The first time Batman meets the Doctor is not the first time that Bruce Wayne has met the Doctor, and so the Doctor casually blows his cover in front of half-a-dozen of Gotham's filthiest criminals.

"Hallo, Bruce! Are we doing fancy dress? Love fancy dress." The Doctor tumbles out of the hot air balloon, trailed by some remarkably glittery teenagers of indeterminate gender. "You had a rooftop jamboree, I had a hot air balloon, you had a cape, I had some celery ... now we've got a party. Is it my go next? Oh, sorry, are you busy, Bruce?"

The tied-up thugs that Batman was planning to interrogate next look up hopefully. The thug that Batman is currently holding off the rooftop by the ankles cranes his neck to look. The Doctor waves at him cheerily over the Batman's armored shoulder. The thug's hair ruffles in the updraft, and he curls his fingers into a weak wave back.

"I respect his aplomb," the Doctor says. "Don't let him down - BRUCE! Haul him up, he'll be good, you've scared all of the badness out - and most of the wee - well done you. BEST AT INTERROGATING, that's what you are." He claps the Batman on the shoulder, narrowly avoiding impaling his hand on the spikes. "Now, Bruce, this isn't up to your usual party standard, but next time you've got an itch for a mask-y type gathering like that shindig at Wayne Manor, give me a ring in advance. Of course the lovely thing about being me is that in the event of spontaneous fancy dress, I can usually find a bit of celery - a surprisingly versatile vegetable," he tells a thug confidentially, tucking a sprig of it into the man's handcuffs - "And bam! Instant costume: go as myself," he finishes, blithely unaware that Bruce's carefully constructed masked identity is shattering around him in the presence of criminal elements. "I see you're still doing the brooding, batty thing?" He comes to a stop, clicks his heels, wriggles his pale eyebrows significantly.

Batman stares at him stonefaced. He is the night.

"In English, 'batty' also means crazy," the Doctor tells him patiently, "You see, I'm very funny. That was a particularly hilarious pun, meant to break the tension."

Bruce sighs through his nostrils, always a mistake because it fogs up the inside of his mask. "Doctor," he growls, "Now I Have To Kill All Of These Men."

"Are silly voices part of the fancy dress?" the Doctor says. "Take a break, Bruce, I don't know why I ever visit, you're always growling and brooding and threatening people and dressing up as embarrassing animals, it wears me out, you've no idea. Have you tried being not so growly and kill-y all the time? Obviously you haven't been trying those Gravlaxian breathing exercises I texted you. Here, let me." The Doctor keeps an unnatural strength in those skinny shoulders, and within moments Batman has been shunted aside, the thug has been hauled up and is sitting with his friends in a ring of glittery teenagers. The children tinkle with laughter. This is absurd.

"Ah, and these are my backup singers." The Doctor gestures proudly at his gang. "We're called Sparklewolf - Sparkelwulf for heavy-metal purposes. I'm in a band now." He wiggles his hips and eyebrows to the admiration of all.

Clearly some kind of reaction is called for, some new game is being played. The Doctor wants to share in his endless exuberant performance, but now the Batman is just suddenly very tired. Six thugs to interrogate, a gritty night to prowl, and his cover's been blown by a chattering British Joker and an entourage in sparkly pink eyeshadow.

Bruce looks at the whole scene and just wants to be at home, in a dark room, with a single brightly glowing screens for company. He just wants to be in control and slightly removed, operating his identities like puppets, separated from all this by masks and glass and wealth -

"Bands are cool," the Doctor snaps.

He just wants to be the night. Is that so much to ask?

"You remind me of a nemesis I used to have," Batman growls.

"Ooh, I love a nemesis," the Doctor says. "Used to be up to my elbows in nemesises. Nemescissitudes. I miss them sometimes, I properly do. Nothing like a good nemesis to--"

Batman whirls. Black cloak ripples like shadow. The Doctor's pressed up against a wall, black gloves fisted in his collar. "Shut. UP," Batman says.

The Doctor nods at him. "Nemeses."

"What?"

"The plural of nemesis, from the Greek."

This conversation, like the Doctor, is slipping dangerously out of Batman's grasp. He gets a better grip on both and says, "This. Is. The. Difference. Between. You. And. Me."

"Enunciation?"

"This. Is. All. A. Game. For You. For Me, It Is The Only Thing."

"I don't know, Bruce, you're taking yourself awfully seriously for a fellow in black rubber."

"Some. Of Us. Need. Our Masks," the Batman says.

"Oh, I never have," says the Doctor. "I just need an audience."

"And That," says the Batman, "Is The Difference Between Us."

The Doctor wriggles his shoulder uncomfortably, his colorless eyes like galaxies full of emotion, and Bruce braces himself for some kind of explosion of feelings.

(That was how they'd first met, after all, at the party at Wayne Manor, the Doctor a sudden white-tie stranger who leaped into his path as if spring-powered, Bruce fighting back Batman reflexes to paste on a social smile of polite confusion, and the Doctor grabbing his face, smooshing the flesh around in his hands, staring deeply into his eyes, his own gaze terrifying and manic and intense, possessed with the wisdom of ages, and as Bruce stood paralyzed in this sudden attack of grabbing-and-touching-and-gazing the Doctor had boomed "IF PEOPLE WERE RAIN, YOU WOULD BE DRIZZLE" and then bolted off.)

And the Doctor asks, "Have you ever considered getting a fez?".