DISCLAIMER: These people belong to DC Comics. I just fantasize about them.
CONTINUITY: Not on your life.
NOTES: Fanfic100 prompt 16, Purple.
Bruce held his glass of champagne to his lips in an automatic gesture to make people think he was drinking it. Surveying the room from this quiet corner behind a gigantic fern, he mapped out a plan of action for maximum exposure in minimum time; he wanted to be out of this room and into the Batmobile in less than two hours.
He would begin with a quiet word in the ear of Jess Bloomington, he decided. But before he could take a step, a conversation on the other side of the fern caught his ear.
"Is Bruce Wayne here tonight, Phyllis?" a high-pitched voice asked. Ah, that was Aviva Golding, and she must be speaking to Phyllis Heidinger.
"I thought I saw him," Phyllis said, "but I swear he vanished. He's very good at that."
Aviva snorted. "I know he vanishes whenever I want to dance with him."
Bruce covered his mouth to keep from laughing. There were reasons for that which had little to do with Batman.
"Perhaps he vanishes because he knows you're a vicious money-grubbing bitch."
Bruce nodded, leaning against the marble wall.
Aviva's sniff wasn't so much disagreement as it was a comment that one usually didn't say such things aloud. "But the strangest thing about him is the way he seems to always be covered in purple bruises."
"Really?" Phyllis sounded interested now and Bruce cursed silently.
"Oh yes. He hides them very well, but I've caught a few glimpses. The other day he stretched up to pull a book off a shelf and I saw the most enormous bruise on his wrist."
Damn. Bruce knew that slip would come back to haunt him.
"How does he get bruised?" Phyllis asked. "I know he skis occasionally, but really..."
Bruce remembered the previous week, skiing down a mountain in pursuit of Ra's al Ghul. That probably wasn't what she had in mind, though.
"Well, he hasn't been skiing recently." Aviva paused. "Maybe he's one of those strange pro wrestlers one sees on the television," she said with a cackle. "I mean, have you seen those shoulders?"
Bruce wriggled the shoulders in question, feeling the slight ache from where one of the Joker's goons had broken his collarbone...was it a year ago?
"Pro wrestler? Bruce Wayne? Don't be ridiculous." Phyllis called out, "Margie, dear, so good to see you."
Bruce rolled his eyes and pushed back against the wall in an instinctive attempt to avoid Margie "The Leech" O'Hara.
"Darling," Margie said as they kissed the general vicinity of each other's cheeks, "what are you doing hiding in this corner?"
"Discussing Bruce Wayne and why he has so many bruises," Aviva said.
"I'd always heard it was rock climbing," Margie said. "Or was it fencing lessons?"
Bruce rubbed the back of his head, where a cleverly hidden bandage covered the shallow slice inflicted by an Arkham escapee armed with a sword.
"Nonsense," Phyllis said, "that doesn't seem likely for a dilettante like Bruce. Perhaps he goes slumming in seedy bars and gets involved in bar fights." Her shiver of delight at the thought was audible.
Bruce rolled his eyes. True, Matches Malone had been in a remarkably seedy bar a few weeks ago, and there was a bar fight, but it hadn't been an enjoyable experience in the slightest. Even Matches didn't get in bar fights for fun.
"Bar fights?" Aviva asked. "Did you see him flinch last week when the waiter dropped a tray behind him? If a bar fight broke out, Bruce wouldn't be joining in."
Sighing, Bruce remembered the occasion. The tray made a sound remarkably like a pistol shot as it hit the ground and the flinch she remembered was him resisting his reflex to tackle bystanders to the ground for protection.
"No," Aviva went on, "I think he's some kind of international spy."
Bruce tensed up, hardly breathing as he waited for the reaction.
The other two women laughed. "Spy?" Margie asked. "We are talking about the same Bruce Wayne who managed to spill the news of two broken engagements and one secret business deal in the course of one luncheon? The man couldn't keep a secret to save his life. Really, you must do better than that."
Bruce relaxed. Ah yes, it was amazing how many bad things one could foil by 'accidentally' giving away a secret. He lifted the champagne to his lips and actually took a sip.
"Maybe it's just kinky sex," Phyllis said.
The champagne sprayed out of Bruce's lips all over his tuxedo as the three women laughed and wandered off into the crowd.
--end--
Author's note: The title is from a quote by Herman Melville: There is no dignity in wickedness, whether in purple or rags; and hell is a democracy of devils, where all are equals.