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bedlamsbardSee also here, here, here, and here for explanation. Or just further evidence for the fact that I am INSANE.
"Do you like keeping secrets, Agent Pevensie?" Bruce drawls. It's a harmless question, could mean anything. It doesn't, of course, but it could.
Pevensie doesn't bat an eye. Doesn't blink. Doesn't even flinch. Doesn't look up, either. "Do you like being one, Mr. Wayne?"
And there's a flutter of the old familiar fear in the pit of his stomach, but his breathing doesn't speed up, he doesn't blink -- there's no tell at all. He's trained that out of himself. Bruce smiles pleasantly. "What do you mean by that?" he says, good-natured confusion coloring the words.
"Have you ever killed a man?" Pevensie asks.
"No." The answer comes too quickly, but that could be Bruce Wayne speaking. It's not, though, and there should be a beat of shocked silence before he answers. He compromises by adding, "Why would you ask me such a thing?"
"It's messy," Pevensie says softly, looking up at last. There's no emotion in his eyes at all. "Leaving witnesses. Leaving evil things alive to go free if they want it."
"I don't understand what you're talking about," Bruce says, and then Pevensie moves, slamming him back against the wall. Bruce doesn't even see him leave the couch, but his instincts are better than Pevensie's, or they should be. He flips Pevensie around, pinning him against the wall instead, and Pevensie headbutts him, knocking him backwards. He dodges Bruce's punch and slips under his arm; Bruce grabs him and puts him down, the back of Pevensie's skull knocking hard against the floor with a horrible sound like a breaking melon. Pevensie kicks his legs out from under him so that Bruce falls too, already rolling to get on top of him, forearm pressed against his throat.
"Ow," he says insincerely. "Either I'm getting sloppy, or you have a black belt that's not on your background check."
******
"What do you have that I don't?" Bruce asks.
Pevensie doesn't look up. "Experience," he says shortly.
Bruce lets out a derisive snort. "I doubt it," he says.
"Believe what you want. Just stay out of my way, Batman."
"Whatever experience you think Iraq gave you, it won't help you here."
Pevensie does look up at that. "Iraq?" he says. "Is that what my file says? I've never been there. I did my tour in Burma."
The U.S. isn't involved in Burma.
******
"Wayne," Pevensie drawls, "I was killing men before your parents were born."
******
Bruce Wayne sleeps with men. It's not exactly common knowledge, but it's no secret either, and it's an easy excuse to watch Agent Pevensie as the man mixes with Gotham's prominents. The longer he watches, the more his interest is piqued, because he wouldn't have pegged Pevensie as a member of the trust fund brigade, but he's easy and calm in their midst, like he's born to it. It's not a skill most feds cultivate.
He's curious enough about it that he judges Bruce Wayne to get tipsier earlier than he might otherwise and makes his way to Pevensie's side. "Enjoying yourself?" he drawls.
"Not at all," Pevensie says, tone so gracious that if Bruce really were drunk, he wouldn't hear the insult at all.
One of the women he's with -- and Sarah Farnham really is drunk -- giggles. "My, Bruce," she says, "if you want more company, I'll be happy to join you."
Pevensie gives her a cool look, blue eyes flickering suddenly so cold that even Bruce is taken aback. Sarah looks startled, and takes a step backwards. Then Pevensie's gaze is calm and certain again, briefly bemused as he says, "I think I'll pass, Miss Farnham."
"There's a new exhibit opening up next week," Bruce says. "Would you like to see it?"
"Anything to get away from this," Pevensie says, still gracious.
He's aware of the whispers that move through the party guests as he steers Pevensie away, his hand resting lightly on the small of the other man's back. This close, he can smell Pevensie, a faint hint of Old Spice, cordite, and champagne, and feels a surge of genuine desire. Pevensie is a handsome man. He's also a smart one, and a federal agent bent on finding Batman. He's already suspicious of Bruce; there's no reason to give him the confirmation that Bruce's scars would reveal. He forces the desire away reluctantly.
"Medieval weapons," Bruce says, the lights coming on as they enter the room. "My experts say they're the best in the world." He shrugs negligently, but Pevensie seems genuinely curious, veering away from Bruce to look at the exhibits.
"Well-preserved," he observes, but doesn't seem particularly convinced. "The blades still look sharp."
"They should be," Bruce says. "They're supposed to be usable." He approaches Pevensie from behind, because he hasn't had a chance to look at his new exhibit.
Pevensie turns toward him. "I've seen better," he says, and kisses Bruce on the mouth.
Bruce pushes him back into the display cabinet, pinning Pevensie there with his body. Pevensie's body is strong against him, hard with muscle. He throws one arm around Bruce's neck to pull him closer.
Licking into Pevensie's mouth, Bruce can taste alcohol on his tongue. He could write this off as Pevensie being drunk, but he's been watching the man all night; he hasn't drank enough to get a lightweight tipsy, just sips at his drinks and hands them off to passing waiters. Bruce has been drinking the same way.
He needs a way out of this. Crude as it is to say, Pevensie's too shrewd to do this for anything except to find out a secret, to worm something out of Bruce; even he wouldn't bet on there being real desire behind Pevensie's kisses. He wouldn't be surprised to learn that Pevensie does prefer men, but he's also certain that Pevensie wouldn't hesitate to whore himself out for use of his government -- and that's what this has to be. Pevensie's too calculating to just want sex, especially not from Bruce Wayne of all people. Unless he's a danger junkie, but he doesn't read like the type.
Unfortunately, since Pevensie made the first move and Bruce kissed him back, the obvious excuse is gone. Maybe Alfred --
-- if Alfred is watching the security cameras now, he's probably laughing his head off. Damn the man. And damn Special Agent Peter Pevensie too, while he's at it.
Pevensie shoves his jacket off over his shoulders and Bruce raises his arms to let him, flicking open the buttons on Pevensie's tuxedo jacket with his thumb. He's wearing a real bowtie, not a clip-on, and it hits the floor in a long ribbon of black fabric as Bruce pulls it free. Maybe there's another way to get through this, and Bruce doesn't particularly mind having to have sex with Pevensie. He'd prefer it more if Pevensie weren't trying to put him in Arkham or turn him over to the government, but the trick is --
His hands clench spastically on Pevensie's shirt as the security gates on the doors come crashing down. "What the hell?" he spits as Pevensie shoves him away, dropping to one knee. When he rises, there's a gun in his hand.
"Your doing?" he asks sharply.
He's still playing Bruce Wayne. "I have better ways to keep a guest with me," he smirks, and Pevensie shoots him an irritated look.
Even with his shirt undone and his mouth swollen, he looks unruffled. Bruce knows society mavens who'd kill for that sort of poise. Gun still in hand -- ankle holster, must be, and somehow he brought a gun inside the museum and didn't tip the security alarms -- Pevensie approaches the doors. "Do you know the override?" he asks.
He doesn't know the override. He never thought he'd need to know the override, so he hadn't bothered learning it. It's a stupid mistake, and one he'll rectify once he gets out of this. If he gets out of this, because in his profession, there aren't exactly a lot of second chances. The realization must show on his face, because Pevensie snorts and turns away, muttering under his breath, "I don't know why this always happens to me."
Bruce straightens his collar and stoops to pick up his jacket. "Well," he says, because there's nothing else he can do for the moment but play along as Bruce Wayne, "since we're both stuck here for the time being --"
"Oh, stop fucking around, Wayne," Pevensie snaps, turning back towards him. "Your cover's blown, and we can go back to playing games later. I'm not in the mood."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Bruce says, blood turned to ice with sudden apprehension. He can't know. Not for sure.
"Or go back to pretending you're just a useless --" The rest of his words are nonsense, or some language (and there aren't many of them) that Bruce doesn't know. "See if I care. This will just be much easier for me if I don't have to pretend to worry about making sure you don't get yourself killed."
The funny thing is that he doesn't think Pevensie actually does care; there's no layering of emotion on his words except for irritation. He wants an ally, not something to protect. Still, Bruce hesitates, because Peter Pevensie is a federal agent, and he still has no idea what he wants.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he says again at last, the words heavy and deliberate. It's not how Bruce Wayne would say them. He hopes that Pevensie understands that.
"Always happens to me," Pevensie hisses under his breath, and kicks the door experimentally. It doesn't budge, and he lets out a low growl of annoyance.
Remembering, Bruce leans down to grope around in his fallen jacket for his phone. No reception, and that's very bad, because his phone is custom-made for both his personas. It should work anywhere. "Agent Pevensie," he calls, and Pevensie turns around towards him, arching his eyebrows. Bruce raises his phone. "I don't have any reception. Do you --"
For a moment Pevensie looks blank, then he nods and digs in his pocket. He frowns down at the iPhone for a moment as if he's trying to will it into life before his scowl deepens. "No," he says, stuffing the phone back into his pocket, and starts back towards Bruce. "Is there another way out?"
Bruce turns around. They both regard the security gates on the back enrance to the hall grimly.
"Well, well, well," he hears over the intercom. "If it isn't Mister Bruce Wayne and Special Agent Peter Pevensie off on a secret assignation. Isn't that pretty? I didn't know you played that side of the field, Brucie, but I had my suspicions about you, Agent Pevensie."
He knows that voice.
"Who is that?" Pevensie demands, eyes darting upwards as if expecting to see someone perching in the rafters.
"The Joker," Bruce says, a cold chill of fear running down his spine. The Joker's supposed to be in Arkham. Not out. Not here.
There's a high-pitched giggle. "Do you like dogs, Mr. Wayne?"
Dogs.
"Cameras," Pevensie mutters to himself, then raises his gun and thumbs off the safety.
"What are you talking about?" Bruce says.
Pevensie takes aim at the nearest camera and fires, the sound echoing around them as he pivots on his heel and shoots out the next camera. There are more than a dozen in the hall, and Pevensie stops once to reload before he finally stops.
Bruce's ears are ringing.
"Now that wasn't very nice," the Joker says reprovingly.
"I don't like being watched," Pevensie says tightly.
"He can't hear you," Bruce says, but looks down at his phone. Even if he's not getting any reception, he should still -- no. There aren't any bugs in the room, not that his sensors are picking up, at least.
Pevensie scowls again, the expression vicious and angry and unrefined -- Bruce wonders briefly where the poised federal agent went, because all he can see here is something ugly and familiar -- and then blanches white as the security gate behind them starts to raise, the sound echoing through the further halls. It's nearly a straight shot to the end of the museum. In the distance, Bruce can hear the scrabbling sound of claws on marble, a scattering of short, sharp barks, one howl.
Pevensie spits what Bruce can only assume is a curse; the words are strange but the tone is familiar. "I've only got three bullets left," he says, and crosses to the nearest display case.
Bruce stares at him blankly, because the movement doesn't make any sense. The display --
-- the exhibit is medieval weapons, and if Pevensie has a background in their use --
Pevensie puts his head to one side, frowns, and fires his last three bullets into the glass. It shatters, but no alarm goes off -- the Joker must have disabled it. He reaches in and pulls out the big English longsword, weighing it easily in one hand. "Balance," he mutters to himself, and puts it aside, sweeping aside broken glass absently with the barrel of his gun.
The slavering of the pack -- from where? why? how does the Joker know, or is this one of his games? -- is getting closer, and Bruce finds himself approaching Pevensie. He's no expert, but he knows the use of a sword. Not a longsword like this, but he knows how to fence, and he knows bokken --
Pevensie slaps him away absently when he reaches for the sword. "The balance on that is fucked," he mutters, and there's a definite accent to his words now, like he's thinking in another language. It's not his usual middle-class London English, but something else entirely, something that Bruce can't place.
He paces down the display cabinet, shattering glass with the barrel of his pistol as he goes, and pulls out another longsword. This one is a little smaller, and he weighs it in his palm and grins. "That'll do," he says softly, buckling on the sword belt and sheath that came with it. Those aren't genuine; they're reproductions, but good reproductions.
The leather looks odd against Pevensie's dress pants and tuxedo shirt, but something in him relaxes as Bruce watches. He retreats back a few feet and draws out a pair of francisca axes, flipping them around easily in his hands. He tests the blade on one against the inside of his forearm and nods to himself, then retreats further back, next to Bruce again. He reaches into the case one more time and pulls out a flanged mace.
"Here," he says, offering it to Bruce shaft-first. "No skill needed. All you have to do is hit things."
"I'm flattered," Bruce says dryly. "You know I fenced in college."
Pevensie snorts and turns away, tucking one axe into the back of the sword belt and drawing the sword. It's a little too short to be a true broadsword, from what Bruce can see; it's an epee bastarde, a bastard sword, neither one-handed or two-handed. Pevensie handles the sword with a lot more surety than he does the gun, which he tosses aside. Bruce's gaze flickers towards it, quickly, but Pevensie doesn't seem to notice or care.
They can see the dogs now. A dozen different breeds and now, now he realizes why dogs have been disappearing from all over the city, pounds and houses and parks alike. The Joker's been stealing them. And if he knows the man (lunatic), starving them.
Bruce grinds his teeth. Dogs. He hates dogs. And no body armor this time, either. He watches Pevensie out of the corner of his eye, keeping the majority of his attention focused on the dogs, although he spares some of it for the closed door behind him.
Pevensie's -- madly, inconceivably -- grinning, sword raised before him in one hand, francisca in the other. He calls a challenge in that foreign language, the last words lost as the dogs leap at him.
Bruce has a heartbeat to see Pevensie cut cleanly through the neck of one with his sword, burying the francisca in the chest of another in the same smooth move before he pulls the axe free, already spinning on his heel with oddly brutal grace -- and then the dogs are on him, too, and it's all he can do to stay on his feet, laying about him madly with hands and feet and mace, his secrets laid aside in favor of survival. Later, he knows, he'll be glad Pevensie shot out the cameras.
At some point he loses the mace and finds himself on his back, muscles straining as he holds back a bull-mastiff whose jaws snap at the air above Bruce's face. And Alfred said I would die in the suit, Bruce thinks absurdly, and sees shining silver flash through the air, the axe burying itself in the mastiff's shoulder. The second francisca follows a moment later as the mastiff yelps in pain, staggering hard to the side. Pevensie takes its head off in one blow, blood and shards of bone drenching Bruce -- but he's already covered in gore, anyway.
"Not bad," Pevensie says, easy and casual, offering Bruce a hand up. Their fingers are slick with blood, but Pevensie's still grinning like a madman. He's speaking with that odd accent again.
"If you say so," Bruce replies, trying to grasp at the remains of his illusion. "I -- that was --" What the hell would Bruce Wayne say? Batman would disappear into the shadows, but he's not him just now. He's not sure who he is, but he's not Bruce Wayne and he's not Batman.
Bemusement flickers briefly over Pevensie's face. He lets go of Bruce's hand and wipes the sword-blade clean on the tattered remains of his sleeve -- the other sleeve is gone entirely, torn away at the shoulder, and there's a long scratch down the smoothly-muscled arm beneath. Sword sheathed, he goes to retrieve the franciscas, whirling with the axes raised as the security gates suddenly slide open.
Round two, Bruce thinks, already shifting to a fighter's stance. He drops it a moment later, because the figures pouring into the room are GCPD uniforms. With them is a woman, slim and beautiful, lowering the gun she has in two hands as she approaches Pevensie.
"Peter!"
"Su --" Pevensie begins, and she steps around the canine corpses on the floor as if there's nothing there at all and wraps an arm around his neck, hugging him tightly, heedless of the weapons they're both carrying. Peter hugs her back, shifting to accommodate the franciscas, and Bruce abruptly realizes who the woman is. Special Agent Susan Pevensie, Pevensie's sister. He hadn't read her file when he'd hacked the FBI database.
Pevensie says something to her in that foreign language and she answers in the same tongue as she lets go of him. He crouches down and puts the axes down flat on the ground, then unbuckles the sword belt, hands lingering briefly on the leather before he puts that down too. Susan reaches up to cup his cheek with one hand, wiping blood away from the side of his mouth, and Pevensie turns his face into her touch.
"Master Wayne?" Alfred asks, suddenly next to him, and Bruce looks at him, startled out of staring. "You're injured," Alfred continues. "There's an ambulance outside. And I believe Commissioner Gordon would like to speak to you."
"Of course," Bruce says, trying to inject shocked blankness into his voice. He'll play traumatized rich boy for now.
He glances over his shoulder on his way out. Pevensie and his sister are nowhere in sight.
"Do you like keeping secrets, Agent Pevensie?" Bruce drawls. It's a harmless question, could mean anything. It doesn't, of course, but it could.
Pevensie doesn't bat an eye. Doesn't blink. Doesn't even flinch. Doesn't look up, either. "Do you like being one, Mr. Wayne?"
And there's a flutter of the old familiar fear in the pit of his stomach, but his breathing doesn't speed up, he doesn't blink -- there's no tell at all. He's trained that out of himself. Bruce smiles pleasantly. "What do you mean by that?" he says, good-natured confusion coloring the words.
"Have you ever killed a man?" Pevensie asks.
"No." The answer comes too quickly, but that could be Bruce Wayne speaking. It's not, though, and there should be a beat of shocked silence before he answers. He compromises by adding, "Why would you ask me such a thing?"
"It's messy," Pevensie says softly, looking up at last. There's no emotion in his eyes at all. "Leaving witnesses. Leaving evil things alive to go free if they want it."
"I don't understand what you're talking about," Bruce says, and then Pevensie moves, slamming him back against the wall. Bruce doesn't even see him leave the couch, but his instincts are better than Pevensie's, or they should be. He flips Pevensie around, pinning him against the wall instead, and Pevensie headbutts him, knocking him backwards. He dodges Bruce's punch and slips under his arm; Bruce grabs him and puts him down, the back of Pevensie's skull knocking hard against the floor with a horrible sound like a breaking melon. Pevensie kicks his legs out from under him so that Bruce falls too, already rolling to get on top of him, forearm pressed against his throat.
"Ow," he says insincerely. "Either I'm getting sloppy, or you have a black belt that's not on your background check."
******
"What do you have that I don't?" Bruce asks.
Pevensie doesn't look up. "Experience," he says shortly.
Bruce lets out a derisive snort. "I doubt it," he says.
"Believe what you want. Just stay out of my way, Batman."
"Whatever experience you think Iraq gave you, it won't help you here."
Pevensie does look up at that. "Iraq?" he says. "Is that what my file says? I've never been there. I did my tour in Burma."
The U.S. isn't involved in Burma.
******
"Wayne," Pevensie drawls, "I was killing men before your parents were born."
******
Bruce Wayne sleeps with men. It's not exactly common knowledge, but it's no secret either, and it's an easy excuse to watch Agent Pevensie as the man mixes with Gotham's prominents. The longer he watches, the more his interest is piqued, because he wouldn't have pegged Pevensie as a member of the trust fund brigade, but he's easy and calm in their midst, like he's born to it. It's not a skill most feds cultivate.
He's curious enough about it that he judges Bruce Wayne to get tipsier earlier than he might otherwise and makes his way to Pevensie's side. "Enjoying yourself?" he drawls.
"Not at all," Pevensie says, tone so gracious that if Bruce really were drunk, he wouldn't hear the insult at all.
One of the women he's with -- and Sarah Farnham really is drunk -- giggles. "My, Bruce," she says, "if you want more company, I'll be happy to join you."
Pevensie gives her a cool look, blue eyes flickering suddenly so cold that even Bruce is taken aback. Sarah looks startled, and takes a step backwards. Then Pevensie's gaze is calm and certain again, briefly bemused as he says, "I think I'll pass, Miss Farnham."
"There's a new exhibit opening up next week," Bruce says. "Would you like to see it?"
"Anything to get away from this," Pevensie says, still gracious.
He's aware of the whispers that move through the party guests as he steers Pevensie away, his hand resting lightly on the small of the other man's back. This close, he can smell Pevensie, a faint hint of Old Spice, cordite, and champagne, and feels a surge of genuine desire. Pevensie is a handsome man. He's also a smart one, and a federal agent bent on finding Batman. He's already suspicious of Bruce; there's no reason to give him the confirmation that Bruce's scars would reveal. He forces the desire away reluctantly.
"Medieval weapons," Bruce says, the lights coming on as they enter the room. "My experts say they're the best in the world." He shrugs negligently, but Pevensie seems genuinely curious, veering away from Bruce to look at the exhibits.
"Well-preserved," he observes, but doesn't seem particularly convinced. "The blades still look sharp."
"They should be," Bruce says. "They're supposed to be usable." He approaches Pevensie from behind, because he hasn't had a chance to look at his new exhibit.
Pevensie turns toward him. "I've seen better," he says, and kisses Bruce on the mouth.
Bruce pushes him back into the display cabinet, pinning Pevensie there with his body. Pevensie's body is strong against him, hard with muscle. He throws one arm around Bruce's neck to pull him closer.
Licking into Pevensie's mouth, Bruce can taste alcohol on his tongue. He could write this off as Pevensie being drunk, but he's been watching the man all night; he hasn't drank enough to get a lightweight tipsy, just sips at his drinks and hands them off to passing waiters. Bruce has been drinking the same way.
He needs a way out of this. Crude as it is to say, Pevensie's too shrewd to do this for anything except to find out a secret, to worm something out of Bruce; even he wouldn't bet on there being real desire behind Pevensie's kisses. He wouldn't be surprised to learn that Pevensie does prefer men, but he's also certain that Pevensie wouldn't hesitate to whore himself out for use of his government -- and that's what this has to be. Pevensie's too calculating to just want sex, especially not from Bruce Wayne of all people. Unless he's a danger junkie, but he doesn't read like the type.
Unfortunately, since Pevensie made the first move and Bruce kissed him back, the obvious excuse is gone. Maybe Alfred --
-- if Alfred is watching the security cameras now, he's probably laughing his head off. Damn the man. And damn Special Agent Peter Pevensie too, while he's at it.
Pevensie shoves his jacket off over his shoulders and Bruce raises his arms to let him, flicking open the buttons on Pevensie's tuxedo jacket with his thumb. He's wearing a real bowtie, not a clip-on, and it hits the floor in a long ribbon of black fabric as Bruce pulls it free. Maybe there's another way to get through this, and Bruce doesn't particularly mind having to have sex with Pevensie. He'd prefer it more if Pevensie weren't trying to put him in Arkham or turn him over to the government, but the trick is --
His hands clench spastically on Pevensie's shirt as the security gates on the doors come crashing down. "What the hell?" he spits as Pevensie shoves him away, dropping to one knee. When he rises, there's a gun in his hand.
"Your doing?" he asks sharply.
He's still playing Bruce Wayne. "I have better ways to keep a guest with me," he smirks, and Pevensie shoots him an irritated look.
Even with his shirt undone and his mouth swollen, he looks unruffled. Bruce knows society mavens who'd kill for that sort of poise. Gun still in hand -- ankle holster, must be, and somehow he brought a gun inside the museum and didn't tip the security alarms -- Pevensie approaches the doors. "Do you know the override?" he asks.
He doesn't know the override. He never thought he'd need to know the override, so he hadn't bothered learning it. It's a stupid mistake, and one he'll rectify once he gets out of this. If he gets out of this, because in his profession, there aren't exactly a lot of second chances. The realization must show on his face, because Pevensie snorts and turns away, muttering under his breath, "I don't know why this always happens to me."
Bruce straightens his collar and stoops to pick up his jacket. "Well," he says, because there's nothing else he can do for the moment but play along as Bruce Wayne, "since we're both stuck here for the time being --"
"Oh, stop fucking around, Wayne," Pevensie snaps, turning back towards him. "Your cover's blown, and we can go back to playing games later. I'm not in the mood."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Bruce says, blood turned to ice with sudden apprehension. He can't know. Not for sure.
"Or go back to pretending you're just a useless --" The rest of his words are nonsense, or some language (and there aren't many of them) that Bruce doesn't know. "See if I care. This will just be much easier for me if I don't have to pretend to worry about making sure you don't get yourself killed."
The funny thing is that he doesn't think Pevensie actually does care; there's no layering of emotion on his words except for irritation. He wants an ally, not something to protect. Still, Bruce hesitates, because Peter Pevensie is a federal agent, and he still has no idea what he wants.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he says again at last, the words heavy and deliberate. It's not how Bruce Wayne would say them. He hopes that Pevensie understands that.
"Always happens to me," Pevensie hisses under his breath, and kicks the door experimentally. It doesn't budge, and he lets out a low growl of annoyance.
Remembering, Bruce leans down to grope around in his fallen jacket for his phone. No reception, and that's very bad, because his phone is custom-made for both his personas. It should work anywhere. "Agent Pevensie," he calls, and Pevensie turns around towards him, arching his eyebrows. Bruce raises his phone. "I don't have any reception. Do you --"
For a moment Pevensie looks blank, then he nods and digs in his pocket. He frowns down at the iPhone for a moment as if he's trying to will it into life before his scowl deepens. "No," he says, stuffing the phone back into his pocket, and starts back towards Bruce. "Is there another way out?"
Bruce turns around. They both regard the security gates on the back enrance to the hall grimly.
"Well, well, well," he hears over the intercom. "If it isn't Mister Bruce Wayne and Special Agent Peter Pevensie off on a secret assignation. Isn't that pretty? I didn't know you played that side of the field, Brucie, but I had my suspicions about you, Agent Pevensie."
He knows that voice.
"Who is that?" Pevensie demands, eyes darting upwards as if expecting to see someone perching in the rafters.
"The Joker," Bruce says, a cold chill of fear running down his spine. The Joker's supposed to be in Arkham. Not out. Not here.
There's a high-pitched giggle. "Do you like dogs, Mr. Wayne?"
Dogs.
"Cameras," Pevensie mutters to himself, then raises his gun and thumbs off the safety.
"What are you talking about?" Bruce says.
Pevensie takes aim at the nearest camera and fires, the sound echoing around them as he pivots on his heel and shoots out the next camera. There are more than a dozen in the hall, and Pevensie stops once to reload before he finally stops.
Bruce's ears are ringing.
"Now that wasn't very nice," the Joker says reprovingly.
"I don't like being watched," Pevensie says tightly.
"He can't hear you," Bruce says, but looks down at his phone. Even if he's not getting any reception, he should still -- no. There aren't any bugs in the room, not that his sensors are picking up, at least.
Pevensie scowls again, the expression vicious and angry and unrefined -- Bruce wonders briefly where the poised federal agent went, because all he can see here is something ugly and familiar -- and then blanches white as the security gate behind them starts to raise, the sound echoing through the further halls. It's nearly a straight shot to the end of the museum. In the distance, Bruce can hear the scrabbling sound of claws on marble, a scattering of short, sharp barks, one howl.
Pevensie spits what Bruce can only assume is a curse; the words are strange but the tone is familiar. "I've only got three bullets left," he says, and crosses to the nearest display case.
Bruce stares at him blankly, because the movement doesn't make any sense. The display --
-- the exhibit is medieval weapons, and if Pevensie has a background in their use --
Pevensie puts his head to one side, frowns, and fires his last three bullets into the glass. It shatters, but no alarm goes off -- the Joker must have disabled it. He reaches in and pulls out the big English longsword, weighing it easily in one hand. "Balance," he mutters to himself, and puts it aside, sweeping aside broken glass absently with the barrel of his gun.
The slavering of the pack -- from where? why? how does the Joker know, or is this one of his games? -- is getting closer, and Bruce finds himself approaching Pevensie. He's no expert, but he knows the use of a sword. Not a longsword like this, but he knows how to fence, and he knows bokken --
Pevensie slaps him away absently when he reaches for the sword. "The balance on that is fucked," he mutters, and there's a definite accent to his words now, like he's thinking in another language. It's not his usual middle-class London English, but something else entirely, something that Bruce can't place.
He paces down the display cabinet, shattering glass with the barrel of his pistol as he goes, and pulls out another longsword. This one is a little smaller, and he weighs it in his palm and grins. "That'll do," he says softly, buckling on the sword belt and sheath that came with it. Those aren't genuine; they're reproductions, but good reproductions.
The leather looks odd against Pevensie's dress pants and tuxedo shirt, but something in him relaxes as Bruce watches. He retreats back a few feet and draws out a pair of francisca axes, flipping them around easily in his hands. He tests the blade on one against the inside of his forearm and nods to himself, then retreats further back, next to Bruce again. He reaches into the case one more time and pulls out a flanged mace.
"Here," he says, offering it to Bruce shaft-first. "No skill needed. All you have to do is hit things."
"I'm flattered," Bruce says dryly. "You know I fenced in college."
Pevensie snorts and turns away, tucking one axe into the back of the sword belt and drawing the sword. It's a little too short to be a true broadsword, from what Bruce can see; it's an epee bastarde, a bastard sword, neither one-handed or two-handed. Pevensie handles the sword with a lot more surety than he does the gun, which he tosses aside. Bruce's gaze flickers towards it, quickly, but Pevensie doesn't seem to notice or care.
They can see the dogs now. A dozen different breeds and now, now he realizes why dogs have been disappearing from all over the city, pounds and houses and parks alike. The Joker's been stealing them. And if he knows the man (lunatic), starving them.
Bruce grinds his teeth. Dogs. He hates dogs. And no body armor this time, either. He watches Pevensie out of the corner of his eye, keeping the majority of his attention focused on the dogs, although he spares some of it for the closed door behind him.
Pevensie's -- madly, inconceivably -- grinning, sword raised before him in one hand, francisca in the other. He calls a challenge in that foreign language, the last words lost as the dogs leap at him.
Bruce has a heartbeat to see Pevensie cut cleanly through the neck of one with his sword, burying the francisca in the chest of another in the same smooth move before he pulls the axe free, already spinning on his heel with oddly brutal grace -- and then the dogs are on him, too, and it's all he can do to stay on his feet, laying about him madly with hands and feet and mace, his secrets laid aside in favor of survival. Later, he knows, he'll be glad Pevensie shot out the cameras.
At some point he loses the mace and finds himself on his back, muscles straining as he holds back a bull-mastiff whose jaws snap at the air above Bruce's face. And Alfred said I would die in the suit, Bruce thinks absurdly, and sees shining silver flash through the air, the axe burying itself in the mastiff's shoulder. The second francisca follows a moment later as the mastiff yelps in pain, staggering hard to the side. Pevensie takes its head off in one blow, blood and shards of bone drenching Bruce -- but he's already covered in gore, anyway.
"Not bad," Pevensie says, easy and casual, offering Bruce a hand up. Their fingers are slick with blood, but Pevensie's still grinning like a madman. He's speaking with that odd accent again.
"If you say so," Bruce replies, trying to grasp at the remains of his illusion. "I -- that was --" What the hell would Bruce Wayne say? Batman would disappear into the shadows, but he's not him just now. He's not sure who he is, but he's not Bruce Wayne and he's not Batman.
Bemusement flickers briefly over Pevensie's face. He lets go of Bruce's hand and wipes the sword-blade clean on the tattered remains of his sleeve -- the other sleeve is gone entirely, torn away at the shoulder, and there's a long scratch down the smoothly-muscled arm beneath. Sword sheathed, he goes to retrieve the franciscas, whirling with the axes raised as the security gates suddenly slide open.
Round two, Bruce thinks, already shifting to a fighter's stance. He drops it a moment later, because the figures pouring into the room are GCPD uniforms. With them is a woman, slim and beautiful, lowering the gun she has in two hands as she approaches Pevensie.
"Peter!"
"Su --" Pevensie begins, and she steps around the canine corpses on the floor as if there's nothing there at all and wraps an arm around his neck, hugging him tightly, heedless of the weapons they're both carrying. Peter hugs her back, shifting to accommodate the franciscas, and Bruce abruptly realizes who the woman is. Special Agent Susan Pevensie, Pevensie's sister. He hadn't read her file when he'd hacked the FBI database.
Pevensie says something to her in that foreign language and she answers in the same tongue as she lets go of him. He crouches down and puts the axes down flat on the ground, then unbuckles the sword belt, hands lingering briefly on the leather before he puts that down too. Susan reaches up to cup his cheek with one hand, wiping blood away from the side of his mouth, and Pevensie turns his face into her touch.
"Master Wayne?" Alfred asks, suddenly next to him, and Bruce looks at him, startled out of staring. "You're injured," Alfred continues. "There's an ambulance outside. And I believe Commissioner Gordon would like to speak to you."
"Of course," Bruce says, trying to inject shocked blankness into his voice. He'll play traumatized rich boy for now.
He glances over his shoulder on his way out. Pevensie and his sister are nowhere in sight.