10955/Bat Cat

Bat Cat
Date of Scene:	29 April 2022
Location:	Master Suite - Wayne Manor
Synopsis:	Bruce and Selina prepare for a night out.
Cast of Characters:	Bruce Wayne, Selina Kyle

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Bruce Wayne has posed:
It's early evening, the sun still setting and the orange-tinged light slicing through the curtains. Bruce, in an immaculately tailored Saville Row suit, fixes a pair of simple silver cufflinks bearing the family crest. He regards himself in the mirror for a moment, his hair neatly combed and his chin cleanshaven for a change.

"Don't like losing the night."

Selina Kyle has posed:
Savile Row's the height of elegance, which probably makes a mockery of Selina's yoga pants and sports top -- a bit too long to be a bra, a lot too short to be a shirt. She hasn't changed, only padding in on bare feet. Her rolled up yoga mat rests under her arm, braced against her hip, and the heavy glow of a long workout session sticks to her.

"I have only the healthiest respect for your social calendar," she drawls after catching a look at Bruce's fancy threads. "Was that yellow block replaced by an orange block that I somehow missed? This a Pennyworth memo I missed?" Not that she seizes every opportunity to crash Mr. Wayne's social calendar. But it counts here. The yoga mat needs to go somewhere, set to the side for her to properly sanitize it later. She runs her arm over her weary bicep, pinching out the discomfort.

His statement pulls her attention to the window. The barrier separating them from the sky is practically accusatory in a way. "How long do you have to make an appearance for?"

Bruce Wayne has posed:
"Cavendish set my speech for after the main course," Bruce answers, blue eyes flicking sidelong to regard Selina in the mirror as he straightens his tie into a Four-in-Hand knot, "His reasoning being that everyone will be happy to sit there and listen to me talk. In reality, they're going to be half-asleep." He shakes his head, tugging his cuffs the requisite amount out from his jacket sleeves.

"Short answer? Too long."

Selina Kyle has posed:
Selina tugs on the elastic holding her hair into a ponytail, reluctantly dragging it free. She stares at the strands dangling from it, forever reminded of the endless flow of time. Massaging her scalp to alleviate the pressure put on it loosens up the dark strands that surround her face. "Want me to call in a complaint to the fire marshal? Nothing to clear out a fancy venue faster than claims it's overpopulated," she offers. "Or convince Lucius to say something about a stockholder revolt in Seoul. Timezones, aren't they the worst?"

It's a far cry from calling in a bomb threat or arranging a sudden protest that gets in the way of his car. That's an advancement from different methods that might cause more headaches than not. "Catering being unfortunately delayed would rearrange your schedule on his little agenda. I'll take care of it."

Bruce Wayne has posed:
"I considered it," Bruce replies, "But it'd be the second time they've had to book someone else for an engagement I was tapped for in a month. If I do it again, they're just going to start getting nosey."

He turns around, fully dressed and prepared now. A niche brand cologne applied, tailored suit fitting him perfectly.

"Speaking of, I couldn't get out of an interview with GQ. Got a lead on the interviewer that suggests he's going to ask me about you. Are we official, or should I deflect?"

Selina Kyle has posed:
The cologne sticks out to her, and she takes a breath in to catch it. Bruce deflates the easy way out, unsurprisingly. Selina smirks. "I intend to make the most of the evening in the best of ways. I might break out my headphones."

She searches for a towel, simple preparations. "Get the right music, crack the window open for some fresh air. Find the right place to get comfortable, and stretch out lazily the whole time. I might even get decadent, binge-watching some show I've never bothered with."

Her teeth flash white, a bit of laughter scorching the even space of a pause. "GQ sends the interesting interviewers though. Not the ones asking the same nonsense or pressing you for your political affiliation. Is this your way of saying I should go put something showy on, and not the same old black Chanel dress?" Pausing, it's worth reflecting on. Whether to drop on a line. Whether to get ahead of it all.

"Why wouldn't we be official? Hiding behind the stands, pretending to avert our glances from one another, that's for teenagers. Forget that."

Bruce Wayne has posed:
Bruce doesn't binge watch. Selina knows his method for keeping up with popular culture is to read in-depth synopses of various popular shows and movies, usually while he's exercising or on patrol through the use of his cowl's HUD. Still, he can talk about the latest season of Russian Doll with the best of them.

"Because the way things work in these circles," Bruce explains, "You're not official until you've announced it. It doesn't matter that everyone saw you hanging off my arm at my birthday. We didn't make a point of telling anyone, and that's as good as sneaking around in a no-tell motel."

The corner of his mouth curves into a faint smile - the Wayne version of a loopy grin.

"I wouldn't say no, if you're offering. You'd be a good excuse to leave early."

Selina Kyle has posed:
As if Selina's schedule really accommodates much binge-watching, unless it's a dark web tutorial on how to overcome system security measures or the finer work of Matisse (and how to steal it). The occasional diversion attracts her attention, and something out there appropriately dramatic and picturesque refreshes the mind's deep focus.

She slinks behind him, careful not to brush up and leave a mark on an impeccable suit. "Tug slightly to the left. It's not sitting quite right." Minute imperfection or just a way of focusing Bruce out of the mirror and onto the matter at hand, his appearance from an outsider's eyes? "Will Alfred be using his best calligraphy on the banns? Will you be printing two inches in the paper and the Times? I can't imagine it's official if New York doesn't know either." Dark eyes flash with unshed laughter. She scoots into a closet bigger than most of the apartments she's ever rented, much less owned, left hunting through hangers for anything that presents itself. "We need to sit for official portraits, I'm sure. Something too colourful strikes the wrong note. White -- for debutantes, I'm sure, and not me." Metal slides gracefully along. "We can't have red as the counterpoint colour. Purple, expensive, but not exorbitant. The Murad, then. Give me a few minutes, and see if that ridiculously large round halo of a hat is stored on your side? I won't need to do much with the hair, wearing /that/."

Bruce Wayne has posed:
"You jest," Bruce says in a voice of mock-affrontery, "But these are my people. These are our ways."

Focus duly shifted from the mirror, he adjusts his collar just so and turns his head to glance at Selina out of the side of his eye.

"We're taking the Phantom," he adds, speaking of the ludicrously expensive Rolls Royce parked in the garage.

Selina Kyle has posed:
A jumpsuit might have been a better choice for ease, but who the hell wears those stylishly? Selina's critical eye prefers more pointed statements, brilliant gleams to go with the stark, hard lines of Bruce's suit. She sheds her outer skin quickly, exchanging the promise of a lazy night with her headphones on for some more impressive hardware.

A favourite from the atelier requires a bit of patience to manage, since slipping on a strapless frock and belting it around the waist needs more than a few minutes. At least to not tear organza laden in fine details. She adjusts the sleeves and seeks out her great, ludicrously impressive upright black hat. The halo of a void will do just fine. Twisting her hair into a chignon while getting low heels on -- increase of running, important -- is a scattered effort, but it will do when she emerges from the closet at a bit of a dash.

"Good, I can apply my lipstick and have a whiskey on the way. Or am I driving?" The statement's almost light enough to go without notice. She sketches a look over his suit. Then herself. "Silver belt." Easy to snap that up, and call it a night.

Bruce Wayne has posed:
"Alfred's driving," Bruce tells her - tonight calls for the chauffeur experience, after all, "Then he'll either come by to fetch us, or we'll make a late night of it and sleep at the penthouse."

He gives her a look over, more out of appreciation than any sort of critical examination. If anyone knows how to dress the part, it's Selina. Satisfied, he takes her by the arm and leads the way out into the hall.

And the evening beyond!