Snippet #2296221

Bruce stood at the cathedral window of the ancient Manor's main lounge, swirling a wine glass full of grape juice in one hand. He had never found it difficult to maintain the illusion that he was a careless, ever-drunk playboy. All he had to do was walk around drinking grape juice and make sure no one tried to take a sip out of his glass. He was a good enough actor to make himself seem intoxicated, to some degree. But he never drank alcohol, not really. That would impair his judgement.

Watching in silence, he sipped at his juice and analyzed from afar the man who had was crossing his front stoop. He did not dress like someone from the upper class. His clothing was nice, but cheap, especially if that was considered his more formal, working garb. Bruce had workout pants more expensive than that suit. He did not walk like a city boy, either, which surprised Bruce a little. Most reporters from Metropolis were born and raised there. Bruce had visited the Daily Prophet once before, and knew its environment was fiercely competitive. Usually it was only those who had connections inside who got a job, but this "Clark Kent" held himself like a farmer, something Bruce was trained to spot. Which meant he must have some serious talent. Bruce would have to be careful.

Turning from the window as Alfred answered the front door, Bruce walked across to his divan and laid himself out across it. He did not bother to kick off his shoes. Disrespect for antiques was one of the key elements of being the character he had chosen to become. Disrespect for everything of value, really. He had to make it seem like he took this life for granted. Undoing the top several buttons of his collared shirt to reveal a chest sculpted by years of hard training, Bruce continued to swish the juice around in his glass, cradling it between his long, strong fingers.

Everything about Bruce's image was carefully planned, like a painting of a rich model. White button-down shirt, at least three hundred dollars, neatly ironed gray slacks he was wrinkling by lying this way, at six hundred, glistening black shoes that stated clearly he did not do much active with his life, five hundred dollars. His watch alone was more than one thousand dollars in worth. The glass in his hand probably cost most of this reporter's monthly salary. Bruce's hair was neatly trimmed, short but not too short, and flopped across his eyes with a roguish sort of attitude. Nothing about his long, thin body gave any suggestion that he had ever known a life out of luxury, or that he cared in the slightest for anything but wealth. With the possible exception of his lethally sharp blue eyes.

A light rap on the door to the lounge announced that Alfred had brought his visitor up to meet him. Putting on an easy, tipsy sort of grin, he waved at the door.

"Bring him in, Alfred," he called easily. The door creaked open and the gray-haired man bowed Clark through. Bruce did not bother to sit up, as would have been polite. "Come in, come in. I've been waiting."