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thejusticelounge2013-06-28 03:35 pm
bossymarmalade) wrote in thejusticelounge2013-06-28 03:35 pm
Entry tags:
hero to hero
It’s almost enough to make him shut his eyes at the smell of the Pacific, wafting up all salt-bright and subtle. The winds were high, at midday, kicking up the surf into a frothy, foaming mess, the back-and-forth call of the gulls lapsing into musical, rather than just nuisance.
The staff at the hotel-resort had been overwhelmingly surprised at his unexpected visit—Bruce almost always announced, beforehand, his check-ins at any of his holdings or properties—but, like any good Wayne Enterprises employee, had accommodated, and fast. The sprawling, massive, private booth facing the seaside had been bussed and cleared, and he’d been seated within minutes. The drinks, within moments.
So far, Bruce—he was dressed in a white dress shirt, skinny tie knotted in a simple four-in-hand, black jacket and trousers— had been ignoring the sweltering flute of private reserve champagne they’d poured for him, the bottle sitting on ice, watching the coast. The Pacific had just begun to greet him back, when an attendant moved to inform him that Kyle had arrived.
Nodding in return, Bruce orders a coffee and folds his broad hands over each other, clasping his wrists in an entirely private moment, for once sheltered in fluttering length of white silk, tied onto the high wall that made the shell of the cabana booth, rather than his customary black. The sun reappeared through the clouds, the light racing over the waves, the briny smell lifting back up, comforting, to Bruce’s noise. It was almost enough to make Bruce shut his eyes, the wind pushing through his hair like lover’s fingers, but, of course, he didn’t. He never did.
Blue eyes that nearly put the sea to shame, scan the shoreline, mind skipping ahead of the meeting to come, and to what else lay on his agenda for the day.
The coffee arrives before Kyle does.
Kyle was a little surprised that Bruce’s choice was some sort of ultra-fancy hotel-resort sort of place. He was expecting some sort of ultra-fancy restaurant sort of place…Still, when he arrived and was ushered by a total of three different waitstaff, it slowly dawned on Kyle that this wasn’t just any old fancy-dancy place. It was one of Bruce Wayne’s properties.
In a way, that was somewhat flattering, for Kyle. Given the circumstances and all.
He emerged onto the veranda, following the overly anxious waiter, the warm, watery ocean breeze billowed out his jacket. He removed it as he was shown to where Bruce was. The man wasn’t exactly hard to miss, but Kyle didn’t mind this whole song-and-dance. For some reason, meeting the Batman in a world Kyle understood - all whites, blues and cream, sunlight and beaches - made it all very…intimate.
For ‘some reason’. A-doy, Rayner, Kyle thought. Just like Clark chose a bustling public coffee shop to discuss conflicts, Bruce chose his own private beachfront views for discussing charity work.
These old veterans were unbelievable, sometimes. And still, Kyle felt even more pleased.
Kyle shifted his portfolio case to his other arm, pulled off his sunglasses and reached over the table before sitting down, taking hold of Bruce’s hand and pumping it solidly.
"Morning Mr. Wayne," Kyle grinned widely, enjoying the act. Just a little. He looked over at the lingering waiter. “I’d like - uh - can I please have a triple americano? With a shot of hazelnut? Please, thanks so much."
The waiter exited, promptly, upon the request of the coffee and Bruce reclaimed his hand, promptly sliding it out of the direct line of sight. He motions with an imperial tilt of his head to the champagne.
“Help yourself, when your meal comes,” Bruce states, indicating he won’t be partaking. He continues to look around, surveying the area constantly, speaking to Kyle as he gives the younger man his profile. Coming up from the stairs that lead down to the beach, the two women in their late twenties, dressed in beachwear and holding their sandals in hand, make their way towards them to get back inside the hotel.
“I understand that taking money for any work you do for the charity seems out of place,” he begins, carefully. “And I won’t press the issue,” he brings his eyes back to Kyle as he leans back, spreading his arms over the back of the plush canvas couch he’s sitting on; Kyle sits on a chair, opposite him. “So the question then becomes, how soon can you have something workable for it?”
He crosses his leg over the knee of the other and quirks his mouth in the direction of the women, who stutter in their gait when he does it.
Kyle was indeed watching Bruce. Now that it’d been years of seeing and interacting with Bruce and with Batman, and years of Lanterning across the universe, Kyle’s perspective on Gotham’s Knight had shifted. He still highly respected the Batman, but without the tinge of trepidation and awe he initially had. His regard for Bruce had polished off smoothly with experience and age.
And maybe bringing Hal back had something to do with that too…some distant connection that Kyle couldn’t quite put his finger on, but he felt it the moment the League and Batman challenged the four Earth Lanterns, and the Lanterns carved out their own path instead.
Now his eyes flicked from the ladies and back to Bruce. Kyle found it funny, but he didn’t say it. That would make it awkward. Instead he poured himself a glass of fancy champagne with great relish. It was all on Bruce’s tab, after all.
"This is payment enough, man. I’m sure whatever this breakfast is costing you is pretty much what I’d have ended up charging!" Kyle spoke with enough gusto that Bruce knew he meant it. He saluted Bruce and drained his glass of champagne, quickly chasing that with a gulp of the coffee, when it arrived. "Ahhhh…that’s good stuff. Beautiful place you got here…" kyle glanced over at the women again, who were reclined against the bannister and dusting the sand from their feet.
"I was thinking about ideas all night. Hero to Hero. One big, one small. Or maybe angles, between the heroes, one to the other. Like a mirror image? The hero and the kid, seeing each other?" Kyle pulled another chair over, opening his portfolio case on it to reveal some mock-up artwork, all loosely drawn in color pencils. Thank goodness for mylar sleeves and bull clips, so the breeze didn’t hinder him. “Big, bold bright colors and fonts, lots of actiony lines and ways to make the kids feel like heroes too, sabes?" Kyle sits back, opening his menu.
"My question to you is, how soon can we get this whole thing launched? Ahh!! Isn’t this exciting?! I’m working with Bruce Wayne! Well - you’re Bruce Wayne so probably not that exciting for you. But it totally is for me!"
There are times, every once in a while, where the mask of Bruce Wayne has its perks.
Strangely enough, it’s never with the Russian ballerinas, or the African heiresses, Greek moguls, but rather, on the rare occasions when he meets with a colleague, outside of the cape and the cowl, in a public place, like this, that it—the glitz and the glamour, pearls to swine—all becomes worth it.
Looking over Kyle’s work, and knowing that his reaction cannot just be what would come naturally—an assertive nod or a contemplative huff of air,— the man digs past the veneer, pulling out the tiniest of flags to surrender: a smile. It unfurls across the generous landscape of his mouth, near-flickering in the sea breeze. Bruce is very nearly the description of deliriously handsome, then, and it’s clear to see why the starlets flocked to him when he wore this mask, besides the obscene figure in his bank account.
“They’re good,” he states, the words utterly genuine, and leans back, expression pulling back a touch as he rests his head against the back of the cabana wall. The silk flutters around him, blocking his profile from anyone else’s sight, but he still chuckles when Kyle expresses his excitement at working with him. Sitting there across from him, in the short-sleeved suit and tie, the younger man reminded Bruce so keenly of Dick, that he could feel the tug of his heart at the back of his molars, saccharine.
He reaches inside his coat pocket, procuring a pair of sunglasses—a designer brand that is worth more than Hal and Kyle’s rent for the month—and slipping them onto his face, looking back the way the women came. The illusion remains, Bruce’s head lolling to the side, lazily as he speaks.
“A series would be good, for merchandising rights. We could use members of the League, drawing.. them the way they draw us.” Bruce’s voice comes quiet, then, sifting out over the wind like if Kyle doesn’t turn his head just right, they’ll disappear on it. It’s an extremely private thought, evidenced by the total retreat on the man’s face as he glances at the Lantern.
Kyle couldn’t help watching people closely, sometimes. It was why he loved mano a mano so much. In a group, it was easy to turn, miss eye contact, flutter and flap and not really connect with people. Not get that chance to really pay attention and learn and study with the constant din of himself and others. Constant din was good sometimes. But other times, it was nice to focus.
This was one of those moments, and Kyle was keenly aware of how rare the chance was. So he watched Bruce, not expecting to notice anything Bruce didn’t want him to see, but that was good enough. It wasn’t everyday you got a chance to unabashedly stare at some people.
The smile gave Kyle a sudden urge to pull out pencil and paper from somewhere and start to sketch his face. The crash of waves against the break at that moment helped, as did the light giggly screams from the lounging ladies, shocked from the noise. It was a ridiculously Impressionistic tableau. The noise almost drowned out Bruce’s comment, but Kyle managed to hear him.
"I know it’s good - what matters is that you like it." Kyle said with more confidence than ego. "Not often I get approval right off the bat. I’m getting back in the game." He did a sort of youthful one-two punch in the air, picking up the menu and surfing through quickly as the waiter came around.
Kyle ordered everything he felt he’d be able to immediately consume - a fancy omelette, fancy bacon on the side - five strips, please - fancy bread and cheese and olive and oil thing, a fancy dessert as well. He also had another glass of champagne and requested a refill for his coffee. “Can you add a shot of whiskey to it too, please? Thanks."
He turned his attention back to Bruce, whose mannerisms had shifted. Again."Getting other League members on board is a good idea," Kyle began softly, ducking his head to keep Bruce…sort of looking in his direction. The sunglasses hid where he was actually focusing on.
"I think anything the League does a group to counteract the Godfrey-wannabes pre-emptively would be useful, if we - ah…I mean if you can tell the Leaguers as much. This is your idea, after all. I’m just the image-maker." Kyle’s scope was always fairly grand in general, but not always for himself. Not when it came to certain things, anyway.
Handing his menu to the waiter, Bruce orders a garden salad, no dressing, as well as three boiled eggs and a steak, cooked medium-rare. The waiter takes both orders in stride, hardly blinking, not even when Kyle asks for the whiskey in his coffee. Glancing at Bruce as if to see if the man wants a shot himself, he only departs when the billionaire raises a hand from where it’s laying on the back of the couch, shaking his head.
Bringing his gaze back to Kyle, Bruce nods. “We’ll bring it to the League, but not through me, directly,” he declares. “I’ll manage the financial aspects as well I can—” He leans forward, arms dropping to his side, and lifts his cup of coffee to his lips for a short sip. It barely makes a sound as it lands back on the saucer, and the man continues, smoothly, voice warmed by the drink. “But League-wide agreement on the subject will be necessary, if only for the sake of the use of their images.”
“Do you think you can have something we can work with to present the idea to them, in a week’s time?”
Kyle heard Bruce ordering his food and immediately got ordering-regret. He’d almost made up his mind to cajole and steal some of Bruce’s steak when it arrived, before suddenly reminding himself that he was planning to steal Bruce Wayne’s steak.
Dammit, this wasn’t a brunch with Kate or Hal or even Guy, all who’d indulge Kyle in his sometimes-childish whims. Yet somehow Bruce had managed to get Kyle feeling comfortable enough in just one brunch, for Kyle to even entertain the thought. Hot holy damn, that Batman.
He turned slightly red as he washed the thoughts from his mind with the next crashing of the wave, drinking his Irish’d coffee and grinning slightly to himself.
"Not through you?" Kyle looked up, surprised. “Then who? Should we - I - you talk to someone else about it before bringing it to the League? I mean, I can do the art ideas in a week, sure. I can mock up blank versions as well, so people can just…imagine themselves in there, being heroes to kids. Hell, I can make up a whole freaking presentation, using that fancy WayneTech tablet you gave me." Kyle paused, pouring himself a third glass of champagne, since it’d suck to let it go to waste. He knew these bottles had four glasses; he planned to have one after brunch.
"Thank you by the way - uh - did you get, my, uh, thank you? The um, the thing, the drawing I did. Of your family. And all that. Sláinte."
Watching Kyle from behind his glasses, Bruce understood that it was an unfair advantage he had: Kyle, if he’d wanted to stare—and the younger man was—had to make the knowledge known in the bright light of day, where anyone could see his intentions. Bruce, on the other hand, hidden behind the glass, tinted so dark it would be illegal on most cars, could look around the restaurant they are sitting in, could stare at the younger man and take in the subtle changes in his expression as he speaks without giving a single thing away, particularly with the near-stoic expression.
“I have an idea of someone who would be best suited to manage the day-to-day affairs,” he admits. “I’ll be speaking to him later this week, but I’ll need your creative vision to wrap the proposition up nicely, for any corporate sponsors that might be inclined to offer their services to us. Therefore, anything you can do—” He brought his coffee to his lips, once again, wetting his tongue before continuing. “—with any tools you need to do it with, will be appreciated.” He pauses, and sets the coffee down, the cup clinking softly on the saucer.
“My mother was an artist.”
A beat, heavy and poignant. Bruce’s motions still entirely, before he uncrosses his legs; the waiter is returning, two others behind him.
“I saw it. It wasn’t necessary. I gave you the tablet to make running League-business smoother.”
"I…"
Kyle looked up as the waiters arrived with their food, only half-distracted by the delicious warm scents wafting for each of their plates. He was surprised at the tidbit of information Bruce had suddenly dropped about his mother, and Kyle’s mind was now torn between profound connections of Bruce’s rather patronly fondness for him combined with deeper connections made about mothers lost, battling with his more baser instinct of mouth-watering, mind-numbing hunger.
He smiled wryly at Bruce’s brusque assessment of Kyle’s thank you-art, motioning to the waiter to put fresh cracked black pepper on his omelette. "You gave me the tablet to have a new tech toy, forget League-business. I’m a twenny-six year old geek. I freaking love it. It’s chock full of aps now, and I made Hal buy a projector so we could watch movies and TV off it. And It pretty much does everything for me when I want to feel normal. Because, you know —" As the waiter left, Kyle tapped his ring with his fork, before digging in. He chewed for a moment. “I guess it would be uncouth to ask ‘em for ketchup."
He nodded, recalling Bruce’s previous conversation (relieved that he has someone in mind) and interpreting Bruce’s meanings to suit his own. “I’ll need a Cintiq, the full Creative Suite and a good set of tunes and I’m gee-tee-gee. This is graphic design project - it’s all technical art, so. I need technical tools. Once I get that, I will wow you, Bruce, I guarantee." Kyle sat back as he chews, blinking up at the sun and smiling. “I’m totally getting my groove back, these days…"
He eventually looked back at Bruce, still so indiscernible from behind those glasses.
"You still have…anything? Anything of hers? Any art from your mom?" Kyle’s voice wavered just a bit, and he caught it by stuffing another forkful of egg into his mouth.
The man listened, exhaling through his nose, as Kyle corrected Bruce’s own motivations with something like a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He lifted a hand, a waiter appearing, like magic, at his side the instant the fingers uncurled; it hadn’t been anything Zatanna had ever taught him, his father’s name was all the trick he needed to pull it off. He murmured something, and no less than thirty seconds later, a very tiny, very delicate looking glass bottle of ketchup appeared at Kyle’s side, via the stately blonde who immediately returned to her position at the edge of the inside portion of the hotel’s restaurant.
Bruce turned his attention back to Kyle, and shook his head, although he didn’t necessarily fight what the Lantern said, leaving the real reasons for the gifted-tablet floating in the ether somewhere between the two poles. He was going to think what he wanted, in the end. When Kyle began to list the things he’d need, Bruce pulled out his cellphone, thumbs sliding across the keyboard without him so much as glancing down. He lifted himself off the chair a bit to put it back in his pocket, no more than a few moments later, and nodded as he stretched out once more, head lolling back as he brought his face to meet a tiny ray of sunshine that peeked through the roof of the cabana. “They’ll be at your apartment by the end of the business day,” he announced, quietly.
He took a breath when the question came, the regret of having said something flashing over his upturned face, before he rolled a shoulder, arched it high, towards his ear. He waited a long moment before the response eventually came.
“Yes.” He left it at that, sitting up straight again, as if he’d suddenly that he had steaming hot food in front of him; he doesn’t seem the tiniest bit interested in consuming it.
Kyle made sure to thank the blonde as he grabbed for the ketchup. Might as well reassure her that Bruce Wayne wasn’t looking for ketchup for his steak; no it was for the scruffy art kid who showed up. He dug at it with his butter knife, watching the red goop erupt all over the omelette.
It was something to do while Bruce added the supplies Kyle needed to his list. Okay. Kyle had to take a bit of time to internally work this through, himself. He wasn’t one to take hand-outs will-nilly; in fact, despite his upbringing, Kyle was never a charity-case. But at the same time, having his home(s) destroyed was starting to get a little tedious. Having to start over even more so. And having a billionaire more than willing to provide things…well. That was convenient. Kyle considered it - and the brunch, and the champage - part of the payment. It made Bruce feel better. Yep. That’s what Kyle told himself as he continued with his omelette.
"Gracias, Bruce," Kyle said between chews. He didn’t pursue the topic of Bruce’s mother, but he did catch himself saying, “My mom only had one painting remaining, after she died. I didn’t even know she did it. Until she was dead."
He suddenly didn’t want Bruce to comment on that (if the older man was even considering it) and instead poured himself the last glass of champagne and asked with a grin. “So, good to be back home? You must’ve missed your old haunts. Ah. Not to imply you’re a ghost or anything, just. You, Gotham. Gotham, you. Same diff."
Kyle wasn’t too far off from the truth: Bruce sat up, the list sent, his expression behind the glasses having shifted into something less pinched. He reached for his coffee once again, intent on draining it, his expression pricking awake as he sensed movement from behind him.
From behind, the two women approached, their sandals dusted and on their feet. They stopped at the edge of the cabana and looked to each other before the first of the pair, a brunette of Mediterranean descent, pushed through the flapping white silk, and walked straight to the table in the middle of the two of them, her hand sliding to the dramatic curve of her hip, as it flared from the narrow of her waist.
“Gentlemen,” she purred, her voice feline and unctuous, words musical in a way native English speakers’ never were. “My friend and I—” The other woman, a blonde, a head taller than her darker companion but just as conventionally attractive, approached from behind. “We’ve been watching you and decided that it’s just.. too sad to watch two such handsome men sit and dine by themselves on such a glorious day.”
Bent over his plate, it took a while for Kyle to register that the woman was referring to him as a ‘gentleman’. His mouth curled into a somewhat incredulous grin as he twisted to look up at them, although his curled posture didn’t change much.
He had no idea what to say, and he gawped at them for a second.
This was one of the weirdest lunches he had ever had in his entire life. Hands down. Amongst his swirling thoughts, he figured this was probably something Bruce dealt with normally - him and Queen, perhaps, having their fancy lunch at a fancy place and fancy women just swing on by to flirt and call them ‘gentleman’. Just a regular day as a playboy billionaire.
He dropped his knife and fork with a clatter onto the table and pushed back from the chair, standing up to greet them.
"Hi, hello," Kyle said to get their attention, oblivious to the way the brunette was now eyeing Bruce. “Well since we’re finished our business for the day, like businessmen, and I’m always up for a little pleasure." Oh yeah. That totally sounded really smooth. Kyle grinned to himself as he allowed himself a more appreciative look, pleased when the tall blonde lady returned the once-over to him.
He graciously motioned to Bruce, with a slight smirk to the other man. "But, ah, he’s the one currently calling the shots."
Bruce looked up, plucking the sunglasses off his face, the motion smooth and controlled, but obviously eager. He looked over at the blonde, the brunette, and then Kyle, his expression instantly transformed into something open and inviting. Handsome. He grinned, all the perfectly white teeth nearly glowing, patted the empty space next to him, and gestured for the woman to sit.
Like a moth to a flame, the woman sat, without question, one leg crossing over the other to push her into a more angled position (facing Bruce), and the blonde sat on the edge of the seat next to Kyle. Looking over his shoulder, Bruce spotted a waiter, watching the whole situation with a look of envy, and waved a hand, pointing to the champagne on ice, then the two women. He nodded, smiling, reached the upheld hand down, and brushed a lock of hair off the woman to his right’s shoulder.
“I am calling the shots,” Bruce purred, raking his eyes down her barely clad form, the utter change from his normal demeanor nearly alarming, bordering on horrifying, for how quick it happens. There are no seams to the mask, no place where what Bruce is saying isn’t utterly genuine, as if he means it. It’s as if who he is on the Watchtower, on League missions, is the fake personality, and this.. This shining, grinning man—with the hints of a boyish mischief lurking at the edges of his smile as the woman scoots closer—is who Bruce actually is.
“And business is most certainly over.”
The women laughed, their voices like clinking crystal, and Bruce looked over at Kyle, a flare of sudden heat that doesn’t seem to have anything to do them simmering at the back of his stare. His mouth pursed, and the dark depths of his stare turned back to the woman. “And while I am absolutely free of any..extracurricular obligations—” He wriggled his finger, the ring one, glancing at the blonde woman as he pouts, sympathetically. “I’m afraid my associate here is not.”
The blonde looks at Kyle, at his hand, her bright hazel eyes nearly accosting him, demanding he negate the vicious lie.
It’s been a while since Kyle’s felt completely, utterly out of his league.
No pun intended.
It wasn’t the flirting throwing him off; that Kyle could do with confidence, eyes closed, upside-down, one hand tied behind his back. Especially since the ladies present seemed happily amenable to it. It was the fact that it was happening with and in the company of freaking Bruce Wayne. The man never, ever stopped surprising him, Kyle realized, as he stared at Bruce longer and more insistently than he did the lovely blonde at his side.
Kyle wasn’t entirely sure he liked this surprise, either. The immediate slide of change-not-change in Bruce was alarming, disturbing; a horrific insight cracking open up a question that, likely, hundreds of other people had already asked themselves: okay, so - who was the real Bruce Wayne? Kyle didn’t like it one bit. Truth was, he didn’t want to know.
The blonde cleared her throat to bring his attention back, sharing a slightly amused glance at her friend, before cooing as the champagne arrived. The cork was popped and glasses were poured, women insisting the two men join them in a salutation.
"At least you can stay for that…" Kyle’s companion said with a wicked wink. He took his glass and smiled back at her.
"Well since you insist…" Kyle pulled out an iPhone from nowhere - or rather, a beautiful construct of one - making a show of tapping mindlessly (as Bruce could clearly see) at the screen of the hard light object for a while before tucking it back nowhere. "…how about that? My calendar has suddenly become clear." He shot a winning smile at Bruce, SoCal warmth blanketing Gotham heat as he lifted his glass and looked back at the delighted blonde lady. “To, ahhhhm. To heroes, and to those who save them from themselves."
The ladies gracefully lifted their glasses, making twin soft acknowledgement noises of Kyle’s supposedly profound vagaries.
The staff at the hotel-resort had been overwhelmingly surprised at his unexpected visit—Bruce almost always announced, beforehand, his check-ins at any of his holdings or properties—but, like any good Wayne Enterprises employee, had accommodated, and fast. The sprawling, massive, private booth facing the seaside had been bussed and cleared, and he’d been seated within minutes. The drinks, within moments.
So far, Bruce—he was dressed in a white dress shirt, skinny tie knotted in a simple four-in-hand, black jacket and trousers— had been ignoring the sweltering flute of private reserve champagne they’d poured for him, the bottle sitting on ice, watching the coast. The Pacific had just begun to greet him back, when an attendant moved to inform him that Kyle had arrived.
Nodding in return, Bruce orders a coffee and folds his broad hands over each other, clasping his wrists in an entirely private moment, for once sheltered in fluttering length of white silk, tied onto the high wall that made the shell of the cabana booth, rather than his customary black. The sun reappeared through the clouds, the light racing over the waves, the briny smell lifting back up, comforting, to Bruce’s noise. It was almost enough to make Bruce shut his eyes, the wind pushing through his hair like lover’s fingers, but, of course, he didn’t. He never did.
Blue eyes that nearly put the sea to shame, scan the shoreline, mind skipping ahead of the meeting to come, and to what else lay on his agenda for the day.
The coffee arrives before Kyle does.
Kyle was a little surprised that Bruce’s choice was some sort of ultra-fancy hotel-resort sort of place. He was expecting some sort of ultra-fancy restaurant sort of place…Still, when he arrived and was ushered by a total of three different waitstaff, it slowly dawned on Kyle that this wasn’t just any old fancy-dancy place. It was one of Bruce Wayne’s properties.
In a way, that was somewhat flattering, for Kyle. Given the circumstances and all.
He emerged onto the veranda, following the overly anxious waiter, the warm, watery ocean breeze billowed out his jacket. He removed it as he was shown to where Bruce was. The man wasn’t exactly hard to miss, but Kyle didn’t mind this whole song-and-dance. For some reason, meeting the Batman in a world Kyle understood - all whites, blues and cream, sunlight and beaches - made it all very…intimate.
For ‘some reason’. A-doy, Rayner, Kyle thought. Just like Clark chose a bustling public coffee shop to discuss conflicts, Bruce chose his own private beachfront views for discussing charity work.
These old veterans were unbelievable, sometimes. And still, Kyle felt even more pleased.
Kyle shifted his portfolio case to his other arm, pulled off his sunglasses and reached over the table before sitting down, taking hold of Bruce’s hand and pumping it solidly.
"Morning Mr. Wayne," Kyle grinned widely, enjoying the act. Just a little. He looked over at the lingering waiter. “I’d like - uh - can I please have a triple americano? With a shot of hazelnut? Please, thanks so much."
The waiter exited, promptly, upon the request of the coffee and Bruce reclaimed his hand, promptly sliding it out of the direct line of sight. He motions with an imperial tilt of his head to the champagne.
“Help yourself, when your meal comes,” Bruce states, indicating he won’t be partaking. He continues to look around, surveying the area constantly, speaking to Kyle as he gives the younger man his profile. Coming up from the stairs that lead down to the beach, the two women in their late twenties, dressed in beachwear and holding their sandals in hand, make their way towards them to get back inside the hotel.
“I understand that taking money for any work you do for the charity seems out of place,” he begins, carefully. “And I won’t press the issue,” he brings his eyes back to Kyle as he leans back, spreading his arms over the back of the plush canvas couch he’s sitting on; Kyle sits on a chair, opposite him. “So the question then becomes, how soon can you have something workable for it?”
He crosses his leg over the knee of the other and quirks his mouth in the direction of the women, who stutter in their gait when he does it.
Kyle was indeed watching Bruce. Now that it’d been years of seeing and interacting with Bruce and with Batman, and years of Lanterning across the universe, Kyle’s perspective on Gotham’s Knight had shifted. He still highly respected the Batman, but without the tinge of trepidation and awe he initially had. His regard for Bruce had polished off smoothly with experience and age.
And maybe bringing Hal back had something to do with that too…some distant connection that Kyle couldn’t quite put his finger on, but he felt it the moment the League and Batman challenged the four Earth Lanterns, and the Lanterns carved out their own path instead.
Now his eyes flicked from the ladies and back to Bruce. Kyle found it funny, but he didn’t say it. That would make it awkward. Instead he poured himself a glass of fancy champagne with great relish. It was all on Bruce’s tab, after all.
"This is payment enough, man. I’m sure whatever this breakfast is costing you is pretty much what I’d have ended up charging!" Kyle spoke with enough gusto that Bruce knew he meant it. He saluted Bruce and drained his glass of champagne, quickly chasing that with a gulp of the coffee, when it arrived. "Ahhhh…that’s good stuff. Beautiful place you got here…" kyle glanced over at the women again, who were reclined against the bannister and dusting the sand from their feet.
"I was thinking about ideas all night. Hero to Hero. One big, one small. Or maybe angles, between the heroes, one to the other. Like a mirror image? The hero and the kid, seeing each other?" Kyle pulled another chair over, opening his portfolio case on it to reveal some mock-up artwork, all loosely drawn in color pencils. Thank goodness for mylar sleeves and bull clips, so the breeze didn’t hinder him. “Big, bold bright colors and fonts, lots of actiony lines and ways to make the kids feel like heroes too, sabes?" Kyle sits back, opening his menu.
"My question to you is, how soon can we get this whole thing launched? Ahh!! Isn’t this exciting?! I’m working with Bruce Wayne! Well - you’re Bruce Wayne so probably not that exciting for you. But it totally is for me!"
There are times, every once in a while, where the mask of Bruce Wayne has its perks.
Strangely enough, it’s never with the Russian ballerinas, or the African heiresses, Greek moguls, but rather, on the rare occasions when he meets with a colleague, outside of the cape and the cowl, in a public place, like this, that it—the glitz and the glamour, pearls to swine—all becomes worth it.
Looking over Kyle’s work, and knowing that his reaction cannot just be what would come naturally—an assertive nod or a contemplative huff of air,— the man digs past the veneer, pulling out the tiniest of flags to surrender: a smile. It unfurls across the generous landscape of his mouth, near-flickering in the sea breeze. Bruce is very nearly the description of deliriously handsome, then, and it’s clear to see why the starlets flocked to him when he wore this mask, besides the obscene figure in his bank account.
“They’re good,” he states, the words utterly genuine, and leans back, expression pulling back a touch as he rests his head against the back of the cabana wall. The silk flutters around him, blocking his profile from anyone else’s sight, but he still chuckles when Kyle expresses his excitement at working with him. Sitting there across from him, in the short-sleeved suit and tie, the younger man reminded Bruce so keenly of Dick, that he could feel the tug of his heart at the back of his molars, saccharine.
He reaches inside his coat pocket, procuring a pair of sunglasses—a designer brand that is worth more than Hal and Kyle’s rent for the month—and slipping them onto his face, looking back the way the women came. The illusion remains, Bruce’s head lolling to the side, lazily as he speaks.
“A series would be good, for merchandising rights. We could use members of the League, drawing.. them the way they draw us.” Bruce’s voice comes quiet, then, sifting out over the wind like if Kyle doesn’t turn his head just right, they’ll disappear on it. It’s an extremely private thought, evidenced by the total retreat on the man’s face as he glances at the Lantern.
Kyle couldn’t help watching people closely, sometimes. It was why he loved mano a mano so much. In a group, it was easy to turn, miss eye contact, flutter and flap and not really connect with people. Not get that chance to really pay attention and learn and study with the constant din of himself and others. Constant din was good sometimes. But other times, it was nice to focus.
This was one of those moments, and Kyle was keenly aware of how rare the chance was. So he watched Bruce, not expecting to notice anything Bruce didn’t want him to see, but that was good enough. It wasn’t everyday you got a chance to unabashedly stare at some people.
The smile gave Kyle a sudden urge to pull out pencil and paper from somewhere and start to sketch his face. The crash of waves against the break at that moment helped, as did the light giggly screams from the lounging ladies, shocked from the noise. It was a ridiculously Impressionistic tableau. The noise almost drowned out Bruce’s comment, but Kyle managed to hear him.
"I know it’s good - what matters is that you like it." Kyle said with more confidence than ego. "Not often I get approval right off the bat. I’m getting back in the game." He did a sort of youthful one-two punch in the air, picking up the menu and surfing through quickly as the waiter came around.
Kyle ordered everything he felt he’d be able to immediately consume - a fancy omelette, fancy bacon on the side - five strips, please - fancy bread and cheese and olive and oil thing, a fancy dessert as well. He also had another glass of champagne and requested a refill for his coffee. “Can you add a shot of whiskey to it too, please? Thanks."
He turned his attention back to Bruce, whose mannerisms had shifted. Again."Getting other League members on board is a good idea," Kyle began softly, ducking his head to keep Bruce…sort of looking in his direction. The sunglasses hid where he was actually focusing on.
"I think anything the League does a group to counteract the Godfrey-wannabes pre-emptively would be useful, if we - ah…I mean if you can tell the Leaguers as much. This is your idea, after all. I’m just the image-maker." Kyle’s scope was always fairly grand in general, but not always for himself. Not when it came to certain things, anyway.
Handing his menu to the waiter, Bruce orders a garden salad, no dressing, as well as three boiled eggs and a steak, cooked medium-rare. The waiter takes both orders in stride, hardly blinking, not even when Kyle asks for the whiskey in his coffee. Glancing at Bruce as if to see if the man wants a shot himself, he only departs when the billionaire raises a hand from where it’s laying on the back of the couch, shaking his head.
Bringing his gaze back to Kyle, Bruce nods. “We’ll bring it to the League, but not through me, directly,” he declares. “I’ll manage the financial aspects as well I can—” He leans forward, arms dropping to his side, and lifts his cup of coffee to his lips for a short sip. It barely makes a sound as it lands back on the saucer, and the man continues, smoothly, voice warmed by the drink. “But League-wide agreement on the subject will be necessary, if only for the sake of the use of their images.”
“Do you think you can have something we can work with to present the idea to them, in a week’s time?”
Kyle heard Bruce ordering his food and immediately got ordering-regret. He’d almost made up his mind to cajole and steal some of Bruce’s steak when it arrived, before suddenly reminding himself that he was planning to steal Bruce Wayne’s steak.
Dammit, this wasn’t a brunch with Kate or Hal or even Guy, all who’d indulge Kyle in his sometimes-childish whims. Yet somehow Bruce had managed to get Kyle feeling comfortable enough in just one brunch, for Kyle to even entertain the thought. Hot holy damn, that Batman.
He turned slightly red as he washed the thoughts from his mind with the next crashing of the wave, drinking his Irish’d coffee and grinning slightly to himself.
"Not through you?" Kyle looked up, surprised. “Then who? Should we - I - you talk to someone else about it before bringing it to the League? I mean, I can do the art ideas in a week, sure. I can mock up blank versions as well, so people can just…imagine themselves in there, being heroes to kids. Hell, I can make up a whole freaking presentation, using that fancy WayneTech tablet you gave me." Kyle paused, pouring himself a third glass of champagne, since it’d suck to let it go to waste. He knew these bottles had four glasses; he planned to have one after brunch.
"Thank you by the way - uh - did you get, my, uh, thank you? The um, the thing, the drawing I did. Of your family. And all that. Sláinte."
Watching Kyle from behind his glasses, Bruce understood that it was an unfair advantage he had: Kyle, if he’d wanted to stare—and the younger man was—had to make the knowledge known in the bright light of day, where anyone could see his intentions. Bruce, on the other hand, hidden behind the glass, tinted so dark it would be illegal on most cars, could look around the restaurant they are sitting in, could stare at the younger man and take in the subtle changes in his expression as he speaks without giving a single thing away, particularly with the near-stoic expression.
“I have an idea of someone who would be best suited to manage the day-to-day affairs,” he admits. “I’ll be speaking to him later this week, but I’ll need your creative vision to wrap the proposition up nicely, for any corporate sponsors that might be inclined to offer their services to us. Therefore, anything you can do—” He brought his coffee to his lips, once again, wetting his tongue before continuing. “—with any tools you need to do it with, will be appreciated.” He pauses, and sets the coffee down, the cup clinking softly on the saucer.
“My mother was an artist.”
A beat, heavy and poignant. Bruce’s motions still entirely, before he uncrosses his legs; the waiter is returning, two others behind him.
“I saw it. It wasn’t necessary. I gave you the tablet to make running League-business smoother.”
"I…"
Kyle looked up as the waiters arrived with their food, only half-distracted by the delicious warm scents wafting for each of their plates. He was surprised at the tidbit of information Bruce had suddenly dropped about his mother, and Kyle’s mind was now torn between profound connections of Bruce’s rather patronly fondness for him combined with deeper connections made about mothers lost, battling with his more baser instinct of mouth-watering, mind-numbing hunger.
He smiled wryly at Bruce’s brusque assessment of Kyle’s thank you-art, motioning to the waiter to put fresh cracked black pepper on his omelette. "You gave me the tablet to have a new tech toy, forget League-business. I’m a twenny-six year old geek. I freaking love it. It’s chock full of aps now, and I made Hal buy a projector so we could watch movies and TV off it. And It pretty much does everything for me when I want to feel normal. Because, you know —" As the waiter left, Kyle tapped his ring with his fork, before digging in. He chewed for a moment. “I guess it would be uncouth to ask ‘em for ketchup."
He nodded, recalling Bruce’s previous conversation (relieved that he has someone in mind) and interpreting Bruce’s meanings to suit his own. “I’ll need a Cintiq, the full Creative Suite and a good set of tunes and I’m gee-tee-gee. This is graphic design project - it’s all technical art, so. I need technical tools. Once I get that, I will wow you, Bruce, I guarantee." Kyle sat back as he chews, blinking up at the sun and smiling. “I’m totally getting my groove back, these days…"
He eventually looked back at Bruce, still so indiscernible from behind those glasses.
"You still have…anything? Anything of hers? Any art from your mom?" Kyle’s voice wavered just a bit, and he caught it by stuffing another forkful of egg into his mouth.
The man listened, exhaling through his nose, as Kyle corrected Bruce’s own motivations with something like a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He lifted a hand, a waiter appearing, like magic, at his side the instant the fingers uncurled; it hadn’t been anything Zatanna had ever taught him, his father’s name was all the trick he needed to pull it off. He murmured something, and no less than thirty seconds later, a very tiny, very delicate looking glass bottle of ketchup appeared at Kyle’s side, via the stately blonde who immediately returned to her position at the edge of the inside portion of the hotel’s restaurant.
Bruce turned his attention back to Kyle, and shook his head, although he didn’t necessarily fight what the Lantern said, leaving the real reasons for the gifted-tablet floating in the ether somewhere between the two poles. He was going to think what he wanted, in the end. When Kyle began to list the things he’d need, Bruce pulled out his cellphone, thumbs sliding across the keyboard without him so much as glancing down. He lifted himself off the chair a bit to put it back in his pocket, no more than a few moments later, and nodded as he stretched out once more, head lolling back as he brought his face to meet a tiny ray of sunshine that peeked through the roof of the cabana. “They’ll be at your apartment by the end of the business day,” he announced, quietly.
He took a breath when the question came, the regret of having said something flashing over his upturned face, before he rolled a shoulder, arched it high, towards his ear. He waited a long moment before the response eventually came.
“Yes.” He left it at that, sitting up straight again, as if he’d suddenly that he had steaming hot food in front of him; he doesn’t seem the tiniest bit interested in consuming it.
Kyle made sure to thank the blonde as he grabbed for the ketchup. Might as well reassure her that Bruce Wayne wasn’t looking for ketchup for his steak; no it was for the scruffy art kid who showed up. He dug at it with his butter knife, watching the red goop erupt all over the omelette.
It was something to do while Bruce added the supplies Kyle needed to his list. Okay. Kyle had to take a bit of time to internally work this through, himself. He wasn’t one to take hand-outs will-nilly; in fact, despite his upbringing, Kyle was never a charity-case. But at the same time, having his home(s) destroyed was starting to get a little tedious. Having to start over even more so. And having a billionaire more than willing to provide things…well. That was convenient. Kyle considered it - and the brunch, and the champage - part of the payment. It made Bruce feel better. Yep. That’s what Kyle told himself as he continued with his omelette.
"Gracias, Bruce," Kyle said between chews. He didn’t pursue the topic of Bruce’s mother, but he did catch himself saying, “My mom only had one painting remaining, after she died. I didn’t even know she did it. Until she was dead."
He suddenly didn’t want Bruce to comment on that (if the older man was even considering it) and instead poured himself the last glass of champagne and asked with a grin. “So, good to be back home? You must’ve missed your old haunts. Ah. Not to imply you’re a ghost or anything, just. You, Gotham. Gotham, you. Same diff."
Kyle wasn’t too far off from the truth: Bruce sat up, the list sent, his expression behind the glasses having shifted into something less pinched. He reached for his coffee once again, intent on draining it, his expression pricking awake as he sensed movement from behind him.
From behind, the two women approached, their sandals dusted and on their feet. They stopped at the edge of the cabana and looked to each other before the first of the pair, a brunette of Mediterranean descent, pushed through the flapping white silk, and walked straight to the table in the middle of the two of them, her hand sliding to the dramatic curve of her hip, as it flared from the narrow of her waist.
“Gentlemen,” she purred, her voice feline and unctuous, words musical in a way native English speakers’ never were. “My friend and I—” The other woman, a blonde, a head taller than her darker companion but just as conventionally attractive, approached from behind. “We’ve been watching you and decided that it’s just.. too sad to watch two such handsome men sit and dine by themselves on such a glorious day.”
Bent over his plate, it took a while for Kyle to register that the woman was referring to him as a ‘gentleman’. His mouth curled into a somewhat incredulous grin as he twisted to look up at them, although his curled posture didn’t change much.
He had no idea what to say, and he gawped at them for a second.
This was one of the weirdest lunches he had ever had in his entire life. Hands down. Amongst his swirling thoughts, he figured this was probably something Bruce dealt with normally - him and Queen, perhaps, having their fancy lunch at a fancy place and fancy women just swing on by to flirt and call them ‘gentleman’. Just a regular day as a playboy billionaire.
He dropped his knife and fork with a clatter onto the table and pushed back from the chair, standing up to greet them.
"Hi, hello," Kyle said to get their attention, oblivious to the way the brunette was now eyeing Bruce. “Well since we’re finished our business for the day, like businessmen, and I’m always up for a little pleasure." Oh yeah. That totally sounded really smooth. Kyle grinned to himself as he allowed himself a more appreciative look, pleased when the tall blonde lady returned the once-over to him.
He graciously motioned to Bruce, with a slight smirk to the other man. "But, ah, he’s the one currently calling the shots."
Bruce looked up, plucking the sunglasses off his face, the motion smooth and controlled, but obviously eager. He looked over at the blonde, the brunette, and then Kyle, his expression instantly transformed into something open and inviting. Handsome. He grinned, all the perfectly white teeth nearly glowing, patted the empty space next to him, and gestured for the woman to sit.
Like a moth to a flame, the woman sat, without question, one leg crossing over the other to push her into a more angled position (facing Bruce), and the blonde sat on the edge of the seat next to Kyle. Looking over his shoulder, Bruce spotted a waiter, watching the whole situation with a look of envy, and waved a hand, pointing to the champagne on ice, then the two women. He nodded, smiling, reached the upheld hand down, and brushed a lock of hair off the woman to his right’s shoulder.
“I am calling the shots,” Bruce purred, raking his eyes down her barely clad form, the utter change from his normal demeanor nearly alarming, bordering on horrifying, for how quick it happens. There are no seams to the mask, no place where what Bruce is saying isn’t utterly genuine, as if he means it. It’s as if who he is on the Watchtower, on League missions, is the fake personality, and this.. This shining, grinning man—with the hints of a boyish mischief lurking at the edges of his smile as the woman scoots closer—is who Bruce actually is.
“And business is most certainly over.”
The women laughed, their voices like clinking crystal, and Bruce looked over at Kyle, a flare of sudden heat that doesn’t seem to have anything to do them simmering at the back of his stare. His mouth pursed, and the dark depths of his stare turned back to the woman. “And while I am absolutely free of any..extracurricular obligations—” He wriggled his finger, the ring one, glancing at the blonde woman as he pouts, sympathetically. “I’m afraid my associate here is not.”
The blonde looks at Kyle, at his hand, her bright hazel eyes nearly accosting him, demanding he negate the vicious lie.
It’s been a while since Kyle’s felt completely, utterly out of his league.
No pun intended.
It wasn’t the flirting throwing him off; that Kyle could do with confidence, eyes closed, upside-down, one hand tied behind his back. Especially since the ladies present seemed happily amenable to it. It was the fact that it was happening with and in the company of freaking Bruce Wayne. The man never, ever stopped surprising him, Kyle realized, as he stared at Bruce longer and more insistently than he did the lovely blonde at his side.
Kyle wasn’t entirely sure he liked this surprise, either. The immediate slide of change-not-change in Bruce was alarming, disturbing; a horrific insight cracking open up a question that, likely, hundreds of other people had already asked themselves: okay, so - who was the real Bruce Wayne? Kyle didn’t like it one bit. Truth was, he didn’t want to know.
The blonde cleared her throat to bring his attention back, sharing a slightly amused glance at her friend, before cooing as the champagne arrived. The cork was popped and glasses were poured, women insisting the two men join them in a salutation.
"At least you can stay for that…" Kyle’s companion said with a wicked wink. He took his glass and smiled back at her.
"Well since you insist…" Kyle pulled out an iPhone from nowhere - or rather, a beautiful construct of one - making a show of tapping mindlessly (as Bruce could clearly see) at the screen of the hard light object for a while before tucking it back nowhere. "…how about that? My calendar has suddenly become clear." He shot a winning smile at Bruce, SoCal warmth blanketing Gotham heat as he lifted his glass and looked back at the delighted blonde lady. “To, ahhhhm. To heroes, and to those who save them from themselves."
The ladies gracefully lifted their glasses, making twin soft acknowledgement noises of Kyle’s supposedly profound vagaries.