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Dawn was just breaking over the Metropolis skyline when Superman and Batman finally finished clearing the S.T.A.R. Labs grounds of mercenaries. The mercs had been prepared for action—prepared for Superman—but they hadn’t anticipated him having backup in the form of the finest tactician Superman knew. Their superior numbers had meant nothing when Batman could survey the field and tell Superman how to act and keep them from the heart of the facility.
Batman was zip-tying the last of the mercs to the lamppost outside the laboratory when Superman landed beside him, having satisfied himself that the buildings were indeed secure and that the security team was unharmed. Zip-ties were, he had to admit, practical, but imagining the hulking figure of the Batman carrying around 100-odd zip-ties at any given time was amusing.
He could never, ever let Batman know he thought that.
“Thank you for assisting,” Superman said, holding out his hand when Batman had finished and turned around. Batman clasped it easily—how things had changed since they first met, when Batman wouldn’t touch Superman without scanning him first—and nodded.
“You would have been fine without me,” Batman said.
“Would have taken me a bit longer,” Superman said. “And I don’t know if it would have been as neat. You’re who we go to for precision.”
“Hmm,” Batman said, which was the closest he ever got to graciously accepting a compliment. “S.T.A.R. Labs has research that could be devastating in the wrong hands. We need to find out who they were working for.”
“I can go in tomorrow—” Superman glanced at the sunrise and revised. “I’ll look into it today, make some calls.”
“I’ll look on my end,” Batman said, which probably meant he was going to go loom threateningly at some mob bosses. “We can discuss it at the Tower.”
“Sounds good.” Superman took a last look around the premises, scanning through the walls to check for any lingering life signs, then prepared to take off. “It’s a date.”
“I’ll bring the wine,” Batman said, and he said it so deadpan that it took Superman the entire flight back to his apartment to realize that Batman had made a joke. Batman had made a joke.
It was known to happen, of course—beneath the cowl was still Bruce Wayne, who had a truly appalling sense of humor—but Batman’s jokes tended towards the black and macabre. This had been a friendly joke, maybe even borderline flirtatious.
Clark stripped off the suit on his way to the shower and told himself not to be ridiculous. Bruce Wayne was a flirt, an incurable one at that, but Batman was so professional that it could be exhausting. It was clearly a one-off, a product of exhaustion and the fact that Clark had given him a perfect opening for a quip.
Clark put it out of his mind and nearly forgotten about it by the time he got to the Tower later that night to check in. Wonder Woman was there, sparring with Aquaman and trading stories about their kingdoms’ armies. Batman was in the command center, sitting at a desk with his cowl on, as he always did no matter what time of day or who was in the Tower, typing impressively fast despite his bulky gauntlets. From the door Superman could hear the tinny sound of Alfred and Oracle in Batman’s ear, talking over each other as they offered him information.
“That’s enough,” Batman said to them. “Superman, come here.”
Superman was sure that he hadn’t made noise; he still hadn’t figured out how Batman pulled off that trick. “What’s the magic word?” he said, even as he closed the distance between them.
“Please,” Batman said without inflection. From his earpiece, Alfred’s voice said, “Good God, Superman, you really do work miracles.”
“Enough,” Batman said, and he touched his ear to cut off the transmission. Still not turning around, he pulled up a video that Superman quickly recognized as being surveillance footage from S.T.A.R. Laboratories. “This is from the afternoon of the attack.”
Superman leaned in to look. The footage wasn’t particularly high quality, but he could still make out the figure on the screen. “Deathstroke.”
“This wasn’t an ordinary merc team,” Batman agreed. “The question is why they were at S.T.A.R.”
“Why they were at S.T.A.R. this time,” Superman amended. “There are always people who want in to the labs.”
Batman huffed through his nose. “True.” He fast-forwarded through the video, then rewound, searching for something. Then—“There.”
They both leaned in, Superman instinctively resting his hand on Batman’s shoulder to steady himself. Even through the body armor he could feel Batman tense; he immediately started to withdraw his hand, but Bruce just said, “See that? That’s a LexCorp gun.”
“Of course,” Superman said, suppressing the urge to sigh. “Who else would it be?”
“The only question is what he’s after.” Batman typed for a few seconds, screen filling with new windows, so fast that Superman wondered just how Batman was processing all of it. “Clark Kent has a contact at S.T.A.R., doesn’t he?”
“She’s really Lois’s contact, but I’m sure I could ask her for information.” Clark stepped back, finally letting his hand fall away, back to his side. “What exactly should I be trying to discover?”
“Hint that you have a tip about their latest project,” Batman suggested. “It’s something new, or something that’s nearly finished, or else we would have heard of it.”
“Good point. I’ll do that.” Superman turned to leave, then looked back. “What brought you to S.T.A.R. last night, anyway? It’s a little out of your usual territory.”
Batman was still for a long moment. Then he said, “Maybe I wanted an excuse to see you.”
And that, Superman thought dazedly as he gave a hurried, garbled goodbye, was definitely flirting.
The first time Bruce and Clark met in their daytime professions was at a party. Clark was pretending to sip at a glass of champagne while the Gotham mayor droned on about renewal and synergy and the growth of the city. Nearby, Jimmy snapped pictures of the guests while looking incredibly bored. Coming to the gala as Lois’s background support was Clark’s punishment for disappearing in the middle of the day a battle between Superman and a gang of bank robbers had been waged in the building across from the Planet. Clark wasn’t sure what Jimmy had done to piss off Perry; when he’d asked, Jimmy just shook his head and said, “Let’s not talk about it.”
Perry seemed to take a perverse pleasure in sending Clark to these charity galas where he had to squeeze himself into a suit—intentionally bought to be ill-fitting and unflattering, much to Lois’s annoyance—and rub elbows with people who had never set foot on sod. He claimed Clark’s Midwestern charm put them off their guard. Clark was fairly sure it was really that he enjoyed hearing the stories about Clark using the wrong fork.
The mayor came to the end of his speech. Clark surreptitiously used his heat vision to evaporate the remaining champagne from his glass before setting the empty flute down on the bar, intending to head for where Lois was talking to the Gotham police commissioner. Just as he stepped away, he ran into a silky chest and immediately began apologizing, reaching out reflexively to catch whoever he’d knocked over, except the person hadn’t fallen, and the person was Bruce Wayne.
“Whoa there,” Bruce Wayne said, so much more in person than he was in the tabloids, his eyes bluer, his teeth even whiter, his smile even more rakish, “you nearly swept me off my feet.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” Clark said, “I didn’t see you there—Clark Kent, Daily Planet.” He held out his hand and was startled when Bruce enveloped it in both hands. Bruce was leaning in close, still smiling, and Clark abruptly realized that they were standing so close that their shoes touched. He tried to think about something else, but all he could focus on was Bruce’s hands, large, surprisingly strong and calloused, not soft like he would have guessed, maybe from polo or whatever sport rich people did? “Er—”
“Always a pleasure to meet a member of the press,” Bruce said. “Bruce Wayne, of Wayne Enterprises.”
“Yes, of course, I—” Clark just barely stopped himself from saying I know who you are and instead course-corrected to, “I wanted to speak with you.”
“Well lucky you, you found me. Why don’t we find a quiet corner and chat, mm?” Bruce still hadn’t let go of Clark’s hand. “I know an alcove over off the side of—”
“Clark, where—oh, there you are.” Lois elbowed her way through the crowd to join them. She flicked back a strand of hair that was falling into her eyes and raised her eyebrows when she took in the tableaux. “Oh, hello, Mr. Wayne. I see you’ve met our newest team member.”
“Lois!” Bruce released Clark’s hand and leaned over to kiss Lois’s cheek. Clark couldn’t decide if he wanted to scrub his hand against his trousers or not. “You look gorgeous as always. Looking for an exclusive?”
“Always, Mr. Wayne,” Lois said with a shark-like grin. “Tell me, I’ve heard some interesting things about Wayne Industries’ current R&D—”
“Now let me stop you right there, Lois, you know full well I don’t get into the nitty gritty like that. I just sign the checks!” Bruce winked at Clark. “If I actually did the work, I’d never have any time in the day!”
“Of course,” Lois said. “Well, perhaps you could point me in the direction of someone who can talk to me.”
“For you? Anything.” Bruce gave her a name and number before turning back to Clark. “And you, uh—Kent, was it?”
“Yes, Clark Kent,” Clark said.
“Clark—mind if I call you Clark?—you’re smart to stick to Ms. Lane. She’s the smartest person I’ve ever met.” Bruce gave Clark a blatant look-over, from his glasses to his unpolished shoes, yet instead of turning derisive as some did, his smile became almost—predatory. “I’d have said she was the most beautiful, but...”
“Leave the poor boy alone, Wayne,” Lois said. “He’s here to do a job, not end up in your bed.”
Clark’s face felt like it was on fire, and he would know. “Lois, I don’t think he meant it like that.”
“Oh no, I did,” Bruce said. “God, you’re a wholesome one, aren’t you?”
“Um, I suppose so,” Clark said, seeing the mayor moving out of the corner of his eye. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Wayne, but Lois is right, I do have something to do. Err—best of luck.”
“I’m afraid my luck’s leaving with you,” Bruce said, pouting, and Lois made a noise of disgust before taking Clark’s arm and steering him away.
“My god, Smallville,” Lois said in an undertone of barely repressed laughter. “I didn’t know you could blush like that.” She looked completely unphased by the Bruce Wayne Experience, her voice even and her cheeks the exact shade as they were before. “Don’t get your hopes up, sweetie, he does that to everyone. I honestly don’t think he knows how to turn it off.”
“I—everyone?” Clark asked.
“Even Perry,” Lois said. “Now come on, we need that story on the mayor—get in there.”
And Lois was right—that just was how Bruce Wayne was. He flirted as a matter of course, no matter who he was talking to, always brushing things off or deflecting. At first Clark had thought it was a way to disguise ignorance or perhaps disinterest, but it became clear after a few meetings that Bruce was actually highly intelligent—he just chose to display it in the least useful way possible.
All of this had been turned on its head when Bruce had revealed his alter-ego. By then Batman and Superman had worked together a number of times, and Superman had gotten to know Batman as a terse, focused, and unemotional investigator, reliable and businesslike. Knowing they were one and the same was like finding out the sun and the moon were the same celestial object.
But like with most things, all it took was time for it to become normal. In the Tower, they were Superman and Batman, professional and dispassionate, all humor coming from Superman as moment of injected levity. Outside, they were Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne, the dogged reporter and the billionaire who loved to dangle him on a string. It was useful to have the delineation. There were unspoken rules about where they should speak with familiarity and where they should treat each other as acquaintances, about when they could be seen together and when they could talk. They didn’t cross those lines.
Except now Batman was flirting with him.
Maybe it was an anomaly, Clark reasoned to himself over the next few days. Maybe Bruce—Batman—was just in a strange mood, or maybe he was lightening up a little. He managed not to laugh aloud at that last one, as he was on the bus and he didn’t even have headphones in to pretend he was listening to something funny.
He might have succeeded in convincing himself it was nothing, except that it kept happening. It was never overt; Batman would say something that from anyone else would be a flippant, throwaway statement, but from him seemed to take on meaning. Things like, “It’s my pleasure,” or “Looking good.” Clark found himself replaying their conversations in his daytime hours, trying to parse every syllable and every minute detail of their interaction until he was sure that he had invented it all out of some weird boredom or maybe he had been dosed with something. Something that made him imagine that Batman was flirting with him.
A few weeks after the attack on S.T.A.R., there was an explosion at one of the Wayne Industries labs on the outskirts of Gotham. Superman was on the scene in minutes, followed shortly by Batman and the Flash. In short time, they had cleared the building of civilians and regrouped outside. Batman muttered that he’d have to get back—understandable, since Bruce Wayne would be expected to make a statement—and took off, leaving Superman and the Flash to sort through the rubble.
“I think I found the point of origin,” the Flash called from one of the blown-out offices. “Want me to call in the real cops?”
“Yes, I’m going to have to head back too,” Superman said. “Any chance you’ll be able to get yourself on this case?”
“None at all,” the Flash said. “Consultant, maybe. I’ll give it a shot.”
“The less Batman has to hack, the better.” Superman gave the Flash a pat on the back, pretended not to notice the way the Flash turned a bright, pleased pink, and took off. He had barely skidded back into his seat at the Daily Planet when the notification from Perry popped up in his inbox.
Kent ur on gotham xplsn tk lane if must
Sent from my iPhone
Clark scrubbed at his face with a sigh and pulled up the ferry times to Gotham. He had purchased his tickets and started collecting possible eyewitness sources to contact when his inbox pinged again.
Got u solo w/ wayne
Sent from my iPhone
Clark had never been one to swear, but he was tempted. In his handful of years at the Planet, he had somehow managed to avoid ever having to be one-on-one with Bruce. Those usually went to Lois, who was by far the best at handling him and getting him to answer questions sincerely. But when Clark glanced over to Lois, she was on the phone, typing furiously, and a quick glance at her computer showed that she was working on the official investigation of the explosion. Clark was getting the PR.
There was nothing for it. Clark would have to find a way out of it without explaining that it was a conflict of interest to interview Bruce because, in fact, they spent most nights together—and goodness, that sounded so much worse than it really was. He would have to remember to never put it that way aloud.
“What is it, Kent?” Perry asked when Clark knocked on his doorframe, not looking up from his computer. “You should be on the ferry to Gotham by now.”
“My ticket’s not till an hour from now,” Clark said. “How’d you know it was me, sir?”
“Kent, seriously,” Perry said, still not looking up as he clicked away at lightspeed, “cut it out with the sir, it gives me the heebie-jeebies. I knew it was you because you’re the only person in this place that knocks.”
“—um, uh, yes si—sure.” Clark ignored the sound of Lois snorting from just outside the door. “About this interview you want me to do, with, uh, with Bruce Wayne—”
“Right.” Perry shoved his keyboard away and pointed at Clark. “Thank you for reminding me. I had Cat pull a bunch of clips for you to check out on the trip. You’ve never had a sit-down proper with Wayne before, and I want you to be prepared. No softball fluffy bullshit, you hear me? You need to grill him about the—”
“I can’t,” Clark blurted out.
Perry stopped and looked back at Clark, his eyebrows halfway to his hairline. “Excuse me?”
“Sir—”
“What did I say you about calling me sir?”
“Mr. White,” Clark said, which elicited a wince. “I just think you should send someone else. There’s a conflict of interest.”
“Really,” Perry said. “Which is what?”
“He—he flirts with me,” Clark blurted out.
Perry stared at Clark for so long that Clark was sure he had said something horribly wrong. Should he not have said that? Was it unbelievable that Bruce Wayne, playboy billionaire, would flirt with Clark Kent, hapless reporter? He really should have thought that through before saying it, because of course that was suspicious, Bruce had no reason to flirt with him except that they already knew each other and Clark certainly couldn’t tell Perry that—
Perry started laughing.
In fact, he started laughing so hard that he bent over double, hands braced on his knees, and had to take off his glasses to wipe at his eyes. Clark looked around helplessly, seeing Lois and Jimmy looking over curiously and Cat filming them on her phone. “Sir—um, Mr. White—“
“For God’s sake Clark,” Perry said through his laughter, “stop calling me sir. And Mr. White. Do you hear Lane calling me that shit?”
“But she’s Lois,” Clark said.
“Fair point.” Perry finally stopped laughing and straightened. “Lord, I needed that. Of course he flirts with you, Kent, Bruce Wayne flirts with everyone. Hell, the first time he met me, he told me he liked a man with experience.”
“Gross,” Lois said.
Perry pointed at her. “I heard that, Lane. Kent, take advantage of it. Maybe you can charm something out of him with those baby blues.”
“Charm?” Clark said faintly. He tried to imagine charming Bruce, in any of his personae, and came up blank. “I, uh—”
“Call Lane if you need backup, but I want her talking to Homeland Security and the cops, so don’t distract her unless you need it.” Perry waved Clark away. “Now get out of here and get on that ferry.”
“I’ll walk with you,” Lois said, grabbing her coat, “get some fresh air while I make my calls.”
“Thanks for the backup,” Clark grumbled at Lois as they headed towards the elevator together. “Come on, you’ve seen it, you know what I mean.”
“I don’t know if it’s so much that Wayne flirts with you more than average as you just don’t know how to take a compliment without going red in the face,” Lois said. “Relax, Clark, he really isn’t so hard to handle. Just keep him on topic and don’t let him pass you off to anyone else. He knows more than he pretends to.”
Clark knew that perfectly well, but he had the feeling that Bruce would take advantage of their acquaintance to mess with him more than he would ordinarily. He couldn’t share that with Lois, of course, so he just thanked her and headed off to the ferry, resignedly opening up the clips Cat had sent to his phone so he could tell her he’d watched them with a clear conscience.
The lobby of Wayne Industries headquarters was clogged with reporters and photographers. Bruce’s poor PR spokeswoman tried and failed to start her statement three times before everyone finally quieted enough that she could be heard.
“Today at eleven thirty-two a.m., there was an explosion in the Wayne Technologies research facility in Gotham. The Gotham Police, Fire Department, and Homeland Security are at the scene investigating to confirm the source of the explosion. There were no casualties at the scene thanks to the quick work of members of the Justice League, but several Wayne Technologies employees have been hospitalized for minor injuries. We will release their names once their families have been informed. I will now take questions.”
Every hand went up. Clark took notes for the appearance of it as she answered questions about the number of employees at the facility, which members of the Justice League had been there, how many people had been present at the time of the incident. Then a reporter asked, “What is the nature of the research being done at the facility, and was any of it lost?”
The spokeswoman suddenly grinned, a startling flash of good humor. “I can happily tell you that no valuable information was being lost. I can also tell you that we are ready to announce that we have successfully completed clinical trials on our latest prosthesis technology. We were planning to announce later this week, but seeing as we have all of you here already . . .” She spread her arms, grin widening, and Clark just knew Bruce had fed her that line.
Hands shot up all around the room, and for the next fifteen minutes all the reporters jostled for quotes and information. Clark took notes and jotted down questions for Bruce—not that he thought he’d get much opportunity to ask them. When the press conference had been dispersed, he made his way towards the elevator, flashing his press badge at security, and rode up with the others who had been granted one-on-one time with Bruce.
The waiting area outside Bruce’s office was filled with reporters, all waiting none-too-patiently for their turn with the man of the hour. Clark couldn’t help but admire how Wayne had turned a potentially fatal—metaphorically speaking—situation to his advantage. They got to be the brave victims and the triumphant inventors all at once.
Clark had to wait an hour before he was at last allowed into Bruce’s office. He shuffled in, shoulders hunched, and waited until the heavy doors clicked shut behind him to straighten up. Bruce was lounging behind his massive and sleek black metal desk, which was conspicuously free of anything resembling paperwork. Bruce perked up when he saw Clark and said, “I see Amanda saved the best for last. Welcome, Mr. Kent. Have a seat.” He gestured to the equally sleek leather chair that was set at an angle to the desk.
“Good to see you, Mr. Wayne,” Clark said, perching on the edge of the chair. “You seem in a good mood.”
“Why wouldn’t I be? All press is good press, that’s what they say.”
“I think it’s publicity, not press—but that’s not the point.” Clark tapped the end of his pen against his knee, watching Bruce closely. He had the feeling that if anyone else were sitting in his place, they might only see Bruce Wayne at his ease, but beneath the placid expression his gaze was sharp. Clark bit the bullet and asked, “Do you have any theories about the causes of the explosion?”
Bruce’s eyes narrowed very slightly. “Aren’t you going to ask about the prosthetics?”
“I got plenty on that,” Clark said blandly. They both knew very well that Bruce’s walls were lined with lead, but he enjoyed making the implication, just to watch Bruce’s eyebrow twitch. “I noticed your representative doing a nice do-si-do around answering anything about it.”
“It’s an ongoing investigation, Mr. Kent,” Bruce said. “Obviously we can’t comment without endangering that.”
“All right,” Clark said. “So off the record—is there anything you can tell me?”
Bruce tilted his head to the side, studying Clark. “Why don’t I take you out tonight,” he said after a moment. “No notepads. Just us.”
“Mr. Wayne,” Clark said, trying without much success to repress his smile, “I think you’re trying to seduce me.”
Bruce’s smile grew wider and somehow dirtier; Clark wasn’t entirely sure how. Perhaps it was the way his eyelids drooped lower, or how his eyebrow went up very slightly. More likely it was how his teeth bit his lower lip, just barely. “Oh, Mr. Kent,” Bruce said. He leaned forward, propping his elbow on the desk, and dropped his voice to a near-purr. “When I seduce you, you’ll know.”
Clark wanted to fire back some witty comment, had one nearly at the tip of his tongue, but he found his mouth had gone dry. Bruce was so very close; Clark could clearly smell the spearmint gum he had been chewing earlier and see the spot of shaving cream just beneath his ear that he hadn’t quite washed away. He could see a small nick beneath Bruce’s jaw where shrapnel earlier had clipped him and the faintest hint of freckles across his nose. He was never this close to Bruce, only the Batman.
“I’ll send a car for you at seven,” Bruce said. “Wear a suit. Not the blue one.”
Clark blinked and realized that Bruce wasn’t making a clever joke about meeting at the Watchtower. “Excuse me?”
“Do you have any objections to seafood?”
“No,” Clark said. “Bruce, I can’t go out to dinner with you. I’m a member of the press.”
“Those pesky ethics of yours,” Bruce said. His smile hadn’t faded, but there was something off in his voice, his tone still so bright that it was disconcerting. “Are you sure I can’t convince you?”
“Let’s get back to the interview, shall we?” Clark said desperately, flicking back in his notebook to find the questions he’d jotted down earlier. “Let’s talk about the origins of this prosthesis project.”
“All business with you, hm? Very well.” Bruce sat back, resuming his casual posture from earlier and launched into a clearly-practiced speech about the project. Clark took notes, but found himself watching Bruce’s face more than listening. Bruce’s face had gone strangely guarded, even as he smiled and gestured animatedly. He was used to Bruce’s different masks—had, in fact, grown oddly fond of them—but this one always made him acutely aware that though they had known each other for years, there were parts of Bruce he couldn’t reach.
“Did you need anything else, Mr. Kent?” Bruce asked, breaking through Clark’s thoughts. “My offer for dinner is still open if you want a more . . . exclusive quote.”
“I appreciate that,” Clark said for lack of a better response. “But I’ve got other plans tonight.”
“Of course.” Bruce rose to his feet, and Clark followed suit. “Do let me know if you have follow-up questions. Or, better yet, let my assistant know.” He winked.
Clark repressed the urge to roll his eyes and bade him a courteous farewell. He indulged himself by flying back to Metropolis rather than taking another ferry and spent the late afternoon in his apartment, writing a draft for Perry. By the time he had eaten dinner and was ready to go to the Watchtower, the piece had been approved for inclusion in the morning issue, and Perry had only made three snarky comments about Clark becoming Bruce’s trophy husband.
Batman was already at the Watchtower when Superman arrived, watching footage of the explosion with Diana. Diana was murmuring, pointing at the screen as Batman rewound the video, but turned when Superman landed on the balcony. She jerked her head, signaling him to come join them. Batman didn’t move at all.
“Our preliminary viewing indicates that this is related to the S.T.A.R. attack,” Diana said crisply without bothering with formalities. “I suspect Luthor has a hand in this, although it will be difficult to prove.”
“It’s always difficult to prove things involving Luthor,” Superman said. “And even if we can prove it—”
“—it won’t stick,” Batman finished. “Did you have a pleasant evening, Kal-El?”
Superman blinked and looked to Diana, whose expression flickered to confusion before quickly smoothing out again. “Pardon?”
“You’re joining us later than usual,” Batman said, still without turning around. “Perhaps I should have sent a car for you.”
His tone was completely flat; whether he was angry or trying to make a joke was completely impossible to tell, even with superhearing. Batman’s heartrate only changed when he was in combat. It felt like a continuation of Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne’s conversation—but Batman never crossed those lines. Diana had a tendency to pick up conversations from where they had left off, no matter the circumstances, so that Clark would finish a conversation with Diana Prince that he had started with Wonder Woman and vice versa. Barry would pick up conversations from three weeks before. Batman stuck to business.
“Should I have worn a different suit?” Superman tried, hoping he was reading Batman correctly. “I’m afraid I only have the blue.”
At this, Batman at last glanced around. He took his time sizing Superman up, and if Superman hadn’t known Batman was human as they came, he’d have sworn that gaze was x-ray. “No,” Batman said at last. “Blue’s a good color on you. Brings out your eyes.”
Diana’s eyebrows shot up before she managed to hide her expression again. Superman’s face heated, but Batman was already turning back towards the computer, typing a string of code into the computer. Superman snuck a glance at Diana and found that she was staring at him, her brow furrowed, and when she met his eyes, she quirked one eyebrow as if to ask, What was that?
Clark didn’t know how to answer.
After he had left for home that night, following another visit to S.T.A.R. and the Wayne Industries lab to do some investigation that had turned up bullets and blood for analysis but little in the way of answers, Clark knew that he had to do something about the flirting situation. If even Diana had noticed, it meant Clark wasn’t imagining things, and he didn’t know how to handle that. So he went to the one person he could think of that could help.
Clark had liked Dick from the first time they met, as reporter and then-teenaged society baby. Someone had been getting married—Clark couldn’t remember who anymore, just that he’d merited an invited because he’d once interviewed the bride—and Clark had caught Dick trying to sneak sips of champagne from glasses left unattended by the dancing guests. Dick had been maybe fourteen, cheeky and irreverent as only a kid who was still new to the glitz and glamor could be. He didn’t care what fork he used or if he wrinkled his tie, and—this was long before Clark knew who Bruce truly was—Clark had liked that Bruce didn’t seem to mind. He’d have thought Bruce Wayne would be something of a pageant mom, hyper-concerned about his children being at the top of the social food chain.
Since then, Clark had of course gotten to know Dick as Robin, then as Nightwing, and then as a friend. He was fascinating to work with; Bruce’s training showed in his strategies and analysis, but his instincts were wholly his own. And of all the Wayne children, he was the only one who remained more or less unchanged whether he was in the costume or out of it; Clark never had to work out which persona he should talk to, because he’d get the same answer either way.
All of this was why Dick was the one he went to and said, “Bruce is flirting with me.”
Dick glanced around the bullpen of Blüdhaven PD, where Clark had cornered him under the pretense of asking him about his current case—a string of car-jackings that had escalated to murder—and then leaned back in his seat to balance on the back two legs when he was satisfied no one was listening. He smirked, his cheek dimpling slightly, looking more like Bruce than their disparate genetics should warrant.
“Clark,” Dick said, “there are six people in this world Bruce doesn’t flirt with.”
Clark did some quick math. “Alfred, you, Cassandra, Barbara, Tim—who else?”
“Diana,” Dick said, and he grinned. “Did you just notice? He’s always flirted with you, ever since I can remember.”
“Yes,” Clark said, “I know Bruce has flirted with me since we met. It’s just that he’s doing it while he’s—” He hesitated, searching for a good euphemism. “While he’s wearing the black suit.”
Dick’s chair thumped down back onto all four legs. “You don’t mean—?”
“I do,” Clark said grimly. “Even Diana has noticed.”
“Tell me everything,” Dick said. “Not here, obviously,” he added, catching Clark’s expression. “Meet me on the roof tonight. I could use some company on my patrol.”
So Superman met Nightwing on the roof of the police department a little after eleven p.m., the two of them arriving at nearly the same time. Nightwing grinned—such a strange thing to see, under the mask—and said, “Give me the scoop.”
He recounted the last few weeks as they roamed the rooftops, stopping a few times to intercede in a mugging, a robbery in progress, and a physical altercation that they might have left to the club bouncers if Superman hadn’t spotted a gun when he did a cursory x-ray of the combatants. Superman didn’t often work with Nightwing; still, they fell into an easy rhythm. Nightwing wasn’t a carbon copy of his mentor, not by any means, but it was easy to see Batman’s rigorous training in the athleticism of his fighting, joined with an acrobatic grace that was wholly Nightwing’s own.
Nightwing was also an excellent audience, gasping and saying, “You’re shitting me!” as they raced across rooftops. “He said that blue brings out your eyes?”
“I know!” Superman exclaimed, grateful at last to be able to confide in someone who understood just what that meant.
“I just don’t get it,” Dick said later when they had finished patrol and were sitting in Dick’s apartment with a huge order of Chinese food. “Bruce has always been so adamant about keeping his life compartmentalized. It’s one of the things he and Jay used to fight about.”
Dick’s voice only hitched very slightly on Jason’s name; Clark did him the courtesy of pretending that he didn’t hear it. There was a picture on Dick’s dresser, partially obscured by change, gum wrappers, and other detritus. In it was Dick, Jason, and Bruce—Alfred must have taken the picture. Dick looked to be about sixteen, Jason maybe thirteen. Within three years Jason would be dead and Dick would be in Blüdhaven for college. They didn’t talk for two years, not until Tim Drake appeared on Bruce’s doorstep and revived the part of Bruce that had died with Jason.
Clark remembered those years with a great deal of regret. Superman and Batman had their first clash the year after Jason’s death; before that they had only exchanged terse words here and there when their paths had crossed. Clark had disapproved of Batman’s methods, or what he believed were his methods. They had nearly killed each other, and all because neither of them had bothered to look beneath the surface.
“Maybe it’s good not to keep things so compartmentalized,” Clark said finally. “There’s safety in it, but we lose parts of ourselves. Sometimes lines need to be blurred to get the full picture.”
Dick nodded along, then said, “That sounds like the most intense fake bullshit ever,” and Clark burst out laughing, spraying Dick with bits of fried rice.
After some cajoling, Dick convinced Clark to sleep over on his futon even though it was a short flight back to Metropolis. Dick pressed Clark for League gossip and filled Clark in on the car-jackings he’d allegedly come to ask him about in the first place. It had the feeling of youth, one that neither of them had actually had, sleepovers that devolved into bets and dares. As they were both getting ready to sleep, finally, Clark worked up the nerve to ask, “So what do you think it means?”
“The flirting?” Dick asked, the bedsprings creaking as he shifted to look towards Clark. “I don’t know. I lived with him for close to ten years and I still can’t claim to understand how that brain of his works. But I’m guessing he’s serious about it.”
Serious—well, that was Batman, all right. Maybe that was the point. Bruce Wayne wasn’t serious, but Batman was. There was something in that thought that felt promising, but it slipped away as Clark fell into sleep.
Clark was late to the Planet the next morning, but he had a story on the Blüdhaven car-jackings as a peace-offering. Perry scowled at it, said, “Who cares about crime in Blüdhaven, it’s like a story about snow in Antarctica,” but he took it anyway, barking for one of the copyeditors to come take a look at it.
Lois wasn’t so easy to bribe, but she never was. “Anything I should know about?” she asked, setting a coffee down on Clark’s desk and perching on the edge of his desk. “Blüdhaven is an awfully long way to go for a story on car-jackings.”
“Was just feeling antsy,” Clark said. He’d used this excuse before, built up a reputation with Lois for sometimes needing to just get free of Metropolis, and it wasn’t untrue. “Hit up a contact while I was there.”
“Hm.” Lois sipped her own drink, then flicked his forehead lightly. “Something’s going on with you, Smallville. Don’t think I can’t tell. For all your talents, hiding your feelings isn’t one of them.”
Clark contemplated the coffee she had brought him—milk and a dash of sugar, the way he always drank it—and said, “Would you believe me if I said it was Bruce Wayne?”
Lois burst out laughing at that and got up, dusting off her skirt. “I get it, I’ll mind my own business. But if you need anything, I’m one cube away.”
“I appreciate it, Lois,” Clark said, smiling at the thought of spilling everything to Lois. She winked at him and settled in her seat. A moment later, the rapid-fire sound of her typing started up again.
Clark spent the rest of the morning on the Wayne Industries explosion, pulling public records of the building for form’s sake when he knew he could go to the source if he really wanted. By noon he had the barebones of a follow-up to his first article, and by the time he clocked out it was on Perry’s desk. Feeling satisfied with his day, Clark took off for the Watchtower, where he found Batman and the Flash at the firing range testing out bullets they’d created based on the ones they’d found at S.T.A.R. and Wayne Industries.
“Not quite,” the Flash was saying as he examined the slugs. “I think they were coated in something—Supes! Hey! Come x-ray these, see if they look right to you.”
Batman couldn’t emote much through the mask, but Superman could tell he was getting a side-eye. “Thought you might be in Blüdhaven tonight.”
“Why would he be there?” the Flash asked cheerfully, oblivious as usual to subtext. “What do you think?” He held the bullet out to Superman. “Is it like what was used at the two incidents?”
Superman took the bullet over to the lab table and looked it over. “I was just there for the night,” he said as he examined the alloy. “Checking in with Nightwing and all that.”
The Flash said, “Oh! I should do that too! How is Dick?” and Batman said, “Don’t call him that here,” and Superman said, “Barry, will you give us the room?”
The Flash, having finally picked up on the tension in the room, said, “Okay, let me know about the bullets, bye!” and was gone in a blur of red.
Superman stayed bent over the bullet until he could feel Batman no more than six inches from his back. “You did a good job on this,” he said. “It’s close. Almost exactly what Luthor’s people were using. Theirs just had a bit more copper in the plating.”
“Why were you in Blüdhaven?” Batman—no, Bruce, it was Bruce, he had turned off the voice modulator—asked. “Dick wouldn’t tell me when I asked. Is there something wrong?”
If Clark were someone else—if he were Bruce Wayne the playboy, maybe—he’d take that moment to tease, ask, “Are you jealous?” But he wasn’t, so instead he said, “No, nothing’s wrong.” He turned and held the bullet out to Bruce, the slug lying quiet on the flat of his palm. “I just needed someone to talk to.”
Bruce said, “Clark, if I’ve been—wait. Copper?”
“Does that mean something to you?” Superman asked.
Batman took the bullet from him. “Maybe,” he said. “Shipment of copper, stolen at the docks five months ago. Was a small shipment, which was why I thought it was odd—don’t know why it would be important other than as under-the-table requisitions.”
“Can you do something with that?” Superman asked. “Seems a bit abstract.”
“You need every piece to finish the puzzle,” Batman said. “If we trace the shipment and it leads to whoever made these bullets, we’ll have something. Not enough to nail Luthor, but maybe we can figure out what he wants.”
“Fair point. Got a lead?”
Batman nodded and tapped his coms to alert his team. “Let’s go.”
Tracing the copper shipment took them to a metalworking factory in Gotham, one that operated in steel by day and apparently in stolen goods by night. There was no digital trail, no real paper trail, but the night manager had notes taken in a cramped, hurried hand that spoke of writing with a phone clenched between ear and shoulder. He gave up those notes willingly when faced with the Batman; Superman didn’t even have to make an appearance.
The notes were mostly numbers: calibers and quantities. Then, at the bottom, where the manager’s pen had been slipping off the sheet, an address and a date.
“Delivery,” Batman said. “This was two days before the S.T.A.R. break-in.”
“They’ve cleared out by now, surely,” Superman said. “But maybe it’s worth a look?”
Batman tossed him a look that said obviously and shot his grapple hook into the wall. “Race you there,” he said, and he was off, halfway through the window before Superman realized he’d been serious.
“Two warehouses,” Superman said when he arrived at the second address, just a hair behind Batman and only because he’d had to—he didn’t know the streets of Gotham as well as he should. “This is the second worst date I’ve ever been on.”
“Hmm,” Batman said in what was his version of a laugh. “Come on, let’s go.”
There was, of course, no one in the warehouse, just the remains of some cigarette butts and some shell casings. Batman collected them all to package up for the police, and they returned to the Watchtower together, debating what it could be that Luthor was up to, not pausing even when they arrived and walked past a smiling and waving Flash.
“It’s gotta be some kind of bioweapon,” Superman said. “The stuff he was looking into was all bioengineering related.”
“But it isn’t just potential bioweapons,” Batman said. “Our labs were researching cellular regeneration. S.T.A.R. has been doing cloning research.”
“We don’t even know if it’s the data he wanted,” Superman said. “Manifests show equipment was taken too. Luthor’s brilliant himself.”
“We’ll have to keep an eye out. For now, the best we can do is pass along these leads to the police so they can arrest the people responsible for the break-in.” Batman took the evidence bags from his utility belt. “I’m going to do a few tests of my own first. You might as well go patrol with the Flash. This’ll likely take a while.”
Superman glanced outside and saw that dawn had started to fade the eastern horizon to deep blue. “It’s nearly morning. I think I should call it a night, get some rest before work.”
“Mm. Thanks for the assistance, Superman.” Batman held out his hand, and after a moment Superman clasped it. “I’m aware that perhaps you don’t want to spend this much time—”
“I like spending nights with you,” Superman interrupted. Batman jerked his head, curious. “We should do it more.” He wasn’t nearly as good as Bruce at laying on the innuendo, but he had picked up some things in their years of friendship. From the way Batman stilled, he knew he had gotten his point across.
“Hm,” Batman said after a moment. “Come by the office, if you’re serious about this. I’d like to discuss this wearing something more comfortable.”
Superman couldn’t help grinning at that. “Sure. See you there.”
Clark walked into Wayne Enterprises late that afternoon after he had finished up at work and was immediately shown up to Bruce’s office. Bruce was reclining in his chair with a studied air of nonchalance, but a fine thread of tension was running through him. When Clark came into the room, Bruce sat up, expression relaxing.
“Clark,” he said. “You came.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t?” Clark asked lightly, intending it as a joke, but Bruce’s gaze cut away and Clark realized that Bruce had thought he wouldn’t show. Lightning fast, Bruce was smiling again, and if Clark didn’t know him so well he’d think he’d imagined it.
“Of course you came,” Bruce said, getting to his feet and flashing a bright smile. “I’m irresistible.”
“Close to it,” Clark said. “So I’ve been thinking about that dinner you offered. I think maybe I’ll take you up on that.”
“Oh really?” Bruce stepped around his desk so that he was standing bare inches from Clark, his head tilted slightly up so he could meet Clark’s eyes. “And what then, Mr. Kent?”
“I’m sure you have a few ideas,” Clark said. He couldn’t stop grinning; Bruce was so close that Clark could taste his cologne on the back of his tongue, and he wanted badly to close the distance between them, but this was Bruce’s game. He needed to set the playing field.
“Hm,” Bruce said, and it was so odd hearing that little noise of Batman’s coming from Bruce’s lips, but it fit, too, because this wasn’t Bruce Wayne the playboy, the billionaire, but someone else; someone softer and more private. Bruce slid his finger between two of Clark’s shirt buttons and then looked up through his lashes. “I have more than a few.”
Clark gave into the temptation to settle his hands on Bruce’s hips. “You know how you said I would know?”
“Well,” Bruce said, “you do, don’t you?” and he brushed his mouth featherlight over Clark’s. “Come on,” he said, very close, and Clark realized he had closed his eyes.
When he opened them, he found Bruce hardly more than an inch away, the corners of his eyes wrinkled with amusement. This close, Clark could see that there was a very faint hint of a wrinkle between his brows; he was beautiful.
“Bruce?” he asked, voice dismayingly husky.
“We have reservations,” Bruce said. “If we don’t go soon, we’ll be late.” He slid back, out of Clark’s hold so quickly he didn’t have any time to react.
Still—when Clark held out his hand, Bruce took it. And that counted for something.