Chapter Text
Bruce Wayne would never dare to call himself a lucky man. Wouldn’t utter the words even within the confines of his own mind. Sure, he’s been shot, beaten, stabbed, broken, bruised, and pummeled more times than most—even in a city like Gotham—and has walked away from it all. But, no, Bruce is not a lucky man. He more likes to think he’s the inevitable punchline to some long-con of a sick, sick joke.
That’s what Bruce's life is. At least, that’s what it seems to be at the moment.
Bruce lets his eyelids fall shut and holds them closed for a long moment. Breathing in through his nose and swallowing down an achy groan before he allows himself to open his eyes again. This can’t be happening right now. At four in the morning, smack in the center of his living room, and just mere minutes after he’d shed his armored suit, and heeded Alfred’s strongly-worded advice (commands, more like) to get some rest— “at least four hours, Master Wayne”.
“Look, I don’t know what grievance you have with me, but please? Can’t this wait until 9am?” He tries deflecting with an edge of Brucie in his voice. He’s sure the lack of a shirt and a fluffy pink towel wrapped around his waist doesn’t hurt the effect.
The knight—and yes, the Knight, in full plate armor with a shimmering halberd to boot—inclines its head and tightens its hold on its weapon. “I am sorry to disappoint, but this matter is of the utmost importance.” It speaks with a deep timbre to its voice, sounding quite relaxed albeit a bit on the formal side. Bruce has to admit, whatever thing this creature is, it is really adhering to its motif.
Bruce, not one to assume the well-intentions of anyone, quickly recalls the various spots around him that are concealing weapons or gadgets, focusing especially on the spot concealing a particularly potent smoke bomb. He wonders how fast this creature can move under the weight of its armor. “Alright, but I’m not much of a fighter so…I guess, go easy or whatever—.” Bruce discreetly presses a finger onto the panic button hidden on the back of the L-shaped couch separating him and the thing that looks as if its been plucked straight out of a medieval drama.
Bruce can’t make out much under the helmet, but he dares to think its shoulders pitch upwards, the beginnings of a chuckle huffing out of its nose. (At least he thinks there’s probably a nose under all that metal).
“I assure you, I am not looking for a fight with you, Mister Wayne. Nor would I be permitted to engage in such things while I am here on this plane. It would be unbecoming.” It hums easily. Bruce's eyes catch on the stillness of its abdomen. He assumes the rigid frame of armor would mute any evidence of breathing in general, but he's doubtful the utter lack of movement is normal. Before he can ponder the strangeness any further, the being is speaking again. “I am here on official business by decree of our great and honorable King, ruler of the infinite realms, usurper of the ruinous Pariah Dark, and judicator in matters of death, un-death, and the persons therein.”
Bruce feels his gut clench in a horribly familiar way. His heart jolts so hard he thinks it might fall from behind his parted lips. He feels his palms dampening as a cold chill rakes its claws down his tense back. Bruce's body is betraying him despite the iron-clad grip he usually keeps on himself.
His first thought is of his son. The second child he welcomed into his home. His little boy who’s not so little anymore. Towering over him and riddled with scars that run deep. His baby that he buried and his baby who emerged back in his life like a live-wire. Lashing out with pain and uncontrolled fury, unseeing to the damage rot. His son who has fought so hard to rein in his more violent compulsions. Jason
Bruce feels the stab of his blunt nails into the skin of his palms, pain blooming and pulling his focus enough to keep a look of utter despair off his face.
His second thought is the gaps in the creature’s armor at the underarms, the groin, and presumably at the backs of its knees. They could provide ample enough room to strike through to the flesh.
His third is that a simple blade may not do any damage at all. He has no clue what this thing standing in front of him is. It, as a Knight of a lord of undeath—if it is to be believed—presumably would not be troubled by something as mortal as a killing blow. He may need to contact someone from the more magically inclined side of the Justice League if he manages to get out of this situation.
Bruce clenches his jaw, and lets the muscles in his body tense. Ready to move.
“Mr. Wayne, please stop sizing me up. I am not here to trouble any of your kin or allies.” The Knight shifts with a loud shick of metal, rolling his shoulders back. “The one I seek is Jack Napier, more commonly known by his alias, The Joker. You are familiar with him, yes?”
Bruce feels his chest unfurl as an audible breath falls from his lips despite himself.
And then he stills. “I’m sorry?”
“I’m here for the Jok-“
“No. No, I heard all of that-uh, Mr? Knight.” Bruce pushes a hand through his damp hair with a exasperated sigh. “What I mean is, what does that have to do with me? Do you think that I’m the Joker because, I’ll have you know, I take great offense to that.”
“Ah, I see,” The knight huffs in that way that sounds like the edge of a laugh again. “There’s no need to be coy, Mr. Wayne. Your night time proclivities are not unknown to the King of infinite realms, so they are not unknown to me as his liaison in this matter.”
Ice crawls up his spine. For a long moment, silence passes between them. The air heavy and still.
“What are you even talking about…?—“ Bruce immediately pivots to his best defense, 'admit nothing'.
The knight tilts its head in a particularly condescending manner, managing to shrug its shoulders under the impressive weight of its armor. “Bruce.” It shakes its head. “You are Batman, of this I am certain. Even if I had not been adequately informed of this beforehand, I stood in your lair of your many bat-themed accoutrement and watched you shed your cowl.”
Bruce stares at the knight, unblinking. ...not good.
A sound like an alarm blares between his eardrums. Thumping against his skull with each pounding beat of his heart. What the hell is going on here? Who is the King of the infinite realms, and how does Bruce untangle himself from whatever aggressive cold-call service this is? A shiny-armored knight apparates into his home in the wee hours of the morning, is asking about the Joker and knows his secret identity. Just great. Spectacular even.
“Master Wayne, I believe that I had advised a long nap…not whatever kink exploration this is.” Alfred mutters primly as he marches up to stand beside Bruce. His freshly-shined dress shoes clicking against the shiny floors.
Alfred is casual in his speech and posture, but the loaded shotgun held firmly in his hands is anything but. The barrel of the gun glints under the pearly white light cast down from the glimmering chandelier hanging high above them. The Knight seems unfazed as it passes its gaze (judging by the tilt of its helmeted-head) over the new arrival. “Hello, Mr. Pennyworth.”
“Good evening, sir," Alfred's piercing gaze roves over the imposing stature of the person standing in his home. The metal that comprises the suit of armor is dark in color, but well-polished. Alfred notices chips and dents in some places on the plate-mail, and wonders what kind of battles might have left such marks. The armor is clearly not for show. Alfred squints at the sheer face of the helmet. He can see a set of dark eyes staring back at him through the vertical slits in the armor, and he can feel a growing chill in the air that he is quite sure is emanating from the Knight. "Apologies, but I’m afraid I don’t recall having met you before."
The Knight huffs out a breath that plumes out between the slits of the helmet in a thin, white cloud. “No, I don’t think we did.” It flexes its fingers around the pole of the halberd in its grasp. “And as lovely as I think speaking with you now would be, I must insist we move past the pleasantries of introductions. I have business with the guardian of this city.”