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“Batman? Batman? Batman are you there? Can you hear me?” An upper class British sounding male voice asked, panic lacing his words.
“Ugghhh…” Bruce moaned unintentionally.
“Batman?!” The voice cried.
Bruce opened his eyes slowly, looking around in a daze. Whe- where were his mother and father? His throat tightened. His whole body hurt. His head was pounding, dizziness clouding his gaze.
Bruce was slumped on the ground leaning against a building in an alley - no, the alley. So where were his parents?! Just two seconds ago he’d been standing right there as they were - oh.
Oh.
As they were shot. He remembered watching their murderer run away, he remembered kneeling down next to his parents, he remembered their dying words. He remembered the hot, salty tears that ran down his face. He remembered the pearls scattered around him.
There were no pearls on the ground now. No dead parents on the ground either.
Bruce could still vaguely hear someone rapidly murmuring nearby, but the blood rushing in his ears meant he couldn’t register any of it. His body hurt so bad. His parents were gone. He was in pain. He wanted to lay down and cry in his parents bed, their warm arms soothing him, as if he’d crawled into their room in the middle of the night, freshly awoken from a nightmare.
A nightmare. This was all a nightmare! He just needed to wake up, and then he could live that reality of being comforted by his parents in just a few short moments! He raised his hand to pinch his other arm, and realised - what. the. fudge?!
Bruce’s eyes widened as he stared down at his arm. It was huge. This was a grown ups arm. A really, really, really, big grown up. What was worse, was his whole body was really, really, big. Like super duper big. And covered in grey spandex and metal?
Deep breaths, that’s what Alfred says. Alfred! That’s who the voice was! He whipped his head round, trying to find his beloved butler. No one was there. He was totally alone in the alley behind the opera theatre. So why could he hear Alfred’s voice?
“Alfred?” Bruce croaked, leaning his gigantic and very sore head against the dumpster next to him.
“Batman!” Alfred cried, relieved. Now the blood rushing in his ears, and the ringing in his head had died down, Bruce could tell Alfred’s voice was coming from his ear. “I’m so-”
“I’m not Batman?” Bruce responded, dumbfounded. “Alfred, it’s me, Bruce.” He waited a beat before it all came gushing out, “an - and, I can’t find mom or dad, and I’m huge, and I think they were shot, and - Alfred I need help!” Bruce wailed, his eyes filling up with tears threatening to spill.
***
Six hours later.
Bruce stood in the shower, letting the stream soak his hair and back. It was okay, it would all be okay, this was definitely okay. Some things were coming back already. He knew he wasn’t eight, for a start. He was 26, and he was the CEO of Wayne Enterprises. He remembered being both 26 and the CEO of Wayne Enterprises. Alfred could also confirm he was, in fact, 26 and the CEO of Wayne Enterprises. Fantastic. He remembered he had a ten year old ward, Richard, who was currently on a school field trip for a couple of days in Metropolis. He remembered Dick being extremely excited to visit the home of his favourite superhero, Superman. Awesome. At least Dick didn’t have to be around for whatever horrible amnesiac episode Bruce was having.
After Alfred had come to collect him from the alley (in a tiny black plane, by the way?!), they had started to work through what Bruce could and couldn’t remember. He had no idea what he’d been doing for the last day, no idea how he’d ended up in that alley, and definitely no idea who Batman was.
I mean, like, through his excellent powers of deduction (and Alred explaining it to him like he was eight (even though he for sure was not eight right now)) Bruce knew he was Batman, but what did that even mean, anyway? Whatever, could be figured out later. Best to focus on the things he did know.
He knew he was a billionaire, he knew his favourite food was nachos, or either one of Alfreds specialties (cottage pie and a roast dinner), he knew he was bisexual, he knew his neighbours were the Drake family, he knew Dick’s parents had died in a trapeze incident, he knew his favourite colour was black, he knew pretty much everything about his job, and the company's expansion plans, the latest product launches and developments. He knew he had 3,196 unread emails, and he knew tonight, he was holding the Martha Wayne Memorial Children's Hospital charity gala.
He knew he’d worked on it for months. Those fucking goat cheese and caramelized shallot and leek tartlets topped with arugula, pickled red onion (imported from Copenhagen, Denmark) and balsamic vinegar (imported from Modena, Italy) were going to be the best goddamn canapes at any gala ever. They would go down in legend. All other gala canapes would be judged against the standard Bruce was going to set tonight.
Bruce was hosting the event of the season, and over 700 of Gotham’s richest and most famous were going to be at his gala, and pumped for all the money they could spare (which was a lot, because most of the invited guests were multimillionaires.) He was going to be able to do so much good with the money he raised tonight.
With one last deep inhale of the piping hot stream, Bruce turned off the shower, and stepped into the towelled robe Alfred had left hanging for him on the heated towel rack.
He could do this, he mused. He could still attend his gala. He had to, there was no other option. He just somehow had to do it without letting anyone know he was suffering from sort of, low-key, mild amnesia, and definitely felt like he was missing half of his life's information. He could do it. He could do it and he wouldn’t create any horrific scandals or scenes that could potentially ruin the reputation or tank the stock prices of the beloved company his father had built from the ground up and left for him. He picked up the tuxedo shirt hanging off the rack.
***
Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccckkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk…
This was going great (!!!)
Bruce grinned and raised his champagne flute to the applause of the room. All eyes were on him as he finished the night's opening address. His own landed on one set of eyes in particular; a stunningly blue pair, framed by thick black rimmed glasses. The owner of those eyes was a tall man, standing above the crowd but hunching over slightly in an ill fitting suit. The man was looking at him with a slightly desperate, wounded expression (well they definitely knew each other somehow). Bruce tore his gaze away, scanning the crowd.
“Have a good night everyone! Don’t forget to make use of the open bar - I want you all as tipsy as possible when you sign those cheques for me!” He jested as he stepped off the stage. With the way the crowd exploded into laughter and applause, polite cheering as well, you’d think he was the funniest, most hilarious man in the world, and not just using the same joke every businessman makes at these events. He walked down the steps of the stage to Lucius clapping his shoulder,
“Well done, lad.” He smiled. “The evening’s barely begun but you’ve truly outdone yourself, Bruce.”
“Thank you Lucius,” He beamed. He passed the champagne flute away to a waiter hovering nearby. “What do you say,” he said to Lucius, nodding at the bar, “that we get a real drink before we start making the rounds and squeezing these chumps for their pocket change?”
“I’d love to, my boy,” Lucius replied.
Everyone was dressed in their finery, tuxedos and floor length gowns, necks dripping in diamonds, and wrists adorned with watches often costing upwards of 100 grand. The rented gala venue was flush with tasteful flowers, and information about the work the memorial hospital was doing.
As they made their way through the crowd to the bar, various board members and old acquaintances joined them, clapped Bruce on the shoulder, shook his hand, and complimented him on his efforts. Bruce remembered about 60% of those peoples names. But Bruce couldn’t ignore the piercing blue eyes following him from across the room, shoved in a corner with the other press.
They were at the bar now, chattering amongst themselves, and drinking expensive scotch, a group of seven or eight of Bruce’s “inner” circle (though none but Lucius knew of his slight amnesia), before Bruce dared to meet the man's eyes across the room. A shiver of recognition ran down his spine. A shiver of… arousal? Affection? Hmm…
The man was tall, hunched over, slightly, as if embarrassed by the space he took up. And by god he took up space. He was incredibly muscular. Bruce’s mouth went a little dry at the sight of his chest and arms. Even through the baggy suit, you could tell his arms were the size of most people’s heads. The man was, simply put, gorgeous. And he was looking at Bruce apologetically, sadly, slightly hurt? Maybe? He was looking at Bruce like he wanted Bruce to tear him apart, honestly.
“Well,” Bruce thought to himself, “I’m fucking him for sure, aren’t I?”
Now entirely sure why this man was trying to eye fuck him all evening, Bruce downed his whiskey, and murmured his excuses to his colleagues. They grinned at each other, entirely used to Bruce going to hunt down prey at events like this. And, uh, yeah, maybe Bruce was gonna need to use some of that experience tonight. Hopefully. He just prayed whoever this guy was he wouldn’t be able to tell Bruce had, well, no idea who this guy was.
He held Bruce’s gaze as he worked his way through the crowd to him, watching desperately as Bruce charmed guests easily into giving thousands of dollars in donations. Watching as he was congratulated on his work, his achievements, the gala, the goat cheese canapes. Bruce did a mental first pump that the canapes, were in fact going down as well as he’d hoped.
Finally, Bruce was at the press table.
“Mr. Wayne!” a redhead on Huge Blue Eye Hunk™ exclaimed, “Care to comment on the rumoured rift between you and LexCorps CEO? I see Mr.Luthor isn’t present tonight.” She said, eyes darting between Bruce and Huge Blue Eye Hunk™.
“No comment.” Bruce smiled, not taking his eyes off of… Clark! That was the name on his press badge. “Clark,” he said, tasting the name on his tongue, tilting his head to the side slightly. The name tasted delicious. Familiar. “Care to join me for a breath of fresh air? It gets so stuffy at these galas. One simply must make an escape when possible.”
“Yeah!” Clark said, eyes wide. “Yeah, no of course!” Clark was glancing at the red head. Was Bruce meant to know who this girl was? Whatever. He inclined his head in a gesture for Clark to follow him.
Bruce set off in the direction of the cloak room in the least use. Yeah. That would work. He felt Clark behind him. It lit his nerves on fire with anticipation. This felt known, and safe, yet altogether thrilling and exciting.
As Clark followed him, Bruce felt Clark lean to his ear, as he whispered,
“Hey, Mr. Wayne” Bruce swore he could hear the eyeroll Clark did at the formality of addressing him like that. Must have been to protect their… secret (?) relationship (?), yeah, that made sense. “This isn’t the way to the balcony or the gardens or the exit.” He murmured.
Bruce chuckled.
“No shit, Clark.” He smiled involuntarily.
“I’m really sorry about the other night, B. I…” He trailed off, and Bruce wished he hadn’t. He savoured the feel of Clark’s hot breath on his neck.
Bruce turned to look at him, walking backwards now that they were away from the throng of people. Fuck. He had zero clue what Clark was referring to.
“Um… Yeah. Listen, don’t worry about it. These things happen. We get over it.” Bruce prayed that made sense. Clark nodded, staring at Bruce as if he were insane.
“We get over it?” He repeated. Had Bruce grown two heads? Was that not a logical response?
“Yeah…” Bruce said as he opened the cloak room door, aware that at least twenty people were still watching them, and not caring, as he dragged Clark inside.
“B, since when have you ever just gotten over someone challenging you like that in a JL meeting? And - and, the whole thing after…”
‘B’ had no idea what a JL meeting was. But fuck it he waned to kiss Clark so bad. Yeah. Fuck it.
“Are we seriously focusing on that right now?” Bruce murmured, eyes darting to Clarks lips. Bruce felt small around him. Bruce was a big guy, 6’2”, muscular, but Clark had at least an inch or two on him. Bruce took a step forward. Clark seemed totally oblivious.
“It’s just that this whole -” Clark was cut off as Bruce kissed him.
Bruce groaned slightly as he finally kissed Clark, shivering again, but then he felt Clark stiffen, and, OH FUCK, what if he’d read the situation totally wrong??? They obviously knew each other, but what if they were just colleagues or friends or something??? Bruce had just assumed they were fucking because it felt so obvious to him, but there was no real guarantee that was the case! Hell, there was no guarantee Clark was even queer! He’d seemed pretty cozy with that red head, hadn’t he? Bruce was spiralling, and OH FUCK he was still kissing Clark! Clark who was stiff as a board next to him, FROZEN, and probably two minutes away from filing a sexual assault case that was going to ruin his company. He needed to stop kissing Clark! Now!
But then Clark snapped and was kissing him back, all sense of hesitancy gone, replaced with an urgency and a passion that must have been building for an age.
Clark pulled away, gasping for air, eyes black, staring at Bruce.
“Bruce…” he whined, grasping at Bruce’s shoulder, pulling him closer. “Oh my GOD, you have know idea how long I’ve wanted to do that for.” Before Bruce could even answer, to register his shock that they hadn’t, Clark’s hands were in his hair, and his mouth was on his own. Suddenly Bruce’s mouth was opening for Clark, and his tongue was sweeping in with a surprising dominance that had Bruce groaning into his mouth. He felt Clarks dick twitch at his groan. Hot . And then Clark was kissing his neck, leaving love bites in his wake, claiming Bruce. And then, -
And then Bruce shivered and gasped as Clark sucked on that sweet spot on his throat and tugged his neck just so, and Bruce’s memories came flooding back. He was the Batman. His ward, Dick was Robin. Clark was Superman, - hold up. CLARK WAS SUPERMAN???
Clark, oblivious to Bruce’s mental realisation, memories coming back, etc, etc. Kept kissing him.
“God I never thought this would happen.” Clark sighed happily into Bruce’s mouth. Their legs were intertwined. They were both hard.
Bruce remembered the fight they’d had two nights ago, the argument in front of the entire Justice League, at a mission debriefing. He remembered the way he’d gone on patrol afterwards. Making careless mistakes. Wandering into the trap that Poison Ivy had set for him in the very alley he’d gone to sulk in.
The way Bruce figured, he had two options right now. Keep kissing Clark, maybe take him up to his Alfred-less penthouse in the city after the gala, or come clean about tonight, about the amnesia.
He chose the first option.