bruce wayne

The last thing Harry wanted to do was be at a formal event, alone, with everyone staring at him. Worst of all, the ones who stared were rooting for him to fail, and he was painfully aware of those odds. Although, since becoming the CEO, Harry had ultimately been running the business a lot better than his father ever had, that wasn’t anyone’s focus. They were focused on the fact that he was young, alone, and had been arguing with his father last time this event was occurring.

With the pressure already weighing on him, Harry strolled out onto the balcony. His hues focused on the sky, his mind roaming in what felt like a million different directions, until Bruce’s words sliced through his thoughts. A small smile appeared, recognizing the familiar face. Norman had never spoken positively about the other, especially after Harry had an enjoyable conversation with him that was witnessed — but, he wasn’t his father, and he listened closely when Bruce’s children had mentioned him in conversation. Part of him had always longed for Norman to change, to become more like Bruce, but he was very much the opposite. 

“Six variations, huh? I guess there aren’t very many options if you’re going based off of spring roll ingredients.” Gaze now focusing on the other, he nodded. “I appreciate it, Mr. Wayne. No one really… gave me an instruction manual to this business thing, the galas were all he touched on, but not food. Really just how to present myself, I guess, he thought I would make a fool of him.” His father may have prepped him in what felt like a business setting, but it was never for the role he would actually be taking. 

Bruce snorts, then follows it up with a small cough, a small, tentative smile turned Harry’s way. The gesture is practiced, executed with the kind of guileless charm he exudes under the identity of Bruce Wayne. “Sorry, I mean no disrespect,” he assures, “it’s just that– well, every year at some annual shareholder’s dinner, at least one Fortune 500 CEO gets drunk enough to jump into the nearest fountain fully clothed. ‘Fool’ always seemed an apt descriptor, but nobody’s stock ever takes a hit they can’t bounce back from.” Frankly, Bruce had brought Dick to more than one of these parties with the express purpose of having him dive into some unsuspecting WASP’s champagne fountain. Made for an excellent diversion, when the occasion called for it. 

Though it was worth considering that the demands of their lives were quite.... different, from Harry’s. To put it delicately. 

@gcthamsbat

“ dnib sih teef “ the raven haired magician muttered under her breath, conjuring her curtains to capture the intruder she sensed inside, as she slowly crept into her living room to try not to alert the presence that she knew he was there until she had him in her grasp. it wasn’t nearly as dramatic a use for her magic as she liked to go for but when it came to get an upper hand on batman she was willing to put practicality above style. “ you do know i actually have a front door you can use, right? the next time you try to sneak up on me i might not actually hold back on you. “ she said with full sass tinging her voice as she turned on the lights, a smirk playing on her lips, fully knowing he probably didn’t find the situation nearly as amusing as she did. 

zatanna crossed her arms, letting herself lean on the doorway from the front hall of her place to the living room. “ so did you need something? or are you here to make sure i’m not spreading dirt on you? “

Bruce stiffened under the sudden, powerful grip of Zatanna’s magic, tamping down his automatic instinct to push back against the constraint. There was no back-door when it came to magic, no trick or feat of cleverness Bruce might use to regain the upper hand. 

Thankfully, such a maneuver wasn’t necessary in present company. Zatanna was an old friend.

downing the remainder of his pint, constantine grabbed his trenchcoat off the hook, frantically searching for his pack of silk cuts in the shallow pockets, he hobbled out into the alleyway just as he managed to grab one from the packet, lighting the tip with his zippo. he took a deep inhale, only for it to be stubbed out by the figure lurking in the shadows. his eyes widened, in this intoxicated state, it took a moment for the scouser to register who exactly it was and once he did, a snicker cracked through his smirk. “nasty habit, that is.” he cocked a brow, discarding the squished cigarette and reached for another. “you’re sounding a bit like you had one too many, bats.” he flicked his lighter open, scorching the end of his new cigarette and he took a puff in the man’s masked face. “aye, i did, didn’t i? and here you are, at my beck and call.” john grinned broadly, giving the caped crusader’s shoulder a nudge, before turning to depart the alleyway. 

 “didn’t fancy dressing down, eh? londoners aren’t so used to seeing a big ol’ bat roaming the streets.” john teased, pursing his lips as he began to whistle abysmally down the cobbled streets. after a few minutes, he turned abruptly around a street corner and down a narrow alleyway, sarcastically saluting towards the couple making out against the wall before glancing back to his own company. “heard some bugger’s been stashing the stuff down here.” john gestured to a closed off doorway, knuckle tapping at the wooden slate nailed across it. “thought that’d be something you’d care to investigate, sunshine.”

As Bruce breathed in the smoke, he took a second to weigh the pros and cons of breaking John Constantine’s wrist, but ultimately, begrudgingly decided against it. He wordlessly followed Constantine down a diverging alleyway. “People don’t look unless I want them to,” Bruce said simply. Though nothing was quite as conducive to his work as the dark, towering architecture of Gotham, London had plenty of shadows and winding side-streets for Bruce to stay out of sight. He did, however, wish his backup for the night drew a little less attention. 

long ago oliver would have fit into this world so perfectly, no acting, no facade. of course back then he was just a kid throwing his parents away, never having worked a day in his life for the luxuries he had. being here always made him a bit reminiscent, but also a bit more grateful now that he’d moved onto a better portion of his life, having evolved and grown into someone he could stand to look in the mirror.

adjusting his too tight collar, oliver scowled, wishing more than anything that dinah was here to accompany him. the archer was accustomed to the pomp and frills that came with these kind of appearances, laying down enough charm to sway his acquaintances, but it was a lot more interesting when she was around.

an insipid smile coiled along his lips as he worked his way around the room, head nodding as greetings were tossed his way. somewhere along the way he’d plucked a glass of champagne from a platter, but it was as full now as it was when he’d grabbed it. the sudden jolt he felt as a hand bore down on his shoulder caused the glass to tip, some of the liquid spilling onto his shoes before he was able to straighten it.

oliver shot a glance back, his lips opened to bark some kind of reprimand, but it was snared by the sheer surprise that took over as he stood face to face with bruce. he caught the sliver of genuine surprise that registered on bruce’s face, but as expected, it’s gone and replaced by something more artificial. 

“bruce,” he returned, a small, somewhat amused, snort sounding as bruce proceeded to clasp his shoulder. “you look like you’ve had one too many, my friend,” he continued, fully aware that it only appears that way because bruce intended it to. “but sure, you owe me one anyways.”

“This guy,” Bruce laughed, slinging an arm around Ollie’s shoulders. He threw a smile back at the girl he was with — she was a nice girl, in most respects, and he hoped her tenure on her show, Love Peninsula or something, would lead her towards long-term financial solvency. “He’s had my number, ever since high school. Isn’t that right, Ollie?”

Without waiting for a response, Bruce steered them away from the twittering mass of socialites he always seemed to leave in his wake, and started towards the open bar, which was looking more and more attractive by the second. 

After doing a quick scan of the faces in their immediate vicinity, Bruce lowered his voice to a more serious register and tipped his head towards Oliver. “You look bored,” he said quietly. There was nothing that wrinkled Bruce so much as a surprise. And not even a chance to catch up with Dinah, which would have at least constituted a more fruitful disturbance. “I take it this isn’t entirely a social call.”

Bruce never cared much for Norman Osborn -- he had become rather cold after the untimely demise of his wife, and had appeared to manage his business with the kind of greed that was painfully typical of their tax bracket. Worst of all, perhaps, he left behind a son with the weight of the world on his shoulders, a twenty-year-old CEO who had no adult support system, very little formal training, and a world of tycoon sharks just waiting for him to fail. Harry Osborn rested on a razor’s edge -- only requiring a particularly strong wind to blow him to the wrong side of things. 

Though it was none of Bruce’s business and he had enough lost children roaming the halls of his home already, he couldn’t help but check in with the boy when the opportunity presented itself. After catching sight of him at the Von Heinberg’s annual celebration, he waited for a more private moment to engage, only approaching after Harry stepped out onto one of the secluded balconies branching off the ballroom.

Send me a “♦” for the first word my muse thinks of when your muse is mentioned.

Send me a “♦” for the first word my muse thinks of when your muse is mentioned.

Send me a “♦” for the first word my muse thinks of when your muse is mentioned.

Send me a “♦” for the first word my muse thinks of when your muse is mentioned.

Send me a “♦” for the first word my muse thinks of when your muse is mentioned.

Send me a “♦” for the first word my muse thinks of when your muse is mentioned.

Send me a “♦” for the first word my muse thinks of when your muse is mentioned.

Send me a “♦” for the first word my muse thinks of when your muse is mentioned.

Send me a “♦” for the first word my muse thinks of when your muse is mentioned.

Send me a “♦” for the first word my muse thinks of when your muse is mentioned.

Send me a “♦” for the first word my muse thinks of when your muse is mentioned.