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#21: take them out (not like THAT, silly!)
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If Bruce had any real say in it, inviting clowns and magicians as entertainment to public events in Gotham City would be strictly forbidden. Over the years so many of them turned out to be insane and/or homicidal that at this point hiring one as the main attraction for the evening is just asking for trouble.
Only people don't seem to learn.
Countless galas and charity balls hosted by the social elite of the city had fallen prey to the crazy and to the bloodthirsty before, and yet, holding entertainers became somewhat of a point of honor among the rich in the years of Bruce's absence, despite all the risks.
But that's… fine. It's not up to Bruce to think for others even when he IS the one that usually ends up saving the day.
Not tonight, though.
Tonight he's here as Bruce Wayne, the eccentric billionaire child that went off the grid for years in the heap of trauma, only to return shaking the very foundations of Gotham's political and economic balance.
Tonight he's here without gear at hand or Alfred in his ear, ready to survive the socialite sharks as one of their own. Bruce may not like the mingling and schmoozing very much, but he's apt at keeping up the coldly polite charade enough to not avoid his responsibilities either. And it is the annual Gotham Police Gala tonight, so his presence as not only the local billionaire, but also the Commissioner's close friend is somewhat… non-negotiable.
So far, it's not so bad.
Bruce spotted Selina a few times among the crowd already, without a doubt working her magic. He slipped from a few too boring conversations and danced with a few older ladies, adorned in priceless jewels like they were mere glass. He laughed and drunk champagne, and, all in all, as far as these things go, he didn't have that bad of a time at all.
And now, with his quota of mandatory social interactions fulfilled and all but finished for the night, Bruce lingers by the bar, watching the soon-to-be-entertainers prepare their stage from behind the wide gap in the curtains. The act itself is hardly a surprise to anyone present, but Bruce is not sure what exactly it is supposed to be. Mimes? Stand-up comedy? Animal tamers? No idea.
Bruce tries to gauge the possibility of danger from the bits and pieces he can see, but for once it's not giving him much. Though… just because it doesn't look like the performers are smuggling machine guns among the abundance of colorful props, doesn't mean they aren't.
His train of thoughts is broken when a hand pats him lightly on the shoulder.
Bruce turns, business smile ready on his face, but it's not yet another benefactor that greets him.
"Dance with me," Selina demands, already dragging him towards the dance floor.
Huh.
Bruce goes.
It's not often that the two of them interact at those sorts of events, keeping their acquaintance just public enough to be acknowledged, but immediately dismissed by those who don't already know exactly how close they are. It keeps things easier.
And even in those rare moments they actually do interact, it's usually Bruce who seeks out some reprieve from all the fakeness. For Selina to just go for the kill like that, something must be afoot.
As she leads him through the mass of bodies, Bruce allows his plastic expression to morph into something more familiar, more him; maybe the evening will gain some flavor after all.
"To what do I owe this pleasure, kind miss?" he asks teasingly when they finally stop and start to gracefully sway among other pairs.
Selina huffs.
"Too many loaded losers."
"Ooh?"
"Shut up, B, I have it handled." Well, that explains exactly nothing. Good thing that Bruce learned to wait her out a long time ago. He smirks, but doesn't dig any deeper.
The music slowly takes them around the room and soon they're passing closer to the stage and all the evening officials that are gathered there. Bruce doesn't need his sharp detective skills to notice the way Selina flinches as the mayor's group comes into view.
"Losers, huh," Bruce quips but allows her to pull them away. "Should I have A Little Talk with Mr. Undersecretary about his lack of proper manners again?"
He would, in a heartbeat. Exercising a bit of the Bat's charming intimidation, even out of the cowl, would certainly make for better entertainment than whatever the hosts had planned. But the smile Selina gives him in response has less of an edge than moments before and it tells Bruce that she, indeed, has it handled.
"Playing arm candy to the biggest douche in the room is idiot-repellent enough, thank you," she says flatly and they both have to stifle a chuckle. Nothing like the good old-fashioned trash-talk to lighten the mood.
But the evening is nearing its promised culmination and Bruce can't help the nervous anticipation that begins to well up in his gut. He could just leave, of course. Bruce Wayne isn't exactly known to be the best at staying at all those galas he attends, even though his presence is rather spotlessly consistent.
He's got a feeling, though.
An itch no amount of logic will scratch; on the contrary, all the Bat instincts in his head are wailing in alarm.
In a city plagued with crime, crawling with villains fighting for attention like rabid animals in a grotesque zoo, what better occasion to show off power and stake a claim than a Police Gala?
None, that's what.
Bruce very much wishes it was Batman, not him, on the ready tonight, because that something is going to happen is just a matter of time. Unfortunately, even for the likes of him not all obligations can just be scratched off with a handful of money and a hollow smile, his presence here tonight being only one among many.
Bruce finds some semblance of comfort in the way Selina doesn't seem much concerned, though. Her only palpable irritation the men with too grabby hands and too big mouths, and she is one of the most well-informed people in the city. If something was brewing behind the scenes, she probably would've known. Then again, Selina's not ever fazed by much, her steel-hardened nature enough to let her shrug most common threats like rubble dust. So maybe he should be worried.
It's only then, when they circle closer to the stage again, that Bruce gets tapped on the shoulder for the second time this evening, his thoughts about robbers and villains on the loose immediately dissipating.
It's the second time also, that his business smile and a polite retort die on his lips when his eyes lie on his assailant.
Despite the fake beard, fake hair and thick-rimmed glasses, the face that greets him is the one that Bruce would recognize anywhere.
"Jerome," he rasps, surprise barely concealed in his voice. Jerome grins.
"Hello, darling. Mind if I slither in?"
No.
"Yes. Can't you see I'm accompanying a lady?"
But Bruce can already feel Selina slipping out of his hold, all-knowing smirk plastered all over her face. Traitor.
"Have fun," she murmurs offhandedly and then she's gone, melted into the crowd. It takes Jerome less than a second to fill her space, and then they're dancing in a hall full of people like it's not a big deal at all.
Like Bruce is not twirling around with a criminal in his arms, a criminal most likely to blow this whole place up in a matter of minutes, or enslave everyone present thanks to the courtesy of his goons. Like there is nothing wrong with it at all.
But maybe…
Maybe there isn't.
Bruce can't really deny the strong pull between them that's been building up slowly since that fight on the roofs. He can't deny it was there before, lurking at the back of his mind like a treacherous disease, set free by the moment all the secrets have peeled away, and marking the beginning of something more. Something dangerously real.
And now they're here. Dancing, pressed closely together for the whole world to see.
It shouldn't feel this right.
It does, anyway.
Bruce can feel his face doing things he didn't really approve of, more than sure his smile turned into something dopey and soft. He can see it reflected in the glass of Jerome's specs when the light hits them just right, and mirrored right back at him under the layers of fake hairs. All of this, the music, the spinning, the sensation of skin brushing skin when they move with the rhythm makes Bruce feel almost giddy. And he's more than sure it has nothing to do with the champagne he drank before.
"What are you doing here?" he asks lightly, already prepared for whatever non-answer Jerome has in store.
"Couldn't let you get bored to death, now could I," Jerome smirks happily. "Aaaaand cashing in on all these big bougie fishes is a nice boon, don't you think?"
There is smugness in his voice and a playful glint in his eyes and. Well. Bruce really didn't expect him to be so forward.
Huh. It's a first, certainly.
Somehow, the novelty of openness stifles the heat of Bruce's nerves and the confirmation that something nefarious is indeed going to happen tonight doesn't spoil his mood at all. It's Jerome after all. Bruce knows Jerome. Everything that could possibly go wrong isn't going to cross on the wrong side of horrible if they are both here. Bruce scoffs and bites back a smile. Yeah, right.
"Oh, but don't worry, precious, I'm mostly here just for you."
Jerome's expression, despite his goofy disguise, manages to be downright predatory as he leans into Bruce's space, and Bruce…
Bruce hasn't noticed when the music turned into a tango.
"Really?" he nudges, arching a brow and forces them into a sharp turn. "And why is that?"
"You left me all to my lonesome, Bruce," Jerome sighs wistfully. "You should know that Sad Clown is not a good look on me."
Another sharp turn.
"But I agree." A smile. A push. Bruce lets Jerome spin him in place before closing him in a hold from behind. Fake beard scratches his neck and cheek as Jerome leans close enough that his breath ghosts over Bruce's ear.
"You naughty boy, you. If you wanted so badly to see me, you could've just called." Jerome's lips brush his skin as he speaks and Bruce can't hold in a shiver. He's not sure if it's adrenalin pumping up his veins or something else entirely.
"True. But where is the fun in that?"
Jerome rapidly spins him over so they're face to face again. His eyes glimmer with mischief in the chandelier lights.
"Awww baby, I like your style," he says flatly. And then he's laughing and Bruce is laughing and they must look utterly ridiculous to everyone around — folded into each other yet still moving swiftly with other pairs. It's easier, too, now with the tension between them broken to pieces.
"You know I'm going to stop you, right?" Bruce murmurs over Jerome's ear and breathes him in. It's strange, how, by all means, he should smell of blood and destruction, but doesn't. It's a nice smell. Bruce could get used to it.
"You're no Bat now." Jerome nuzzles the side of his neck, glasses digging uncomfortably into Bruce's flesh. "Pretty billionaire boys ain't fit to fight the monsters."
"Jerome."
Bruce wants to protest; wants to say that he's always the Bat and that billionaire boys have fought and beaten Jerome bloody before. He doesn't. He tightens his grip on Jerome's hand instead and pushes him into a spin. He lets the momentum carry and when their bodies are set to clash back together he dips Jerome low enough for the tips of his wig to brush the floor.
When their eyes meet, Jerome's smile is all teeth and Bruce meets it with one of his own; sharp enough to break the playful edge. They might be… whatever they are in this moment, but Jerome does have a point and Bruce is with no backup whatsoever.
It's… good, though. This thing they have, the closeness. Good enough that Bruce is not sure he wants it to end.
Of course, that's when the big clock at the front of the hall chimes — midnight? Can't be midnight, this isn't a fairytale, Bruce — and it must be finally time for the performance, because Jerome moves.
He uncoils himself from Bruce's hold and steps forward, suddenly close enough for Bruce to count all the freckles on his brow if he only so whished. He does.
"Better stay in the back, darling, we wouldn't want you getting caught," Jerome says hastily before pressing a quick, tickling kiss to the side of Bruce's jaw. And then he's gone, tearing away from Bruce like a wretched Cinderella.
Bruce lets him. Watches him dash between the crowds with the surprising grace of someone used to avoiding capture, and briefly wonders if there is still time to get out of here before Jerome breaks all hell loose.
There isn't. The Maniax are already blocking the exits in a swift manner and Jerome takes over the stage with cooing laughter, cold and maniacal, and nothing like what they've shared a few moments ago.
He listens to the advice, moving farther away from the scene, and when the fear gas breaks and Firefly burns the nearest tables, Bruce is very glad he did so. There isn't much he can do in his current persona, and while the sight of pain and needless destruction makes him rage for vengeance, there is no point in making this harder on himself than it already is. He only hopes Selina got away before the madness started, but somehow, he thinks, when the Maniax start cuffing people and collecting their loot, she must've gotten a tip.
Bruce sighs and rubs at his eyes.
Being only one in the crowd of hostages is never much fun.