Disclaimer: I do not own Batman, and I most certainly do not own Wayne Enterprises, so please don't sue me.
Chapter 10: Does it Come in Black?
Bruce shook his head, sending droplets of water flying in every direction, as he turned off and dismounted the Batpod. He deactivated the electric collar of his suit and pulled off his helmet and neck brace. Bruce tilted his head from side to side, stretching the muscles in his neck, then began removing his armor section by section, stretching each set of newly freed muscles as he went. Bruce finally pulled off his neoprene undersuit and stepped into the small bathroom that had been installed in the batcave for a quick shower.
Letting the warm water wash over his body, Bruce looked down at the water running between his feet and spiraling down the drain. It was clear, a welcome change from the usual blood-red rivulets mixing with the soap suds.
Bruce stepped out of the shower and grabbed a warm, fluffy, black towel. Alfred had disagreed with Bruce's choice of black towels despite Bruce pointing out to him that bloodstains wouldn't show against the dark fabric. In Alfred's view, it just made the stains harder to find and properly launder; and if he absolutely had to choose a dark color, could he have at least chosen forest green or maroon?
With a soft thump, the wet towel landed in the hamper. Bruce reached for a pair of navy pajamas, pausing in front of the full length mirror on the back of the bathroom door to survey the damage to his body that he would have to hide for the press conference later that day. The well healed, if extensive, scarring could be explained by his highly publicized reckless lifestyle. The fresh bruises would present more of a problem. A problem which could be dealt with later. What Bruce really needed was sleep, he realized, as he somewhat clumsily pulled on the navy pajamas.
Making his way to the elevator, Bruce looked over to the waterfall-covered entrance to his hidden base. The water was just beginning to sparkle in the morning light. Bruce pressed the call button on the elevator, and with a soft whoosh, the elevator arrived and opened its doors. Bruce shuffled into the elevator and leaned against the wall as the elevator rose. Announcing its arrival at the hidden door in the study with a ping, the elevator opened its doors and Bruce trudged through them. Checking that his way was clear, Bruce pulled the latch that opened the hidden door and slipped into the study. He was tempted to just crash onto the plush sofa and call it a night, but thought better of it and kept going.
Bruce arrived in the master suite and promptly flopped onto his bed, not even bothering to pull back the covers. He was asleep within seconds.
Bruce awoke to the sun making quite an effort to hit his retinas through his closed eyelids. He also noticed that there was a blanket draped over him. Bruce rolled over in an attempt to escape the dreadful sunlight.
"Master Wayne," Alfred's voice came from somewhere near to foot of Bruce's bed. He continued, "I would suggest you make an appearance, however brief, this morning, for the sake of your houseguest."
Bruce pulled a pillow over his head and grumbled something about her probably wanting to be left alone.
Alfred set a tray with a glass of Bruce's green protein formula on the bedside table and retreated from the room, but not before glaring at his employer's blanketed form with unmasked disapproval.
Bruce lifted the pillow off his head just far enough to see his breakfast. Momentarily wishing he had a real superpower that would allow him to close the blasted drapes without having to get out of bed, Bruce reached for the glass and, in one incredibly dexterous move, grabbed it and flipped himself over so he was facing away from the open window. Bruce blinked, finally resigning himself to the fact that his eyes would have to accept the daylight. He drank the protein shake quickly; it really tasted as bad as it looked; then set about making himself look marginally presentable.
Bruce found Robin on the sun porch, a tray with a half-eaten croissant and a glass of orange juice sitting on the table next to what looked like an oversized bottle of flesh-toned nail polish. Robin dipped a brush into the bottle and continued to spot-paint her body armor; SecondSkin may be impervious to bullets, but the latex paint on it wasn't.
"Nice day, isn't it?" Bruce stepped onto the slate patio and looked past Robin to the green hills that sloped away from the mansion.
"It's not bad; a bit too sunny for my liking," Robin replied, closing the brush into the bottle and laying the suit piece on the table to dry. She carefully leaned back in the oversized patio chair, picked up her croissant, and took a bite as she swiveled the chair to face Bruce.
"Nice outfit," Bruce recognized the clothing as some of his own, "I'd heard that menswear was in this season."
"Thank you," Robin swallowed and haphazardly wiped the back of her hand, still holding the croissant, across her mouth. "I hope you don't mind me borrowing some of your clothes; it was these, or a dress with a bullet hole," Robin replied.
"It's not a problem." Bruce was looking over Robin's shoulder at the flesh-colored shirt spread on the table next to the breakfast tray, quite intrigued.
"I have a preliminary report on Mr. Kramer. Hopefully you'll be able to make something of it." Robin reached across the table to a manila folder.
"I thought you'd said you were fine." Bruce said quietly, shifting his gaze from the novel body armor to the bruises, a reminder of the previous night's shooting, which had been revealed when Robin reached across the table, the shirt pulling tight to her skin.
"It's not nearly as bad as it looks," Robin tried to reassure him; "the body armor absorbed most of the force of the bullet and distributed the rest so it would cause less damage. All the bruising is superficial; I have no broken bones, none of the penetration injuries common with Kevlar, I'm fine, really…just a bit sore." She handed the folder to Bruce.
Bruce moved over to the table and sat down, opening the file. "Gothamite…did time in a South Korean prison for smuggling…" he read aloud from the file, "prison records say he died in a gang fight in the prison yard…" Bruce smirked, "and then he reappears in Gotham two years later with a new name, and gets a job as a waiter with the best caterer in town."
"I should have his bank and phone records by this evening. I can run them manually if you'd like the information sooner." Robin took another bite of her croissant.
"This evening will be fine," Bruce closed the folder and set it on the table. "So this is SecondSkin," he picked up the flesh-toned shirt, running the material between his fingers.
"What do you think?" Robin asked.
Bruce smiled, remembering something he once asked Mr. Fox, "Does it come in black?"