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Tending bar pays the bills. At least, it does for Thomas. He's lucky like that, he thinks. It takes social skills, of which he has plenty. He's always been a talker, and not much of a drinker. The perfect combination. At least, for his current employer - the Metropolis Opera House.
Tending bar at an entertainment venue is easy. Visitors want a drink before the show, maybe during the intermezzo, and sometimes after as well. Most of the time, Thomas gets paid to sit and look on his phone. If he's lucky, he can catch some of the music of Die Zauberflöte, or Carmen, or whatever is playing. The visitors usually have substantial cash to spend, making the tips he gets very lucrative. So, it pays the bills.
Thomas likes his job. Most of it at least.
But sometimes, the Opera House hosts exclusive parties. There's people at the bar all night, drinking until long after midnight. Thomas and his coworkers have to deal with their antics.
There are a few types of parties. Business events bring sophisticated, well articulated people. They don't get too drunk, always worried about some deal or something. They end early, the tips are moderate. Then there's open bar parties and receptions, which suck, because no tips and very drunk people.
Thomas mostly looks forward to the really exclusive parties. The ones for the super rich. Look, he doesn't care much for rich people. Let alone people so rich that they can buy a restaurant chain for lunch if they want to. They're obnoxious, self-absorbed assholes. But they tip for the sake of tipping. A lot. They flaunt their riches, wads of cash. Thomas has no trouble accepting it from their grabby hands.
This last type of event brings forth the most extraordinary characters. Some celebrities, Thomas knows by name. But there's a lot of rich folks that aren't well known at all. Together with his coworker Kimberly, he makes up stories about them. Fills in the gaps in their night when they're not at the bar, leaning over to just get ‘one more strawberry daiquiri, barman!’
Tonight, one day before Christmas eve, there's one of these exclusive parties. A fundraiser, bringing forth the high society of Metropolis and beyond, willing to donate some money to a charitable cause so they can start the holidays with the ease of mind knowing that they did their annual good deed. Nevermind the rest of their cash that they greedily hold onto, evading taxes wherever they can, and meddling in politics to sway new bills in their favor. They're scumbags, every last one of them, Thomas thinks. The party itself costs more than what they'll raise tonight.
No, the good things about rich people parties Thomas can count on two fingers. One: the tips. And two: he gets to make fun of them together with Kim, making up stories and inventing drama for their personal entertainment.
He and Kim are ready for the guests at 7.30 pm, half an hour before the event starts. They're standing at the bar at the far end of the long ballroom. There are windows on their right side, opening up to the street below, and six pairs of large glass doors to their left, allowing the guests to enter from the gallery where the doors to private boxes are located. The chandeliers on the ceiling cast the room in glittering golden light, reflected in the mirrors behind the bar. Of course, tonight the light is even warmer with festive holiday decorations lining the walls and ceiling. The team truly outdid themselves making the ballroom look warm but not tacky, draping the place in light that will be reflected off the guests’ glittery clothes. All of it is finished off with the giant croquembouche Christmas tree in the middle of the room, adorned with chocolate, edible gold and shimmering sugar.
Thomas glances over at Kim, who's wiping her hands on her apron. “Ready?”
“Bring it on,” she grins.
Thomas turns around to lean against the bar. They still have some time to kill anyway. Kim is always more fidgety; she ducks down again, checking their cold stock in the fridges and counting the bottles of Moët once more.
“I've counted them. Thrice.”
“Can never be sure enough,” Kim mumbles.
“You got any plans for tomorrow?” Thomas asks, hoping to distract his coworker for awhile as they wait.
Kim gets up. “I was supposed to visit my uncle in Gotham. He wanted to go see the tree. But now…” Kim trails off. Right, there had been a thing with Calendar Man the day before, and Batman had stopped him, but not before the Christmas tree in front of Gotham City Hall had been felled. So now Kim and her uncle would have to adjust their plans. Actually, why anyone would willingly spend Christmas in Gotham was beyond Thomas.
“Well, at least Batman still saved the day.” As a native Gothamite, Kim would always be proud of the city's vigilante, even if she was a Metropolis resident now. And as a native Metropolitan, Superman would always be Thomas' favorite. He grinned.
“Actually, Superman had to save him. Didn't you see the pictures? They were all over the forums this morning.”
Thomas pulls out his phone, showing grainy pictures on social media of Superman with his red cape, hovering with someone dressed in black in his arms. Kim takes it from him and studies the evidence.
“So they do work together… still, Batman would have been fine on his own.” She hands back the phone.
“No way. He fell from the top of the tree. He would have gone splat if Superman didn't catch him mid-air.”
“Tsk. Would not. He could have caught himself easily.”
They argue back and forth over this a bit, in the end agreeing that they're both sad they weren't there in person to see their favorite heroes in action. It's hard to even catch a glimpse of them at all. At least, Thomas will always have fond memories of when Superman helped him once, 15 years ago when he was only 7 years old. He'll never forget the hero's big hand holding his own.
Now, Thomas has no doubt that even if Gotham doesn't have a tree anymore, Superman will help bring back festivities to his neighbor city and fellow hero. That is, if the rumors about Batman sending the other hero away last night aren't true…
At 8, the first of the guests filter in, the ones that can't afford to be fashionably late and make a grand entrance. Most of them flock to the bar right away, seeking refreshment, and it's hard work for Thomas and Kim for a while.
At this event, press is allowed, at least for the first hour or so. The reporters are hand picked by the host and the most important guests of course, to show their good side. They stand awkwardly near the doors, hoping to be able to ask the guests some questions about the cause of this year's fundraiser. It's busy for a while, and Thomas plasters on a smile, pouring drink after drink and pocketing tips that he and Kim will split later that night.
The first ruckus rumbles through the room when Veronica Vreeland and Silver St Cloud show up, stumbling towards the croquembouche tree in their high heels. Thomas pays it no mind, and the music picks up.
Kim comes close to him, and whispers in his ear while uncorking a bottle of Merlot. “Well, who's sleeping with who tonight? Wanna place some bets?”
Thomas points discreetly to a couple by the wall, already lost in conversation together. “They'll be the first ones to christen the bathrooms tonight.”
“No way, she does not want to sleep with him.”
Thomas crosses his arms. “Well, who do you pick?”
But before he can get an answer, Kim walks away, serving another guest. As Thomas follows her, she whispers: “I reserve the right to make my pick until I've seen two people I'm confident about.”
Thomas puffs out a breath of air. “Hey, no fair.” But despite his bitterness at her tactic, he laughs. At least work is fun when Kim is around.
The music nearly stops when the next of the more famous guests shows up, and Thomas doesn't need to see who it is to know their name.
“Wayne, did you see what happened to him?”
“Poor Bruce…”
“Injured his arm…”
“Heard he fell trying to decorate his house.”
“Poor thing, and right before the holidays too.”
“I bet I could make him feel better…”
Thomas hears around him, almost feeling sorry for the rich CEO and the way people talk about him. Almost. He's still a rich asshole.
Sure enough, he spots Wayne talking to Oliver Queen a little later, half obscured by the crowds around him.
It's not much later that Wayne himself leans over the bar, reading Thomas's name tag. The man is dressed in a black dress shirt and black velvet suit jacket adorned with a handful of sparkling studs around the shoulders and cuffs, looking festive but classy. He leans on his left elbow, and his right arm is tied up in a sling, made of the same material as his jacket to match the rest of his outfit. Thomas wonders what the man did. Probably a skiing accident again.
“Thomas,” Wayne squints and reads. “Would you mind getting me a glass of champagne?” Thomas does mind, but being the good servant he is, he doesn't let that show. Wayne turns around, facing the crowd. “Actually, make that two. One for the lady in red over there.” Even if Thomas can't completely see the billionaire's face anymore, he can hear the leering smirk in his voice.
“Coming right up,” he says.
And just as he hands over the two flutes to Mr Wayne so he can take off towards his object of desire for the night, Wayne's path gets blocked by someone else.
“Ah, Mr Wayne, just the person I wanted to see!” An out of place looking man in glasses has stumbled through the crowd, extending his hand towards Bruce's uninjured left arm to shake it, before realizing both of the man's hands are occupied and awkwardly dropping it. For a moment, Wayne's expression turns sour, before it's replaced by a dazzling smile again.
“Kent. I was expecting to see your pretty blonde coworker here, Ms. Grant?”
You could have just started with her name, prick, Thomas thinks to himself.
“She has a family thing tonight, so–”
“A family thing more important than seeing me?”
“So, ah, you're stuck with me.” The other man finishes, rubbing his neck, and Thomas realizes he's wearing a press badge. One of the reporters. Thomas doesn't have a clue what outlet he works for, he doesn't keep up with the news much, and the name Kent doesn't ring a bell, but it's clear that the man is out of his depth here, getting bumped left and right by other people and shuffling as if he doesn't want to be in their way let alone take up any space. Still, right as Wayne is about to lean on the bar again, he catches him, two hands on his shoulders.
Kent turns them around, so Wayne's uninjured arm rests against the bar. “You shouldn't lean on that arm, I think. Might be uncomfortable.” Every word comes out sounding like he immediately regrets it. Wayne huffs. He takes a sip of his champagne, and offers the other one to Kent instead, who politely declines, reminding the billionaire that he's working.
“Right, right.” Wayne puts the other flute down. “Now that I'm stuck looking at your pretty face for the foreseeable future, what do you want from me?” Wow, Wayne sure has a way to put a compliment into an air of annoyed boredom.
Kent flips out a small notebook, asking Wayne if he minds. As Thomas serves drinks to the other guests on his side of the bar and listens with one ear, Kent asks Wayne about his new year's resolution, his Christmas plans, and if he wants to disclose the sum of his donation to this year's charity.
And then he asks something else.
“How's your arm?”
“Fine,” Wayne grounds. “Why, have you come to save me again?” he bites, barely above a whisper, but his good hand rests on the reporter's chest, smoothing up to his shoulder in a signature Brucie move.
Kent seems unfazed. He takes Wayne's hand and drops it. “Not necessarily. Only if you're asking me.”
“No,” Wayne says in a way that makes it clear he doesn't tolerate anything else.
The two men stare at each other for a while, not saying anything. Thomas is unable to see Wayne's face, but Kent's eyes harden behind his glasses.
Finally, Kent sighs. “You know, there's no shame in accepting help, with –” he pauses, glancing sideways at Thomas. “– with putting up your uh… Christmas lights.”
“I didn't need any help. I would have been fine on my own. I do it all the time, putting up Christmas lights.”
“Really. Because that was… you have a pretty big house. Could have fallen a long way down.”
“I would have caught myself.”
Thomas can suddenly tell by the set of his jaw that Kent is clenching his teeth. “Right,” the reporter says, but apparently doesn't have any follow up questions anymore.
Wayne squeezes his shoulder, and pats it a couple times. “In any case. It's my house, Kent. I can do what I want,” he says jovially, and walks off, leaving his untouched champagne flute on the bar.
The reporter watches him go and then finally plops down on one of the bar stools. He groans, voice thick with frustration. Thomas shuffles over after serving another person their drink. Kent is more like him, he thinks. A regular person. Nothing special about him. His cheap jacket sits crooked on his shoulder, and his shirt is wrinkly.
“Hey. I feel you,” Thomas says. Surprised, Kent looks up. “Billionaires. Think they can just say anything and have anyone they want.”
“Oh, uh, thanks?” Kent frowns.
“I mean, I couldn't possibly tell if he was flirting with you or tearing you a new one,” Thomas clarifies, smirking.
“He… what? Oh, no, Br- Mr Wayne wouldn't. Not really,” Kent chuckles awkwardly, blushing, but his brow betrays his confusion, as if he hadn't considered the first option at all, no matter how thick Wayne laid it on.
Thomas spends some time with another customer on his side of the bar, making two margheritas, leaving Kent to ponder over his notes.
“Can I get you anything?” He asks when he's back at Kent's end of the bar.
“Ahh,” Kent peeks over Thomas shoulder, squinting through his thick glasses at the menu. Poor guy. “Uhh, milk? Is that an option?”
“Uncommon, but sure.” He's really starting to feel sorry for the reporter, so clearly out of his depth here. Kent is obviously a bit of a loser. The least Thomas can do is keep him company for a while. They talk for a bit, and Thomas learns that Kent is an investigative reporter which sounds cool but as Kent tells him is about 85% doing research at his computer and not so much ‘chasing stories’ as people always seem to think. It certainly explains why he feels uncomfortable at a party like this, seeing as mingling with these crowds is not his usual job.
A while later in the evening, long after Kent has taken his leave of the bar with his notepad in hand to get some more quotes, Bruce Wayne returns to order a drink. He walks up with open arms. “Ah, Thomas, my favorite guy of the evening.”
“What will it be this time, Mr Wayne?” It's obvious the man has had more to drink, probably getting a glass or two, three of the standard wine from passing waiters. He swaggers to the bar and sits down on a stool, leaning on his good arm. He looks around for a moment as if he's looking for someone, his movements delayed by the alcohol.
"Gin Tonic. Hold the gin.”
Thomas frowns momentarily. He didn't drink his champagne either. Maybe the billionaire is not such a binge drinker as he appears. He nods. “Tonic water, coming right up.”
He pours the tonic and still decorates the glass with a slice of lime before handing it over to Wayne.
Thomas stands still for a bit, hands on the bar as the other man takes his first sip. “So, I heard you fell while decorating your house?” He indicates the sling. “Must have hurt.”
Wayne swallows. He flashes his teeth in a cheeky smile. “Turns out putting lights up on a three storey tall stately manor on your own is not a good idea.”
“Then only having your arm in a sling I'd say you walked away with some luck from that one, Mr Wayne.”
“Oh no, I was anything but lucky.”
“How so?”
“A… friend broke my fall.”
“Oof!” That must have hurt Wayne's friend. “How's your friend?”
“Not a scratch,” Wayne mumbles into his glass.
Thomas hums. “You’re lucky he was there.”
At that, Wayne huffs and leaves the bar to join the fray again.
“The mayor needs to be supervised, the way he drinks,” Kim complains to Thomas when there's finally a lull in orders and people at the bar. Entertainment has picked up, some people are dancing, and someone has started eating from the bottom of the croquembouche, making the whole thing sway left and right. Some of their colleagues are desperately trying to keep it from falling over.
Thomas chuckles.
“Look at those two.” Kim stands next to him and points to a woman with pearls around her neck and an off the shoulder dress talking with lots of hand gestures to a confused looking man. “Henry,” Kim acts, putting on a whiny voice. “You said you wouldn't eat like that!”
“But Lilian dear, they looked delicious and I'm hungry!" Thomas easily acts back. They laugh. As he looks for other people to make fun of, his eyes land on Wayne who's talking to Kent again. They're on their own, near the windows. More follow up questions after all, he thinks, though Kent looks like he's having a hard time getting the right information out of the CEO. And Wayne doesn't look anything like his cheery self.
“What do you think they're talking about?”
“Ooh,” Kim startles him by speaking right into his ear. She follows his line of sight. “I'm going to place my bet on those two. Wayne and… that other man,” she concludes.
Thomas whips around. “Kent? No way, he's a reporter.”
“They're leaning into each other's space.”
“They're frowning at each other.”
“And I hope they take that energy right into the bedroom with them. Good for them.” Kim seems confident in her pick, but Thomas knows she won't win their bet. Speaking of… the woman he bet on is sadly dancing with someone else.
He shakes his head. “Wayne could have anyone. He wouldn't go for a sad rag like Kent. And Kent deserves better anyway. They're about as different as two people can be.”
“I'm not changing my pick. I'm confident they'll be out of here soon. Together.”
Over in the distance, Bruce Wayne abruptly turns on Kent and walks away, leaving the reporter looking even more lost than he had before. Thomas bumps Kim's shoulder. “Your ship has sunken.”
“We'll see about that.” Kim frowns, walking back over to her side of the bar to take an order.
At 10 pm, Kent plops down on one of the bar stools in front of Thomas again. “Hi,” Thomas says, surprised to see the reporter again. “They haven't kicked you out with the rest of the press?”
Kent looks around. “Apparently not.” He tucks his press badge away in his shirt pocket, clearly intending to stay a bit longer.
His clothes are bulky, nothing like the way the other guests dress in flattering clothes. “You seem hard to miss,” Thomas comments.
“You’d be surprised.” A small smile plays around Kent's lips, but his eyes look almost sad. He sighs, pushing up his glasses and rubbing at his eyes. Thomas recognizes a need to talk when he sees one.
“You okay? Long day of work?” It's refreshing to talk to someone more similar to his own economic situation at one of these events. Kent has probably stumbled through gathering quotes all night for his article and is finally able to sit and rest for a moment. Thomas knows the feeling of sitting down after a long night all too well.
Kent puts his glasses back in place again. He looks surprised at the genuine question, as if no one has ever asked him that before. Maybe it's the fact that someone has finally taken an interest in him between all these self-absorbed people. “Oh, I'm okay. Thanks though.” He pulls at a thread on his cuff, and seems to change his mind when he makes eye contact with Thomas again. “I can't say or do a single thing right it seems like. Don't you hate it when every conversation is a minefield?”
“Sorry. Can't say that I know the feeling. Though I can imagine it must be hard getting serious statements at an event like this.”
“Oh, it's not… It's just with- nevermind.” Kent drums his fingers on the bar nervously. Thomas squints.
“You want something? Something stronger than a milk, perhaps?”
At that, Kent laughs at him. “Bitter lemon, then.”
Thomas quickly grabs the drink for Kent and slides some nuts his way, so the man has something to occupy his hands. He helps someone else to three strawberry daiquiris, and then returns to the reporter, who's slowly drinking his bitter lemon.
“So, tell me more about this minefield.” Thomas leans on the bar, observing the way Kent rounds out his back and ducks his head. “Or if you wanna rant and complain about the 1%, I'm here for you.”
“Oh it's not that. Though that does get on my nerves sometimes.” Kent takes another sip. He looks at Thomas. “Its just hard to get through to him sometimes. Actually, most of the time. I think I know him but everything I do or say is wrong somehow. You know?”
Thomas doesn't know. He wonders who ‘him’ is. He's starting to think the reporter keeps some odd relationships, hurting himself in the process. His cheeks are pink, and Thomas guesses. “Trouble with someone you're seeing?”
Kent coughs, nearly choking on his drink. “Oh, no, nothing like that!” the reporter splutters. He downs the rest of his drink in one go. “Anyway, I think I'll go get some air,” he announces and walks off.
Thomas watches him leave, wondering if he said something wrong or too insensitive. Usually this doesn't happen to him, people like talking to him and pouring their heart out. Kim says it's his face, that it's comforting to people who don't know him beyond his first name. Ah well, maybe Kent just isn't in the mood to talk. He doesn't seem like a very social guy anyway.
An hour later, Mr. Wayne stands at the bar again, his back to Thomas. He's sipping on something, and leaning on his sprained arm, probably completely ignoring his doctor's advice. Thomas doesn't see what or who the billionaire is looking at.
“Thick-skulled idiot…” Wayne mumbles into his glass. “Doing it on purpose. He haunts me.”
“Who?” Thomas asks.
Wayne turns around. “A headstrong moron is what he is. Why doesn't he see how he makes me feel?”
Now Thomas' interest is piqued. He's always in for some good gossip for entertainment and Bruce Wayne feeling like someone doesn't want him? That's bound to be some good gossip. “You could tell him?”
“It doesn't matter. He doesn't feel the same way.” Wayne rests his chin in his hand, stirring his drink.
So Wayne is too nervous to hook up with someone. And he called them an idiot in practically the same sentence. That's gotta be an interesting person. Or, maybe Wayne isn't as much of a sleazebag as the media makes him out to be. Thomas has seen him in person a handful of times but certainly not enough to see more than the vapid billionaire he is.
The only thing good about Wayne is his actual commitment to charity, but Thomas also knows there's no such thing as good billionaires.
In the end, Thomas caves to his curiosity. Maybe he can pray more out of the intoxicated billionaire. “How do you know if you haven't told him?”
“Because I know him. Much better than I should.”
Mr. Wayne looks down at his glass, where the ice is melting. He looks sad. Thomas didn't even know Brucie Wayne's face could do that. He almost feels bad for him. “Is he… a good friend?” Thomas guesses.
“Unfortunately.”
Ah, it must be hard to have a crush on a friend. But then Thomas remembers some advice. “You should tell him, Mr. Wayne. Face your fears head-on, Superman once told me.”
“Of course he would.” In front of him, Wayne huffs, cursing under his breath. Hmm, maybe that hadn't been delivered right, Thomas thinks. He blinks up at the ceiling. “Of course, that was when I was seven and he held my hand because I was scared of some bullies at school,” he rambles. But when he looks down, Wayne has disappeared.
Okay, Thomas really thought he had people skills. But Wayne eludes him quite a bit. And this Clark Kent fellow is even worse. Now Kent is at the bar again, munching on some chips. In the midst of all the ruckus of the party now in full swing, the dwelling reporter has gone unnoticed and still no one has bothered to kick him out with the rest of the press. He could be getting some of the juiciest gossip for his employer, but instead, he's sitting at the bar, looking like he's made it a sport to read the label on every bottle behind Thomas. It's nearing midnight.
Kent perks up from his hunched position when someone finally knocks over the rest of the croquembouche and the elaborate tower comes crashing down in the midst of screams and people complaining about chocolate stains on their fancy clothes.
In the middle of it all stands Bruce Wayne, somehow having managed to not get any chocolate sauce on his clothes. In front of Thomas, Clark Kent groans and turns back to the bar. “Stubborn fool,” he mumbles. “Someone is gonna get lucky one day and then I haven't… I haven't… argh!” The reporter sighs dramatically and rests his forehead on the bar.
Thomas frowns. He blinks.
He looks at Bruce Wayne, and then back at Clark Kent.
“Are you okay?” He asks the man in front of him.
“Why doesn't he see how much I care?” Kent looks up at him. “If only I could tell him how I feel… but I know he doesn't feel the same way.”
Thomas looks at Bruce Wayne again. Why doesn't he see how he makes me feel? He said. Could he have been talking about Clark Kent? They certainly seem to know each other.
The billionaire carefully steps out of the mess he's made. Despite their earlier complaints, the other partygoers have already forgiven him in favor of being in his good graces. Wayne excuses himself to find the bathroom, and Kent deflates.
“Are you talking about Bruce Wayne?”
Kent sits up straight. “Uh, no. No! Why?”
“Because I think he just said the exact same thing about you? Maybe? I'm not… sure…”
“He… what?”
“He called you an idiot, I think?”
“That sounds about right,” Kent sighs.
Thomas has no idea what's happening here, but he feels like he owes it to both men to break through the wall they've so clearly built between themselves. “And he said that you didn't feel the same way.”
It's as if Kent finally wakes up. He sits up straight all of a sudden, and slams his hands on the counter, pushing off the bar stool. He clenches his teeth. “That unbelievable…” Kent smacks his lips, looking about ready to burst, as if he's choking on the next word. “...brat!”
Thomas chuckles. Kent looks like the type of guy who's never said a curse word in his life. Abruptly, Kent turns around and storms off. Thomas opens and closes his mouth. He has an open wine bottle in his hand, nearly forgotten. “What the fuck just happened?” He whispers.
Kim pats him on the shoulder. “I think you just made me win our bet.”
“No way,” Thomas mumbles, but all he sees is two men chasing each other and Kim's victorious grin.
The thing is, there's usually no telling who wins their bet. Not unless they sneak into the bathroom or car with the couple they chose to get conclusive proof. But Thomas is going to have to admit defeat on this one.
At midnight, he can finally take a break. The Opera House has tight and winding hallways, cushioned by velours, that lead to the coat check and the bathrooms. After only one corner he finds the two men that were simultaneously the biggest nuisance and greatest entertainment of his night.
He stops just before they can see him.
Although, something tells him they're both far too occupied to notice any onlookers. Wayne is holding on to Kent's cheap jacket, no doubt wrinkling the fabric even more.
“If only I had known…” he whispers.
Kent breathes in deeply. "I didn't know.”
“So much lost time, Clark.”
“That… doesn't matter, Bruce. We're here now.”
Kent cups the billionaire's cheeks with two large hands. Their eyes don't stray from each other.
Thomas holds his breath.
It's Kent who speaks the next words, with much more adoration than when he said them before. “Stubborn fool.”
“Thick-skulled idiot.”
Wayne's eyes dart to the reporter's lips.
And then, the two men lean in, closing the gap between them. As their lips touch, all tension dissipates from the hallway. The billionaire and the reporter slot together like puzzle pieces. Thomas' cheeks heat up. He's seen a lot at this job, but this is the first time he feels like he's intruding on something much too private. Wayne and Kent kiss not like two men wanting to tear each other's clothes off for a quick hookup or one night stand, but like two men in love.
Like two men who have found each other, finally, after standing side by side for years.
The reporter caresses Wayne's cheek. He strokes down his injured arm, whispering something Thomas can't make out.
In response, Wayne brings a hand up to Kent's cheek, finally releasing his crumpled collar. As Kent closes his eyes, Thomas doesn't know where to look. He didn't know that a thumb on a cheek could bring so much comfort to a person. He'd give everything for someone to hold him like that one day.
The reporter smiles. “Are you doing anything on Christmas, Mr Wayne?”
“The usual,” Wayne smirks. “Though I could use some help… hanging up some more lights.”
Kent's eyebrows go up. “Really? I'd love to.”
Thomas didn't know putting up Christmas lights could be so exciting to anyone, but to each their own. As the men connect their lips again, he turns away. He'll find a different bathroom. And Kim, to tell her she won the bet and that Thomas himself was the cause of that.