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Gotham is a strange city; it feels like a place out of time. Maybe it’s the heavy weight of the city’s architecture looming over the streets, maybe it’s the clouds that never seem to clear, but Bond gets the sense that it’s a city holding its breath, waiting for something. For what, he isn’t sure.
He’ll be gone before he ever figures it out. He has a short turnaround on this job; this is a forty-eight-hour mission at most. Nothing too elaborate: no shadowy organizations bent on world domination this time, for which he’s grateful—his rotator cuff is still giving him trouble from the last mess. He’s just got to retrieve a few million quid in stolen diamonds, easy enough done.
M had paused after giving him the assignment, twisted her mouth like there was something she wanted to add. He didn’t try to push her, just raised an eyebrow and waited.
“Be on the lookout,” she said at last. “There’s talk of a vigilante that haunts Gotham. Don’t get in his way.”
Part of the reason Bond is still alive is that he makes sure he knows what he’s getting into, and so when he makes it back to his flat that night he pours a finger of whiskey and scrolls through Google Images, the grainy photos of the man in the mask casting his face with blue and grey light amidst the dark of the room.
One’s first instinct is to laugh, of course—the costume, by god—but even though the photos are all blurred, Bond can pick out the man’s top-of-the-line equipment and the lethality of his movements. Near-lethality, at any rate: The Bat seems to stop short of actually killing anyone. The killer in Bond prods at this, and he decides he is quietly amused by the folly of it. Mercy is an inconvenient virtue to have in this line of work.
His eyes stray back to the photos. Despite the costume, The Bat draws the eye. He stares at the thick swell of the man’s thighs, the taper of his waist, the wide span of his shoulders.
What does he look like underneath the mask? What would it feel like, to test that body’s limits, to fight it, to wrestle it, to best it?
He clicks the laptop shut with a rueful chuckle. Hopefully he never finds out.
***
The trail of the stolen diamonds leads him to a high society party in the penthouse of one of Gotham’s many gothic skyscrapers. Sources whisper that the thief, a scrawny Norwegian named Olsen, has secured a buyer that will be in attendance, and that sometime before midnight the two mean to seal the deal.
Bond slips into a tuxedo and heads to the party just before nine, joining the flow of the glitter and glamor of the rest of the attendees making their way up to the penthouse. It’s roughly as he expected: the women are all in satin sheaths cut on the bias, pearls at their throats and ears. The men posture subtly in tuxes and menace each other with full-toothed smiles. Bond threads his way through the party without speaking to anyone and takes a seat at the end of the marble bar, settling in to watch the crowd.
“One martini, he says when the bartender turns to him. “Shaken, not stirred.”
He’s suddenly aware of a presence next to him. He turns to see a dark-haired man leaning indolently against the bar. “A man of good taste,” the man says with a grin. “Though I prefer scotch myself.”
Bond takes the opportunity to look him up and down. Broad shouldered and cleanly handsome, he wears his good looks and affability like a cloak. Bond has noticed some American men broadcast their masculinity by looking as slovenly as possible; thankfully this man isn't one of them. His suiting is impeccable: 1000 count Italian wool in midnight blue. A platinum watch peeks out from beneath the edge of his sleeve that Bond is willing to bet cost at least fifty grand, if not more.
The bartender slides him his drink and he raises it to the stranger in acknowledgement. “To good taste,” he says before taking a sip. The vodka is excellent, pure lightening on his tongue.
The man grins. His teeth are very white. He holds his hand out for a shake. “Please, call me Bruce.”
He’s the host, then. And also the prime suspect in the diamond theft.
“Bond,” he says, taking Bruce's hand. “James Bond.” Bruce’s grip is firm, slightly firmer than he would've guessed it would be judging by Bruce's easy-going manner.
Bruce holds the shake for a second longer than propriety would dictate. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before?”
Bond smiles over the rim of his glass. “Just passing through,” he says with a smile. “Here on business.”
“Glad to have you,” Wayne says with a. “The more the merrier, eh?”
Bond acknowledges this with a dip of his head. He opens his mouth to reply, but then there’s a hiss from his earpiece, and suddenly M is speaking. “Look alive, Bond. Olsen is on the move.”
“If you’ll excuse me,” Bond says, offering a thin smile to his host as he stands up.
Wayne pouts. “Going so soon?”
Bond ducks his head in an apology. “I have to take a call.”
Wayne looks mildly perturbed, but Bond is already scanning the crowd for Olsen. He sees him slip into a service corridor and follows suit. Unfortunately the rap of his shoes on the tile is louder than he’d expected, and Olsen startles like a rabbit, breaking into a run.
Bond curses and gives chase. What follows is a comedy of errors featuring a dumbwaiter, the penthouse kitchens, and a serving tray. But at the end of it all, Olsen somehow manages to give him the slip, damn him.
Limping from a misstep in the stairwell, Bond trudges back towards the party, already composing his apology email to M in his head.
And then he rounds a corner to see Olsen motionless on the ground. Mr. Wayne is standing over him, a champagne bottle held in his hand and a hapless expression pasted on his face. "He looked like he was up to no good," he says with a sheepish grin. "Also—are they important?"
In his hand are a king’s ransom’s worth of diamonds.
***
The police show up in short order, and that’s that.
Bruce's mouth settles in a pout as he leans against a parking meter, the planes of his face illuminated in red and blue by the squad cars. “Well, that's a rotten thing. Spoiled a perfectly good party, and only got a few million in rocks. Damn shame. I could have just written him a check.”
Bond, who has never gotten used to the cavalier way the noveau riche talk about money, just ruefully shakes his head. “Somehow I think you will have other parties, Mr. Wayne.”
Bruce seems to brighten at the thought. “Here's to hoping.” He looks at Bond with a speculative eye. “Say, why don't you come up for one last round?”
Bond can’t help but smile. “Oh no, I couldn't trouble you…”
“No trouble at all,” Bruce says with a laugh. “I've got a lovely single malt I've been wanting to break open, and you know what they say about drinking alone.” And he winks.
Ah, Americans, they leave nothing to the imagination. Bond looks at him with a considering eye. Bruce is no balding mob no with a paunch. It would be a pleasure, not a hardship to sleep with him. Bond still can't tell whether Brice wants him dominant or submissive, whether Bruce is the type of rich man that's used to being in charge everywhere, even the bedroom, or if he's the type that sees submission as a luxury. Bond doesn’t have a preference; Bruce would look equally breathtaking standing over him or on his knees.
He swallows. Lets himself anticipate, lets himself want. “Lead the way, Mr. Wayne.”
***
Bruce leads him up to the penthouse, through the detritus of the party and into a bedroom replete with a bar and a crackling fireplace.
His eyes are dark as he pours Bond a taste of what he promises to be his finest whiskey; Bond lets himself savor the scent of the whiskey on the air and the sight of the tendons in his hand as he bends his wrist to pour. After all, Bond appreciates fine things.
Bruce hands the glass over and Bond takes it, intentionally misjudging the distance so that their fingers touch each other. Bruce lets the contact linger a moment too long, the pads of his fingers warm where they touch Bond’s before he releases his grip on the glass. When Bond looks up, Bruce is watching him. His eyes are very dark.
Bond takes a sip of the whiskey. “Exquisite,” he says, tracing the outline of Bruce's body beneath his suit. The tapered waist, and broad shoulders, and thick biceps.
And the faint outlines of knives, carefully placed so they're almost Invisible beneath the outlines of the suit.
Bond takes another sip of the whiskey, and considers this. A gun—now, that would make sense. Bruce is rich enough that kidnappers are a credible threat, and there are plenty of rich men foolish enough to think they can protect themselves with a handgun.
But knives? Knives are tricky; knives take skill. And the way they're hidden speaks to experience and awareness, and a desire to hide both of those things. Knives make now sense, unless Bruce is not who he says he is at all.
Bond turns away from Bruce and casually sets his glass down on the desk before reaching into his jacket with a nonchalant air. He has his hand on the grip of his beretta when he feels it: the lightest feather touch of steel against his carotid artery.
“Hands where I can see them,” Bruce says, and it's like he's a different man. There's no foppishness or coquetry left, only a steely evenness that brooks no room for discussion.
“Of course,” Bond says, and then he’s jerking his neck away from the knife and tossing the whiskey glass at Bruce’s head.
As he ducks under Bruce’s knife he reaches for his beretta again, but Bruce knocks his hand away and slams a foot into his knee, sending him sprawling and knocking over an end table and shattering the glasses on it.
He rolls to the side to avoid Bruce’s hammer kick and whips himself to his feet before Bruce can land a knee to his stomach. Jumping over the bed, he grabs the other end table and chucks it at Bruce.
Bruce bats it away like it weighs nothing before planting his foot at the edge of the bed and shoving hard, sending it slamming into the wall and knocking Bond off balance. He tries to right himself but curses, the ankle he’d hurt in the chase with Olsen doesn’t hold his weight.
He sprawls to the ground, tucking himself into a roll and bringing his hand back to his jacket to fetch his gun.
But before he can aim it, Bruce is on it, aiming a sharp kick to his wrist to that the gun clatters to the floor and slides halfway across the room.
Bond leaps for it, but Bruce grabs him by the legs and yanks him away, and before Bond can struggle free he’s being flipped onto his back, pinned in place by Bruce’s thighs, and faced with the thin blade of a knife pointing at his jugular.
Bond takes a slow breath, careful not to make any sudden movements. “It seems we’re at an impasse.”
Bruce raises an eyebrow. “Really?”
“You won’t let me go,” Bond says, “because I know who you are.”
Bruce stills.
“But you won’t kill me, because you never kill.”
Bruce considers this with a tilt of his head. If he feels anything at having his identity found out, he doesn’t show it. “I can hand you over to the cops.”
Bond winces. “I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Because you’ve got a rap. Or—no, not a rap...” His voice trails off like he’s listening to something, and Bond realizes he has an earpiece as well.
A short pause, and then a bark of laughter. “What I’d like to know,” Bruce says, and there’s something like relief in his voice now, “is why an agent of the crown is waltzing around Gotham.”
Bond thinks about denying it, but something tells him Bruce is well versed in beating the truth out of a man. “Looking for diamonds. There was supposed to be a buyer here.”
That gets a raised eyebrow. “Oh? Who?”
“You,” he admits with a rueful laugh. “I suppose I was wrong.”
Bruce tilts his head. “You weren’t, actually. Offering to buy seemed the best way to get Olsen to bring the rocks out into the open.”
This would have been lovely information to know at the time. Bond bites back a comment about staying out of the way of professionals; it doesn’t seem politic, given the circumstances.
“I suppose your work here is done, then, “Bruce says, and pulls the knife away, tucking it back into the folds of his jacket with a practiced motion.
Bond suppresses the urge to try to take him down again. “You don’t seem awfully worried that I know your secret, Mr. Wayne.”
Bruce shrugs. “I’d say we’re even. I’m sure it would be a dreadful mess, if the FBI found out you were traipsing around undercover on American soil.”
Bond imagines the dressing down he would get from M. “Perhaps.”
Bruce snorts, but doesn’t press the issue. “Are you back to Britain, then?
“I’ll catch a flight in the morning, I imagine.”
Bruce licks his lips. “So you have nowhere to be tonight, then?”
Bond can’t help but laugh. “Really, Mr. Wayne?” It’s a peculiar sort of man that gets hungry for someone that’s just tried to kill him. Then again, Bond has been called peculiar a good number of times.
Bruce shrugs, like he refuses to be ashamed. “You seem to know what you’re doing with your body, at any rate.”
Bond looks around at the wreckage of the room. “We broke the bed.”
Bruce laughs, low and heady. “I have a lot of beds, Mr. Bond.”
***
As Bond finds out, Bruce does in fact have a lot of beds.
They break another one before the night is over.
Bruce doesn’t seem to mind.
Neither, truth be told, does Bond.