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Clark Kent shoved his suitcase into the trunk with as gentle a force as he could muster. The bag underneath split open instantly, and black underwear, socks, and gloves spilled out over the cramped interior.
“For Pete’s sake!” Clark tried to stuff the monochrome clothing back into a semi-organized heap. “This is the worst car in the world!”
Bruce Wayne paused in the middle of tying a canoe atop the car to look at Clark’s mess. “My other car is… too conspicuous,” he said gruffly. “And this one has a refurbished tape deck.”
“Why does that matter?” Clark said. “The car speakers are going to sound the same regardless of if they’re playing a cassette, a CD, or a plugged-in phone.”
“It’s about… ownership,” Bruce said, finishing up on the canoe and cramming himself into the driver’s seat.
Clark sighed and forced the trunk shut with a normal amount of force, just enough to dent the metal until it held. He crowded into the passenger seat and sorted through Bruce’s box of cassettes.
“Is this…” he started. “Is all of this ABBA?”
“No,” Bruce said, inserting a cassette and hitting Play.
Clark’s eyes widened. “Three Doors Down?!”
“If I go crazy, then will you still call me Superman?” the tinny voice wailed through the speakers. Clark groaned.
“What? Not a fan?” Bruce was smirking.
He doesn’t know, Clark reminded himself. There’s no way he knows I’m Superman. It’s just a Metropolis joke.
Out loud, he said, “I mean, I like the man fine. Gets the job done.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow as they pulled out onto the motorway. “You’ve met him?”
“Just in a reporting capacity.”
Clark knew he was blushing. Even a year into their relationship, it was hard not to blush when Bruce paid attention to him. Bruce might have been a billionaire, but he was so… normal. So easy. When Clark was with him, he didn’t have to pretend to have all the answers.
“Let’s talk about you,” said Clark. He wasn’t going to let his secret identity crash his camping trip with his handsome civilian boyfriend. “What’s Wayne Enterprises been working on?”
Bruce smiled. The corners of his eyes crinkled up. “Off the record?”
“Always.”
“Off the record, it’s been a good year for us. We’re looking to expand the Gotham Academy scholarship program.”
The drive to their campsite in upstate New York passed uneventfully. Bruce seemed to forget all about Superman—and about Clark’s awkward reaction to his music taste.
“This might be the biggest test of our relationship yet,” Clark joked as they stood over a pile of ropes, poles, and tent pegs. “My ma used to say that she knew my pa was the right man for her the first time they went camping together.”
Bruce attempted to slot two poles together. They fell apart at once. “It went that well?”
Clark laughed. Thinking about his parents always cheered him up. “That badly. Wet wood, tornado warning… they got a hotel and stayed up all night, talking away.”
Bruce took his hand. “I’ll try to be good company.”
Setting up the tent and a fire took no time, so they took the opportunity to walk around a bit and look at trees. Clark had an impressive knowledge of trees.
"And that there," Clark pointed, "is a New York pizza tree. Only grows on New York soil."
Bruce shadowed his eyes. He could see the pizza slices hanging from the branches. "Some species of bats feed on pizza." Bruce sat, admiring the tree. "Some can handle any Italian cuisine, but some of them specialize exclusively in pizza. I wonder if they'd like it here."
Clark beamed. Bruce was so cool and knew so many facts about bats. He offered him his hand. "Shall we head back?"
In the thirty minutes it took to regain their campground, the sky went from clear to bright to overcast to gloomy, and thunder began to rumble.
"Maybe it'll just pass us by," said Bruce.
"Nope," said Clark. "I feel raindrops, or else that's birds peeing."
They just barely got everything into the car before the deluge began. Cramped in the seats, Bruce took out his phone.
"Tornado batwarning—I mean warning."
"Want to get a hotel?"