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“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Bruce said when he picked up the phone, letting the flirty tone of his alter ego slip into his voice.
“Is that what this is for?” came Clark’s amused reply. “I thought you bought a whole flower shop for fun.”
Bruce could imagine the smile on his face, pulling up at the corners of his lips. It was more entertaining than the financial documents laid out in front of Bruce that he was pretending to not understand.
There was a subtle hitch in Clark’s voice, followed a quiet, “I assume this means we’re going out again?”
“Dinner tonight, if you’re available.”
There was a LuthorCorp gala coming up in a few weeks; Bruce was sure Clark was aware of that already. Even if Daily Planet reporter Clark Kent wouldn’t be invited—and Kal-El certainly wasn’t—Brucie Wayne would be, and Luthor would hardly stop him from bringing along his latest sidepiece.
That was the point of this: the on-and-off theatrical performance of dating they’d been carrying out for the better part of two years. It was a useful strategy, both for investigating and for protecting their secret identities. No security guard would suspect Clark and Bruce were trying to eavesdrop on a meeting or break into an office after walking in on them with their hands all over each other.
(Clark had definitely gotten better at that part, after the first few months. He actually touched Bruce now, instead of letting his hands hover gentlemanly over Bruce’s untucked shirt, after a few practice fake-illicit-closet-makeout lessons in the BatCave.)
“I can clear my schedule,” Clark said. “And, Bruce?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you, for the roses.”
When Clark hung up, Bruce realized he was smiling, just a little. It was just a little entertaining, imagining Clark walking into the Daily Planet to find the bundle of roses on his desk, probably dropping picturesque red petals onto his keyboard. That was all it was.
This February had been usually chilly, even for Gotham. Bruce had booked them a table at a nice steakhouse on the Metropolis side of the bay, a slight breeze coming off the picturesque blue water. Despite this, Bruce showed up without a suit jacket—just a nice button-down shirt that showed off his arms nicely.
Bruce knew the gambit paid off just as predicted, though, when he felt Clark’s own suit jacket being gently draped around his shoulders, before Clark bent down to kiss his cheek. A light went off somewhere; Bruce hoped it was the paparazzi, that Clark kissing him so affectionately would be plastered all over the front page.
It would be good evidence for them being “on” again, when Bruce took Clark as his date to that gala in a few weeks.
“I got you something,” Clark said as he took his seat, smiling brightly enough that the jacket was almost unnecessary.
“You didn’t need to.”
“I did.” Clark produced a small blue box—a ring box, Bruce thought, as he picked it up from Clark’s hand. “Don’t open it yet.”
Bruce gave the box another look, then at Clark’s poorly-hidden eagerness. “When can I open it?”
“You’ll know,” Clark replied, reaching out to take a sip of water, as if trying to keep himself from talking. He swallowed, and said, just as brightly, “How are the boys?”
Dinner went perfectly, in Bruce’s opinion. Then again, dinner with Clark was always nice, even if they couldn’t really say half the things they wanted to, in the middle of a crowded restaurant. But Clark wore his heart on his sleeve and his super-senses were strong enough for him to hear Bruce’s heart through his clothes, so they had no problems interpreting each others’ codes.
Clark walked him back to his car afterwards, ever the gentleman. He stopped on the sidewalk beside Bruce, his hand a hair’s breadth away like it had been for the entire walk. His hair looked soft and a little curly, easier for Bruce to run a finger through than Superman’s. His blue eyes sparkled in the nearby glow of the streetlights.
Bruce should kiss him. Surely, there was a good justification for it—surely someone would be around to observe it, to make it useful for the mission—
Clark’s tiny laugh came out as a puff of mist. “You don’t need a justification.”
Bruce froze. “What?”
“If you want to kiss me, you can.”
Bruce recoiled a little at that. “I don’t want to kiss you.”
Clark gave him a long, lingering look that Bruce couldn’t quite decipher—but the exact angle of his half-smile indicated he was making fun of Bruce. Infuriating.
“Of course not. Goodnight, Bruce.”
Clark opened the car door, and Bruce slid in. The door shut. Alfred pulled out of the parking lot, throwing glances at Bruce through the rear view mirror.
Bruce didn’t want to kiss Clark. Obviously. He’d think Clark was just teasing him, but the smile Clark was wearing wasn’t the one he usually did when he bantered with Bruce. Bruce had been upfront from the beginning about his plan, about the utility of it, and Clark hadn’t argued with him about any of it. He’d been more than happy to help, like he always was when Bruce needed him.
He hadn’t even—
Clark hadn’t even seemed upset at the prospect of Bruce wanting to kiss him, if that was what he really believed was happening. Clark had been the one to kiss him at the restaurant, his lips warm and familiar against the stubble of Bruce’s cheek. He—Bruce had assumed that Clark was doing that for the sake of the mission, but what if…
No. No. This was ridiculous. He was Bruce Wayne, he knew how attraction worked. He would know if he was attracted to Clark—and if Clark was attracted to him. He’d never once thought about having sex with Clark—okay, he had, once, but purely as an intellectual exercise. In case it ever needed to come up.
And it was perfectly natural for Bruce to have thought about—planned in full detail, with numerous contingencies—marrying Clark. There were several logical reasons it might be needed. Bruce was a thinker, a planner, so of course he did some minor mental planning for a wedding between two people who had already been seen kissing in public a handful of times. He’d thought about color schemes and who would change their last name (they would hyphenate) and how he’d persuade Clark to wear a properly fitted suit for once and how they would wear their rings both in and out of costume (Superman having a ring on his finger would be too obvious, and his suit was too tight for him to wear it on a chain underneath, but he was far too sentimental to not wear it, so of course Bruce had to find a way around all of that.)
But he’d do the same thing for any of his friends—well, except Oliver, who he actually had also kissed in public multiple times. And Diana was far too smart to agree to something like that. Clark would, though. He would understand Bruce’s reasoning. He would want to—not, you know, marry Bruce, in the sense of wanting to take his hand at the altar, warm hand cupping Bruce’s palm as he slid a ring on, before leaning up to kiss Bruce, soft and slow in front of all their friends…
What was Bruce saying? Oh, of course—Clark would agree to marry Bruce if it came down to it, because Clark would trust Bruce’s logical reasoning like he always did. Just like he’d agreed to fake-date Bruce for the mission.
Bruce’s fingers fumbled for the ring box in his pocket. He stared at the closed velvet lid, and it stared right back.
“So...next Friday?” Clark had asked, pulling his jacket back on, cheeks still flushed from the proximity.
“I don’t think you need it,” Bruce had replied seriously, fixing his clothes. “You’re much more natural now.”
“Oh,” Clark said. “Oh—you…” He trailed off. He licked his lips, softened by the vaguely sweet chapstick he’d obviously applied before coming over. “What about dinner then?”
Ah.
Come to think of it, Bruce had seen that particular smirk of Clark’s from tonight before, the day he explained that it would be useful for their secret identities if they were seen together occasionally in public after the very first gala where Bruce had suggested they pretend to be together romantically.
(Come to think of it, Clark really had taken it a little too well, when Bruce suggested he not date anyone else publicly, just in case. Come to think of it, Bruce spent entirely too long mulling over how bad it would be for the mission if Clark kissed that wasn’t him.)
(Come to think of it, Bruce was fairly certain that he had a great justification to have kissed Clark tonight, and it was the fact that he and Clark both wanted to, and Bruce blew it.)
Alfred began to pull smoothly up the inclined driveway of Wayne Manor. Bruce’s grip on the ring box tightened.
“Alfred?”
“Yes, Master Bruce?”
Bruce was glad the angle of his seat would prevent him from seeing Alfred’s knowing smile. “Change of plans. Take me to Clark’s apartment.”
“Certainly, sir.”
When Bruce arrived, Clark had already changed out of the suit he’d worn to the restaurant. Instead, he was wearing a cheap-looking t-shirt emblazoned with a knockoff bat logo and a pair of plaid pajama bottoms. He had never looked better.
“Hi,” Clark said, looking sheepish.
Bruce didn’t bother saying anything; he just tugged Clark in. Clark kissed back immediately, still tasting of the fake wine from their not-quite-fake dinner date, one hand settling on Bruce’s waist.
“Hi,” Clark repeated, when Bruce broke apart for air, resting his forehead against Clark’s. He sounded just a little breathless—impressive, for someone who didn’t technically need to breathe.
“Hello,” Bruce said. “Can we talk?”
“Sure.”
Clark followed Bruce into his apartment, shutting the door firmly behind them. Bruce turned to face him, holding up the (empty, he had checked) ring box. “Which one?”
“Dick,” Clark said. He looked like he couldn’t stop smiling. Bruce’s stomach did a little flip at the thought that he’d caused it, even after all the...schemes he’d made Clark go through with. “At first, I thought it was some weird trial run. I was happy to wait. He said you’d need a nudge.”
Bruce swallowed his pride and gritted out, “He was right.”
“Would you really have married me?”
In a goddamn heartbeat. They’d been dating for two years already, after all. And Bruce had already decided months ago what florist and bakeries to use; if Clark had given him a real ring, he might’ve been making calls on the car ride over. Just in case.
“If I thought I needed to. You’re the best marriage candidate on the League.”
“You’re such a flirt,” Clark said dryly, but he knew what Bruce was thinking anyway. His heartbeat was probably tapping out I love you in Morse code. He took Bruce’s hand, and Bruce refused to blush as he pressed a gentle kiss to one of Bruce’s bruised knuckles. “What now?”
“I’m taking you out on a real date.” And then they would kiss some more. And by that point, the suit jacket Bruce had grifted tonight wouldn’t smell like Clark anymore, so he’d have to find an excuse to get another one.
“I’ll have to warn my fake boyfriend, then. He might get a little jealous.”
Clark’s fake boyfriend was an idiot anyway. Bruce tugged Clark closer by their joined hands, and he could feel Clark’s smile against his lips.