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Gotham wasn’t kind to anyone, but god damn it, at the very least, it wasn’t a super oven.
Metropolis was wide and large and a black hole, greedily devouring all warmth.
It was as if the sun itself knew Bruce, who much preferred the soft comfort of coldness, would come here and decided to make a bad day into a worse one.
He was already stewing in his own acrid anxiousness, displeased and, – thought he wouldn’t assign such a childish word to himself, but Alfred would, – grumpy, when he had to leave Gotham by herself.
Gotham needed Batman. It needed her teeth.
And he’d rather bleed on any street than stress one more second under a wave of golden sun.
Plus, – it was so, so loud, trapping Bruce in an audio circus. Cars honking, feet thumping impatiently on bustling streets, – the smells . How many pounds of cologne did someone need?
“I don’t want to go. I don’t know these people.”
“It’s a coffee shop, you muppet,”
Bruce did pout, then. He knows Alfred knows because there’s a tired chuckle on the other line, “D ick is better at this than I am,”
Nostalgia rises within his heart, taking him back to a warm, blurry memory. They were both young, Dick and him.
Young, lost, and angry, with vengeance hardening their gentle, fragile edges. The gentleness Dick carved back into him, with skilled, calloused little hands.
Bruce pictures his boy, kindly letting the barista know, ‘B is lactose intolerant. If he has milk he will die,’ while he, the 25-year-old, did his best to disappear behind his ward.
Bruce smiled more that day than he did in years.
But he wasn’t that Bruce any longer, and Dick wasn’t there anymore. He was a detective in Bludhaven, – and a damn good one, – and Bruce makes a fine job of pretending like he was not aching for him.
Really. He’s happy for them. For each and every baby bird. Bruce wouldn’t stay with himself, either.
“Perhaps you should stop stalling and call him instead, sir.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t assume I want your opinion,”
“Perhaps I should fly there and slap you over the ears,”
The woman in front of him shoots him a puzzled look, lighting Bruce’s cheeks on fire. “I have to go.”
“Fine, then. Happy brooding. Don’t stay up late. Please, dress decently for your interview. And don’t eat blueberry pop tarts after 9 PM, you know they give you indigestion, –”
Bruce shoves his phone deep in his pocket.
Dreadfully, it’s his turn, and every thought is wiped clean when the barista greets him. That welcoming smile does very little to calm his nerves. “Have we decided what we want, babe?”
Babe? Bruce cringes inwardly. Hopefully not outwardly. “Um…” It’s just a bit unnerving, how something as empty as silence has the power to mortify you so strongly.
“Come on, buddy, it’s coffee, not rocket science,” A middle-aged man, who felt the need to complain, loudly, about his pregnant wife’s ‘stupid fake cravings’ on the phone, sets him right on edge.
Bruce’s lips tighten together, and he’s not sweating because of the heat anymore.
“Can I go instead? We’ve been sitting here for hours and I have places to be.”
“Sir, it’s only been a minute. Please be patient.”
“Look, I’m not gonna coddle him just cause he’s retarded. He shouldn’t be out without a caretaker anyway.”
Discomfort drops like a stone in his stomach, but it’s almost dwarfed by the punch of anger striking him right in his gut.
Teeth pressed together, taming back the temptation to turn around, put some pain in the guy, Bruce stares forward, inhaling calming breaths.
Bruce can’t see it, eyes down in shame, but the barista, – Katy, — has a disdainful frown in her voice.
“Uh, fucked up thing to say? You want a heart with your coffee, too?” Bruce doesn’t know how to embrace protection. Harmless, good, human things deserved protection. Not him.
He’s disgusted by his own pitifulness. Especially when he’s pitied by someone younger. Maybe that’s just the Batman in him.
“What did you just say, you fucking whore, –”
Bruce doesn’t think about it; It’s automatic, to him. Violence has a pulse. When that waste of oxygen pushes him aside, aside from crawling at his filthy touch, Bruce knows what to do.
He does what Alfred thought him. He pushes back.
Except someone literally beats him to the punch.
Mr. Waste of Oxygen is reeled back like a fish on a hook by a big hand, shoving him a few feet away, and Bruce’s vision is shielded by an impressively wide back.
It should be impossible for him to hide from Bruce. Besides the notable contrast in their sizes, that tight, baby blue sweater, and the thickest frames he's ever seen, Bruce recognizes danger very well.
Yet, masterfully, naturally, He masked normality perfectly. A skill Bruce can only envy.
“You’re a bit too old for that language, don’t you think?”
Bruce gulps. Sweat thickens on his back, yet, that voice, – crispy, pleasant, naturally strong, – had no right to calm him so spontaneously.
“You can get your coffee someplace else, okay? You’re disturbing the lady. And my friend. So please leave, and reflect on your behavior today. If it’s not too difficult.”
The man sneers, “Fight me outside if you're so bad,"
Bruce watches broad shoulders, void of tension, rise, and fall, “I don’t mind.”
It satisfies Bruce, – at least, the mean side of him, the sharp edges that relish in well-deserved pain, – to watch Mr. Waste of Oxygen grumble, rapid-fire stomping out the door.
But satisfaction decays quickly. There’s static in his ear, a low buzz. His mouth is ashen and dry, and embarrassment floods him punishingly.
Through blurry lashes, he looks up, and their gazes meet, and Bruce has an explanation for his earlier confusion.
If danger had serene, kind blue eyes, a sunbeam, sugar pie smile, and light salt in their temples, Bruce would be blind to it, too.
“City folks. You get used to them,” the man shrugs, hand lightly giving Bruce’s arm a grounding squeeze, “You okay? Oh, honey, you’re shaking.”
Heat storms vengefully, with gusto, from his left ear to right. Bruce’s throat feels full and dry, as if someone poured sand down his throat.
Tummy fluttering, clamping down hard, he manages a quick nod. He’ll have to wonder why he welcomed the touch so naturally.
He’s not familiar with it. A touch without hurt isn’t a touch he understands.
He’s not familiar with softness, either, and the other man is full of it. “My name is Clark. Would you like to wait at my table, Mr. Wayne?”
“You know me?” Bruce asked, voice docile, still numb.
“Of course I know you. You're a pretty famous name in the gossip department, “ It’s light and airy. “I’m a journalist. Daily Planet. Believe it or not, we have an interview today.”
That was right. The sole purpose of his visit, and Bruce’s stupid, careless brain eradicated it at the smallest sign of panic.
“I’m sorry,” Because there’s an apology to be made. For being a total inconvenience, for wasting Clark’s time, “You shouldn’t have intervened.”
“Yes I did,” Oh. Oh, he quite likes that stern edge. “Decency is not a superpower. Though, you had it handled. I’m sure Katy appreciates it, –”
“Katy would like to take someone’s order,” the barista interrupted, bursting their safe little bubble, “Then, you can look in each other’s eyes all you want, okay?”
Bruce found himself liking the ruby red blush on Clark’s cheek, too, “Go. I’ll be right with you.”
Bruce obeyed like it was easy.
He takes him in; Clark both stands out and blends in, both audience and spectacle. Everything about him, – the slow, almost rehearsed movements. The rarity of his blinking.
Wolfish grin, all sharp, no hurt. Practically, a flawless model of the average man, with nothing average about him.
Everyone’s their own biggest liar. Bruce had found his match.
Clark returns with two cups, steaming hot, settling the bigger one in front of him. A smoky, tart whiff of freshly ground roast, hard espresso, exactly one spoon of sugar, floods his nose and makes his mouth water.
Giving Clark a searching look earns him a winsome grin in return, “ I read about you sometimes. “
“When did I say my coffee order?”
“You had a press conference a few months ago, and instead of asking how someone funds an entire city by themselves, Jimmy asked you that instead,”
He’s shaking his head, an easy smirk playing on his lips. It reminds Bruce of Alfred’s subtle affection. “He had a bet with Lois, so I can’t blame him. Plus, he was kinda right. You're definetly a 'Black coffee' person.”
Apparently, burning coffee doesn’t hurt him. Bruce told himself he watched Clark’s lips pucker and the bob of his throat as an observation. “They don’t have black coffee in Kansas?"
An interested twinkle sparkles up across blue. There’s coffee staining pink lips. It’s Bruce’s turn to gulp.
“We like sweet tea. How'd you know?"
"Accent. "
"You’re sharper than people give you credit for.” Unsure of how to respond, Bruce quiets. Maybe, vindictively,he enjoys Clark’s stutter.
“Oh, god, that sounded horrible, – of course you’re smart. I wasn’t trying to imply, – well, there’s no implication, it’s a fact, –”
He chuckles. Openly. Surprising both himself and the other man. There’s that look again, – that unfiltered tenderness he has no idea what to do with.
“I’m sorry, by the way. For earlier. You didn’t deserve that. No one does.”
“It’s fine. I’ll give his description to the police later. I don’t forget things.”
“Ever?"
He didn’t like how amused Clark seemed. He was a very serious figure, damn it. “Yes.”
“Ever, ever?”
“Ever ever ever. Ever.”
Clark smirked, the bastard. Bruce matched him, pout more evident, more bold. “I think Superman’s a better alternative than the police.”
“Agreed.”
“...That was fast. Wouldn’t you trust someone more…Human?”
“What’s human about the police force?”
“...My Ma would like you.”
Bruce would like Clark’s mother as well, by the verbal love Clark shows her. Every word covered in appreciation, admiration, respect.
He learns Martha Kent, – that name ringing particularly close to him, – goes to the farmer’s market every morning to buy vegetables and fruits she doesn’t need.
She owns every Dolly Parton record known to mankind. She’s the reason her family has the ‘no politics at the table’ rule, and Clark loves her more than air.
The thing is, Bruce is waiting for it; For hesitance and sadness to rear their ugly head every time parents are mentioned. For the awkward pause to hit, unlocking a hideous melancholy.
But it never comes. That scares him more than anything.
And before he can fully consent to it, stories pour from him also. About Damian's latest art project, so creative, obscure, unique. About Jason's Harvard acceptance letter, proud tears wetting his eyes.
About Dick's promotion, how hard he tries, how hard-working he is, how he's been looking to transition from handcuffs to firetrucks lately. About Cass' latest ballet show, and Stephanie’s misadventures on a thing called Twitch.
“You seem tired, Bruce.”
“I feel that way,” he doesn’t expect Clark to decipher how hard it is for him to admit that. Bruce himself can’t say why.
He just knows this is the best coffee ever made, warmth doesn’t bother him quite so much anymore, and Clark makes words easy, “Have you ever wanted to sleep and…Not wake up for a couple of months?”
“All the time,”
A dry laugh leaves his lips, “You have a reason to. “
“Everyone does. That’s why we’ll have our interview when you feel like it. For now, I’m going to call you a cab.” Bruce hadn’t even realized time could be both quick and slow.
Disappointment settled lightly, spilling an unconscious sigh from him. Even with bittersweet coffee wetting his lips, Bruce feels unsatisfied, hazed by emptiness.
There’s only a silent, tipping to the edge of fond grin, as a gentle thumb swipes off the stray coffee stain on Bruce’s lip.
“M’not your baby,” he murmurs, low, infuriatingly timid. He can hear Selina’s cackle all the way from Gotham.
Clark’s next words light him straight up, “Not tonight.”
Bruce is sent off with a pat on the back, a good day, and when he practically sprints to his hotel room, he goes straight under (specifially requested) black covers.
Hidden from the world, smelling like sugary apples and milky soap and a particular, unknown flavor clinging to him, and a spark biting into his chest whenever he pictures the color blue.
It doesn’t leave for the rest of his stay, – five days of blissful nothing. No contact. He tries conjuring the nerve to actually call Clark, or at least the Daily Planet, to merge their paths once more, but in vain.
Instead, he calls Tim on day 3.
It’s rather unusual. A glaring error in their clear-cut, precisely designed pattern of perfect distance, and deep trust.
Tim preferred to rent his space instead of sharing it, and Bruce could relate to that. The last thing he wanted was to stomp all over his children’s boundaries. But this was an emergency.
Maybe Tim could forgive him? Just this once.
“What happened to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re wearing Jason’s hoodie. You only do that when you’re sad.”
Bruce burrows closer under his covers, hoping to hide what little he can of a Wonder Woman hoodie three sizes too big, “No I don't. Why are you in my bed?”
“It’s good for my back. Plus, I’ve locked everyone else out since you left. It's fun. They’ve been trying to get in for days. Keyword: Try. Anyway, what do you need?”
“I need you to set up an…Instagram account?”
Tim’s eyes shot open, alert and bright, “WHAT,”
Joining him, six more outraged cries, one definitely belonging to Jason, “WHAT?!”
“It’s for research purposes.”
“You don’t research like that. I once saw you pretend to be a gargoyle to spy on Penguin. For 20 hours. Also, Instagram is where humanity goes to die. No way I’m sending you there.”
" Open this door right now, replacement!"
"They got him! Those Metropolis ruffians got Baba! I told you we shouldn't have let him leave, Grayson!"
"He's gonna go tanning next. I'm calling it."
" Bite your tongue, Steph. "
" God forbid women say anything."
" Hey, I'm– I'm very supportive of women's wrongs!"
" Are you implying women can be wrong? Wow, Dick."
" I-, DUKE!"
Yearning crashed into him in waves. My babies….My precious children.
'' Tim, open this door or I'll rip the eyeballs out of your fucking skull!"
" Oh, or what? You'll beat me to death again?"
" NEAR death! One Time!"
"Everybody shut the FUCK up, – B, listen to me. If someone tries to sell you vagina scented candles, RUN."
"You're all home?" He asked, a wistful note in his voice. He so badly wanted to picture them together, bickering, laughing, simply existing under one roof again.
Tim's expression was wired with confusion, "Yeah? Where else? Dick's finally released from the pigsty and we're waiting for you here. How long will you stay, by the way?"
The response is immediate, "I'll be home today," with just a touch of eagerness. " Be nice to each other for 10 minutes?"
The last thing he hears is a door getting ripped open. The last thing he sees is Jason pouncing on a screaming Tim like a mountain lion wrestling a cat.
"I suggest you come back home asap if you want him to live, old man."
He cannot wait to get home. And tell Clark about it when he comes back.
~~~
" So let me get this straight," Lois, voice tart and loose with their favorite cheap wine, smiles incredibly big, incredibly shark-like, " You met your celebrity crush in a coffee shop. You manhandle an ableist asshole for him,--"
" I didn't manhandle him, I just forcefully moved him where I wanted."
" –, you then proceeded to homoerotically have coffee together, have a three-hour conversation about your mom. His kids. And you just happened to wear the sluttiest jeans and sweater on the same day as his interview as a coincidence?"
"Spell 'homoerotically' for me, Lois,"
" C-L-A-R-K K-E-N-T. Now tell me; Did you get his number?"
Clark sipped his wine and made eye contact with the floor.
Lois hit him square in the face with one of his pillows. The hard one, too! " On the bright side, maybe when you pick him up next week, you'll take your super cool truck with you."
"...Actually,--"
" Clark. You cannot pick Bruce Wayne up in your country boy truck."
Jimmy takes a bite out of Pho, shooting Lois a sly look, " You told me it's a good ride."
"Keep talking shit, Olsen. I'll tell Parry you've been hooking up with his son."
" And I'll tell him you've been hooking up with his ex-wife. Is it worth it?"
"My truck is cool. It's groovy. I'm gonna clean it and everything. "
" Before or after?"
Clark's mind burns with images of Bruce, beautiful back laid delicately in the back-seat of his old, beat up pick up truck. Gasping and whining his name, batting those long eyelashes at Clark, so sweet and needy and, –
"20 dollars says he's gonna fuck the brains out of that guy by the end of the month."
– He'd sound so beautiful, Clark just knows. Pretty. Would make the prettiest sounds, so beautiful screaming his name, gasping, panting, gorgeous rosy lips parted in ecstasy.
And he'd take such good care of him after. Wrap him up in thick, fluffy blankets, make him tea, watch good and bad movies, and, –
" 50 dollars say it's happening in a week."
"Deal. Smallville, you're drooling on your carpet."
~~~~
"...Is that a fucking truck?"
" Language."
" Is that a MOTHERFUCKING goddam truck?"
Bruce speeds through getting ready. Concealer fresh and shiny over a dark, violent wound, lipstick masking a gashing lip.
His mother’s brosch and deep blue silk shirt weren’t a necessity, as Alfred pointed out, but Bruce opted to ignore that detail.
“Where is he even taking you? A hooters? That’s first date class.”
“It’s not a date,"
“Yeah, I hope the fuck it’s not, – oh God. Dick. He’s wearing a cap.”
“...Are we sure he’s not a Republican?”
“Yes. I archived his online activity from the past 10 years and browsed through all of his interviews.”
Jason and Dick pay him little mind, choosing to stay glued to the window like a pair of hawks instead, “Yeah, we heard you giggling.”
“I. Don.’t. Giggle.”
“Suuure. You just laugh with extra testosterone, – no, no way. No. I don’t accept this. I’m coming with. Hide me in your purse if you have to.”
“Jay,” Bruce softly grabs Jason’s face, chiseled with time, softened by care, “I promise it’ll be fine. You can trust me.”
It felt like a tall statement to make, but Jason’s tall too, to Bruce’s divine sadness. Jason’s body, bigger, heavier, taller than him now, his precious sweetheart, is alleviated of pressure.
“Fine,” A grumble, so childlike. It breaks and melts his heart. “But I wanna talk before you leave. We’re having an intimidation contest and I’m not losing.”
“Yet,” Dick interjects, him too joining in, leaning down just a bit to have his hair petted, his cheek kissed, before the others raid in. “It’s not murder if it’s self-defense. Just wanted to throw that out there.”
“I dunno. The guy brought a teddy bear and flowers and everything. And you’re sure this is not a date?”
Ring
“Very sure.”
Excitement trembles just slightly at his fingertips when he opens the door. Clark’s infectious smile prompts one of his own this time, as little as it was, as shy, as awkward. “Hey! Ready for our date?”
Jason’s knuckles crack behind him.
~~~
“Your son’s nice! I didn’t know there were so many ways to threaten someone. Also that you can say ‘penis’ so many times and still be intimidating.”
“He reads a lot,” Bruce nods, gulping when a big hand straps his seatbelt for him. “Did you…I’m sorry, are we on a date? Because we don’t have to be if it’s for the interview. “
Clark’s eyebrows raise, partly surprised, mostly confused, “ I’d like for us to be on a date. I don’t need to get a good interview with you by using that,” there’s a very discreet, blink and you miss it print of smugness there, “Give me some credit here.”
“I am! I know you’re, – you’re very good. You make talking easier for me. You’re good at…Words. You’re intelligent, and you’re not afraid of challenge, or confronting injustices. You’re thoughtful, and compassionate, and you refuse to yield optimism, and – and I don’t think someone like you could even tolerate me, –”
“Sweetheart,” so low, so soothing. Bruce is tempted to vanish in the blessing of Clark’s touch, cradling his face with a gentleness he’s unworthy of. The toughness of his sun-kissed skin, the callousness, roughness. His hands were love letters “Breathe. There we go. That’s my boy.”
Air simply tastes bad when he’s like this. When his brain struggles to handle even the slightest shift in pace. It’s irritating, burdensome exhausting, and, –
And Clark sees it. He sees it all. He sees Bruce. And he’s not turning away.
“I’m sorry for assuming. I should’ve made my intentions clear from the start,” He’s driving, one hand on the wheel, another squeezing Bruce’s thigh. Assuring. Consoling. “ Bruce, I like you. I like your sarcasm, and the way your voice gets loud when you talk about something you like. I like your laugh, your smile, I like that you try. Always. You try to be good, and I like what I’m seeing.”
A strangled noise, between whine and whimper, “Clark, –”
“Yes, baby? Whatever you want.”
“Kiss me? Please?”
And oh, how nice it feels, to be indulged by temptation. To surrender to rough touches and possessive, protective embraces, and lips that could smoke the sun. It felt so good, to be lost in low growls, to get drunk on deep moans, to climb in an eager lap.
I surrender. I’m yours to keep.
~~~
Lois Lane didn’t know how to lose.
There’s a stream of sounds, filthy, unholy, needy, coming from Clark’s wholesome little apartment. She had no idea Wayne’s voice could go that high. Or that Clark could talk that dirty.
She sighed. That draft isn’t getting edited anytime soon.
“Hey, Jimmy? Yeah, it’s me. Congratulations on the 50 dollars, you little shit.”