"Sir, are you sure it is wise to go about in a mask and cape at your own gala?" Alfred helps to clip the over-the-shoulder cape onto Bruce's dark vest. Bruce's fingers trace along the beaded strings of dark red and purple embroidered into the fabric. It matches the beads in his belt, collar, and lace boutonnière. They act as the only color against his black suit, aside from the white shirt, similarly embroidered with like-color beads.
"It's a masquerade, Alfred. It's expected." Bruce lifts the mask to his eyes and lays it flat against his skin. It's an extra Robin mask, one Dick surely wouldn't mind him adding purple feathers and ornate decorations to, just for tonight.
Especially when Dick is the one who insists he take patrol for tonight, just to avoid the occasion.
"Well," Alfred starts in that displeased tone of his. "If you find your picture next to the Bat's in the Gotham Gazette tomorrow morning, don't come blaming me. I did warn you."
Finally put together, Bruce offers Alfred a slight smile. "No one will suspect me, Alfred, because I'm not going to be Bruce Wayne tonight."
That makes Alfred pause. "You...won't, Sir?"
Bruce's gaze returns to the mirror in front of him. "Tonight, I'm a stranger to everyone. A mystery who leaves nothing but questions in his wake, and disappears before a single one can be uttered."
Halloween may be a dreaded season for Batman, but there are few other nights he can slip into a persona so completely unknown, even to himself. This gala is the only where Bruce can be anyone and no one. A figment created in costume who exists for one purpose alone -to allow Bruce to be completely and utterly himself. He can obey his impulses, can speak as he pleases. There is no consequence for a man with no name or origin.
"I see," Alfred says at last. Again, his tone indicates some level of exasperation at the antics. "Well, Master Stranger, I do believe it's time for you to be fashionably late to the gala you didn't, indeed, fund."
Alfred follows to the side doors, where Bruce won't be so obviously seen when he enters. The old man fiddles with the tall collar, his eyes far away.
"Alfred?" Bruce asks, concern threading on the edges of his mind, trying to pull him back into himself.
"Fine," Alfred lets go of the fabric and takes a full step back. "You look...good, Master...Ah, Sir. Your tailor did well."
Bruce doesn't move.
Alfred clears his throat. "Ah, yes. Enjoy yourself. I will be about offering Dr. Wayne's refreshments, if you so need me." And with that, the butler is rushing away to the kitchen, his voice already biting as he orders the temporary cooks to move faster.
Dr. Wayne. Doctor.
Bruce discards the thought quickly. He'll lose himself if he does and this is a night he's looked forward to. It wouldn't be fair to call off now. Not for something as silly as a slip-up.
So, Bruce breathes in and out. His muscles loosen and his head rolls to rest at a slight tilt. His jaw slackens, accepting whatever accept decides to escape him this evening. Then, Bruce pushes the door open and steps into the room.
A live band plays a dark waltz in the far corner. They too wear masks, but they are all fashioned in an animal theme. The violinists wear the colors of a peacock, fans of feathers rising from behind their instruments. The violist has a sharp red fox mask and the cellist a raven's. Bruce pretends to observe them, as if he weren't the one who assigned them.
He then takes in the rest of the gala. Masked guests talk in laughing tones across the marble floors. Flowing dresses make the space much smaller, but dark suits do well to avoid any full collisions.
Bruce takes a glass from off a waiter's tray and steps into the crowd seamlessly, the way Bruce Wayne never could. He doesn't walk with the sway of Gotham's elite, nor the creep of a shadow. He steps with purpose, but no goal. Each foot knows where to land, but not where it will take him next. He stalls, observes, then moves again; his eyes ever searching for a pretty thing to enchant. Someone who will always remember the touch of his palm but never the details of his face.
He thinks he sees it in a dark-skinned woman with thick coils spilling over her shoulders like sea foam against sand, but the lady at her side gathers her entire, adoring attention. Another pulls at him, but he sees them snatching an extra drink and downing it in one gulp. Perhaps someone Bruce Wayne would enjoy speaking with, but not him.
There. In a plain black suit with the simplest of masks. A large man stands alone, his shoulders drawn in and his eyes cast about nervously. The woman Bruce saw with him before is absent and it seems she is painfully missed.
Bruce steps in without a second thought.
"Boredom kills, I hear," Bruce speaks in a slow drawl, a transatlantic accent falls from him like it's meant to be there. He looks up at the now startled man, which is a surprisingly pleasant change. And he says just as much.
"That's, ah...thank you?" The man says, his hand going to his eye, then falling again as if he's forgotten he's wearing a mask and not glasses. It morphs into an offered hand. "Kent! Of the Daily Planet."
Bruce breathes a laugh. "You aren't very good at secret identities, are you, Kent."
The man, Kent, flushes when his handshake isn't accepted. "Right! Sorry, I just...ah, I'm not very good at this sort of thing. Galas. Don't have many where I'm from."
"You come from?" Bruce asks as he steps closer. While Kent does pull his shoulders up to his ears, he doesn't move away.
"Kansas," Kent smiles. "Born...Born and raised."
He can hear it, the slight twist of his words. Bruce decides he very much enjoys it.
With a graceful air, Bruce bows low to offer his own hand. He peeks up at the man from under his mask. "Would you spare me a dance, Mr. Kent from Kansas?"
Kent's face brightens as his hand entirely engulfs Bruce's in a gentle hold. The touch radiates heat as Bruce pulls him onto the dance floor and guides the inexperienced farm boy as needed. Once everything is in order, Bruce leads a simple waltz and allows Kent time to figure out the rhythm.
And once he does, it feels like they're floating. Bruce's body weighs nothing as they glide across the floor. His heart speeds up at the intensity of Kent's gaze and the shy manner in which he touches Bruce. He's never pressing too hard, never overstepping. A perfectly respectable dance partner.
But Bruce isn't interested in perfectly respectable.
He pushes into Kent's chest and adds a flourish in his steps. Kent is quick to adapt, so Bruce lets himself move as his heart so yearns. He dips their hands, then arches into Kent at the next downbeat. Purple fingers crawl from Kent's shoulder to the back of his neck, threading into the short curls there. He doesn't pull, not intentionally, but the shiver it causes it almost enough to make him do it again. Only manners keep him at bay.
Bruce gasps at the challenge he sees wash over Kent's expression. Any shyness is gone in the face of this new boldness. Kent takes control of the waltz and spins them in a tight circle. For a fraction of a second, Bruce swears their feet lift off the ground, but gravity returns in the next and he's left clueless.
Kent dips him low and only years of training keep him from falling completely. He pants hard as their dance pauses for that moment. His back arches over Kent's arm, his own gripping tight at the man's shoulder. Their eyes meet in a burning stare, leaving Bruce suddenly breathless. The way Kent looks at him, it's...it's like nothing he's felt before. There's a hidden confidence -an intellect that would be frightening to behold, if it weren't so attractive.
Bruce lets his hand leave Kent's shoulder completely to bite his glove off. Kent holds his weight easily, which lets Bruce tug the other off as well. Both fall to the floor and their hands lock again, now skin-on-skin.
The contact makes Bruce gasp aloud. What heat he felt before is now burning hot. The smoothness of Kent's hand is also a surprise. He feels it in his own, the imperfections he expected. There are no calluses from long days at work. Not even an imprint from typing.
Kent pulls him back to his feet proper and Bruce fights off the sudden wave of dizziness before they're dancing again. Hand in bare hand. Chest to chest. Eyes never falling away from each other.
The music stops and so do they. Kent's eyes wrinkle at the edges as he bends down to place a kiss atop Bruce's hand. "Thank you, for this dance," The words are both too much yet not enough. Kent steps away, hands slipping away, but Bruce doesn't let him leave. He can't. Not after mere moments to remember him by.
"Wait," Bruce pleads, but it's Kent's turn to quiet him.
A large hand clasps over Bruce's mask, rendering him completely blind. He shakes, anticipating the touch that comes next, aching for it. His fingers reach out but catch nothing.
"...May I?" Kent asks at last, his breath ghosting over Bruce's lips. It startles a sinful noise out of him.
"Y-yes," Bruce whispers. Begs.
When it finally comes, a kiss both cold and searing, Bruce's eyes roll closed beside the hand over them. He leans into it, gives Kent every ounce of himself until he's laid open for the man to taste.
But just when Bruce is giving into the satisfaction, it's gone. Kent's hot breath disappears, leaving ice in his wake. The hand lifts from his mask and it takes Bruce another second to blink away the bright spots before he can see properly.
Kent is gone.
Bruce floats there, eyes fixed on everything yet nothing. He feels the world spin at the lightness of his head, but a firm arm keeps him upright. "Sir, are you quite alright?" Alfred asks, his tray of hors d'oeuvres discarded to another waiter. When Bruce doesn't answer, Alfred asks again. "Do I need to escort you out?"
That's enough to snap Bruce out of the spell. And out of the weightless persona.
"I'm fine," Bruce says as he stands on his own. Weight returns to his shoulders and his senses open to everyone moving around him, his natural instinct kicking in. But most importantly, his detective mind goes on high alert.
"I think I've had enough dancing for tonight," Batman says in a deep growl. He stalks away from Alfred in a hunch and doesn't stop until he's sitting at the bat computer.
He will meet Kent of the Daily Planet again. That much, Batman can ensure.
And if Bruce licks at his lips, chasing the taste with a beating heart, then it's all the more important he succeeds.
I've been having masquerade Superbat thoughts and wanted to get it out!