Chapter Two, continued. Many more hearts and thanks to beta!nonny. Here be: h/ without a lot of c, domestic ridiculousness, robots, Bruce being in way over his head, identity porn.
William Shakespeare would be so proud to know that straight from Laertes mouth, I have used his most famous play to provide dialog for this trope-y nonsense. Edith Wharton would probably be less proud, but only just.
* (B) *
Whatever indignity had been done to the lakeshore by the addition of the second Wayne house--years before the manor burned down, when Bruce had the idea of living within the long, skeletal grasp of its still-looming towers (and giving its echoing halls over to Gotham Academy as a boarding school)--Bruce felt that karma was being repaid right now. Men who live in glass houses should not nurture fantasies of transparency.
Long habit allowed Bruce to break the stalemate. Bruce Wayne sauntered over to the double doors, and a disheveled playboy billionaire poked his head out. out of the double doors.
“Alfred!” he said brightly, as though waking up at an indecent hour was a normal part of Bruce Wayne’s life--“--Skip breakfast and bring up a bottle of--hello,” he said as the reporter nudged his way around Alfred’s arm. “Have we met?”
“Yes.” The reporter’s eyes dropped to the shield on his chest again, and met his gaze in transparent relief, no doubt because Bruce had saved him from Alfred’s biting commentary.
Bruce returned the favor. He raked his eyes over the reporter in open consideration. He had an everyman quality--familiar, but unmemorable. Boxframe glasses interrupted his face. Sartorially, nothing noteworthy for white collar work: a well-cut brown coat over rumpled plaid, a striped tie that somehow wasn’t a disaster, black penny loafers that most definitely were. He held his messenger bag in front of him like a shield. Bruce (barely) avoided quirking an eyebrow: most people didn’t find Bruce Wayne’s eager blandness intimidating.
“Don’t think I remember you,” Bruce drawled, turning back to Alfred.
“Master Wayne?” he inquired gently.
Alfred’s entire demeanor was pinched in heavy emotion, even if he didn’t show it on his face. For all of the secrets that were secured by Bruce’s public charade, Alfred never could stand Bruce Wayne’s calculated rudeness. But his voice had gone soft and clipped. Alfred had used that tone in the days after--but Bruce was certain that Jason wasn’t the reason for that softness now. He re-evaluated his condition. A near miss.
“Oh, I’ll also need the Aston Martin for the--” Bruce fumbled for an appropriate lie. He had carefully not planned anything beyond the fight with the Kryptonian.
Alfred and the reporter shared an inscrutable look, which put Bruce on edge.
“The Gotham Children’s Fund,” Alfred filled in after a length of time.
Bruce leaned heavily against the door. And not just for affectation; his right calf was still spasming like he hadn’t walked on it for days. His voice came out rougher than he’d have liked. “Is that one the Regency or the Empire?”
The reporter stepped forward, and Alfred didn’t stop him this time. “Metropolis Regency, 10pm tomorrow. That’s my beat.”
“Where are my manners,” Bruce said, and Alfred preemptively scowled. “Bruce Wayne, of Wayne Enterprises.”
Bruce didn’t extend his hand when the reporter raised his for a handshake. He stared the man down with a half-lidded casual disregard that usually ended with a drink in his face.
“This is my property, and you’re trespassing.”
The hand shyly withdrew itself behind the shield-slash-messenger bag.
“Clark Kent, Daily Planet,” came the reply, with a small half-smile.
Bruce’s face squeezed into an echo of Alfred’s frown. “There a reason you’re here, son?”
Kent’s eyes flicked down to the crest on his chest.
“You really don’t remember me,” he repeated slowly, and half-turned back to Alfred for confirmation.
It was a trait of honest men that when they felt themselves backed against the wall, they lie and do so poorly because they haven’t acquired the vital life skill of diffusing awkwardness with as much truth as the situation can bear. Bruce had practiced. He could make the truth ring with falsehoood, could give the shine of absolute confession to his basest lies. So when Bruce sucked in his lip, gently bit it and said, “Really don’t.” It wasn’t even dishonest. What did Bruce Wayne know about Clark Kent, except for the heated exchange of opinion that they had once, over drinks, in Lex Luthor’s foyer? Bruce’s expression shone with admission.
“Ah,” Kent said, who did not know Bruce’s lying faces.
“Oh for Heaven’s sake,” Alfred muttered, who did.
Clark fiddled with his glasses. “I thought you’d recognize--”
Alfred threw a hand out, and smashed it into Kent’s, bumping into his frames. Kent had been working up the nerve to pull his glasses off to polish them--a nervous tic, and a bad one at that, by the look of consternation on his face.
“Now that you’re awake, it’s unseemly not to invite our guest in. Our friend Mr. Kent, of the Daily Planet, who is in fact known to this household and without whose help, we would be in dire straits. Mr. Kent,” Alfred hadn’t removed his hand from where it pinned the glasses to the man’s poor, flustered face. “Why don’t we keep matters simple for now? Join us for some tea.”
It was not a question.
“Yes. I’d love--” Clark said hastily. “I mean, tea would be fantastic. Thanks, Alfred.”
“Don’t I get a say in this?”
“No, sir, you don’t.”
Alfred passed by Bruce, and gave him a stern but silent behave that was no less heard for it being unvoiced. A genuine smile touched Bruce’s face, and he let it.
Clark gave him one last speculative look as he passed Bruce in the doorway. Bruce finally allowed himself to look down to his own chest, where Kal’s crest caught the weak rays of evening sun, transforming the silver material into something luminous. The black fabric cascaded over his form and shimmered when he moved--except at the cuffs and the detailing over the ribs.
As he breathed, it rose and fell with his chest.
It...didn’t leave anything to the imagination.
“Some costume party, huh,” Bruce joked, as his hand absently stroked the material across his forearm. He hadn’t even known there was a black version of the suit. The color seemed wrong for Kal, somehow.
“Very realistic,” Clark agreed, half-amused, half-horrified. His brow folded up in thought. “Does Superman really look like that in person?”
“Heh, no.” Bruce smirked, unable to suppress the image of the suit cascading over the sharp cleft of Kal’s hip. “He looks even better.”
Bruce followed on his heels, trying to convince himself that the breathless pause after his quip was simply part of the act.
* (B) *
Alfred bustled around the kitchenette like a polite dictator. He directed the reporter to reach the good china on the high shelf, and looked seconds away from pressing Bruce into service. Chagrined, Bruce slipped away from the domestic scene. It was bizarre enough to watch Alfred playing house without indulging in that fantasy himself.
He endured the barrier again to fetch a dressing gown from the bedroom closet. The gown was from Bruce Wayne’s half of the wardrobe; naturally, it fell open at the pecs, showing off the shield in all of its Superman-approved glory. He touched the crest, skimming his fingers across it like Kal had done.
(long fingers caressing the bottom point, and sliding up, up, up into the two spaces between the S, and then--)
The suit remained inert.
He plucked at the fabric over his stomach. All at once, pain like an icepick lanced through his armpit.
Bruce doubled over, and gasped through the pain. The material slipped from his fingers, and stretched back over his skin with a melodious twang.
The pain subsided, but a stitch in his side remained.
“I get it,” Bruce muttered. “The suit stays on.”
On his way out, he found a touch-activated biometric reader on the wall. He slotted his hand over the interface, and the field deactivated with an audible thunk. How the hell had he missed that?
FILL: Regroup (5/many) -- Bruce/Clark, rough hatesex
William Shakespeare would be so proud to know that straight from Laertes mouth, I have used his most famous play to provide dialog for this trope-y nonsense. Edith Wharton would probably be less proud, but only just.
* (B) *
Whatever indignity had been done to the lakeshore by the addition of the second Wayne house--years before the manor burned down, when Bruce had the idea of living within the long, skeletal grasp of its still-looming towers (and giving its echoing halls over to Gotham Academy as a boarding school)--Bruce felt that karma was being repaid right now. Men who live in glass houses should not nurture fantasies of transparency.
Long habit allowed Bruce to break the stalemate. Bruce Wayne sauntered over to the double doors, and a disheveled playboy billionaire poked his head out. out of the double doors.
“Alfred!” he said brightly, as though waking up at an indecent hour was a normal part of Bruce Wayne’s life--“--Skip breakfast and bring up a bottle of--hello,” he said as the reporter nudged his way around Alfred’s arm. “Have we met?”
“Yes.” The reporter’s eyes dropped to the shield on his chest again, and met his gaze in transparent relief, no doubt because Bruce had saved him from Alfred’s biting commentary.
Bruce returned the favor. He raked his eyes over the reporter in open consideration. He had an everyman quality--familiar, but unmemorable. Boxframe glasses interrupted his face. Sartorially, nothing noteworthy for white collar work: a well-cut brown coat over rumpled plaid, a striped tie that somehow wasn’t a disaster, black penny loafers that most definitely were. He held his messenger bag in front of him like a shield. Bruce (barely) avoided quirking an eyebrow: most people didn’t find Bruce Wayne’s eager blandness intimidating.
“Don’t think I remember you,” Bruce drawled, turning back to Alfred.
“Master Wayne?” he inquired gently.
Alfred’s entire demeanor was pinched in heavy emotion, even if he didn’t show it on his face. For all of the secrets that were secured by Bruce’s public charade, Alfred never could stand Bruce Wayne’s calculated rudeness. But his voice had gone soft and clipped. Alfred had used that tone in the days after--but Bruce was certain that Jason wasn’t the reason for that softness now. He re-evaluated his condition. A near miss.
“Oh, I’ll also need the Aston Martin for the--” Bruce fumbled for an appropriate lie. He had carefully not planned anything beyond the fight with the Kryptonian.
Alfred and the reporter shared an inscrutable look, which put Bruce on edge.
“The Gotham Children’s Fund,” Alfred filled in after a length of time.
Bruce leaned heavily against the door. And not just for affectation; his right calf was still spasming like he hadn’t walked on it for days. His voice came out rougher than he’d have liked. “Is that one the Regency or the Empire?”
The reporter stepped forward, and Alfred didn’t stop him this time. “Metropolis Regency, 10pm tomorrow. That’s my beat.”
“Where are my manners,” Bruce said, and Alfred preemptively scowled. “Bruce Wayne, of Wayne Enterprises.”
Bruce didn’t extend his hand when the reporter raised his for a handshake. He stared the man down with a half-lidded casual disregard that usually ended with a drink in his face.
“This is my property, and you’re trespassing.”
The hand shyly withdrew itself behind the shield-slash-messenger bag.
“Clark Kent, Daily Planet,” came the reply, with a small half-smile.
Bruce’s face squeezed into an echo of Alfred’s frown. “There a reason you’re here, son?”
Kent’s eyes flicked down to the crest on his chest.
“You really don’t remember me,” he repeated slowly, and half-turned back to Alfred for confirmation.
It was a trait of honest men that when they felt themselves backed against the wall, they lie and do so poorly because they haven’t acquired the vital life skill of diffusing awkwardness with as much truth as the situation can bear. Bruce had practiced. He could make the truth ring with falsehoood, could give the shine of absolute confession to his basest lies. So when Bruce sucked in his lip, gently bit it and said, “Really don’t.” It wasn’t even dishonest. What did Bruce Wayne know about Clark Kent, except for the heated exchange of opinion that they had once, over drinks, in Lex Luthor’s foyer? Bruce’s expression shone with admission.
“Ah,” Kent said, who did not know Bruce’s lying faces.
“Oh for Heaven’s sake,” Alfred muttered, who did.
Clark fiddled with his glasses. “I thought you’d recognize--”
Alfred threw a hand out, and smashed it into Kent’s, bumping into his frames. Kent had been working up the nerve to pull his glasses off to polish them--a nervous tic, and a bad one at that, by the look of consternation on his face.
“Now that you’re awake, it’s unseemly not to invite our guest in. Our friend Mr. Kent, of the Daily Planet, who is in fact known to this household and without whose help, we would be in dire straits. Mr. Kent,” Alfred hadn’t removed his hand from where it pinned the glasses to the man’s poor, flustered face. “Why don’t we keep matters simple for now? Join us for some tea.”
It was not a question.
“Yes. I’d love--” Clark said hastily. “I mean, tea would be fantastic. Thanks, Alfred.”
“Don’t I get a say in this?”
“No, sir, you don’t.”
Alfred passed by Bruce, and gave him a stern but silent behave that was no less heard for it being unvoiced. A genuine smile touched Bruce’s face, and he let it.
Clark gave him one last speculative look as he passed Bruce in the doorway. Bruce finally allowed himself to look down to his own chest, where Kal’s crest caught the weak rays of evening sun, transforming the silver material into something luminous. The black fabric cascaded over his form and shimmered when he moved--except at the cuffs and the detailing over the ribs.
As he breathed, it rose and fell with his chest.
It...didn’t leave anything to the imagination.
“Some costume party, huh,” Bruce joked, as his hand absently stroked the material across his forearm. He hadn’t even known there was a black version of the suit. The color seemed wrong for Kal, somehow.
“Very realistic,” Clark agreed, half-amused, half-horrified. His brow folded up in thought. “Does Superman really look like that in person?”
“Heh, no.” Bruce smirked, unable to suppress the image of the suit cascading over the sharp cleft of Kal’s hip. “He looks even better.”
Bruce followed on his heels, trying to convince himself that the breathless pause after his quip was simply part of the act.
* (B) *
Alfred bustled around the kitchenette like a polite dictator. He directed the reporter to reach the good china on the high shelf, and looked seconds away from pressing Bruce into service. Chagrined, Bruce slipped away from the domestic scene. It was bizarre enough to watch Alfred playing house without indulging in that fantasy himself.
He endured the barrier again to fetch a dressing gown from the bedroom closet. The gown was from Bruce Wayne’s half of the wardrobe; naturally, it fell open at the pecs, showing off the shield in all of its Superman-approved glory. He touched the crest, skimming his fingers across it like Kal had done.
(long fingers caressing the bottom point, and sliding up, up, up into the two spaces between the S, and then--)
The suit remained inert.
He plucked at the fabric over his stomach. All at once, pain like an icepick lanced through his armpit.
Bruce doubled over, and gasped through the pain. The material slipped from his fingers, and stretched back over his skin with a melodious twang.
The pain subsided, but a stitch in his side remained.
“I get it,” Bruce muttered. “The suit stays on.”
On his way out, he found a touch-activated biometric reader on the wall. He slotted his hand over the interface, and the field deactivated with an audible thunk. How the hell had he missed that?