Back from hiatus yay!
Jan. 5th, 2009 01:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seriousficTitle: Duality
Fandom: Nolanverse Batman, Superman Returns
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,824
Characters/Pairings: Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Lucius Fox, Selina Kyle
Previous Part: Chapter 20
Next Part: Chapter 22
Summary: Bruce comes home and Selina meets someone to write home about.
It was a sunny day when Bruce Wayne returned to Gotham. He disembarked from his jet long enough to walk to his helicopter, and for a couple dozen pictures to be taken of him. Then he was sped along to Wayne Manor. Alfred was waiting at the rooftop helipad with tea and crumpets. To the butler’s sorrow, Bruce took the mug of hot coffee. It was only after he’d finished with the first sip that he noticed the yellow-outlined Bat symbol on the black mug. He pointed at it.
“Allow me my small pleasures, sir,” Alfred said. “I saw it in a curio shop and I just couldn’t resist.”
Bruce reluctantly drank from it. “Coffee’s good.”
“That it is, Master Wayne. Will there be anything else?”
Bruce, who was already shielding his eyes, walked out of the sunlight and into the mansion. He loosened his tie, took off his jacket. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Well then, perhaps I should tell you Miss Talia is being released from the hospital today, and seeing as you’re her friend, perhaps you should be on hand to give her a warm welcome…”
Bruce turned around to Alfred, who was casually seeing the tea tray down on a hall table. “We barely know each other, Alfred.”
“You do have time to change that, Master Bruce. She seems like a nice girl. And ever since Miss Dawes left…”
“Stop,” Bruce’s voice was quiet, but loud enough. “I don’t have time for this.”
***
“Considering the last vehicle I loaned you was a tank, I’m a little at a loss as to how you could need a new one,” Lucius said, walking with Bruce through the Warehouse, the garage for abandoned prototypes. Most were under cloth, but a few were being tinkered with, toolboxes open, hoods propped up.
“I was hoping for something with a little better gas mileage. And more maneuverable. Smaller profile. More weapons.”
“Anything else?”
“One of those cupholders with the little wings so it can hold both a Big Gulp and a medium latte?”
Lucius thought about it, took a right turn. “Well, I can’t say it has a cupholder, but I think this might work.” He pulled off one of the sheets.
Bruce smiled. “Wrap it up. I’ll take it.”
***
The Oldsmobile was right where Alfred had said he’d leave it. Bruce slipped inside, letting the mirrored windows render him invisible, and touched up his disguise with the kit in the glovebox. He drove.
On the outside the Oldsmobile was all rust, but inside it could get him out of there in a hurry. His disguise took care of the rest. Sunglasses, mustache, and the name he’d had the Wonder Boys put out on feelers all week. Matches Malone, big-shot
He reached Club Pussycat in high spirits and the appearance of drunkenness. It was several blocks from the other club, but a world away. The club had a neon sign that winked “cat” at passersby, with curtained windows that let out kaleidoscopic lights at the corners. Red, blue, green, crazily. It turned the doorman into a statue of ruby, sapphire, emerald. He let Bruce in for a C-note.
The place was loud with Kid Rock music blaring from ill-concealed speakers and snippets of other songs – Barry White, voulez-vous couchez avec moi, a lullaby – wandering out of closed doors. Smoke wafted over him like a second ceiling, miraculously not triggering the sprinklers. Bruce doubted the sprinkler system would pass the fire code at any rate. The lightning, despite its forceful multi-colored glow, was almost dim enough to hide the wrinkles on the strippers, the tracks marks like tiny mouths. Spotlights and disco balls provided the steadiest illumination, spotlights roaming to hit a waitress or pole dancer and reveal a thigh, breast, butt.
He lit a cigarette, coughed on it slightly, adding to the shifting morass about their heads. It was a sandstorm by the time he strutted to the bar. The one sanctuary of noiselessness in the din was dirty and wooden, with bottles of rotgut lining the shelves. Bruce leaned on the bar. The bartender was a big man with a formidable gut under his leather vest, and an even more formidable number of tattoos, as well as piercings in all the usual places.
Acoustics let his voice escape the pounding music. “Hello, I’m slumming it.” He lifted his arm to find an unidentifiable fluid had soaked his sleeve. “Really slumming it.” He gave a practiced smile. “You know how sometimes you want a girl by name? Not a specific one, just one named something right? A busty blonde named Jessica or a dirty nasty freak named Betty? Well, I’m looking for a Selina.”
“You can call me anything you like, handsome,” said a teen girl in a too-tight tubetop and too-short leather miniskirt as she got way too close.
A leather-gloved hand reached in and twisted the girl’s ear, dragging her off Bruce. “Lay off the man, Holly, can’t you see he’s trying to buy me a drink?” Bruce followed the glove up a surprising muscular arm to a shoulder to a face hidden behind a gimp-like half-mask, cat ears protruding from the top in a touch of whimsy, full lips twisted in an appraising smile. They parted moistly: “I’m Selina.”
“You certainly are.” He plucked her hand from Holly’s ear to kiss it through the leather. “What was that about me buying you a drink?”
“White Russian, heavy on the cream.” She lightly scratched Holly’s cheek. There were short claws coming out of the tips of her gloved fingers. They left tattered strips of white skin. “Scram, kitten, momma and poppa need to talk.”
“Promise to tell me how it goes?”
Selina looked Bruce up and down. “If there’s anything to talk about.”
“Oh, I think I can just about guarantee that.”
She led him by the forearm, her claws cutting through his shirtsleeve, into a room that might be called the champagne room, but in reality was closer to a Bud Light room. It was about the size of a walk-in closet, with a couch built into the wall at one end of the room and a brass pole at the other. In the middle, opposite the door, was an midget jukebox on a shelf.
Bruce noticed other things, like a showerhead, a mirrored ceiling, D-rings on the walls and floors, and crumpled tissues swept into a corner. The wall socket had one plug filled by an air freshener, the other by the jukebox’s extension cord. Selina turned the volume dial high enough to drown the outside noise, then looked at Bruce.
“Any requests?”
Bruce was taking off his jacket. “Well, I’ve always been partial to…”
She shoved him down onto the couch. “Good.” By touch, she found the right key. Cat Scratch Fever began billowing out of the speakers… and straight into Selina’s body by the way she undulated preternaturally. The tears in her leather pants let the light in; daggers of light reflected off bared thigh, shorn pubis.
“You have a thing for cats?” Bruce asked.
Her push-up bra melted like quicksilver on her flexing, flowing upper body. “Everyone has a thing for something. Some cats, some dogs… and at least one guy’s partial to bats.” She planted a boot on the seat cushion, between his legs, rolled up her shredded pantleg to reveal it was a thigh-high. “Little help?”
He began undoing it. Slowly slipping it down her leg, watching every inch of flesh and finding it smooth as polished marble. “So, what’s it like being an exotic dancer?”
She laughed, thick, throaty. “What’s it like being a billionaire playboy?”
Bruce smiled at the recognition of his net worth. He’d have to work harder on the disguise. “Very rewarding.” He slipped her boot all the way off and held her foot in his hands. It was surprisingly petite, a ballerina’s foot, made for a glass slipper. He rubbed it like Gilda did for Harvey at the end of a long day. “What’s it like being a stripper, Miss Kyle?”
She pushed him back with her toes on his forehead, not quite a kick… “Not so rewarding.” But she gave him her other leg.
“Tell me about the men.”
“Those Gossip Gerty stories hitting a little close to home, eh?”
Her second boot joined her first on the floor. “Just wanting to know how I stack up.”
“You’re so nice, you’re so sensitive, you’re the most feminist man I’ve ever stripped for,” she said in dull monotone. “That what you want to hear?”
He pulled her down by the leg into his lap. “Fine. The direct approach. You ever dance for anyone named Jack?”
“What, you afraid your boyfriend’s cheating on you?” When his stare remained Eastwood-cold, a smile grew on Selina’s face like something planted long ago and finally bearing fruit. “Does he like to play rough too, Brucie?”
“Caucasian male, twenty to forty. Jack.”
She sunk her claws slowly into his chest, dotting his shirt burgundy around the perforations. “Lotta guys named Jack. It’s a common name.”
“This one would be mean. A bad seed. Likes to hurt people.”
“Like you?”
He grabbed her wrists and wrenched her hands into the air between them. His blood sparkled on her claws. “It’s important.”
“Was a guy. Jack Napier. Torpedo with the Falcone family, back when that meant something. Liked to hurt the girls and paid enough that Sal didn’t mind. I had a talk with him.” She flexed her claws.
“But you never danced for him?”
“Never this close.” She brought her claws up to cut thinly into the cup of her bra and the swell of her breast. “Jealous?”
“What about an actual client, someone you personally knew?”
“No one worth knowing.”
He pulled a five-hundred bill from his wallet and spiked it on her claws. “Think hard.”
She puddled in his lap and reclined chest like a lethargic cat. “There was one. Jack Kinison, I think his name was? Said he was a comedian, but he never made me laugh. Liked to unwind with me after a long day at the chemical plant. But there was always something off about him. It was a relief when he stopped coming by.”
“What do you mean ‘off’?”
“He had a darkness in him. Like you have. Like I have.” She kissed him then, hot and slow and so good that Bruce could forget… everything.
Then everything started to feel wrong. Her tongue felt like a foreign invader in his mouth, foul, nauseating. He pushed her back.
“Why?” Selina asked, expectant in her disappointment.
“Because you’re not her.”
He stumbled out of the private room, regaining more of his equilibrium the further he got from that woman. With distance came rationalization. The sudden, alarming physical need to distance himself from her had been him, of course, completely rational, and his distaste for the entire misogynistic proceeding. That was all.
Fandom: Nolanverse Batman, Superman Returns
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,824
Characters/Pairings: Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Lucius Fox, Selina Kyle
Previous Part: Chapter 20
Next Part: Chapter 22
Summary: Bruce comes home and Selina meets someone to write home about.
It was a sunny day when Bruce Wayne returned to Gotham. He disembarked from his jet long enough to walk to his helicopter, and for a couple dozen pictures to be taken of him. Then he was sped along to Wayne Manor. Alfred was waiting at the rooftop helipad with tea and crumpets. To the butler’s sorrow, Bruce took the mug of hot coffee. It was only after he’d finished with the first sip that he noticed the yellow-outlined Bat symbol on the black mug. He pointed at it.
“Allow me my small pleasures, sir,” Alfred said. “I saw it in a curio shop and I just couldn’t resist.”
Bruce reluctantly drank from it. “Coffee’s good.”
“That it is, Master Wayne. Will there be anything else?”
Bruce, who was already shielding his eyes, walked out of the sunlight and into the mansion. He loosened his tie, took off his jacket. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Well then, perhaps I should tell you Miss Talia is being released from the hospital today, and seeing as you’re her friend, perhaps you should be on hand to give her a warm welcome…”
Bruce turned around to Alfred, who was casually seeing the tea tray down on a hall table. “We barely know each other, Alfred.”
“You do have time to change that, Master Bruce. She seems like a nice girl. And ever since Miss Dawes left…”
“Stop,” Bruce’s voice was quiet, but loud enough. “I don’t have time for this.”
***
“Considering the last vehicle I loaned you was a tank, I’m a little at a loss as to how you could need a new one,” Lucius said, walking with Bruce through the Warehouse, the garage for abandoned prototypes. Most were under cloth, but a few were being tinkered with, toolboxes open, hoods propped up.
“I was hoping for something with a little better gas mileage. And more maneuverable. Smaller profile. More weapons.”
“Anything else?”
“One of those cupholders with the little wings so it can hold both a Big Gulp and a medium latte?”
Lucius thought about it, took a right turn. “Well, I can’t say it has a cupholder, but I think this might work.” He pulled off one of the sheets.
Bruce smiled. “Wrap it up. I’ll take it.”
***
The Oldsmobile was right where Alfred had said he’d leave it. Bruce slipped inside, letting the mirrored windows render him invisible, and touched up his disguise with the kit in the glovebox. He drove.
On the outside the Oldsmobile was all rust, but inside it could get him out of there in a hurry. His disguise took care of the rest. Sunglasses, mustache, and the name he’d had the Wonder Boys put out on feelers all week. Matches Malone, big-shot
He reached Club Pussycat in high spirits and the appearance of drunkenness. It was several blocks from the other club, but a world away. The club had a neon sign that winked “cat” at passersby, with curtained windows that let out kaleidoscopic lights at the corners. Red, blue, green, crazily. It turned the doorman into a statue of ruby, sapphire, emerald. He let Bruce in for a C-note.
The place was loud with Kid Rock music blaring from ill-concealed speakers and snippets of other songs – Barry White, voulez-vous couchez avec moi, a lullaby – wandering out of closed doors. Smoke wafted over him like a second ceiling, miraculously not triggering the sprinklers. Bruce doubted the sprinkler system would pass the fire code at any rate. The lightning, despite its forceful multi-colored glow, was almost dim enough to hide the wrinkles on the strippers, the tracks marks like tiny mouths. Spotlights and disco balls provided the steadiest illumination, spotlights roaming to hit a waitress or pole dancer and reveal a thigh, breast, butt.
He lit a cigarette, coughed on it slightly, adding to the shifting morass about their heads. It was a sandstorm by the time he strutted to the bar. The one sanctuary of noiselessness in the din was dirty and wooden, with bottles of rotgut lining the shelves. Bruce leaned on the bar. The bartender was a big man with a formidable gut under his leather vest, and an even more formidable number of tattoos, as well as piercings in all the usual places.
Acoustics let his voice escape the pounding music. “Hello, I’m slumming it.” He lifted his arm to find an unidentifiable fluid had soaked his sleeve. “Really slumming it.” He gave a practiced smile. “You know how sometimes you want a girl by name? Not a specific one, just one named something right? A busty blonde named Jessica or a dirty nasty freak named Betty? Well, I’m looking for a Selina.”
“You can call me anything you like, handsome,” said a teen girl in a too-tight tubetop and too-short leather miniskirt as she got way too close.
A leather-gloved hand reached in and twisted the girl’s ear, dragging her off Bruce. “Lay off the man, Holly, can’t you see he’s trying to buy me a drink?” Bruce followed the glove up a surprising muscular arm to a shoulder to a face hidden behind a gimp-like half-mask, cat ears protruding from the top in a touch of whimsy, full lips twisted in an appraising smile. They parted moistly: “I’m Selina.”
“You certainly are.” He plucked her hand from Holly’s ear to kiss it through the leather. “What was that about me buying you a drink?”
“White Russian, heavy on the cream.” She lightly scratched Holly’s cheek. There were short claws coming out of the tips of her gloved fingers. They left tattered strips of white skin. “Scram, kitten, momma and poppa need to talk.”
“Promise to tell me how it goes?”
Selina looked Bruce up and down. “If there’s anything to talk about.”
“Oh, I think I can just about guarantee that.”
She led him by the forearm, her claws cutting through his shirtsleeve, into a room that might be called the champagne room, but in reality was closer to a Bud Light room. It was about the size of a walk-in closet, with a couch built into the wall at one end of the room and a brass pole at the other. In the middle, opposite the door, was an midget jukebox on a shelf.
Bruce noticed other things, like a showerhead, a mirrored ceiling, D-rings on the walls and floors, and crumpled tissues swept into a corner. The wall socket had one plug filled by an air freshener, the other by the jukebox’s extension cord. Selina turned the volume dial high enough to drown the outside noise, then looked at Bruce.
“Any requests?”
Bruce was taking off his jacket. “Well, I’ve always been partial to…”
She shoved him down onto the couch. “Good.” By touch, she found the right key. Cat Scratch Fever began billowing out of the speakers… and straight into Selina’s body by the way she undulated preternaturally. The tears in her leather pants let the light in; daggers of light reflected off bared thigh, shorn pubis.
“You have a thing for cats?” Bruce asked.
Her push-up bra melted like quicksilver on her flexing, flowing upper body. “Everyone has a thing for something. Some cats, some dogs… and at least one guy’s partial to bats.” She planted a boot on the seat cushion, between his legs, rolled up her shredded pantleg to reveal it was a thigh-high. “Little help?”
He began undoing it. Slowly slipping it down her leg, watching every inch of flesh and finding it smooth as polished marble. “So, what’s it like being an exotic dancer?”
She laughed, thick, throaty. “What’s it like being a billionaire playboy?”
Bruce smiled at the recognition of his net worth. He’d have to work harder on the disguise. “Very rewarding.” He slipped her boot all the way off and held her foot in his hands. It was surprisingly petite, a ballerina’s foot, made for a glass slipper. He rubbed it like Gilda did for Harvey at the end of a long day. “What’s it like being a stripper, Miss Kyle?”
She pushed him back with her toes on his forehead, not quite a kick… “Not so rewarding.” But she gave him her other leg.
“Tell me about the men.”
“Those Gossip Gerty stories hitting a little close to home, eh?”
Her second boot joined her first on the floor. “Just wanting to know how I stack up.”
“You’re so nice, you’re so sensitive, you’re the most feminist man I’ve ever stripped for,” she said in dull monotone. “That what you want to hear?”
He pulled her down by the leg into his lap. “Fine. The direct approach. You ever dance for anyone named Jack?”
“What, you afraid your boyfriend’s cheating on you?” When his stare remained Eastwood-cold, a smile grew on Selina’s face like something planted long ago and finally bearing fruit. “Does he like to play rough too, Brucie?”
“Caucasian male, twenty to forty. Jack.”
She sunk her claws slowly into his chest, dotting his shirt burgundy around the perforations. “Lotta guys named Jack. It’s a common name.”
“This one would be mean. A bad seed. Likes to hurt people.”
“Like you?”
He grabbed her wrists and wrenched her hands into the air between them. His blood sparkled on her claws. “It’s important.”
“Was a guy. Jack Napier. Torpedo with the Falcone family, back when that meant something. Liked to hurt the girls and paid enough that Sal didn’t mind. I had a talk with him.” She flexed her claws.
“But you never danced for him?”
“Never this close.” She brought her claws up to cut thinly into the cup of her bra and the swell of her breast. “Jealous?”
“What about an actual client, someone you personally knew?”
“No one worth knowing.”
He pulled a five-hundred bill from his wallet and spiked it on her claws. “Think hard.”
She puddled in his lap and reclined chest like a lethargic cat. “There was one. Jack Kinison, I think his name was? Said he was a comedian, but he never made me laugh. Liked to unwind with me after a long day at the chemical plant. But there was always something off about him. It was a relief when he stopped coming by.”
“What do you mean ‘off’?”
“He had a darkness in him. Like you have. Like I have.” She kissed him then, hot and slow and so good that Bruce could forget… everything.
Then everything started to feel wrong. Her tongue felt like a foreign invader in his mouth, foul, nauseating. He pushed her back.
“Why?” Selina asked, expectant in her disappointment.
“Because you’re not her.”
He stumbled out of the private room, regaining more of his equilibrium the further he got from that woman. With distance came rationalization. The sudden, alarming physical need to distance himself from her had been him, of course, completely rational, and his distaste for the entire misogynistic proceeding. That was all.
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no subject
Date: 2009-01-06 12:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-06 05:50 pm (UTC)Curiouser and curiouser. Please update soon! And Happy New Year to you. =)
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Date: 2009-01-06 06:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-23 01:39 am (UTC)