A/N: I have no excuse for this, my records here tend toward the scientific. That doesn't mean I can't enjoy some mischief though.
Having a gun pointed in his general direction was nothing new for him, it was all par for the course for Batman at this point. The problem was that it wasn't pointed at Batman, it was pointed at someone worse even than Bruce Wayne. It was pointed at Brucie Wayne.
The gala had been all the usual for the upper crusty of Gotham. All penthouse suites, grand halls, open bars, and way too much catering. The gathering itself had been for a charity benefit for several free clinics across the gap between Metropolis and Gotham, a kind of neutral ground, which was bad enough. He was currently weaving through crowds of socialites and some of the richest brainless fops he'd ever had the displeasure of working with. Yes, it did make it much easier to take them for all they were worth, no one could shear sheep better than Brucie Wayne after all, but it still left him feeling dirty for hours afterwards. His entire persona here was built on scandal, designed to catch the eye of everyone in the room and emphasize the picture of a kind of good-natured idiot that couldn't hurt a fly. A bleeding heart worn on his broad shoulders and a vapid cupidity tacked onto a broad face and a carefully hidden body of scars that would make models blush. A voice like pornography and an attitude not unlike a casting couch had every scene wrapped around his every breath.
He made it a point that when money changed hands here it went through him, that some of that money was meant for laundering but didn't quite go the implied rout… well everyone knew Brucie wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed. This was a lesson that Luthor had learned to the tune of several hundred million dollars. Because as the quote went "Why on earth would you take your money to a laundromat before you spent it? Maybe he's some kind of germaphobe or something." The Daily Planet had gone nuts and Superman had been grinning ear to ear for no less than a week.
All of this was beside the point, though it did offer more than one possible motive. The current motive, however, was pointed at the guest of honor. This venue had been specifically chosen on the border between the two great cities because it was to host the elite among them with the rare appearance of someone very difficult to catch out of Metropolis. The guest being Superman himself, much put upon by the charity organization itself to make one of his rare public appearances. This unfortunately brought things to Batman's point, Bruce Wayne's point, that being a new substance on the market that was likely being put out for testing. To be fair, Batman had warned him, but to be fair for him, they had made this event all but entirely unavoidable without significant loss of public face. The munitions were called dusters, typical armor piercing rounds dusted with a small amount of barely functional synthetic almost kriptonite. The stuff was hard to make and it took a long time too, highly volatile, and taking months to make even ten bullets worth… and like hell it was going to be moved through his damn harbors; maybe he'd just gone soft working with Superman, and it was about time to start putting people into hospitals again… no matter a certain someone's sulking …
The ammunition was extremely expensive too, one round was well worth several hundreds of thousands of dollars just to make, which left little doubt as to its sources. If Luthor was thinking of shipping any kind of arms or munitions through Gotham, he was going to become very much familiar with why no one else was dumb enough to do that.
Again, that was beside the point.
Unfortunately at least one of those bullets was about to be pointed in Superman's direction from a long drape of dark heavy curtains. Superman's eyes had followed him the moment he'd swaggered onto the scene with no fewer than four models, male and female, and a mobbing of socialites and press. It was true that Brucie was designed to grab attention, bottled sex on legs as he was, but in this case the poor man probably just had no idea what he was looking at. As far as anyone was concerned, and that everyone includes the League, Batman was an enigma wrapped in paranoia and lead lined metal and leather and braided Kevlar.
Constant emergency medical mishaps had led to his face being well known on the watchtower, hell, they even knew his first name. The only problem for them being that they still couldn't figure out who the hell he really was, Brucie Wayne sporting several key physical and intellectual differences that made putting the two together impossible. Bruce had short cropped black hair, Brucie had long dirty blond hair courtesy of a weave. Bruce was all sharp angles and jagged bone and scars, Brucie was well rounded unmarred skin with the appropriate makeup, only removable with a special acetone formula. Bruce had luminous silver eyes that shown in the dark like some kind of creature of the night, Brucie had dim blue eyes that leered through contact lenses. Batman was held together with stimulants, duct tape, and a peculiar alloy that wasn't quite metal and made his skeleton a blurry patchwork… and some things just couldn't be covered up in the wrong company. Hence the distracted Clark Kent looking at him with morbid fascination like a jigsaw puzzle had sprung to life. And yes, he made it a point to know everything and share nothing, J'onn had described him as such; a mind like a brick wall and a will like a titanium bear trap.
The good news was that the shooter missed. This was due to an aptly time Brucie Wayne incident involving sauntering over for what appeared to be once again one too many glasses of champagne. The bad news was that when the gunman missed, it ended up hitting the only remaining potential target, Brucie Wayne himself. Straight through his upper right shoulder, a location chosen for a distinct lack of vital organs, but it still resulted in a painful impeding injury. Damn it all, there really had been no better alternative. Alfred was going to be furious with him.
The problem with dusters is that, as the name implies, they are dusted in the artificial almost kryptonite. This means that some of this substance leaches from the bullet. This creates a problem because kryptonite is just as toxic to humans as it is to certain others. Granted, the effects on humans are not a matter of proximity but having it seeping into one's blood easily bridges the gap in lethality. One minute he was knocking into Superman, who bless his kind heart, would always make room for others, and the next he was staring up dumbly into the man's shocked face. There was quite a bit of screaming, he made sure to play his role to a tee as well. Too stupid to know right off the bat that he'd been shot, and too loose lipped not to be prone to theatrics. Luckily, the bullet passed clean through and embedded itself into the wall. Unfortunately, he calculated he had about ten minutes before blood loss compounded with kryptonite poisoning to produce profound fever and eventually seizures. Fortunately he would be blacked out by that point and Alfred would know what to do from there.
Bruce woke again to a beeping noise and thin Hospital sheets. Bruce quickly recognized the antiseptic hell that was Gotham General, turning his head to find Alfred looking at him. The man was the picture of English propriety, meaning either he had almost died in an abysmally idiotic way or, judging from the stiffness in his shoulders, they were being watched.
"I'm glad to see you well master Wayne."
They were definitely being watched then; in more private settings the butler always addressed him by his first name. With a bleary blink he settled into the empty-headed look and grin that Brucie was so well known for.
"Alfie-" the coughing came easy. "-what the devil happened?" He made sure to slur his words appropriately, for once wallowing in the affectation of drugs and wounds. There was an oxygen mask on his face and his shoulder had been heavily bandaged. Looking around he noticed the very much guilty face of the big blue alien himself. Brucie's eyes widened as he stared dumbly into the face of Superman.
"I'm sorry mister Wayne, it looks like you had been shot-"
Typical, that was another point in favor of duster rounds, the bullets had so little kryptonite that they were practically undetectable by the big man himself unless he was right up on it. This did make whether or not the bullets would prove effective a matter of much debate, hence the test round. The big lug probably thought it was all his fault.
"The GCPD is working with the Metropolis police department to identify just who was after you. The bullet seemed to have been poisoned with something." The doctors had told them how close it had been, they'd pushed every antidote they could but he'd been seizing on the table off and on for almost an hour. He could still feel the tremors that came with recouperation from a particularly nasty toxin. Superman didn't need x-ray vision to see it too. It was both shameful and helpful, something Bruce was familiar with.
"Good lord." Brucie was wheezing theatrically but the grogginess had yet to truly subside, not much by way of acting was required. His eyes were bloodshot and he still felt breathless.
"Do you know of anyone who might be willing to make an attempt on your life mister Wayne?"
Perfect, just perfect, the guy didn't even realize that Brucie hadn't been the target at all, otherwise there would be a much stronger league presence. In his defense though, the dusters looked exactly like any other bullet. Bruce looked to Alfred with a, for once, not manufactured look of bald-faced incredulity. The butler dutifully shrugged back with that very same disposition shining on his own frowning face, the picture of polite resignation. Oh well, time to lay on the charm, the sooner he got out of here the sooner he could either dig that bullet out of the wall or yank it from the evidence department..
"I can only imagine a few angry farmers daughters-" He winked with a crooked grin that was all pearly white teeth as Superman spluttered uselessly before gathering a look to himself not unlike determination. "-but really, I've no idea." Oh no, he knew that look, Superman must have felt Brucie's injuries were a failing on his part… god forbid but the man was probably going to- Superman spoke; "I have seen the reports from the MPD and there was no trace of the assassin left, I'm working closely with several members of the league to track him down."
Wait for it…
"In the meantime, we want to help keep an eye on you until the threat has passed."
Goddamnitalltohell…
"Several of my colleagues have volunteered themselves to help as well. I have the Flash, as well as one of our Green Lanterns to help. The escapee headed in the direction of your manor, but we lost track of him from there." Again, in their defense, Gotham was so full of lead it was a wonder anyone could live here at all, a fact that the Bat had taken full advantage of. "I am also hoping to reach Batman but it looks like he's gone to ground. I can assure you though, it's Batman, he's probably five steps ahead of us by now." Bruce and Alfred shared a look before he affixed the most idiotic look he could, a celebrity whose ego was set to go through the roof with what opportunity was obviously coming. "Flash is already searching the grounds around there but we would be honored if you were to let us-"
A rictus grin split Brucie's face, enough that Superman was probably wondering if the Jokers gas bombs had gone off. With all his might Brucie barked a loud laugh that jarred his shoulder. "Alfie and I would love to have you and the boys for a quick shacking up!" If looks could kill, Alfred would be a murderer.
"OW!" Playing up his injuries wasn't too difficult heaving with laughter and hopped up on painkillers. "Looks like they got stingy with the good stuff this time… like that rock climbing mishap." Brucie's face scrunched into a kind of disapproving forlorn sadness for the missed opportunity to be high out his mind in a more legal setting. "I'll have flown the coop by the end of the day; tell you what! I'll get Alfie to set you all up, I've got guest beds and all that kerfuffle should get me at least something don't you think?" Leaning over with a winsome grin Brucie's eyes glittered. The look on Superman's face was one of longsuffering resignation, no one in the League knew much of anything about Gotham's prince beyond the tabloids, which is the way Bruce intended it to stay for some time. If the man was going to be poking around the manor, he was going to be doing it under Bruce's watchful eyes.
"I'll have the guestrooms made ready master Bruce, once you are cleared from the hospital, a driver will be sent for you." Everyone at Gotham General knew that Brucie only ever left here AMA, and while the league legally couldn't very well break into the manor, some situations required a bit of forethought and appropriate action. Both were Alfreds hallmarks, and with a cough the man left to ready the grounds. Yes, the manor was always set up as an indominable fortress as it were, always ready for guests, and always ready to leave those guests clueless. Right now though, they had to both host and repel boarders. Bruce could feel his left eye twitching with barely concealed rage that he played off as a side effect of the drugs. Hooked up to monitors as he was, he had to let his vital signs reflect the picture-perfect image of a complete twat. So far so good.
It was easy enough to outwait Superman, outwaiting of course being a general term for making the man so uncomfortable he missed for the good old days with Lois Lane. Yes, according to Bruce's digging they had most definitely been close but nothing seemed to have come of it even before everything had literally gone to Hell. One's love life tends to fall apart after death and resurrection. By now though, it was all just one more stain on Bruce Waynes already blackened soul, so he playboyed it up. For the foreseeable future Bruce would have to be extra careful about eavesdroppers… but it was with great satisfaction that Brucie, dear looney gone well over the cuckoo's nest, had steered the conversation enough toward sexual conquest that he may well have earned himself a small reprieve. Bruce was still in an exceptionally foul mood by the time he burst through Gotham Generals doors with a smile into the waiting arms of the paparazzi and sauntered his way into his limo. Behind closed doors and with the driver focused on not accidentally running over any reporters, his expression slipped into a truly thunderous visage.
It was times like this that Bruce missed Batman's reserved cell in Arkham, with its straitjackets, thick padded walls, and enough Xanax to choke a horse; it could almost amount to an actual vacation. As a man well aware of the fact that he spent his days on tactical public debauchery only to rove around as a bat themed vigilante at night, he knew he had his fair share of unhealthy coping mechanisms. Simply put, he was well aware that he was completely and irredeemably bonkers.
His fellow League members had suggested he find a hobby, anything that didn't involve the insipient madness that permeated Gotham, something quiet and calming and non-explosive and as far from work as humanly possible. That this was made manifest in a large, secluded crystal Zen Garden in which glowing minerals were cultivated and shaped like little bonsai trees, all colors of the rainbow grown with seeds of various silicates, was considered close enough to a success on everyone's part. He could spend hours in there tending their growth with humidity, chemistry, specific photovoltaic frequencies and music-like vibrations along crystal latices like a discerning gardener does with his pruning shears.
Diana had suggested painting, which had later evolved into experiments in creating visual spectrum memetic hazards. He'd gotten as far as inducing bouts of exploding head syndrome in observers when Alfred had put his foot down and declared the oil paints off limits.
At least with Arkham things were relatively cut and dry, they were discrete in their services whether he was there willingly or not and in the end it was a win-win; he got some much-needed quiet time and was able to check on the inmates and the facilities security before focusing all of his pent-up frustrations on furtive plotting and meditations… and Arkham got a much needed security analysis. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, that sort of thing helped him sleep easier when he could listen in on the roll call.
That and of course there was the Xanax; without it some days just weren't even worth chewing through the restraints. Lord knows he's overdue…
He missed his suit too, the only one that mattered, with its endless planes of steel covered lead lined leather and micro-braided Kevlar. He missed it even down to the uncomfortable way that sweat still pooled and chafed no matter how many tweaks he made to the experimental paneled thickness of the connecting under-suit and all of its many technologies. Hell, he even missed the fitted training weights he wore on it, two hundred plus extra pounds of solid steel that worked as additional bullet stops, how he was still constantly adding more and more to the weight of them. It was undeniably grounding, a feeling of physical control rather than simply psychological. Everything he didn't have in his more culturally normal attire, everything he hated being stuck in; like now.
Gently swirling a highball glass of expensive liquor and specialty whiskey stones, Bruce gave himself just a single more half second worth of frustrated glaring at his scotch. Then, as if the moment had never been, he leaned back boneless and casual in his leather armchair. Green Lantern, or more specifically Hal Jordan, kept his cards close to the vest, enjoying the plush setting of Brucie's sitting room as they played another round. Hundred-dollar cigars firmly between their lips and trading the sleeziest looks they could come up with, Hal was slowly learning that no matter how stupid one pretends to be, you should never play poker with a card-counting rake. Superman was pacing in front of the large windows and stained glass decorated French doors, all but glowing in the sunset as he spoke with Flash and Alfred moved to provide tea and refreshments. If Bruce was going to be trapped as Brucie tonight, with a wanna-be assassin gunning for superman, then he was going to make sure everyone was as put out about it as he was.
Brucie Wayne leered through contacts, lenses designed for use as a HUD screen and audio-video recorder, and between messy sips and rounds of gin-rummy that saw certain people betting with things they shouldn't be considering how much they'd already lost; Bruce was watching the grounds. It was not at all difficult to pinpoint the intruder; he went by the name Crosshair, an up-and-coming member of the criminal underworld that had been invited in by the Bat with open arms… and open biometrics scanners, trackers, and bad business proposals. The man was making his move as their table erupted into raucous laughter, Hal had literally lost his shirt and Bruce was going head-long into full Brucie mode to rankle a certain someone just enough to move that little bit closer to him.
"Mister Wayne, initial survey showed no sign of your assailant but-"
Brucie swept his arms widely and drunkenly with booming laughter. Years on the streets of Gotham had seen him poisoned, intoxicated, envenomated, choked out, dragged out, drugged out, and gassed out to the point that Bruce almost doubted he actually could get drunk anymore. However, being able to drink almost anyone under the table came with the added benefit of having a ready excuse for any uncouth behavior; because if Bruce was bound for suffering, he'd be damned if he'd be doing it alone.
He emphasized this point when superman leaned to dodge one sweeping Armani clad arm by promptly pinching pure-bred kryptonian ass-cheek with a wink, causing the man to jump no less than four feet into the air with a strangled noise not unlike a yelp. "Oh come now Superman, you are a guest in my home!" He made the word 'home' downright sound like a proposition. "I would be utterly remiss to-"
Clark had not expected his behavior, no matter what the tabloids said, any more than he expected to see the glass in Brucie's hand explode when the round meant for Superman's head missed by a few good yards.
"-Ah ma Gad-!"
Seemingly completely out of his mind, the high-pitched caterwaul of Brucie's overdramatic screaming put on one hell of a show. Hal had sprung to his feet heading straight for the door, Flash was gone in an actual flash, and superman was halfway out the door when Brucie fell over backwards out his armchair still yowling, cigar rolling across the carpet…
"Shall I have the tertiary underground sector re-secured sir?" Alfred bent over to appraise him, they had both been correct on just how the assailant was able to move so invisibly.
"Yes Alfred, looks like your bet for the southwestern caverns was correct."
Gotham was a massive city that stretched downward just as much as it did upward. Huge apartment blocks and massive skyscrapers jutted into the air, rooted atop a cave system of solid granite with lead intrusions. The limestone that once twisted through the bowels of the rock had been worn away with time to leave behind a truly gargantuan amount of narrow tunnelling rock ways. Batman wasn't the only one to have taken advantage of this fact; but whether the intruder would find his way through the more northernly expanse or southernly climbs had been a guess at best.
They knew his routes now, time to set some snares. Bruce picked up his cigar, pocketed the games pot entirely, and reached for another glass.
That had been one of his favorite glasses too…
Well, now things were getting interesting. Not only had their would-be assassin escaped back into the twisting underground of Gotham, but Superman was taking it as a personal insult that he managed it. This of course meant that there would be even more backup from the League, wondering if some new name was hitting the street. This was of course compounded by the fact that absolutely no one could reach Batman… which as it turns out was something that worried Superman almost to distraction. When even theB at had gone to ground, everyone got nervous. Worried Leaguers made for discourteous house guests more than happy to poke around just that little bit more. Which made keeping a lid on things that little bit harder.
The Flash had gotten too close to several points of interest already, the man had been a forensics expert after all. That combined with Superman's visual analysis made his secrets precariously kept at best: he needed a distraction and quick. Luckily distractions were Brucie's bread and butter, and with the manor now host to Hawkgirl, Wonderwoman, and the Green Lantern Stewart… well it was becoming quite a house party. It was time to make some phone calls…
The press loved the League, and celebrities loved the press, and both of them absolutely adored Brucie, and who was he to deny his loving fans? That was how an exasperated Superman found himself hovering just over one of Wayne manors many balconies, lit by fluorescent rave lights and watching as guest after guest filled the manor. Wayne himself was sitting on the edge of a large infinity pool with glass after glass of champagne and more models than even Flash could poke a stick at… and he certainly did try. The crowd loved them, there must have been at least a hundred guests babbling about under the limelight and thrumming bass. Superman, however, was profoundly irritated and occupied himself with trying to assuage his ego and disabuse himself of even the pretense of professionalism in this venture. Hal was showing off swimming to fawning crowds, Wonderwoman waved from a nearby balcony, and the general chaos of a party at the Wayne manor was now in full-swing.
"Well than big boy, if I'm going to have guests, I may as well have a party for them!" Those had been Brucie's own words and no amount of apoplectic disbelief was going to make the madness rescind into that liminal space of chagrin reserved for the most complete idiots that Superman saved from just the wrong kind of crazy. By 11am the man had already broken open the liquor cabinet, impressively so, and had begun making phone calls having reached half the crowd before Superman had caught him at it. By 2pm, it was pointless to be in anyway inclined toward stealth, and by 8pm… he would have to admit, it was one hell of a bash.
Superman flinched uncharacteristically when a loud bang erupted by the pool, he could almost swear he felt something pass by his ear but there was no sign of their target.
.Brucie looked down at the popped pool floatie, an oversized rave colored unicorn innertube. The distraction had worked, now it was time for the reprisal. Bruce kicked the glass wall of the infinity pool where the gunshot had passed harmlessly through, the displacement of light by the water having caused the hitman to miss Superman by a hair. The kick fractured the glass, and with considerable shrieking several thousands of gallons of water and no less than fifty people were riding the falls down screaming with delight. The assailant hadn't been incapacitated but his game had been spoiled for the time being and the man was forced to retreat for the night.
This may have been the most fun Bruce had managed in years, Alfred could tell by the depth of his frown.
The next day was punctuated by hangovers on part of some members of the League, and by Flash studying the grounds where the pool used to be. He had surmised that, judging from the thickness of the glass walls of the pool, something with a lot more force than a pool full of celebrities could possibly impart was responsible. They found the bullet casing not long after.
It was well passed noon by the time Bruce had deigned to awaken and within the hour he was back to doting on Superman like the guest of honor he was. Superman, for his part, had been both frustrated and put out even as he apologized for the near miss. Again.
The man kept his distance from Brucie though, having learned some time ago not to be anywhere in reach of errant pinching fingers that sought him out above all others. Wonderwoman had given him a slanted grin of amusement. "Eros himself would get a run for his money on this one."
Which is how Superman found himself standing by the railing on yet another ostentatious balcony, watching the sun set with a sigh. Still no leads yet on their hitman but the Lanterns were picking up clues that lead and frustration had kept Superman in the dark. The assassin must have picked his target very carefully to continue to be able to dodge them. Gotham was the perfect place for it for certain. Superman could hear barking in the distance.
Having focused on those distant sounds, Superman had been caught unawares and Brucie made him pay for it with yet another pinch on the bum. Bruce considered his new record of a six-foot jump and was determined to see just how high the man of steel could jump. Red as a fire hydrant and spluttering with embarrassment, Superman stood on the rail of the balcony glowering with a reproving look. Before he could get into it, Brucie interjected.
"Oh my… what on earth is that racket?" Leaning against the rail with a glass of scotch, Bruce looked dumbly into the horizons of the Wayne manors vast grounds. "Alfie, that sounds like Harriette!"
"If there are other people here Mr Wayne, they might be in-"
"It's even worse than that Superman! That's my Harriette and where she goes Maxwell and Farnsworth will always follow. God, even after all these years- you'd think she were a bitch in heat." Bruce punctuated the statement with a giggle and a swirl of scotch, gaze utterly vapid. Superman's eyebrows rose to new heights as well. They all knew Brucie was a womanizer but this was ridiculous. With dutiful slowness and long-suffering visage, Alfred the butler walked by with a tray of scones.
"I'm sorry master Bruce, something seems to have gotten their blood up." The barking became clearer, much to Superman's relief, he realized the conversation was entirely about dogs. "Dear old mums hounds have gotten out again, damn things." Wonderwoman walked by and picked up one of the confectionaries from Alfreds silver tray. "I wouldn't have thought you were the kind to raise hunting dogs mister Wayne." With a widening lewd smile Bruce waved a hand airily. "Goodness no, they're hunting dogs yes but the most they ever do is chase squirrels!" He giggled a little more, leaning in to ingratiate himself that little bit more to Wonderwoman's less than subtle good graces. The barking tapered off in the distance as Superman leaned in for a better look, making sure to place his backside in safer territory than arms reach.
That was when the explosion happened.
Everyone was on their feet and moving to head to the source when Brucie shushed them with a waving hand. "It's nothing to worry about too much, this sort of thing happens from time to time, I just hope-" Brucie cut himself off at the profoundly disquieting stares of almost half the justice league. "How could this possibly be normal?" Hawgirl crossed her arms, nodding toward Superman. "There is some man out there trying to kill you and something just exploded!" The barking picked up again and all the worry drained from Brucie's body. "Oh thank goodness, well that's Harriette for you, good old gal." Bruce gestured with his glass, something like a toast with the horizon. "Do be a lad Alfie and make sure to put out a marker or something, that's the second one this month!"
"Third, sir. At once, sir."
The butler walked off back into the manor under a blanket of disbelieving stares.
"What? Land isn't cheap, especially in a city of all places." More staring, the knot of bodies thickening. "It's old military land. Unexploded ordinance and such. You know how it is."
No amount of reassuring platitudes made the incredulous stares abate.
It was some while after dark when Alfred communicated back to him that the dogs were alright. Of course, they weren't hunting dogs in the traditional sense, more a group of about five perpetually ill-tempered beasts. Harriette was a retired police dog, a German shepherd well familiar with dodging emplaced claymores. Maxwell, Farnsworth, and Sherman where mixed breeds comprised of bloodhound, mastiff, and probably a bit of bear. Johnathan was part Timberwolf and part demon… at least as far as Alfred was concerned. The butler herded them back into their enclosures with the promise of rewards for a job well done, rare charred steak for everyone, and then set about replacing the exploded mines. There was still no sign of their attacker, who must have slinked off undercover of flying debris. With a satisfied harrumph, Alfred was more than happy to trouble the man with more hidden traps. This would be the last night the Wayne house would suffer fools.
Fidgeting with his hands, Superman looked particularly uncomfortable. In his experience the rich were prone to eccentricity but Brucie was pushing that concept to the extreme… even beyond Luthor levels of, as Lois put it; batshit insane. Speaking of Batman, he still hadn't caught word of where the man was let alone what he was up to. The night was winding down when Brucie approached with perhaps the most expensive looking bottle that the man of steel had ever seen. "You know Superman…" Wayne sauntered in like he owned the world, wearing nothing but a white bathrobe. "I might be disinclined to molestation if you were more inclined to… lighten up." Clark stared at him, for once at a loss for words. The man deposited an equally expensive glass full of the most downright mouthwatering scent of rich alcohol that he had ever laid eyes on, or nose. With an elegant sashay, Brucie walked back to a large mahogany table where Flash and both Lanterns were set to lose the night in fashion. Superman eyed the small group with a sigh, even Wonderwoman and Hawkgirl had preoccupied themselves at their own table, it was as if he were the only person here taking anything seriously at all!
That really was the last straw, Superman paced for a bit before walking to the table, pulling up a chair and cigar… and gave up. His thoughts on the matter could be summed up by a simple phrase. "Fuck it."
Five hours later, with no sign of the assassin who had found himself disgruntled enough to try for close combat of all things, everyone had lost their minds as well. Crosshair was, quite frankly, very cross. He had tried everything, and with only one duster round left and an employer who would gladly have him killed for failure, he was becoming more than a bit desperate. Granted, his target was finally settling down with the others. This meant that getting a bead on Superman from a distance was now nigh on impossible and things were going to get dodgier than ever. First that idiot Bruce Wayne had outed him and bungled his round at the gala, then at the balcony, then at the roof dumping incalculable amounts of crushing chlorinated water, and then he had been chased by dogs and nearly blown up. No amount of money was worth this sheer insanity. Creeping in for the last hail Mary, Crosshair slinked through the dark halls of Wayne manor.
Once again Bruce found himself in the position to thoroughly enjoy being the last man standing. They had been going from one card game to the next, the League depleting over half of his best alcohols reserves and a good number of cigars. The night had gone well, he had won a few games, lost a few games, and drunk nearly all of them under the table. Maybe Kryptonians lacked alcohol dehydrogenase, maybe Clark should have looked more closely to the label of the vintage; either way a bottle of 90% balls to the wall inebriation had done its task. They were all on their way to their respective opulent guest rooms, led by the ever dutiful Alfred, when Brucie gave Wonderwoman a wink from beside a Superman who was much the worse for wear. It was no lie that the man needed a break, and ensconced away from dangers as they were, the man had finally been able to relax a bit. Bruce allowed himself the briefest respite and leaned back in his chair to finish his cigar and watch the room spin. By the time Alfred had returned, Bruce was more than ready for the night to be over.
"Shall I help you move Master Superman to his room?" God help him… Bruce actually wanted to be petty this time. He had been shot, his home invaded, forced to play the demeaning role of a brainless twat, and was losing valuable time that would be better spent on the streets.
"I have a better idea."
Later in the night, all occupants of the manor save two being insensate, Crosshair found himself staring down the barrel of a shotgun wielding Alfred and took a stun-gun neatly to the back. He had later been deposited to Luthor's home surreptitiously via airmail through the window at 4am via a suspiciously black and appropriately bat themed drone. The note pinned to its shell detailing all of the ways any further inconveniences could be and would be traced right back to the man himself was threat enough. It would take years of work to make more duster rounds anyway.
The screaming when Superman woke up all but naked in bed next to Brucie the next morning had been so very much worth the hassle in the end.
Years later, gazing through the Watchtowers vast windows towards earth, Superman still hadn't lived any of it down. Granted no one had seen Crosshair ever again after that debacle, but even then it was a series of events that still worried at the back of his mind like a loose tooth. It hadn't taken much effort to put together the nature of their visit to the Wayne manor, duster rounds having hit the markets just south of Gotham when the bat brought them to the League's attention. The very thought that all those nights worth of madness had actually really been out to get him didn't make Superman feel any better about any of it.
This fact was only compounded by the prim white letter held in his hands.
It was a letter from Bruce Wayne that had been addressed to Clark Kent and been delivered to the Kent family farm.
"I do hope this letter finds you well." Superman could all but hear the smarmy tone and phantom giggles. "You see, there's another gala coming up, no rest for the wicked it seems, and I would adore having you as my guest of honor again. I hope to see you there this Thursday, 8pm, at the manor of course. Something to do with the many starving children of Africa or something." The man's tone and flippancy had been bad enough but the sentence that followed had made his blood turn to ice. "Superman would certainly make a statement wouldn't you think?"
He felt a reassuring hand on his shoulder, Hawkgirl and Stewart had dropped everything to help the moment he had reached out to them. They were still considered minor players in the League who stuck mainly to themselves. Their presence wouldn't make too many waves and would provide him with strength, and more importantly, backup. Superman had already pushed correspondences toward Batman, who seemed to be off grid yet again.
"Well, lets get this started." Said Stewart with a nod to Hawkgirl. True, very few knew just who Superman was but reassuringly no one had dug in too deeply or asked. The League had a strict don't ask, don't tell mentality on the watchtower. No one had grudged Superman for his privacy, he was an alien after all, his human life was greatly precious to him, a small mercy. Clark had shared his identity with very few; Lois Lane who had been a constant and cherished ally, his parents of course, Hawkgirl by accident, and Wonderwoman by long association.
By the time they arrived at the manor, the gala was in full swing and the press was having a field day with not one but three members of the Justice League being present. Given that Brucie spent damn near his whole life under the scrutiny of the public eye, it was no small wonder that the man was able to usher them all to a secluded and out of the way balcony away from prying eyes and eavesdropping ears. Stewart was acting as a distraction for an already distracted and very nervous Superman whose grip was crushing the iron rail. Hawkgirl stood next to him with a glass of whiskey and at least the pretense of not being under duress.
Brucie sidled up to them with that same 'I own the world and everything in it' saunter that had cost Superman so many hours of sleep over quite a few nights. "Mister Wayne… I was hoping to catch you." Brucie turned his eye to Superman with every look about him as though he definitely had caught the man. He had one of the many brands of alcohol that seemed to breed and spawn in his hands balanced between aristocratic fingers, broad shoulders spread easily, an expensive cigar in his mouth, and a look of pure innocuous cupidity tacked onto his face. "My dear small town lad, I've simply no idea what you mean-" Superman leaned over the rail, a pained expression on his face as Hawkgirl crowded to his shoulder pretending to nurse the same drink she'd been holding onto for over an hour. "What, exactly, do you want mister Wayne? You didn't drag me out here for a gala." Almost as if not meeting the drunkards' eyes would afford him that little bit of extra armor, Superman kept his gaze to the horizon. It was because of this, he did not see the man's expression and tone change.
"You suck at this Kent."
"Oh gee thanks Bats-"
"….."
Eyeing the man next to him, whose broad shoulders stiffened into a ready stance, expression sharp and unyielding, eyes betraying an incalculable level of intelligence, and a dry deadpan voice like stone with a sense of humor just as barren... Batman stood next to him in his Armani best. Hawkgirl looked and felt gob smacked, her glass dropping out of numb fingers to clatter onto the floor of the deck.
"WHAT!? WHAT! WHAAAA-"
The whole party seemed to come to a sudden stop to get a better look at where Gotham's prince had disappeared to. Music screeched to a halt, conversations gone quiet, the paparazzi and celebrities and politics all going completely silent, ogling in their direction. You could have heard a pin drop, the calm before the storm of camera lens flashes. Brucie slapped Superman's back heartily with an open smile, the force of it sending the unprepared man of steel screaming over the railing without even the slightest thought about how he could fly. Arms spread open to welcome the night and all of its chaos, Brucie laughed long and loud as he sashayed back into the fray like he owned it, cigar in hand, accosted on all sides by paparazzi just itching for a bigger and badder headline. Superman's backside was sure to be on every front page of every paper, that in sadistic irony the man of steel would be forced to edit…. The gossip columns alone would be a terror.
Superman wasn't going to fly, and instead landed in the hedges below the balcony in a stupor.
"Welcome back sir." Alfred handed him a familiar glass.
"Well now that tears it."