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Bruce wasn’t sure when his feelings for Clark had progressed beyond the platonic sense. Though Clark presented one with plenty of opportunities to love and adore him, Bruce had done his damnedest to ignore or reject all of them outright. Neither the heroic facade Clark put on for the masses nor the placating figure always positioned in front of the League during meetings and debriefs interested Bruce. As such, he refused to expose himself to it more than necessary, even if Clark pouted at him across the room afterward.
After all, it wasn’t as if Clark was his best self at those moments. As far as Bruce had observed, the opposite was true; Clark was much more himself with Bruce than with anyone, something in which Bruce had privately taken pride. When the men managed to spend time together, Clark straightened his back and blunted his words, responding sharply to Bruce’s sarcasm and dry wit. If something was funny, he laughed raucously and took up space in a way that Clark Kent of the Daily Planet avoided and Superman was simply too respectful to do. Occasionally, Clark would share an intimate thought or memory, and he would become unusually somber, which Superman would never dare.
(Admittedly, those somber moments may have been Bruce’s favorite. Though Bruce hated to see his close friend and teammate upset, he found negative emotions easier to bear. Clark would readily accept the little comfort Bruce could provide, and his body heat would radiate from his suit, tickling Bruce in a way he didn’t quite understand. It was in those moments Bruce got as close to Clark as he would ever allow himself to be.)
Outside of their private rendezvous, however, Clark was almost bland — charming and classically heroic as Superman, sweet and sensitive as Clark Kent, but acting in a way that Bruce couldn’t quite find appealing.
Thus, the sudden awakening of anger Bruce experienced while watching Superman rescue Lois Lane yet again on GNN was completely bizarre and seemingly unsubstantiated.
The catalyst for this awakening was simple. Lois had been investigating another one of Luthor's schemes and was subsequently entangled in a plot to destroy the evidence before Superman or the government could find any evidence corroborating whatever story Lois had scooped. Superman had come to her rescue, as per usual. Bruce had become so used to these antics in the years since he’d met both Clark and Lois that he made saving her Justice League Protocol number 12-12. Standard procedure.
And as far as Bruce knew, they were not an item; Clark had sputtered out that much during one of their talks. Yet none of this was a comfort as he watched Superman swoop in and take Lois into his arms, and something Bruce could only describe as a deep rot began to fester. Perhaps it was the way Lois gazed at Clark as if he were the only person in the world that made Bruce’s stomach roll, or the way that Clark flushed at the sight of her that made his chest heave. Maybe it was the sight of their laughter or the obvious tightening of Clark’s hands around Lois’ waist that made his chest ache with want.
The feeling of fingers prying something out of his hands snapped him out of his reverie. Bruce tore his eyes away from the television, only to see Alfred staring at him with something akin to pity. He looked at his plate instead.
Alfred sighed. “I understand you’re not exactly one for sharing your emotions, Master Bruce, but you mustn’t release them on defenseless cutlery,” he said, taking the breakfast tray.
Bruce looked out of the window. “There isn’t anything to share.”
“Then I must have imagined you angrily gawking at Superman and Miss Lane, as old butlers are wont to do,” Alfred replied, his eyebrow raised. “My sincerest apologies.”
Bruce didn’t reply. There truly wasn’t anything to share, as far as he was concerned. Clark was in love with Lois Lane and was simply too nervous to act on it. Such a statement carried the same weight as fundamental universal truths, too obvious to be spoken aloud or ever confronted, especially not by someone as lowly as Bruce Wayne. These feelings would dissipate with time and exposure, as all others did, and Bruce would go back to their game of hot and cold as easily as breathing. Easier even.
Maintaining the dynamic they had would be more conducive to the long-term success of their professional relationship than the pursuit of something romantic. Intimacy often strained team dynamics and relative efficiency, which Batman had informed the League multiple times. Batman and Superman — arguably the pillars of the team — becoming romantically involved and falling out could have a catastrophic effect on their ability to function moving forward. Thus, refraining from such a relationship would only be beneficial.
Besides, there was always the likelihood that Bruce was imagining what he had seen, making his response entirely illogical.
That didn’t mean Bruce could control every bodily response Clark managed to evoke or the despair he felt every time he was reminded that he would never have what he truly wanted, of course, but it provided every justification for ignoring them. For the team’s sake, if not his own, Bruce would simply have to get over it.
A few feet outside of the Wayne Enterprises building, Bruce lifted the latest Daily Planet paper from its receptacle, only to see Clark Kent’s goofy smile beaming up at him from the corner of the latest issue of the Daily Planet. With a sigh, he skimmed the article. Apparently, Lois had been pushed out of a window by a rogue Lexcorp robot, a government-commissioned scrapheap which had been hacked after the secret backdoors Lex left in the firewalls collapsed. Typical, as he presumed.
It was the article’s color photo, snapped by the ever-ambitious Jimmy Olsen, with which Bruce was primarily concerned. It clearly displayed the sentiment that Bruce had hoped he imagined. The crinkle of the corners of their eyes and lips were front-and-center, Lois’ arms around Clark’s neck as they were meant to be there and his hand over her obnoxiously slender waist. Bruce’s hands tightened at the edges of the paper. Clark was blushing, which he had told Bruce was physically impossible. Had Lois Lane somehow compelled him to defy his very anatomy, or was Clark withholding something —
“ — sir, are you going to pay for that?” asked a voice in front of him.
Bruce blinked up at the newsstand vendor, a skinny man about Dick’s age. With a grunt, he handed the man a crisp twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and stuffed the paper into his coat, stalking away from the stand before any of the patrons behind him could offer their input on his odd behavior.
Unfortunately for him, the images wouldn’t go away; his latest rescue occupied every available screen, paper, and radio it could find. The bootleg merchandisers hawked their Superman wares on every corner, surrounded by naive fans and overexcited children begging their parents. His face blared from the TV screens for sale in the shop windows and on every other phone. The public service announcements Superman had done for the U.N. were plastered on almost every wall.
Even in Gotham, Bruce couldn’t evade the Big Blue Boyscout.
He couldn’t decide if the universe had chosen this moment for a bit of opportune mockery or if he was particularly unlucky. (Neither held weight, but he had never bought into coincidence.)
Bruce pulled out his phone and dialed Alfred, who answered on the second ring. “Yes, Master Bruce?”
“Alfred, could you pull around the front of Wayne Enterprises?” he muttered. Bruce cast a quick glance at his surroundings, ensuring that no one was listening before speaking again. “I need to get home quickly. It concerns the Boyscout.”
Alfred hummed, the ever-aggravating knowing noise reverberating over the phone. “I’ll be there shortly.”
Thankfully, Alfred’s idea of “shortly” constituted about five minutes. Bruce slid into the all-black sedan limousine with a practiced ease, his bottom barely touching the seat before the door was shut. Alfred pulled off, fixing Bruce with a curious look as he did so.
“Am I to believe that there’s a problem with Mr. Kent, Master Bruce,” said Alfred, his eyes flicking between the mirror and the road, “or was it the mere thought of his visage that plagued you this time?”
Bruce grunted. “I can’t seem to be rid of him, Alfred. That’s no fault of mine.”
Alfred hummed again. “Perhaps if you talked to him about these feelings, the ubiquity of his presence would be easier to bear.”
Bruce bristled and sat up in his seat. “It’s not that simple. The League —” he began.
“ — yes, the League would crumble if its leaders expressed a mote of affection toward one another. I apologize, Master Bruce, for forgetting the team’s fragility. How dreadful of me.”
Bruce glared at Alfred, his reflection stark in the sheer windshield. If the old man noticed, he decidedly did not care, his face blithe as he navigated the limo cleanly through Gotham traffic. Arms crossed, Bruce sunk into the leather seat and stared at the back of his head. He wouldn’t look out of the window even if it killed him. Still, the streaks of blue followed him, hovering out of the corner of his eyes the entire way home.
The internal entrance to the Batcave, Bruce noted with some small pride, was as inconspicuous as one could make it. It sat behind the fireplace, which slid smoothly against the wall as Bruce neared it, having pressed the secret floorboard that activated the opening.
Bruce descended the stairs. The slightly damp air was a welcome weight as he stepped into the heart of the cave. The Batcomputer’s screens blared with life, the buzz of electricity low in the background. He pulled the computer chair from its place by the wall — a mistake of one of his mentees, evidently — and sat down, his fingers flying across the keyboard before he could register their movement. In a blink, he had entered the password and pulled the information he had compiled on Superman throughout the course of his career.
This file was the largest Bruce possessed on any particular hero besides himself and his mentees. It wasn’t, as Alfred believed, due to his particular emotional affliction. Rather, it was the natural result of having known Clark since before they’d met any others currently in the Justice League. Bruce retained information better than anyone he knew, bar those whose physiologies also endowed them with eidetic memories.
Bruce moved toward the file folder entitled “news clippings” and sorted through them all, his eyes flitting between headlines. Each one of them seemed to blur into the other, the logos hardly of note as Bruce clicked and clicked and clicked.
Until, finally, an older headline flashed across the Batcomputer’s screen. “SUPER-ROMEO? WOMAN KISSES SUPERMAN AFTER TAKING A PLUNGE!”
The incident was simple enough. Some young men, desperate for a quick injection of cash as many were nowadays, held an entire office building hostage. One of them took a woman up to the roof and threatened to drop her unless they received ten million dollars in small bills within the hour. Yet, as the deadline neared, the rope he’d tied her with snapped. She fell forty stories before Superman intercepted her, just narrowly avoiding a grisly scene. Out of what she had only described as “sheer relief,” the woman kissed him full on the mouth. Superman, bashful and polite as always, gently deposited her on the ground before moving to assist her colleagues, all of whom emerged safely, of course.
Bruce folded his hands together and sat back in his seat, staring at the screen. The plan slowly developing in his mind was ridiculous and infantile, insulting to the highest degree, and an embarrassment to everything he stood for. He’d probably humiliate both Superman and himself in the process of executing it.
A bowl of vichyssoise was placed beside him, along with a cup of earl grey tea. “Reminiscing, sir?” asked Alfred.
Bruce didn’t spare him a glance, his eyes downcast. “No. I’m thinking.”
“About?” Alfred raised an eyebrow.
Bruce sighed and wiped his face with his hand, the other reaching for the cup of tea. He sipped it slowly, the citrus notes a nice jolt to his palate before setting it back down. “I’m trying to deal with my… problem. I figure that one loud gesture would be enough to excise it from my psyche forever.”
Alfred peered at the screen then back to Bruce, his mouth curved downward ever so slightly. “I do hope you haven’t discovered a predilection for pushing women off of buildings, Master Bruce.”
Bruce pulled a face. “No. I’m going to be pushed off of a building,” he stated. “Preferably by a known villain.”
Alfred let out a deep sigh, and his eyebrows furrowed. He placed a hand on the back of Bruce’s chair but didn’t move to touch Bruce, as if there were an invisible wall between them. “What?”
“I’m going to be pushed off of a building. Superman will have to come save me. When I kiss him, he’ll think I’m just acting for the press, and so he’ll never suspect anything,” said Bruce. “No hard feelings. We’ll laugh about it later.”
Alfred didn’t respond. When Bruce looked up, the man was fixing him with a surprisingly hard glare.
His voice slightly pleading, Bruce murmured, “It’ll work, Alfred, trust me.”
Alfred raised an eyebrow. “And if it doesn’t?” he retorted, “If it turns out that you made a horrid mistake? Then what? Surely confessing would be better than this, this madness.”
Bruce stood from his chair, forcing Alfred to step back ever so slightly. “No. It — this is better.”
Alfred harrumphed. “Envy is unbecoming, Master Bruce. I had thought you were above such trickery.”
Bruce pushed past his butler, gently but just enough to convey his displeasure. Wordlessly, he strode over to the entrance and climbed the stairs, not bothering to turn back around, lest Alfred’s eyes burned the same hole in his front that they were burning in his back.
Organizing his own abduction without alerting any of the usual authorities — the GCPD, InterPol, particularly avid fans of his, Alfred — wasn’t difficult. Bruce Wayne was scheduled to appear at a meeting of the Daily Planet shareholders in Metropolis, so all he had to do was tell his would-be captor to interrupt at the appropriate time. Once that was settled, he had to choose which Metropolitan villain would be mostly likely to comply with his exact demands.
Most of them were immediately struck down as unviable candidates. Many of those who weren’t capable of world-ending destruction tended toward an unshakeable obstinance necessary to regularly challenge Superman of all people. Most of the others were entirely unpredictable and likely to spoil his plans. And some were gangs.
After analyzing all of them, Bruce concluded there was only one person whom he could trust to carry out his directives and keep their mouth shut afterward.
Hence why he was currently on an untraceable, voice-modulated call with one Winslow Schott, who seemed extremely confused as to what exactly he was being asked to do.
“You would like me to interrupt a Daily Planet investors’ meeting to kidnap Bruce Wayne and push him off of the roof to lure in Superman?” Schott repeated, disbelief coloring his tone.
“Yes.”
“And in return, Wayne will personally ensure that my lawyers, treatment, and retirement are fully attended to?” Schott continued. “No questions asked?”
“Yes.”
Schott whistled under his breath. There was a long silence before he said, “Mister Wayne must have incredibly serious issues if he’s suggested this.” There was a bit of shuffling over the phone, and it suddenly occurred to Bruce that someone might be disinclined to help him on the basis of his sanity. “I’m sympathetic, actually.”
Bruce bit back his retort and cleared his throat. “So you’re willing?”
“Why not? I could use the funds. Toy-themed villainy hasn’t been all it’s cracked up to be, I’m afraid,” said Schott. “Can’t exactly afford to turn it down.”
After they hashed out the details, Bruce hung up the phone and put his face into his hands. Perhaps Alfred was right, as much as Bruce was loath to admit it. Even a supervillain thought something was wrong with him. He just should confess to Clark, as a man, and accept whatever consequences of that occurred.
Bruce clenched his fingers into a fist. No. He had to go through with it. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, face him. Leaving aside the fact that he was certain Clark and Lois were rapidly approaching a relationship, Bruce was just too much. They would be too much. Together. Bruce just needed to get it out of his system and then he would be able to move on. Probably.
The day of the investors’ meeting, Bruce swaggered inside the Daily Planet bullpen , his carefree smile ditzily flashed at any person who happened to pass him by. Some of the workers tittered and gossiped behind their hands, while others craned their heads to get a look at him. It wasn’t often that he came around after all.
As he passed through, a familiar head of curly hair peeked out from inside a cubicle. Bruce had only a moment to process the wide eyes hiding behind horn-rimmed glasses before Clark’s smile blinded him. Heart racing, he stumbled into a copyboy passing by. The boy’s papers went flying into the air, overtaking the entire office. One woman trying to outrun the flurry tripped on the carpet in front of her. Then the coffee-cup wielding intern tripped over her, sending rivulets of mocha down the hallway right toward Bruce’s newly polished loafers.
Clark, ever kind, immediately stood from his seat to help as Bruce watched the chaos unfold with a distant horror. When all of the coffee had been cleaned, all injuries or lack thereof verified, and all papers collected, Clark moved back toward his cubicle — and Bruce — with a happy if not slightly bemused look on his face.
“Are you okay, Mr. Wayne?” Clark asked.
Bruce’s smile widened, to the point that his cheeks pinched and his jaw ached. “Of course. I was just… having a moment. My apologies.”
A worried glint entered Clark’s eyes, but just as he moved to respond, the intern from earlier pushed past him. “Mr. Wayne, your meeting is this way. If you would?” he said, gesturing toward the elevator.
Bruce cleared his throat. Turning back to Clark, he said, “Thank you, Mr. Kent. We’ll speak about that interview later.”
Clark nodded jerkily, his lips pressed into a thin line.
Bruce hurried over to the elevator and smashed the button, only mildly enjoying the look of shock on the intern’s face as the doors closed in front of him. He took a deep breath. And another.
The doors opened to a massive boardroom. Bruce slid into the nearest open seat, not deigning to read the name plaque in front of it.
“Mr. Wayne.”
Bruce turned to face the board and smiled. “Yes, Mr. Edge?”
Morgan Edge, the owner of WGBS, fixed him with a glare. “You were almost late.”
“I apologize. There was a little mishap in the bullpen. I’m sure you understand,” Bruce replied, batting his eyes.
Edge scoffed.
The meeting began, facts and figures Bruce truly didn’t care for washing over him. There was a mechanical quality to the drone of the other investors’ voices, as if they’d woken up with a voice modulator lodged in their throats. Monotony, Bruce supposed.
The clock ticked on. The meeting was only meant to last for a couple of hours, and they were approaching the break.
In the midst of a pitch, one of the investors, a man named M. T. Box whom Bruce didn’t recognize, rose from his chair. Edge glanced at him, confusion lining his features. “Mr. Box, are you feeling alright?”
Box didn’t respond. Instead, his eyes turned the electronic red of a laser, aimed directly at Edge’s forehead. “This meeting and its participants are being commandeered by the Toyman,” said Box. “Surrender, or else.”
As if on cue, three other investors stood up from their seats, their eyes also red.
Schott hadn’t run out on him after all.
Dangling over the side of a building was infinitely less enjoyable when one didn’t have control over whether or not they fell, Bruce realized. Never mind that he had organized this himself.
Schott stood a few feet away. He wrung his hands and straightened his tie, a usual nervous tic of his, his head swiveling around. “Are you okay, Mr. Wayne?” he asked.
Bruce, from his position over the edge of the roof, sighed. “Mr. Schott, you’ve abducted me and are currently hanging me over the side of a fifty-story building,” he said slowly. “You probably shouldn’t ask questions you know the answer to.”
The robot holding him up extended its arm further out. The rope creaked.
Schott let out a small laugh. “Of course. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t want to break up the illusion,” he said lightly, perching on a crate nearby. He pulled out a cube and started fiddling with it. “It’s just, this is so peculiar I can’t help myself.”
Bruce sighed as deeply as he could. He had specifically stipulated that the other investors be allowed to leave, such that Superman would not be distracted with saving them, but now he almost wished he had another person with whom to suffer this humiliation.
Schott placed his chin in his pudgy hand and tilted his head. “So, do you like him?”
Bruce stared at Schott. Far below them, reporters, emergency vehicles had gathered, with a not-so-small crowd just behind them.
“Superman. Man of Steel. Big Blue. Do you like him, or is this something else?” repeated Schott. “A bet gone wrong, or a self-absorbed billionaire delusion, perhaps?”
Bruce swallowed and closed his eyes. The wind had picked up. The rope was taut.
Schott tsked. “A desperate bid for attention, then?”
Bruce reared back. “I am not —”
The rope snapped.
The whistle of the wind in his ears and on his scalp were only a small comfort as he fell. The windows of the Daily Planet sped past him. Horrified faces drew closer. Dedicated volunteers moved the cushion, futilely hoping to catch him.
Bruce swore. He’d decided not to bring any of his gadgets, lest Clark find out. As it was, few would help him now; Metropolis’ buildings were too smooth and their edges too high for a grappling gun. Perhaps a suction might have worked if he’d brought one. His glider would have been most appreciated.
As the ground neared him, Bruce shut his eyes. He was going to die because he wanted someone to like him. How juvenile.
“Look! Up in the sky!”
“It’s a bird!”
“It’s a plane!”
“It’s —”
A rush of wind and a hard body were all Bruce felt before he was lifted into the sky. “Superman,” Bruce breathed.
Clark smiled at him, though he could tell those blue eyes were already scanning him for injuries. “A bit of bruising, but you can handle that, right, Bruce?” he asked, lips curled into a soft grin.
“I can.”
Bruce put his arms around Clark’s neck as they descended, and, ever so minutely, Clark’s hands tightened.
“Will you take me home?” asked Bruce, his voice soft.
“The police will want to speak with you,” Clark replied, with what was surely a rote response by now.
Bruce rolled his eyes. “I’ll speak with them tomorrow.”
Clark nodded. “If you’re sure. But you’ll have to hang on.”
“I always do.”
The two men arrived late in the evening. Clark hovered over the balcony for a moment before landing with a soft thump. He deposited Bruce on the floor, and Bruce immediately sat in the nearest chair inside.
Alfred, long used to Bruce’s late entrances, stared them both down from his position at Bruce’s bedroom door. “Mr. Kent,” he said. “I figured you would appear after the excitement tonight. Please, help yourself to tea.”
Alfred set the tea platter down on the nightstand, poured two cups, and left. A confused Clark looked over at Bruce, who was preparing his own cup.
“Alfred isn’t speaking to me,” Bruce replied, calmly taking a sip of his tea. It was chamomile, his least favorite, but he could already feel the relaxing properties of the tea coursing through him despite that.
“Why not?” Clark sat on the bed next to Bruce.
Bruce didn’t answer. It was taking everything within him not to let his heart race, or his sweat drip, or the clenching of his hand give him away. Clark recognized his tells, and in a different moment, that would have been wonderful to appreciate. Right then, it was simply horrific.
Clark tilted his head. “Bruce?”
Bruce sighed. His limbs were heavy. He bowed his shoulders and looked away. “He’s upset with me —”
“ — I gathered that —”
“ — over you. I,” Bruce sighed again. “I misled you, and he disagreed with my decision.”
“Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s nothing,” Clark insisted.
Bruce stared at him. “It’s something.”
“What?”
In lieu of answering, Bruce put a hand on Clark’s shoulder and slid it up his neck. He closed his eyes, pressed their foreheads together, and took a breath. “May I kiss you?”
“Oh, Bruce,” muttered Clark, realization coloring his features. “Don’t tell me that tonight’s hubbub was because of that.”
“It might have been. A bit.”
Clark cupped Bruce’s face and brushed away a stray lock of hair. “If you wanted a kiss, you should have just asked.”
As their lips met, Clark’s warm and soft and pliable, Bruce thanked the stars his stunt had worked after all.
Somewhere downstairs, Alfred rolled his eyes.