Work Text:
Extravagant decorations drape the grand hall, cascading gold and crystal that gleam under the chandeliers.
The orchestra’s melody twists through the room, strings and brass, carrying couples across the polished floor in elegant, synchronized steps. Gotham’s elite whirl in their finery, masks glittering, their laughter mingling with the music, like the Narrows’ smoke in the air.
The building towers above the city, a monument of stone, illuminated windows against the inky Gotham skyline.
Bruce Wayne. The favourite son of Gotham. Masker and reveller. The cameras adore him, his effortless charm, the flashes catching the practised brilliance of his smile. The socialites swarm him. Their masks make a flimsy shield for their intent—excessively ornate, yet revealing in their artifice.
His every gesture is designed to disarm, to entertain, to deflect.
It’s a masquerade, a fitting metaphor for the man himself. To these people, he is the Prince of Gotham. Tonight, the cowl stays behind.
But, beneath the surface lies the man who never truly sets aside the Bat. And to this man, this is not merely a night of pleasantries and champagne.
Somewhere in this sea of faces, an arms deal festers – somewhere in the crowd, lies his true purpose. A thread of Gotham’s chaos to unravel.
From across the ballroom, his cousin catches his eye.
The look on Kate’s face makes it completely certain (if it wasn’t, yet) that they would be in dire need of Advil by the time their shows of privilege and pretence were over.
St. Cloud’s silver hair gleams under the golden light, her laugh tinkling like glass. She’s surrounded by admirers, a role she plays as effortlessly as breathing, but her eyes dart toward him in warning. A flick of her head, a barely perceptible nudge of her chin, and he knows—his mark is near.
“Brucie…” she murmurs when he approaches, the syllable drawn out like a caution. Her lips maintain their polite smile, but her eyes are urgent.
“Mhm,” he responds absently, his focus pulled elsewhere.
There’s a fragrance lingering in the air, a blend of jasmine and rose of taif. It’s faint, almost elusive, but it cuts through the haze of perfume and champagne like a sharp memory. He knows that scent—he remembers Metropolis, remembers her.
And then, he sees her.
She moves like a whisper, a ripple through the crowd. Her gown is a masterpiece of emerald silk that clings and flows like water. Her mask is black lace, delicate and intricate, but it does nothing to hide the sharpness of her features – the piercing intelligence in her eyes.
She speaks with a foreign dignitary – his mark, naturally. Yet, there is something—an invitation, that seems meant for him alone, daring him to approach.
Bruce swallows, his throat suddenly dry, and excuses himself from his companions.
“Gentlemen. Silver. Excuse me,”
Bruce crosses the room, the noise fading with every step. It swells, and then, dips.
He finds her on the balcony, leaning against the railing. The city stretches out behind her. The faintest smirk tugs at her lips as he approaches.
Her hair, a cascade of dark curls, frames her face, falling down her back and for a moment, Bruce forgets the mission, the man, the masquerade—everything, but her.
“Bruce Wayne, at a charity ball,” she remarks, her voice lilting yet steady. There’s an edge to her tone, though, he can’t tell if it’s mockery or curiosity.
He can’t be sure. Her voice is sweet, like heaven’s nectar and intoxicating, like the most lethal of poisons.
It draws him in, regardless.
“Miss Head, isn’t it?” he says, finally, though he already knows the answer – the question is more formality than doubt.
She tilts her head, her smirk widening. “Even before you became a recluse, you never came to these things.”
She speaks with an ease that unnerves him, as though she’s known him far longer than she should. He decides, to meet her candour with his own.
“The proceeds go to the big fat spread,” he says bluntly. “It’s not about charity. It’s about feeding the ego of whichever society hag laid this on.”
Her brow arches, and he knows immediately he’s made a mistake.
“Actually,” she says, removing her mask, with unhurried grace. It reveals her full face, striking in its calm. “this is my party, Mr. Wayne.”
“Oh.” The word falls from his lips, a rare misstep. He blinks, his mind scrambling for a recovery.
“And the proceeds will go where they should, because I paid for the big fat spread myself,”
Talia’s voice bears the unmistakable edge of finality.
He hesitates, then offers a smile that he hopes is charming. “That’s… very generous of you.”
She leans closer, her eyes narrowing just enough to make him feel scrutinised. “You have to invest if you want to restore balance to the world,” she says, her voice softening,if only slightly. “Take our clean-energy project.”
Wayne Enterprises and LexCorp’s sudden collaboration had puzzled him—until now.
Now, he knows the catalyst. He nods.
“Sometimes,” he admits, his voice quieter now, “the investment doesn’t pay off. I’m sorry.”
Her eyes narrow, not in anger, but in assessment. “You have a practised apathy, Mr. Wayne,” she says – her words are cutting (deeper than he’d like to admit), although, not unkind.
“But a man who doesn’t care about the world doesn’t spend half his fortune trying to save it.”
She’s peeling back his mask, layer by layer, and he’s unsure whether to be impressed or irked.
“And isn’t so wounded when it fails…” She concludes, pointed, “that he goes into hiding,”
The silence stretches between them.
Finally, he halts a passing waiter, grabs another glass, and takes a long sip before flashing her one of his trademark smiles.
“Would you care for a dance, Miss Head?” he asks.
Her lips curl into a smile, but she shakes her head. “Have a good evening, Mr. Wayne.”
She replaces her mask and vanishes into the crowd, her presence remaining even in her absence. He watches her, his eyes finding her no matter how many faces she passes.
Alone on the balcony, he looks down at the glass in his hand. It feels heavier now, somehow emptier.