Owner	Pose
Selina Kyle	Deliverance from humdrum meals, thy name be Indian food. A new spot buried deep in the suburban side of Gotham demands to be tried out. Noor sounds promising, and so Selina takes responsibility for a smattering of dishes to try. All packed up and stowed safely in her motorcycle bag, she hits the mean streets to duck and weave her way through to the outskirts where the truly wealthy cluster together in a frisson of self-important buildings on sprawling manicured grounds. The lights of the bike cut a swathe through the deepening gloom. Coral deepening to bruised blue stains the western horizon, the Atlantic at her back already dark and Gotham strung like festive Christmas lights in the distance. She feeds the throttle to amp the speed, sinuously fighting with the bike's torque while risking her neck at speed along the narrow, winding drives. Someone will see her coming. They always do. Whether they open the gate's another matter.
Bruce Wayne	Most everything in Wayne Manor is automated in one form or another. One wouldn't know to look at it, with the ancient architecture and old world feelings despite being located in New Jersey. But it was almost rebuilt from scratch following the near-destruction of Gotham years prior, and its owner took the opportunity to make sure he had sufficient control over the whole estate with the bare minimum of staff. The gates open of their own accord, swinging wide as Selina approaches and closing sharply behind her. So too do the lights along the driveway illuminate long enough to light her path, before once again growing dark in her wake. When she comes to a stop in the outer courtyard, Bruce stands with his hands in his pockets in front of the open door. "They have delivery drivers for that sort of thing, you know." Not that he'd ever much liked delivery drivers. He usually made the kids go wait by the gate when they decided to order pizza.
Selina Kyle	Ancient architecture from the Old World meets the newfangled comforts of the Far East. How lucky to have a boyfriend who cares about the finer things in life. Selina revs the motorcycle as she waits for the bars to slide open, the slightest shiver of impatience akin to a horse pawing the ground. Or a cat ready to spring, for that matter. Once permitted through, she sends the motorcycle careening on a fairly straight shot for the drive unless an overly abundant amount of gravel awaits. No point in spilling out and bouncing through a window when she can safely park at some distance. Down goes the kickstand, and she slips right off. The food she pulls from storage and swings over her arm, the satisfying weight a pendulum bouncing off her thigh. This vision of darkness with a helmet still on presents itself like a rapturous angel come to deliver gourmand justice to Bruce. Light flashes still behind her, a halo of collapsing nightfall. "But how could you guarantee they'd get the order right or ensure it was still hot?" Hand to hip, she stares up at him, smirking behind that visor almost assuredly. "Some things in life are meant to be savoured properly. Tandoori is one of them." She waits only a moment to be admitted, stalking with a catwalk gait. Partly because the boots rather require it.
Bruce Wayne	The motorcycle is easily left out in the courtyard, ready to be moved to the garage later. Bruce closes the door behind them as they move through the vestibule and into the grand foyer, taking a sharp turn to the right en route to the dining room. "I believe it."
Selina Kyle	The wafting blend of spices dances in Selina's wake, food wrapped in plastic containers to retain heat and moisture both. That she doesn't sit down and tear into the naan bread is a symbol of her prized self-control. Her smile is knowing, sharply amused in its fashion. "I hope so. Dining alone would be horrid." Halfway along she unsnaps the strap under her chin. Maneuvering a helmet off takes two hands, no matter what Hollywood says. Dragging it up off her head reveals a sonnet of bright blue hair, most definitely a wig, but an excellent one all the same. Can't have the plebs knowing who orders what from an up and coming Indian joint. "Do we have the room all to ourselves? How often does that happen?" she asks, holding onto the helmet.
Bruce Wayne	"More often these days," Bruce explains, setting down at the table after preparing a seat for Selina, "They've all got their own things going on. Dick and Stephanie are living together. Most of the others seem to have something that keeps them from stopping by for dinner. Alfred would probably like the chance to cook, but in all honesty he could probably use the break."