"Marcus Keane." He repeats for memory, dark shape shifting as he steps back, going for his grappling gun. "You know, a cab would get you out of here faster. Might have even given you a head start on me."
It wouldn't have, but the patronizing jab come as natural as breathing. Marcus isn't the only one at the end of his rope of the day. Through the rain, the raised grappling gun still bangs in the confines of the alleyway. "I want you out of my city, the minute your work is done. I'll be watching till then."
And he will, though for tonight he simply disappears, pulled up to the roof and wizarded away from there. A new case means an extra file to fill out when he gets in; he aims to get in as soon as possible. Files fill, faces registered, notes passed along to the team around town, Batman bookmarks their latest stranger and goes to bed to watch another day.
Days. Week. However long Marcus stays, he has Robin keep movement tabs, makes period rounds on the family home when his patrol draws him close. Things seem to be on the mend in the Evans' house, but he keeps Corrigan in the back of his mind to be safe. (He would rather not invite Constantine if he doesn't have too.) The safety of the family feels assured. Marcus Keane feels well-managed.
Bruce actually closes the case on the day of the gala. He closes a few, prompted by Alfred to do a little spring cleaning of the case file. The new quarter for Bruce Wayne could match the new quarter for Batman. Besides, he needs to be at this party mentally and physically; Damian has been playing stand in for the last year, but people want to see the head of the house. It's in their home, after all. It couldn't be easier, Master Bruce.
So he's there. Case closed, suit fit, smile on like a spotlight in the crowded hall. The long drive outside is crowded too, lines of cars parked by carefully-instructed valets. These events are always huge, but for Wayne Manor--for Bruce Wayne--the turnout usually triples. Even though most of the guest list won't meet the man himself, people come for the historic manor. Alfred brought on extra staff, and early, to make sure the place was spotless top to bottom, to make sure food kept leaving the kitchen and tables and banisters stayed clean--and that more private hallways went without trespassers.
The case is closed. So when Bruce spots Marcus Keane slipping in through the main entrance, a little better rested and a little cleaner but no less rough for the wear, his program skips. Case is closed, but Keane was prepared to leave town. Case is closed, and Bruce is two drinks in with the DA and general counsel for Wayne Industries right this second, and he'll get to it. The second he has time to map out where Bruce and Batman are, he'll get to it.
There are a lot of seconds to spare. Marcus disappears in the crowd--not likely on purpose, but he blends in a sea of sparkle and suits. Bruce doesn't realize he's gone until it's been nearly an hour and a half, and a few people have beat him to the man. One of the cocktail servers mentions meekly that they saw him disappear up the stairwell there. Another admits to having run to the bathroom for a moment, rather than guarding their post.
Which leaves the hall to the south wing of the house open for Marcus to wander. It's dark. Freshly laundered and heavy with chemical cleaner still a little damp in the thick carpet. The windows lining the hall along the south wall let some moonlight, some starlight into the corridor. Framed prints along the wall, painting made digitally and printed to solve the issue of light bleaching paint, and the issue of so few of the subjects being able to sit still long enough to be painted. The dark hallways featured portraits of the Waynes of old. The windowed hallway shows of Bruce in the last decade, Bruce Wayne and his son as a boy--the same lookalike that's downstairs now, schmoozing along with his father. The pictures of him as a boy hint at none of the charm or ease that Damian Wayne gained in the last few years. There are older boys, college age and teenaged, smiles ready and soft even in the painting. Women, including two redheads that Marcus will have seen milling about below, older and statelier now than their wild looks in the portraits might have predicted.
And there's Tim. Just the one image: a family portrait about half of life-size, Bruce Wayne standing with his hand on his son's shoulders, the young man with an easy smile at his left shoulder, leaning, and Tim at his right. Stiff, unsmiling, arms folded around himself and rendered forgivingly by the artist to not look as tight as he'd felt for the reference photograph. There are two Great Danes laying on the floor at their feet.
The second floor southside holds Bruce's study--leather-topped desk and chaise lounge, shelves and shelves of books, ancient lamps and hanging lights and an impressive grandfather clock behind the desk. He lets Marcus wander about halfway in before clearing his throat, leaned against the door. His jacket is open, pushed back around his hands in his pockets, smirk as carefully loosed as his tie. "You know, typically, we save the home tours for before and after the festivities. In about two hours, this will be the hot spot for--scotch and cigars. Mister...?"
no subject
It wouldn't have, but the patronizing jab come as natural as breathing. Marcus isn't the only one at the end of his rope of the day. Through the rain, the raised grappling gun still bangs in the confines of the alleyway. "I want you out of my city, the minute your work is done. I'll be watching till then."
And he will, though for tonight he simply disappears, pulled up to the roof and wizarded away from there. A new case means an extra file to fill out when he gets in; he aims to get in as soon as possible. Files fill, faces registered, notes passed along to the team around town, Batman bookmarks their latest stranger and goes to bed to watch another day.
Days. Week. However long Marcus stays, he has Robin keep movement tabs, makes period rounds on the family home when his patrol draws him close. Things seem to be on the mend in the Evans' house, but he keeps Corrigan in the back of his mind to be safe. (He would rather not invite Constantine if he doesn't have too.) The safety of the family feels assured. Marcus Keane feels well-managed.
Bruce actually closes the case on the day of the gala. He closes a few, prompted by Alfred to do a little spring cleaning of the case file. The new quarter for Bruce Wayne could match the new quarter for Batman. Besides, he needs to be at this party mentally and physically; Damian has been playing stand in for the last year, but people want to see the head of the house. It's in their home, after all. It couldn't be easier, Master Bruce.
So he's there. Case closed, suit fit, smile on like a spotlight in the crowded hall. The long drive outside is crowded too, lines of cars parked by carefully-instructed valets. These events are always huge, but for Wayne Manor--for Bruce Wayne--the turnout usually triples. Even though most of the guest list won't meet the man himself, people come for the historic manor. Alfred brought on extra staff, and early, to make sure the place was spotless top to bottom, to make sure food kept leaving the kitchen and tables and banisters stayed clean--and that more private hallways went without trespassers.
The case is closed. So when Bruce spots Marcus Keane slipping in through the main entrance, a little better rested and a little cleaner but no less rough for the wear, his program skips. Case is closed, but Keane was prepared to leave town. Case is closed, and Bruce is two drinks in with the DA and general counsel for Wayne Industries right this second, and he'll get to it. The second he has time to map out where Bruce and Batman are, he'll get to it.
There are a lot of seconds to spare. Marcus disappears in the crowd--not likely on purpose, but he blends in a sea of sparkle and suits. Bruce doesn't realize he's gone until it's been nearly an hour and a half, and a few people have beat him to the man. One of the cocktail servers mentions meekly that they saw him disappear up the stairwell there. Another admits to having run to the bathroom for a moment, rather than guarding their post.
Which leaves the hall to the south wing of the house open for Marcus to wander. It's dark. Freshly laundered and heavy with chemical cleaner still a little damp in the thick carpet. The windows lining the hall along the south wall let some moonlight, some starlight into the corridor. Framed prints along the wall, painting made digitally and printed to solve the issue of light bleaching paint, and the issue of so few of the subjects being able to sit still long enough to be painted. The dark hallways featured portraits of the Waynes of old. The windowed hallway shows of Bruce in the last decade, Bruce Wayne and his son as a boy--the same lookalike that's downstairs now, schmoozing along with his father. The pictures of him as a boy hint at none of the charm or ease that Damian Wayne gained in the last few years. There are older boys, college age and teenaged, smiles ready and soft even in the painting. Women, including two redheads that Marcus will have seen milling about below, older and statelier now than their wild looks in the portraits might have predicted.
And there's Tim. Just the one image: a family portrait about half of life-size, Bruce Wayne standing with his hand on his son's shoulders, the young man with an easy smile at his left shoulder, leaning, and Tim at his right. Stiff, unsmiling, arms folded around himself and rendered forgivingly by the artist to not look as tight as he'd felt for the reference photograph. There are two Great Danes laying on the floor at their feet.
The second floor southside holds Bruce's study--leather-topped desk and chaise lounge, shelves and shelves of books, ancient lamps and hanging lights and an impressive grandfather clock behind the desk. He lets Marcus wander about halfway in before clearing his throat, leaned against the door. His jacket is open, pushed back around his hands in his pockets, smirk as carefully loosed as his tie. "You know, typically, we save the home tours for before and after the festivities. In about two hours, this will be the hot spot for--scotch and cigars. Mister...?"