably to gather up any straying liquid. Bruce follows his tongue through the entire journey this time. "So you noticed."
"How could I not?" says Bruce, emboldened by alcohol and anonymity. "I was looking back."
"Really?" questions the man, eyes heavy-lidded all of the sudden. Picking up men, Bruce realizes, is not so very different than picking up women. This a familiar scene.
He smiles. "So you didn't notice?"
"Weren't you paying attention? I was observing that young lady over there, who has indeed just thrown herself all over Master Wayne's servant, attempt to get into the pants of the world's oldest man."
"I think," Bruce responds with the same confident air he has always used with the ladies attending his galas, "that there are better things you could be doing with your time."
The corners of the man's mouth disappear behind his mask as he grins. "Now we're talking. I'm Jay, by the way. Jay Reko."
------
Picking up men, Bruce realizes, is so very, very different than picking up women.
For one thing, there is nothing remotely romantic or showy about the way that they are not more than two seconds through the door when suddenly he is against it and the masked man is taking as much advantage as he can of the fact that both their mouths are uncovered by shoving his tongue down Bruce's throat. He finds the room spinning, so he slides his eyes shut and blocks it out, fingers seeking purchase on Jay's tuxedo and failing so that he ends up clawing like a desperate animal.
"Don't be so impatient," says the mysterious man with another click of his tongue, which is ridiculous, really, because just a second ago he was kissing Bruce like he was water in the desert.
Grunting, Bruce raises his hands to unmask himself. The rubbery material is becoming uncomfortable and he wants to be as close to the other man as possible. A sudden, tight hand against his wrist stops him, gripping him so hard that it's almost painful.
"Ah-ah-ah-ahah," whispers Jay, pressing close to nuzzle at Bruce's jaw. "... I'll be blunt. I'm a bit of an eccentric."
"I'll say," Bruce agrees, which makes Jay laugh, which feels quite interesting with his face pressed to Bruce's neck.
"I don't want to hurt your precious feelings, but me, personally - " his tongue flits outward again, glossing his lips, " - I am interested in one man and one man only."
Realization dawns bright in Bruce's eyes. "The Batman."
"Mmmyeah," Jay admits, sounding sheepish though his grin has yet to slide from his face. It's stupid that Bruce's ego feels a little bruised, since he is Batman, but it does. "So, I'd appreciate it if you kept the mask on. C'mon, be the Batman for me?"
"What guy doesn't want to be Batman?" Bruce asks, which makes Jay laugh and mutter, "Right, right," before delivering another brutal kiss to Bruce's lips. It's just the mindless groping on his part that leads to him squeezing Jay through the fabric of his pants, to Jay laughing breathlessly against his adam's apple and grabbing him by the shoulders for support. Jay's knee slides up between Bruce's legs and then it's nothing but fast, blinding pleasure. He groans. Jay rocks his hips forward into his hand.
Bruce's breath has caught and doesn't seem to want to get back to normal. "I-I suppose that means I don't get to see you either?"
"Oh no, no - " a sigh, " - that would ruin the moment. But come on, Batman, shouldn't you know all about wanting to hide behind masks?"
It takes Bruce a moment to figure out that Jay is only pretending, that he hasn't figured it out, that the intensely cold dread that knots in his stomach is unreasonable. Then Jay is pushing the limits, slipping his hand into Bruce's pants and closing it around his cock and all Bruce can see are the shiny sequins on Jay's mask; the infinite darkness of the room beyond. And fuck, they haven't even made it to the bed but there is something about this... thing, this mystery, the fact that Jay is stroking him leisurely with one hand and he doesn't even have a face to put with that feeling that is turning him on more than he thought possible.
"Ah, now you get it," Jay whispers, sliding his knee up further. The friction is so good that all Bruce can do for a moment is swallow and hold on. But Jay doesn't have the patience to wait for him to move again, and he thrusts against Bruce's hip, groaning wantonly. Bruce lets his head slide back, hit the door, and he stares helplessly at the ceiling, stroking this masked stranger with only a name and a strange fetish for Batman, whose fingers are so tight on him that he has to grit his teeth to prevent himself from crying out for more.
His spine is starting to tingle like the rest of him and the ceiling has gone rather blurry. By the way Jay's hips are becoming more and more stuttery, his rhythm more infrequent, he can tell that he isn't the only one who's close. He marvels at the way Jay's dry, warm palm rubs against him. It has never been this good for him, this rushed, and he thinks that Alfred was right like he's always right and he just needed for someone else to be in control for once.
His hand manages to find it's way into Jay's pants, which is truly a miracle, since he can hardly breathe, much less force his hands to function properly. He has time only to think things like yes and please and how this is how it should be before Jay finally breaks. The other man moans in his ear, then bites down. Bites him so hard that Bruce's vision swims. Then Jay's hand twists just right, his thumb skipping over the head of Bruce's cock and Bruce's hand is wet and everything goes white.
By the time he has come back down to Earth, Jay is straightening out his suit and humming to himself, laughing a bit out of exhilaration every so often. Bruce can hardly bring himself to drag his own body away from the door to slump bonelessly against the wall.
"Well," Jay says brightly, licking his lips again. "Thanks for the kicks. It was fun. We'll have to play again sometime, Brucey."
It's only once Jay has flounced away down the hallway that Bruce realizes that he knew.
------
The hangover he wakes up with is almost enough to make the night before not worth it.
Luckily, Alfred is hovering over his bed, looking knowingly at him with a drink that will undoubtedly both taste terrible and better his condition.
"Interesting night, Master Wayne?" he inquires as Bruce groans and buries his face back into the pillow.
"You could say that," the bachelor replies. "Crazy would be a better word."
"You have no idea, Sir. One of the ladies - Miss Valmont, you may recall, in the red dress? - accidentally vomited on my new suit. And then there was the ordeal of ushering everyone out of the manor."
Bruce groans again. "Sorry, Alfred. That should have been my responsibility."
"Think nothing of it, Sir. Oh, and one of the party goers left you a note. I assume it was the gentleman you wandered off with last night. It's on the nightstand."
Alfred leaves. Which is just as well, because otherwise Bruce might have had a hard time gathering up the nerve to pull his face, bright red, from his pillow and grab the envelope beside his bed. Curious, he slits it open. A single card falls out and lands on his chest in a swift, butterfly-esque movement.
No.
Images of the previous night flash in his mind, overwhelming him. Green hair, a clown-like mask, red-painted lips... hands, on his face, on his shoulders, all over his body...
Or maybe you're just crazy.
How can you tell the psychopaths from the heroes when they're all running around incognito?
I am interested in one man and one man only.
"Damn it!" he yells, slinging the card off of him and into the floor. But it does nothing to erase the jester printed in bright colors on the front of the card, or the Joker's insane laughter from his mind. From the floor, the card mocks him with an untidy red scrawl of, "See you soon, Batsy. -J. Reko"
Bruce Wayne hates hosting parties. Almost as much as he hates those damn masks.