Archive of Our Own ^beta

When Clark entered the lounge of Gotham’s premier private member’s club, the first thing he heard Bruce say was, “Clark. What the hell are you doing here.”

Clark was the only one who heard it. After all, Bruce said it at basically a whisper, nowhere near loud enough to be heard above the noisy chatter of various tipsy patrons. Not even loud enough to be heard by the even tipsier woman plastering herself to Bruce’s side, using his arm as a prop to do her best impression of a koala.

Bruce didn’t have Clark’s superhearing, so the only response Clark could give him was a brief, polite smile, the kind a stranger might give someone they accidentally made eye contact with across a crowded room. Which, to most everyone here, was exactly what they were. Bruce flashed a smile back, brittle, warning flashing behind his eyes. But before he could follow through, his attention was dragged away by Ms. Koala, who was giggling and walking her fingers up his chest.

Clark took the opportunity to melt into the crowd. After all, he had his own priorities to follow, namely eavesdropping on Robert Rutherford, a businessman Clark suspected of being a key player in the story he was chasing on insider trading. He spent the next ten minutes pretending to be deeply invested in the selection of charcuterie at the buffet, keeping one ear on Rutherford as he made small talk with the other guests and ignoring Bruce’s eyes boring a hole into the back of his head.

After that, though, Bruce had apparently run out of patience. When Clark walked past the hallway, a hand closed around his wrist and he found himself being tugged into an unused supply closet.

“You’re intruding on an active investigation, Kent,” Bruce growled.

“Hi to you too, Bruce,” Clark drawled. “And yes, I am fine. Thanks for asking.”

“Cut the bullshit. Why are you here? This doesn’t exactly seem like your kind of scene.”

“Because I’m not one of the rich and semi-famous?”

“That’s not exactly what I meant,” Bruce said cryptically. “Just answer the question.”

“Well, B – and I know this might be a novel concept to you – but some of us have these little things called jobs we need to keep.”

Bruce fixed him with a flat stare. “You’re here for a story.”

“Bingo.” Clark smiled. “Oh, and FYI, I’m not here as Clark Kent. It’s Callum Elkington while we’re here.”

Bruce was still staring. “Really.”

“What?”

“Kal El-kington? It’s not exactly subtle, Clark. It barely sounds like a real name.”

Clark raised an eyebrow. “You dated a woman named Silver St. Cloud.”

“Hn. Touché.”

“And believe it or not, Clark Kent is actually a recognizable name in certain circles. I thought it would be sensible to come incognito.”

Bruce’s lip curled. “You call that incognito?”

Clark frowned. “Uh, yeah? What’s wrong with it?”

“You’re not exactly flying under the radar.” His eyes flickered over him. “You stand out like that.”

Clark glanced down at himself. “I do?” Sure, he wasn’t in one of Clark Kent’s normal too-big off-the-rack suits, and he’d traded his regular glasses for something a little sleeker, but it was hardly ostentatious. He’d wanted to look like he belonged in a private member’s club, so he’d pulled out one of the suits Bruce had gifted him from the back of his wardrobe. Well, gifted was maybe a strong word for breaking into Clark’s apartment and leaving a box with a note, For when you want to look like something other than an out-of-his-depth hayseed.

Bruce just sighed. “So? Who’s the target?”

“Robert Rutherford,” Clark told him, even as he belatedly realized he didn’t have to tell Bruce anything. It was honestly just habit at this point. “I think he’s involved in—”

“—insider trading, I know. He’s in bed with Black Mask.”

“Huh. You’re on him too?”

“Small world.”

“Miniscule,” Clark agreed. “I’m a little surprised, though. You didn’t exactly seem like you were in recon mode earlier.”

At that, Bruce’s expression darkened. “I’m guessing you mean Vivienne.”

Oh, that was definitely irritation. So Ms. Koala had a name. Clark grinned. “I guess I do. She seemed pretty interested in you earlier, is all. Are you about to tell me that you and her aren’t the love match of the century after all?”

Bruce fixed him with a glare, which only made Clark grin harder. “Obviously not. She latched on to me as soon as I got here. And unfortunately, she’s a beautiful woman, so Bruce Wayne has no reason to palm her off in favor of a prodigiously heterosexual businessman with questionable ethics. And she seems mostly immune to distraction.” His jaw tensed. “It’s…an unwanted obstacle.”

“I’ll bet,” Clark said. “Must be torture having a beautiful woman hanging off your arm.”

The words came out a little cattier than Clark had wanted – and unfortunately, Bruce seemed to catch on, brow furrowing the way it did when he was presented with an interesting puzzle. Not particularly eager to be solved, Clark opened his mouth to deflect when:

“Brucieeeee, are you in there?”

The voice was high-pitched, slightly nasal, and came from outside the closet. Immediately, Bruce stiffened, then forcibly relaxed back into Bruce Wayne’s casual slouch, just in time for the closet door to swing open.

Vivienne blinked slowly at them from the doorway. “Oh. You are here.”

Bruce smiled. It was only because Clark knew him so well that he could see the strain at the edges of it. “Viv, you startled me! Didn’t your parents ever teach you to knock?”

“What are you doing over here, Bruce?” Vivienne’s eyes slid over to Clark. “And who’s your friend?”

Clark opened his mouth to introduce himself. But before he could, Bruce had grabbed his arm, in a fairly accurate impersonation of Vivienne from earlier. “This? This is Cal, my boyfriend.”

Clark froze. “I am?” he mouthed. Bruce nudged him hard in the ribs. It had to hurt Bruce more than it hurt him – namely, not at all – but Clark got the message: play along.

Vivienne’s expression was dangerously close to a pout, looking between them forlornly. “Boyfriend? You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend.”

Another nudge to the ribs. Clark took the hint. “It’s pretty new. He’s still kinda shy about it.”

“Why are the hot ones always gay,” Vivienne said miserably. Because Bruce was plastered along his side, Clark could feel the way he forcibly stopped himself from replying with something undoubtedly caustic. With a look of rejection, she turned on her heel and loped unsteadily back to the party.

Clark made to follow her, but when he tried to pull away Bruce’s arm tightened around him, his grip steel. “Where do you think you’re going.”

Clark paused. “Uh. Outside? I mean, I guess I could do my recon from inside this closet if I really wanted to, but I think it’d be more fun to mingle a little.”

“You can’t leave yet.”

“I can’t?”

Bruce grimaced. He finally relinquished Clark’s arm, but only to close the closet door.

“Vivienne Brookes is going to go out there and tell her friends that Bruce Wayne is here with his boyfriend. Within 30 minutes, half the patrons will know.” Bruce fixed him with a hard-eyed stare. “Clark. We need to lean into the cover.”

Clark blinked at him, slightly dumbfounded. “What? Come on, Bruce, you really think it’ll spread that fast?”

“I do,” he said grimly. “You don’t know these people like I do. Gossip spreads fast in these circles. We’ll have to keep playing along.”

Clark’s heart sank. “Then why did you come up with this as our cover?” He really didn’t want to spend the whole cruise hanging off Bruce’s arm just to support some dumb lie. He’d pulled a lot of strings to be here, on top of paying the slightly extortionate ticket fee for the event, and no way would Perry comp him for it if Clark came back empty-handed. “We didn’t need to know each other. I could’ve just been…some guy.”

“Some guy I was found in an empty storage closet with,” Bruce said dryly. “Right. I’m sure no-one would find that suspicious.”

“Okay, fine,” Clark said, “but why boyfriend? I could’ve just been…some guy you were hitting on. We could have gone our separate ways after this.”

“No you couldn’t,” Bruce said. “You don’t look like the type of man Bruce Wayne would do that with. Especially not dressed like that.”

Gee, thanks.

Before Clark could get upset at apparently not being hot enough to pass for one of Bruce Wayne’s flings, Bruce was maneuvering him against the wall, fingers on his collar. Clark was too surprised to resist. “Uh, Bruce? What are you doing?”

“Selling the act.”

“By—” he glanced down, “—messing up my tie?”

Bruce paused in his attempts to ruin Clark’s appearance just long enough to glare at him. “Yes. We were discovered in a storage closet, Clark. Obviously we would have been making out at the very least.”

“Huh,” Clark said. In his indignation, he somehow hadn’t considered what that aspect of pretending to date Bruce Wayne would entail. Now with Bruce’s hands undoing the top button of his shirt, he was finding it really hard not to think about that. “Obviously. At the very least. Silly me, I should have guessed.”

Bruce didn’t reply. Bruce was too busy – Jesus – licking and biting his own lips red and slick and ruffling his hair just so, until it looked uncannily like hair someone had run their hands through and then tried ineffectually to smooth over. The end result was a man who looked subtly but undeniably kiss-rumpled – even to Clark, who knew nothing had actually happened.

Bruce must have seen something in Clark’s gaze then, because those lips were pulling into a smirk. It made Clark’s chest do a little flip. “What’s the matter, Kent? You don’t think you can handle it?”

“It’s Elkington,” Clark said. “And it’s not that I can’t handle it. But in case you’ve forgotten, I’m here to do a job.”

Bruce shrugged. “We’re both after the same target. If anything, this makes it easier for us to cooperate. My intel says that Rutherford is looking to expand the ring, find new investors, and I’d be a prime target – a safer bet than you, an unknown. If it gets back to your boss, just tell him you were using me to get an in.”

Clark had the same intel. “Yes, okay, but how are we supposed to—” Bruce was already pulling back and turning towards the door. “Damn it, Bruce. Hold on a second.”

Now it was his turn to grab Bruce, an immovable but gentle grip on his wrist.

“Bruce, if we’re gonna do this, we’ll have to sell the act. I need to know where the line is, so I don’t cross it.”

For a second when Clark had grabbed him, he thought he’d heard Bruce’s breath catch, just slightly. But there was no trace of emotion in his voice when he said, “You don’t need to worry about that. I doubt your playacting would hit any hard limits for me. Just use your discretion.”

Something about the way he said it felt intentionally dismissive. Clark felt himself bristle. “Fine. As long as you’re sure.”

“And you?” Bruce asked. “Anything you want to bring up?”

His voice was still irritatingly neutral. Bruce’s voice was often neutral, regardless of how he actually felt about anything, but it was rarely irritatingly so, to Clark. But he knew what Bruce thought of him, was the thing. Clark was a goody-two shoes, a boy scout; not as worldly or cultured as the great Bruce Wayne, for all that he was also Superman. He knew Bruce didn’t mean to look down on him for it, that any teasing was good-natured. But he also knew that he did, kinda, and Clark honestly hated it. Always had.

Maybe that was why Clark found himself saying: “Nope. I’m fine with whatever.”

Bruce pressed his lips together. For a moment it felt like victory. But just a moment.

Then Clark realized what he’d agreed to.

“Okay,” Bruce said eventually. “Good to know.”

“Yeah,” Clark agreed numbly. He wasn’t the bumbling hayseed Bruce sometimes seemed to think he was, but he also wasn’t worldly – at least, not in the ways that Bruce Wayne was. Bruce could compartmentalize, have meaningless fling after meaningless fling, playact flirtation and interest. All without ever letting the mask slip.

Clark couldn’t pull that off. He didn’t do meaningless.

Bruce’s eyes finally flickered away from him, and some of the tension between them dissipated. “It’s been long enough,” he said. “We should get out of this closet.”

“In more ways than one,” Clark muttered under his breath. Bruce huffed out half a laugh, grabbed his wrist, and dragged him out into the light.

The first thing Bruce did when they re-entered the lounge area was intertwine their fingers, and Clark was immediately struck by the thought that he was in over his head. It wasn't that he and Bruce had never held hands before. But that had been brief and comradely: a firm handshake, a strong grip pulling him to his feet. This was the way lovers held hands, fingers laced together, the way Clark had done a thousand times with long-term partners and not thought anything of.

But this felt…awkward. Uncomfortable enough to be a little distracting. Perhaps the knowledge that Bruce was only doing it to sell an act was what made it feel so jarring, even though there was nothing unpleasant at all about having Bruce’s broad, labor-roughened hand clasped in his own.

If it were anyone other than Bruce, Clark probably wouldn't be so bothered.

Clark did not pull back. He didn’t even attempt to pull back. Because he’d told Bruce he was fine with anything, and Bruce so clearly hadn’t believed him, and telling him after five minutes that handholding was maybe a little further than he wanted to take this would be excruciating. So instead, he gave Bruce’s hand a little squeeze and sent him a quick smile. See? I’m fine, the smile said. Bruce raised an eyebrow at him, but otherwise didn’t comment.

Predictably, the handholding was only the start. “Is this really necessary?” he hissed through a gritted-teeth smile.

“You’re the one who said this was recent. We should be in the honeymoon phase.” His tone was entirely too reasonable for someone grinning up at him through his lashes and holding a mini quiche up to Clark’s mouth. “Now say ‘ahh’.”

“Ahh,” said Clark obligingly. Bruce popped the quiche into his mouth.

“Good?”

It was, regrettably, delicious. “Yes. Although I feel like you’re making fun of me,” Clark muttered.

Bruce gasped in mock horror. “Make fun of mon petit chou-fleur? Never!”

Clark choked on his mini quiche. “Your what?” he managed, when he had successfully navigated the mini quiche out of his windpipe.

Bruce patted his back, looking subtly but deeply amused. So that was a yes to the making fun of him thing, then. “Sorry, that was probably a little far. We don’t have to do pet names.”

Clark felt that now familiar ripple of irritation. He smiled reassuringly. “No, no, it’s fine, if you think it’ll help sell it. I’m just not sure about being called a cabbage.”

“The French consider it a term of endearment,” Bruce told him.

“Good for them. I think I’ll stick to good old-fashioned American ones.” He gave Bruce a considering look. “I know you said we’d have to lean into the act, but I didn’t figure you for a pet names guy.”

“I’m not. But this persona…” He shrugged. “It fits.”

“We can pick something more conventional. Baby? Darling? Any baked good? Or…what does Talia call you again? Beloved?”

“Hm,” Bruce said. “Not sure you can pull that one off, Kent.”

“It’s Elkington.”

“I will never in my life use that name,” Bruce told him seriously. Clark grinned.

The weird thing about being Bruce Wayne’s boyfriend was that his status made him both more and less notable. When Bruce introduced him to anyone, their eyes would skim over Clark, as if assessing whether he was worthy of being with someone so wealthy and affluent. The nicer ones would ask him a couple of polite questions, more for the social protocol of it all than genuine curiosity. Then, apparently satisfied, they would continue to talk directly to Bruce, almost like he wasn’t there.

“I feel like I’m not contributing much,” he whispered to Bruce when they were alone.

“You’re doing plenty,” Bruce told him. “Just stand there and look pretty. And keep an ear out for Rutherford.”

Clark did his best. Unfortunately, Rutherford seemed a lot more interested in hitting on the female guests than talking business, legitimate or otherwise. With one ear, Clark boredly listened to him describe the size of his family’s yacht to an equally bored heiress. The other was tuned into the man in front of him, someone who claimed to remember Bruce from high school yet, almost impressively, couldn’t remember a single distinguishing feature about him – but perhaps a smart, business-minded man like Bruce would be interested in getting in on the ground floor of an exciting new venture?

Clark could only take about thirty minutes of that before needing a break. After politely excusing himself, he headed over to the drinks table. He let his attention drift from the party as he read the labels of the wine bottles on the drinks table.

He was ostensibly trying to pick between a ‘full-bodied red with notes of blackberry and dark cherry’ and a ‘delicate white with touches of floral honey towards the end’ when he felt a tap on the shoulder. He turned.

Vivienne Brookes stood before him, swaying slightly on her precarious heels. She looked decidedly unhappy.

“Um,” Clark said. “Hello. Can I help you with something?”

“So you’re his boyfriend?”

“I am,” he said. “Callum. Vivienne, right?”

She dragged her eyes up and down his body, blatantly checking him out through slightly unfocused eyes. Her lips formed a melodramatic pout. “I don’t get it.”

Oh boy. “Get what?” Clark asked politely.

“Bruce. I mean sure, fine,” she said, gesturing over Clark’s body, “I guess you’re, you know, hot or whatever—”

“Uh. Thanks?”

“—but he was all over me before you got here,” she finished with a whine. “Which is kinda shitty if he’s got a boyfriend.”

Clark suppressed a wince. How would Bruce Wayne’s actual partner handle this? If he and Bruce had to pretend to be fighting for the rest of this, that would only complicate things. He cleared his throat. “I understand how this might look,” he said carefully, “but Bruce and I have agreed some things ahead of time, so it’s not a problem if he…”

She made a face. “What? Oh, I didn’t mean shitty to you. I meant shitty to me.”

“Oh,” Clark said.

“I mean, if he’s in a relationship, why did he let me waste my time with him all evening? There are sooo many other hot, rich guys here.” She paused. “Well, like, usually hot or rich, but either one is better than taken.”

“Uh-huh,” Clark said. “So, uh. Why are you talking to me about this?”

“Just making conversation,” she said. She reached past him to pick up a wine glass, downed half of it in one motion, then sighed. “I don’t get it. I’ve been single for like…six weeks now, and I’m way hotter than the other girls here. I mean, look at me and look at them. Guys should be throwing themselves at me. What am I doing wrong?”

If Clark were to actually answer that, he could probably come up with a short list, despite having said barely two sentences to her. He charitably assigned half that list to the fact that she was pretty far past tipsy and replied, “I’m sure your Prince Charming will come along someday. Just give it time.”

She looked up at him with wide eyes. “You really think so?”

“Sure,” he said. “Like you said, there’s plenty of other people here tonight. Why don’t you go talk to some of them?” Instead of me, he didn’t add.

She nodded sharply, decisive. “You know what? You’re right. The next guy who talks to me will be the one.”

“What? That’s not exactly what I—”

“Excuse me, miss. Is this man bothering you?”

They looked over. Robert Rutherford was standing beside Vivienne, inflicting on her a smile he probably thought was devastatingly charming. Clearly he’d struck out with the last woman he’d been talking to while Clark wasn’t paying attention.

Vivienne, presumably deciding that he was potentially at least one of ‘hot’ and ‘rich’, giggled. “No, I’m fine. We’re just talking,” she said. “But what a gentleman!” She glanced behind him pointedly. “Did your girlfriend tell you to come check on me?”

It wasn’t exactly the smoothest line, but Rutherford seemed unbothered, smile broadening. “I don’t have a girlfriend, actually. But if I did, I’m sure she’d be upset to see me talking to a beautiful woman like you.” At that point, he actually picked up her hand and kissed it. “Robert Rutherford. What’s your name?”

She blushed, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. “It’s Vivienne. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Robert.”

“Enchanté,” he said. “Tell me, Vivienne, are you by chance a fine art lover?”

“I dabble,” she said demurely.

“I knew it. You know, my dad has a Picasso. You should come over and see it sometime.”

And there was the check on ‘rich’. Vivienne looked enamored. Clark felt abruptly exhausted.

Then, finally, Rutherford turned to Clark, with decidedly less interest. “So are you a friend of hers?”

Honestly, Clark wanted nothing more than to leave these two to their bizarre rich people (or aspiring rich person, in Vivienne’s case) mating ritual. But unfortunately, he couldn’t in good conscience let a chance to talk to Rutherford slip through his fingers. He forced a friendly smile and held out his hand for a handshake. “Callum Elkington. I’m actually here with…”

He glanced over towards Bruce. Sure enough, he had noticed what was happening and was already striding over, ersatz grin firmly in place. “Robert!” he exclaimed cheerfully, greeting him with a friendly handshake. “And Viv! I didn’t know you two knew each other.”

“Oh, we just met,” Vivienne said, giggling up at Rutherford. “Robert, Callum is Bruce’s boyfriend.”

Rutherford looked surprised. “Oh really! I hadn’t heard anything about Bruce dating.”

Rutherford’s reaction was a pointed reminder that they needed to sell this. He wrapped an arm around Bruce’s shoulder in a way he hoped looked appropriately couple-y. Bruce leaned into the touch, as casual as if they did this all the time. “It’s pretty new. This is our first night out together.”

Vivienne leaned over to Rutherford and said in an extremely unsubtle stage-whisper, “You know, earlier I caught them making out in a closet. They’re insatiable.”

Rutherford raised an amused eyebrow. “Are they now?”

Bruce shifted his arm. Suddenly Clark’s hand was on Bruce’s ass instead.

Jesus.

While Clark was still focusing on schooling his expression, Vivienne leaned unsubtly into Robert. “So,” she drawled, “I’m feeling a little tired. Could we go sit down, or…?”

“Of course.” Rutherford said, even more unsubtly delighted by this turn of events. He turned to Bruce and Clark. “You heard the lady. I’ll catch up with you gentlemen later.”

Damn it, they were leaving. But considering the circumstances, neither of them could really object without seeming suspicious. He watched them leave with a plastic smile, then sighed. “Welp, there they go.”

“We’ll have another chance,” Bruce muttered lowly. “We’ve established our characters. That’s a good first step if we need to engineer a meeting later. For now, you can just keep eavesdropping, see if he says anything useful.”

“Can do,” Clark said. He shifted his hand to a more reasonable position on Bruce’s waist, which made it significantly easier to focus on anything other than how round and firm Bruce’s ass felt – a supremely unhelpful thought when Clark was supposed to be doing his damn job.

Bruce looked unimpressed. “Don’t get squeamish already. We’re going to have to act like a couple for this to work.”

“Yeah, so I don’t usually grope the people I date in public, Bruce.”

At this, he looked somehow even less impressed. “This crowd works by slightly different rules than you’re used to. This isn’t an outing at the county fair.”

“Just because I’m from Kansas, doesn’t mean that’s my only reference point,” Clark protested. He’d only taken Lana to the county fair one time. And Bruce didn’t even know that.

Bruce huffed. “You’ll see what I mean later.” He slipped out of Clark’s grasp and grabbed his hand. “Come on. You can keep tabs on Rutherford while we mingle.”

“Okay,” Clark said later, “I think I see what you mean.”

They’d spent a fairly dull couple of hours making small talk with people who were, by and large, too wealthy to feel the need to be particularly interesting. Unfortunately, Bruce’s decision to palm Vivienne off had unexpectedly backfired, since Rutherford seemed far more excited at the prospect of actually getting into someone’s pants tonight than talking business. Clark had spent most of that time listening to Rutherford flirt with Vivienne by describing his family’s last vacation, and continue to say nothing incriminating at all about the insider trading ring he was involved with. 

During that time, the party had migrated from the guests standing around with champagne glasses and making polite conversation, to lounging around with wine and spirits and being a little more raucous than their well-bred parents had probably wanted them to be. There were more than a few couples – and one throuple, by the looks of it – who were closely toeing the line of acceptable PDA.

Bruce shot him a humorless smile. “You’re lucky: they recently instituted a rule banning sex at this event. This is relatively tame.”

It was maybe most telling of all that the organizers had felt the need to specify. He glanced over at Rutherford, who was entangled with Vivienne on one of the couches. Rutherford looked like he was minutes away from summoning his driver and taking her somewhere private.

“We’re not getting anything just standing here,” he said. “We have to go over there. I’m sure you can get him to open up. You talk to him, while I—”

“Wait,” Bruce said. “We can’t.”

Clark frowned. “Why not?”

Bruce glanced pointedly at the couches, populated primarily by moderately handsy couples. “Isn’t it obvious? We’d stick out like a sore thumb. If I go over there just to talk business, Rutherford will get suspicious and clam up.”

Oh. Right. Clark cleared his throat. “Well, that’s fine. We just have to play the part, right? Like before.”

“Not like before. We’d have to step it up to blend in.”

“Okay. Then we step it up.”

Bruce sighed. “You could barely handle touching me earlier. Don’t think I didn’t notice you freeze up.”

Clark scowled. “I handled it fine. You just…surprised me, is all.”

“Be reasonable, Clark—”

“It’s Callum,” Clark snapped. “And I already said I was fine with whatever, didn’t I? Anything goes.”

Something changed then, exasperation slipping into cool calculation. “Anything goes, you say.”

“Yeah, that’s what I—”

He cut off with a gasp when he felt Bruce’s fingers on his belt loops. Then a sharp tug, sharp enough to tear them if he didn’t move with it. He did, with a stumble—

And then they were facing each other; close, so close, noses almost brushing, painfully intimate. Bruce’s piercing eyes were all he could see.

“So this is fine?” Bruce said.

Clark gritted his teeth. “Yup. Fine.”

Bruce hummed. “And this?” One hand slipped around Clark’s waist, settling low on his back beneath his jacket. Skin separated from skin only by the flimsy fabric of Clark’s shirt.

Clark valiantly fought down the flush he could feel creeping up his neck. Bruce had showered before he came here tonight: Clark could pick out the notes of his body wash beneath the expensive cologne. His hands were so big. Clark had held his hand earlier, so he remembered all too well the casual strength of his fingers, the roughness of his calluses. He wondered how they would feel on his bare skin. What it would feel like for Bruce to touch him for real, just like this.

“Totally fine,” Clark said stiffly.

Here was the problem: Bruce was gorgeous. Bruce had always been gorgeous, with his sharp jaw and thick, dark hair and those intense ice-chip eyes; the breadth of his shoulders and the confidence of his gait. The very definition of tall, dark and handsome, like a classic Hollywood movie star had stepped out of the screen. But Bruce was also his best friend. It usually wasn’t useful or helpful to think about how gorgeous Bruce was in anything more than the abstract.

Bruce’s warm, solid body pressed up against him, so close Clark could feel his breath on his skin? The cool intensity of his gaze?

None of that was abstract.

“Funny. You feel tense,” Bruce said. His other hand trailed up Clark’s chest, light and teasing. “So you’re saying this is fine too?”

His gaze was perfectly flat. Not even challenging, just indifferent, like he was calmly waiting for Clark to live down to his expectations. Knowing him, that could be as much of a performance as anything else he’d done tonight. Clark was willing to bet it wasn’t, not entirely.

He couldn’t entirely articulate to himself why that thought rankled the way it did. Why he couldn’t help but take it as the challenge it wasn’t. Why nothing felt more important then than making Bruce be the one to react, for once making that icy facade crack.

“You’re sure checking in a lot,” Clark said sharply. “Are you sure you’re not the one having second thoughts?”

Irritatingly, Bruce only looked amused by that. “Definitely not,” he murmured, wry. Laughing at some private joke.

“Are you sure?” Clark said. His hand came up to cup the sharp curve of Bruce’s jaw, thumb pressed into the hollow of his cheek. “If you don’t want to do this, you can just tell me.”

Despite the intimate touch, Bruce’s face remained stubbornly, infuriatingly neutral. “Stop projecting, Clark. It doesn’t suit you.” His tone was flat, bland, bored. Like they weren’t standing only inches apart, practically breathing the same air. “Honestly, don’t push yourself. There will be other chances. We can—”

“I told you, I’m fine,” Clark growled, and before he could chicken out, he closed the gap between them. Bruce’s lips were deceptively soft, and he tasted like ginger ale and coffee. Clark’s defiance made him just impulsive enough to press forward and coax his mouth open, tongue stroking along the seam of his lips.

Bruce, for once in his stubborn life, let himself be coaxed.

And then they were kissing for real. Bruce kissed back, cautious like he didn’t know how far to take this. His hand tightened on Clark’s shirt, curling into his tie. Clark’s other hand was wrapping around Bruce’s back, encouraging, feeling the powerful muscle concealed beneath his sleek suit. Clark surprised himself with how much he wanted that suit gone, wanted to feel Bruce’s skin, the ridges of his scars.

Headiest of all, though, was the feeling of Bruce’s pulse jumping where Clark’s palm rested against the delicate skin of his throat. The proof that Clark had actually managed to surprise him. That more than anything was what made heat pool in his stomach, made him want to press in closer, deeper—

They both pulled back and stared at each other for a long moment. The buzzing in his head was making it hard to focus on anything except the way Bruce’s mouth looked when he’d actually been kissed. 

Belatedly, Clark remembered that he’d been trying to make a point. He swallowed, murmured, “See? Anything goes. Whatever sells it.”

Bruce’s expression was blank. Still letting nothing slip – but now, it felt like there was something to let slip. “Kal, you…”

“We should go,” Clark said. “Talk to Rutherford. I’ll back you up.”

This time, he was the one to take Bruce’s hand, intertwine their fingers. He pulled him over to where Rutherford was sitting, on a wide, low-slung couch in a dimly-lit corner of the room. Vivienne was half in his lap, giggling at an unfunny joke he was telling about his business partners in Dubai. Without seeming to pay them any attention, Clark collapsed onto the empty spot on the couch beside them.

As expected, Bruce’s mask was firmly back in place by the time Rutherford looked up at the new arrivals. He laughed as he settled onto the couch beside Clark. “Oh, fancy seeing you two again,” he said, a little breathlessly. “Do you mind if we sit here? Cal’s had a little too much to drink and wanted to take a breather.”

Rutherford shot them a solicitous smile. He looked barely more sober than Clark was pretending to be. “Of course! Be our guests.”

Clark was, of course, stone cold sober, even though he’d been sipping wine all night. He saw the cue for what it was: Bruce was willing to follow his plan.

He played along, blinking up at them blearily. The lingering flush on his cheeks would only help to sell the act. “Oh, s’you guys!” he exclaimed, deliberately slurred. “Fun party, right?”

Vivienne snickered. “Just drink, huh? He looks pretty out of it.”

“A gentleman never tells,” Bruce said, smiling. “But between you and me, he might have done a little experimenting earlier. He’ll sober up in a bit. Won’t you, Cal?”

Clark hummed happily, leaned into Bruce’s side and let his eyes slip shut, pretending to zone out of the conversation. Rutherford wouldn’t find his inattention suspicious like this. He could focus on Rutherford’s reactions and play backup. Rutherford was definitely drunk, enough to be more talkative than he should while Bruce made the usual small talk with him. Vivienne, clearly bored to not be the center of his attention anymore, pouted and turned to talk to the woman beside her.

Within a couple of minutes, Bruce had masterfully steered the conversation towards Rutherford’s business. As expected, when Bruce mentioned their recent strong performance in the stock market, Clark heard Rutherford’s pulse jump.

He turned into Bruce’s shoulder and slid an arm across his stomach under his suit jacket. He’s nervous don’t push, he tapped in morse code against Bruce’s hip. It wasn’t the first time he’d used morse code to communicate with Bruce in the field, but the other times they hadn’t been as close as this, thighs pressed together, Clark’s lips almost brushing against Bruce’s throat.

Bruce shifted to wrap an arm around Clark’s shoulders, keeping him close. “He’s a little handsy right now, you know how it is,” Bruce said lightly before shifting the conversation into safer territory.

Clark could recognize his strategy. Bruce was establishing himself as a kindred spirit, someone Rutherford, loose-lipped in his insobriety, might feel like opening up to; he made oblique reference to his own business misconduct in the form of off-color jokes Rutherford found hilarious. Clark could sense Rutherford start to relax again. His body language was more open now, leaning towards Bruce with interest, heartbeat slower. Clearly, he found this morally dubious version of Bruce Wayne utterly charming.

He likes you, Clark communicated with another series of taps. Somehow Clark’s hand had migrated, practically resting in Bruce’s lap, thumb brushing the edge of his waistband. Unbelievably, Clark actually felt him react to the touch: the slightest tensing of the taut muscle beneath his fingers.

It was nothing, really. The barest crack in his armor. But that armor was usually impenetrable, and the knowledge that he’d made Bruce react was…a lot.

It was because of the kiss, probably, that kiss that had finally made Bruce’s mask of self-possession falter. When he’d pulled back to look into Bruce’s eyes, and seen…something. Something that wasn’t smug, or calculating, or gratingly paternalistic, or any of the other things Bruce would willingly let slip. Something raw. Something real.

The memory of it was dizzying. It wasn’t what they were here to do, Clark knew that. But in that moment, Clark wanted desperately to see the mask falter again, to push him until he could rip it off entirely and see what Bruce looked like with all his careful control stripped away. He wanted to see that whole facade crumble.

Rutherford was getting into it now, complaining openly about the financial regulations imposed on large businesses and how they ‘hampered growth’. Bruce nodded along in sympathetic agreement while Clark shifted his touch lower, teasing along the edge of Bruce’s waistband. Frustratingly, that barely elicited another shiver, the barest increase in his heart rate.

Clark was so focused on Bruce at this point that he nearly missed it when their plan worked. Rutherford leaned in conspiratorially and said lowly, “You know, Bruce, you seem like a smart man. You didn’t hear it from me, but if you ever need help getting around those regulations, I might know someone who can help you out. Here, let me give you a card…”

He could hear Rutherford rummaging around in his wallet and slipping out a business card. Clark felt a rush of triumph and buried a grin into Bruce’s neck. That had to be what they were looking for: the details of Rutherford’s contact in the insider trading ring. Now he had another lead to pursue.

Well done, he tapped against Bruce’s stomach. He slid his fingers through the gap between Bruce’s bottom two shirt buttons, finally feeling his heated skin and the coarse hair around his navel. This time, Bruce’s breath hitched, just the barest catch, even as his voice stayed perfectly even.

Bruce wasn’t telling him to stop. It would be easy for him to chide his drunken lover for taking things too far in front of others, it wouldn’t affect the act at all. But he hadn’t.

That made Clark bolder. He skated his hand along Bruce’s stomach, mapping out the ridges of muscle, the dip of his navel. There was only so much that he could do with Bruce all buttoned up like this, but somehow touching him didn’t feel any less exciting for it. He scraped blunt nails against him, mouthed at his neck. Drank in every minute sign that he was reacting, every twitch of muscle or stutter of his pulse. Bruce’s belt was just loose enough for him to slide two fingers underneath, below the waistband of his pants and underwear, down to the crease of his thigh—

“Kal,” Bruce said suddenly.

Clark lifted his head and hummed. Bruce was smiling down at him, louche and flirtatious.

“Looks like you’re getting bored over there,” he murmured, just loudly enough for their company to hear. “Wanna get out of here for a bit?”

He played along, returned a half-lidded smile, even as he felt his stomach sink. He’d gotten carried away. Rutherford couldn’t even see half of what he’d been doing to Bruce, so it clearly wasn’t just part of the act. How could Clark possibly justify that?

He let Bruce pull him across the dance floor and—back into that closet, relative privacy. When the door closed, he turned to Bruce with a guilty frown. “Sorry, B, did I go too far—mmf.”

Before he could finish his sentence, Bruce was shoving him roughly against the door and pulling him into a heated kiss. He was 0 to 100 in no time at all, hands everywhere, that strong body pressing against him, arching—

Oh.

Bruce was hard.

“You bastard,” Bruce pulled back to hiss.

“Uh,” Clark said. The only thing his brain seemed to want to focus on was the erection pressing against his hip.

He’d been so focused on making Bruce react that he hadn’t thought about what to do with the reaction. But god, Bruce was definitely reacting now. Gone was the placid, unruffled expression, replaced with heat and want. Clark had done that to him, just by touching him. He looked the closest to undone Clark had ever seen him.

Jesus.

Something in Bruce seemed to falter in the silence between them. “If you don’t want this, tell me now,” he said, probably because Clark was staring at him like an idiot. And since Clark was very certain he did want this, especially certain parts of his anatomy:

“Yeah,” he breathed, “I really do.” He dropped to his knees.

“Fuck,” Bruce swore. He braced his hands on the closed door as Clark slid his belt free from its buckle, fumbled with his fly. When he finally got Bruce’s pants down, he couldn’t suppress a moan. He was so hard already, his cock almost pushing out of the slit of his underwear. Clark could see the whole shape of him through the fabric, startlingly obscene.

“Bruce,” he whispered and swayed forward to kiss him wetly through his boxer-briefs. Bruce grunted, hips jerking forward – but Clark gripped his thighs to keep him place, keep the contact light and restrained, a gentle press of his mouth.

“Christ, you’re a tease,” Bruce breathed. He was staring down at him with something close to awe. Like he couldn't look away.

Clark hummed, mouthing along the line of his cock through the fabric to the head. He was being a tease. No doubt Clark would feel bewildered and a little guilty about that when all of this wasn't so immediate, but in the moment it was just—god, just really, unbelievably hot. Part of him wanted to keep on this track, see if he could get Bruce even more worked up if he really drew this out. Suck bruises into his stomach, thighs, hips – everywhere but his cock, until Bruce was desperate enough to beg for more. Strip him, spread him out, take his time tasting him, learning him, figuring out everything Clark could do to drive him crazy. See how far he could push him.

A larger part of him heard the noise Bruce made when he sucked the head of his cock, low and throaty and broken and utterly obscene, and remembered that he was nowhere near patient enough for that. He was as hard as Bruce now, his nice slacks uncomfortably tight, cock throbbing and pressing up against his zipper – had been on his way there since the couch. And if Bruce sounded that good already, what would he sound like when he came?

So instead, he tugged Bruce’s underwear down with as much care as he could manage – only a couple of threads snapped in his haste. Bruce hard was as beautiful as he’d guiltily imagined from the glimpses he’d caught in locker rooms: long, thick and heavy and flushed a healthy pink. He didn’t waste any time getting his mouth on it, just wrapped his lips around the head in one go.

Bruce made another delicious, punched out noise. Clark took it as encouragement; hollowed out his cheeks and slid further onto Bruce’s cock, tongue tracing along the vein the underside. Pulled off to tongue at the head again, then slid back down with a soft moan, far enough that Bruce’s cock was bumping the back of his throat; then further, taking him down to the root, thrilled at the way Bruce’s cock twitched inside his mouth. Eagerly, he began to bob his head in earnest, lips sealed tight around him, wrapped his tongue around the head with every pass.

“God, you’re good at that,” Bruce rasped. It was a little more eloquent than Clark would like from him. He redoubled his efforts, one hand sliding around to gently stroke and squeeze his balls. It seemed to be effective, judging by the way Bruce’s thighs were trembling, the way his breath had turned to harsh gasps and pants.

Clark had been so focused on pleasing Bruce, on dragging more of those beautiful sounds from him, that he hadn’t been paying attention to his own arousal. Now, though, it was impossible to ignore. He couldn’t stop himself from pressing a palm against himself through his pants, just to take the edge off, rolling his hips into it with a groan even as he kept on sucking Bruce off. Fuck, Bruce tasted so good, salt and musk and arousal. Clark let his eyes drift shut to focus on the sensation, the sound and smell and taste of him. He thought he heard Bruce groan out his name, but it was indistinct and muffled—

He pulled off with a wet pop and looked up. Bruce had his forearms braced against the door, face pressed into them, muffling himself. “Don’t,” he said, his voice hoarse even to his own ears. “I wanna hear you.”

Bruce shifted to glare down at him in disbelief. “Clark,” he said, slightly too breathless to sound truly exasperated, “we’re in a closet.”

He pulled one of Bruce’s balls into his mouth and pressed his fingers into the delicate skin beyond. This time, Bruce’s moan was clear and unobstructed – not loud, but unmistakable for what it was.

“Don’t care,” Clark breathed as he pulled back. “Everyone knows what we’re doing in here anyway.”

Bruce grunted low in his throat and let his eyelids flutter shut. “Christ. What’s gotten into you?”

“You,” Clark didn’t whisper. Instead, he gripped Bruce by the hips and swiveled them, grabbed both his wrists and held them firm against the door. He pressed a kiss to Bruce’s cockhead, watched it twitch.

“I want to hear you,” he said and gave Bruce’s wrists a gentle squeeze. “Is this okay?” 

Bruce’s chest was heaving. He flexed his wrists experimentally against Clark’s hold and gasped softly when it didn’t shift. “God. Yeah—yes, it’s okay. Just— Hurry up and—”

Clark didn’t reply, just leaned forward to take Bruce into his mouth again. This time, Bruce didn’t hold back. He wasn’t loud – because Bruce was rarely loud about anything – but Jesus, he sounded wrecked, all these broken little gasps and grunts and groans pouring out of him, filling the otherwise still air of the closet.

His hips were moving in tiny jerks, almost fucking Clark’s mouth but clearly trying to hold back. Clark moaned in encouragement, took him almost as far as his throat again and—held pointedly still.

“Really?” Bruce rasped. “You want me to…”

He looked up at Bruce through his eyelashes, took in the reddened cheeks, the wet, slack mouth. Hummed his assent. Yes. Show me how much you want this. Bruce swore softly and pressed forwards, straining against Clark’s hold on him. Finally he was bucking his hips in earnest, in shallow little rocks. With his wrists still pinned, the motion looked—eager. Desperate.

It was incredible, literally. If someone had told Clark this morning that he’d get to have Bruce fall part above him like this, he wouldn’t have believed them. But it was real, really happening. Jesus, he was gorgeous. Clark felt himself throb in his pants, untouched, and stayed right where he was. With both hands on Bruce, Clark couldn’t touch himself anymore – but he didn’t care, when he got to have this instead.

“Clark,” he gasped, and wow, just the way Bruce was looking at him with such naked emotion, caught somewhere between reverence and disbelief. “I can’t— I’m gonna—”

Only seconds later, Bruce came with a final, shuddering thrust. Clark did his best not to choke – he didn’t have a gag reflex but he wasn’t exactly an expert at this, and it felt like there was a lot of it, flooding his mouth thick and bitter. Eyes watering, he tried to drink in as much of Bruce’s reaction as he could: every tremor and jolt, the agonized crease of his brows, the frankly pornographic groan.

Clark barely had time to pull off and swallow before Bruce was sliding down the door and onto his knees, hard enough that it had to have hurt. He didn’t seem to care; rasped out, “Jesus fucking Christ, Clark,” and then he was kissing him again, tugging Clark over him, licking the taste of himself out of Clark’s mouth as his fingers fumbled with Clark’s pants. When Bruce finally got his hand around him, Clark tipped his head back with a strained gasp.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” Bruce breathed, thumbing the head of his leaking cock. “That’s for me?”

His hand was moving over Clark in quick rough strokes that probably shouldn’t have felt as incredible as they did. But it was Bruce touching him, with his huge, strong fingers and rough palms, so Clark couldn’t help but groan, brace his hands on the door and buck into the touch.

“Such a tease,” Bruce muttered lowly, almost a growl. “You were driving me crazy out there.”

He did something with his wrist that made Clark see stars. “That was—mm—kind of the point,” he managed. “Didn’t think it would work so well.”

“You were wrong,” Bruce told him. His hand tightened around Clark’s cock, moving faster – and Jesus, the way he was looking at him, intense and hungry, but almost frantic with it, his ice-cool composure shattered even though Clark wasn’t touching him any more. It made Clark feel a little insane, made him groan, made his cock drool over Bruce’s hand.

He was so turned on already that soon he felt that sweet pressure building within him, balls drawing up, mind hazy with pleasure. And then Bruce twisted his wrist just so and that hazy pleasure overwhelmed him, turned bright and electric—

“Bruce,” he choked out as his orgasm crashed over him. Bruce worked him through it, kissed him fiercely until Clark finally sagged against him.

They sat there, panting on the floor for a minute or so, lazily kissing as Clark came down from the high. Eventually Bruce leaned back, just watching him. They probably looked ridiculous, sprawled out on the floor of the closet still mostly dressed in their fancy suits, but Clark felt too good to care much about appearances. Not when Bruce was still looking at him like he was something unbelievable. And not when Bruce looked like that – flushed, hair in disarray like he’d been gripping it. Or maybe that was Clark’s doing?

He was a mess, and Clark had done that to him. The thought made him feel giddy.

He leaned forward to give Bruce a lingering peck and grinned. “So. I totally won.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “It wasn’t a competition,” he drawled.

“Correction: it was,” Clark told him smugly. “And I won.”

Bruce leaned forward to bury a snort of rare laughter into Clark’s neck. “Sure, fine. You win. You could handle it after all.”

Clark sighed happily, wrapped both arms around him and nuzzled into his hair. “Thank you,” he said. “That’s all I wanted to hear.”