Work Text:
Bruce rubbed his eyes for the third time in an hour, the words starting to blur every time he stared at the screen for too long. It was late, but certainly not half as late as the Bat usually worked. Gotham was still a lively bustle when he glanced out of the large windows of his top-floor office, people going home from the theatre or the cinema, younger people only just going out to party. He shouldn’t have been that tired.
But he wasn’t the Bat right now, holed up comfortably in the Cave below his house, hidden away from the world and what it expected him to be. Somehow it was harder to work into the night when he was just Bruce Wayne sitting in his office, after coming up with some ridiculous excuse for why he bothered to stay so long instead of getting drunk at a charity event.
He sighed and tried to rub away the headache that was beginning to form. He’d been after Felton Accounting for weeks now – a new firm in Gotham, well-connected and well-funded, generous at donation drives, and as far as anyone could tell a welcome addition to Gotham’s little ecosystem. So of course Bruce didn’t trust any of it. He’d learnt a long time ago that if something sounded too good to be true, it was probably far worse than anyone expected. So he’d done his research, pulled strings and called in favours and found out a whole lot of nothing. He’d spent endless hours staring at accounts and paperwork looking for irregularities and evidence of the mob connections he suspected.
The worst, the most frustrating part of it all was that he knew exactly what he should be doing. He knew the layout of both the firm’s main seat and the director’s home, he’d familiarised himself with the security measures and worked out several perfect plans to break in and find everything he needed to know. Every dirty little secret. There was a reason he’d decided all those years ago that, for all his wealth and connections, Bruce Wayne simply wasn’t enough. Sometimes only the Bat could get what he needed.
He flexed his right arm, as if he somehow expected it not to twinge in pain this time. The cast had come off a week ago, but it had been a bad break and he still hadn’t regained his full strength. Just a few years ago, he probably would have ignored the pain and gone out anyway, pushed through it by sheer force of will. And it wasn’t that he couldn’t still have done that – he had, when there was no other option, more than once even in the past year – but he was more mindful these days of the permanent damage he could do to himself. It was one of the most painfully inevitable parts of ageing – how slowly he healed these days, how much longer it took to find his old strength again. He didn’t want to risk breaking something that wouldn’t mend anymore. What good would he be to Gotham then? What good would he be to the League? It didn’t bear thinking about, least of all how damned kind they’d all be about it, with their super strength and super healing, as if they understood the first thing about human weakness.
No use grumbling about it, though. Bruce still had work to do, and he’d get it done one way or another.
His phone beeped.
“Mr Wayne?” the voice of his new secretary said. Anne, and she’d only been working for him for a month, ever since her predecessor had decided to move back to her hometown somewhere in Montana because there was “less crime” than in Gotham. Bruce couldn’t really blame her. “I’m sorry to bother you, but there’s a reporter here who insists on seeing you.”
Bruce took a deep breath. Anne was new, and still somewhat intimidated by the very idea of working for him, but he would have thought sending reporters away would have been self-evident. He flexed his arm again, letting the pain distract him so he wouldn’t snap at her.
“Send him on his way and tell him he needs an appointment. And don’t give him an appointment if he asks for one.”
She was quiet for a moment, then went on, “I know, but he’s very insistent. Says you’ll want to hear this.”
Well, that sounded like someone who was very intent on trying to blackmail him, and Bruce started going through all the reporters in Gotham stupid enough to attempt something like that. And then he wondered if maybe it wasn’t a reporter at all, and that was probably something he should deal with sooner rather than later, and preferably before Anne got hurt. He called up the respective security cameras and – groaned.
In front of Anne’s desk stood a very familiar figure, tall and broad-shouldered and clad in an ill-fitting blue shirt and an equally ill-fitting trench-coat, both too big for him and quite masterfully minimising just how big the man wearing them really was. Subtlety was not something anyone would ever associate with Superman, but that was only because people didn’t know he was hiding in plain sight.
“Send him up,” Bruce said. If he didn’t, he’d only find Clark hovering in front of his window in half a minute, and that was somehow even more annoying. “But don’t make a habit of it. And go home, it’s late.”
He hung up before she could answer and leant back in his chair, adjusting his arm into what looked like a comfortable position. He didn’t particularly want to see Clark, but when he couldn’t easily retreat to the Cave, talking to him was usually the easiest way to make him leave. Eventually.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Wayne,” Clark said as he stepped through the door – a charade for poor Anne, packing her things outside while Clark closed the door behind himself, but there was an amused twinkle in his eyes, as if calling Bruce that was a secret joke only they were in on. Or maybe he was thinking of that gala at the city hall four weeks ago (three weeks and four days, actually), which Bruce Wayne had been attending to drink and be obnoxious and Clark Kent had been covering for reasons nobody questioned too closely when he flashed them his harmless farm boy smile, and which had ended with Clark sitting on the mayor’s desk with his legs wrapped around Bruce’s hips as Bruce got him off. Clark had called him Mr. Wayne throughout it all and it hadn’t sounded like a joke then, and for some reason it hadn’t even bothered Bruce.
It had been … fun, for lack of a better word. It was not a word Bruce associated with Superman, or with himself for that matter. It had certainly been the last thing Bruce had expected when Clark had returned from the dead and they’d started working together, somehow managed to work together as if Bruce hadn’t tried to murder Clark. That night at the gala hadn’t been the first or the second or even the tenth time they’d ended up like that, Clark gasping too cool breath against his lips and digging his fingertips into Bruce’s flesh just a fraction too firmly, Clark smiling in a way that was blissed out and frankly a bit goofy and yet utterly charming (not that Bruce would ever tell him that), Clark looking at Bruce like – like something that Bruce didn’t need to think about, unlike the actual work he had to do.
So if he was Mr. Wayne tonight, he slouched deeper into his chair and put one foot up on his desk, making eye contact as he loosened his tie and opened the top buttons of his shirt. Just getting comfortable, and if it made someone else uncomfortable, then, well, Bruce Wayne was very good at that.
“What can I do for you, Mr. – Kents, was it?”
Clark laughed. Superman never laughed, because there rarely was anything to laugh about when he donned that distractingly tight suit and fought the things even Bruce couldn’t fight. Or maybe Clark simply knew that if people ever saw that boyish, a little mischievous expression on Superman’s face, they’d recognise him immediately.
He came closer – far closer than even the cheekiest reporter would, stepping behind that large, imposing desk that usually did a decent job deterring people. But then nothing ever deterred Clark. Though Bruce supposed that once you’d decided to forgive a man for trying to kill you, then a bit of aloofness and distance weren’t much of an obstacle anymore. Most of his usual tactics to get rid of people simply didn’t seem to work on Clark.
He stopped right next to Bruce’s chair and leant back against the desk – a casual gesture that didn’t quite look natural, like he was trying too hard to make it look casual.
“I was actually in Gotham for work,” Clark said, and Bruce was almost disappointed that he sounded like … like himself, certainly, but Clark always sounded like himself. It had maybe been the strangest thing to find out about him, that Clark Kent wasn’t a mask the way Bruce Wayne was, that Clark simply was like that. Friendly and approachable and so very earnest. But his tone had still shifted, maybe not enough to be noticeable to someone didn't know him well, but Bruce couldn’t have missed it. It was less playful, more direct, and Bruce was almost a little disappointed they weren’t playing the same game as the last time they’d seen each other. It made this whole thing … easier. To pretend that Bruce Wayne was fucking a handsome reporter because that was the kind of thing Bruce Wayne did.
“So you thought you’d come by to bother me?” Bruce asked, letting his foot slip back down from the desk and straightening up a bit. Instead of being annoyed, Clark grinned.
“More or less, yes.” He nudged Bruce’s thigh with his knee, and the warmth of his touch instantly spread through Bruce’s body. He’d wondered more than once if that too was part of Clark’s Kryptonian physiology, if his body temperature was maybe slightly higher than a human’s, but he’d come to the unfortunate conclusion that it was simply his own reaction that made it seem that way. It was a welcome change from the dull throbbing in his temples and the persistent ache in his arm. He supposed Clark could tell, too – by the slight acceleration of Bruce’s heartbeat, the sharp intake of breath he’d probably masked well enough to fool any human’s senses. Clark shifted closer still, until his touch became a firm pressure against Bruce’s thigh, and just as he leant down to kiss Bruce, Bruce realised that Clark had one hand in the messenger bag he carried slung over his shoulder. Clearly trying to be subtle about something.
Bruce waited, held still until Clark’s lips brushed against his and his hand quietly deposited a thick file on Bruce’s desk, almost but not quite out of Bruce’s sight. Bruce had to admit it wasn’t a bad attempt at sneakiness, good enough in fact that he didn’t immediately ask Clark what the hell he thought he was doing.
The fact that Clark’s hand was in Bruce’s hair now, combing through the slightly dishevelled strands while his other hand cupped Bruce’s chin to deepen the kiss, might have contributed to his unwillingness to interrupt him. There was something to the way Clark kissed him, a kind of earnestness that was as charming as that boyish smile he almost never saw on Superman’s face. Only when they were like this, private and alone, and every kiss felt like Clark wanted to make damn sure Bruce knew he was forgiven. Never mind that Bruce had neither asked for nor earned his forgiveness.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Bruce, but you don’t look like you mind the interruption too much,” Clark said against his lips, and as usual Bruce hated that he had a point. There was only so long he could stare at the same bits of information in the hopes that they’d somehow transform into something helpful. If he’d been at home, Alfred would have found a way to make him stop hours ago. The thought occurred to Bruce that Alfred might have put Clark up to it, called him and asked him to come by Bruce’s office to get him to stop working … but the truth was that Clark really didn’t need any encouragement for that.
“Maybe I’m trying to be polite,” Bruce said, and not only to get that laugh out of Clark again, because Bruce hadn’t been polite to him a day in his life. Like most of his other strategies, it hadn’t done anything to deter Clark and make him stay away. Maybe he should ask about the file on his desk, to stop this from going where it was clearly going, but he … he didn’t quite want to. Not the way Clark was kissing him again, his hands on Bruce’s shoulders pulling him out of his chair like he weighed almost nothing.
And then he couldn’t have interrupted him even if he’d wanted to because in the blink of an eye he found himself pressed back against the room-high glass front of his office, and for a moment he admired the amount of control Clark had to have over his powers to take them through the room so fast and not even crack the glass when he pushed Bruce back against it.
“Here, really?” Bruce asked. He’d fucked people in his office before, had even fucked them right against this glass wall. Once or twice he’d done it on purpose and made sure that some paparazzi got pictures of it so the papers would print that and not whatever it was Bruce needed them to ignore.
“Your office has a nice view.” Clark’s fingers were in his hair again, pulling on it lightly until he got a quiet moan from Bruce’s lips. “And I’d notice if anyone was watching us.”
Bruce actually believed him – it was hard to imagine having Clark’s senses, processing such a huge amount of sensory input in such a short time, but he’d witnessed more than once just how much Clark could hear and see. Even so it added a certain thrill to it that the situation had been entirely missing when it had been carefully engineered by Bruce Wayne – the feeling of being exposed as Clark stripped him out of one layer after the other, the odd sensation of the cool glass against his bare back when Clark lifted him with effortless ease. Bruce didn’t think he’d ever get used to being manhandled so easily by anyone, but he had an increasingly hard time pretending that he didn’t like it. Enough that it didn’t even ruin his mood to notice how careful Clark was not to hurt his injured right arm, even when he got a little rough with him. Enough that the file on his desk slipped his mind entirely once Clark thrust into him, holding him up against the window pane and moaning into Bruce’s lips as he fucked him.
Clark didn’t stick around afterwards – it was his one concession to Bruce’s otherwise unsuccessful attempts to keep him at arm’s length, or maybe Clark simply didn’t want to stay once he had what he’d come by for. He kept kissing Bruce until Bruce could breathe again, and then he said something about the next League meeting and some favour Arthur had asked and that Clark would be gone for a couple of days to help him out, and then he left as suddenly as he’d shown up earlier that night.
It took Bruce a minute or two to gather himself and get his clothes into some semblance of order (at least as far as that was possible, what with Clark having ripped a few buttons off his shirt – and Bruce knew that must have been entirely on purpose). He went back to his desk for a glass of whiskey when his gaze fell on the folder Clark had brought him. His first thought was that it’d be related to whatever Arthur had asked for Clark’s help with, but if Clark had wanted Bruce to give them a hand with that, he wouldn’t have been so circumspect about it. Clark had little enough problem asking for help.
So if Clark hadn’t wanted to talk to Bruce about whatever he’d brought him, it would be something Bruce wouldn’t want to accept. He grimaced a little as he opened the file and was only a little surprised to find a whole stack of internal documents from Felton Accounting. He had no idea how Clark had got his hands on them – none of his powers were particularly subtle and inconspicuous, and Bruce would have heard about any suspicious break-ins. He also had no idea how Clark had found out that Bruce wasn’t getting anywhere with his own investigation.
It should have irritated him, that he’d needed the help at all. An irrational part of him wanted to throw the file away, but this was more important than his pride. He’d started the League because they needed each other’s support when it came to the bigger threats. He didn’t need help in Gotham, dealing with normal human criminals.
But then he also didn’t need Clark Kent dropping by late in the evening to distract him from his growing headache and fuck him against Bruce Wayne’s ridiculous glass walls. He didn’t need Clark giving him knowing looks when they ran into each other at various parties and galas, or Clark meeting his eye during League meetings, in that way that made it very clear he intended to stay long after the others had gone.
Bruce didn’t need any of those things. But if they were right there, offered freely, maybe he could allow himself to accept them anyway. He’d half planned to go home afterwards by the time Clark had had him pinned against the window, but now he sat back down behind his desk, his sweaty hair sticking to his temples and Clark’s and his own come drying on his skin, and began reading. He had a lot of work to do, and he was finally feeling awake again.