Disclaimer: Batman and Buffy aren't mine...though I wouldn't mind owning a real Bruce Wayne a la Christian Bale.
“Wow, you're even better at being me than I am.”
The voice was undeniably feminine, with a dry sarcasm seasoning the strange comment. As Bruce Wayne turned to the speaker, his confusion over the statement delayed any recognition of the speaker.
It was a petite blonde dressed in the quintessential slinky black dress, her blonde curls piled atop her head in that messily carefree manner that he suspected had taken at least an hour to perfect. She wasn't his usual flavour of supermodel gorgeous, but he had to admit that she carried her own air of mystery and attractiveness.
He stopped his brief musing when she raised a delicately arched eyebrow, hazel eyes almost smirking at his obvious confusion.
“I'm sorry,” Bruce said smoothly, “I don't believe we have met yet,” he willed his lips into his signature playboy smile. And it was true, Bruce Wayne had not met this particular blonde. Batman, however, had.
The elaborate curls had been straight and in a ponytail and her small figure snug inside dark jeans and a sweater, but the flash of teeth and the mischievous grin was enough to trigger the memory.
A dark alley. A man with a distorted face and a wooden stake in the heart. A cheeky grin and a wave from a figure in the shadows who had managed even to elude him.
“Mmm,” the woman murmured, eyes twinkling, “Mr. Wayne, I'm a Slayer. All the kevlar in the world and growly voice couldn't disguise you from a true hunter. Plus, you wear too much cologne.”
Slightly alarmed--and mildly insulted--Bruce shifted into an adapted defensive stance as he stared at the woman. An unknown, he had no idea what to expect from her.
She, however, laughed delightedly, placing a small hand on his arm.
“Relax...We all wear masks, Mr. Wayne. Just not all of ours are quite so literal.”
Bruce narrowed his eyes at her, “And just who are you, ma'am?” he asked, voice losing a little bit of his legendary charm.
“Buffy Summers, IWC,” she responded, producing a small business card from a clutch and handing it to him with a flourish.
He accepted it, reading the simple font upon the card:
“Mr. Wayne,” she smiled slowly, “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
She squeezed his arm and turned to melt into the crowd of the party, becoming just another pretty woman in a party dress.
He flipped over the card and saw that she had written on the back of the card. A strange symbol graced the back, some strange form of scythe with a pointed end, and below it was a phone number and a quick note:Prince of Gotham, call me some Knight when you figure it out.