Or, the Three-Button Rule. Featuring young, naive Clark, sugar daddy Bruce and absolutely no continuity with the film. :D
Clark Kent doesn’t own many suits.
There’s the one he keeps for the usual occasions: weddings, funerals and assignments to the endless procession of galas and fundraisers. The others are a mish-mash collection of pants and shirts and blazers, sport coats and off-the-rack suit jackets, whatever fits across his shoulders and isn’t too short in the arm. These have a habit of losing their buttons or getting torn. Or stained, or burned, or sliced to ribbons. Sometimes salvageable, caught on a telephone wire or abutment or fluttering in the breeze above the Metropolis skyline, but mostly not.
Honestly, it costs Clark a small fortune, but the integrity of his clothes or his wallet tends to be the last thing on his mind when he hears a panicked shout, gunfire, screaming.
He doesn’t think much of it, day to day. The Daily Planet bullpen is all slacks and rolled-up shirtsleeves, where nobody minds if your shirt is 65% polyester and you got a bit of your lunch down your five-dollar tie. But tonight Perry’s got him covering a high-society charity soirée, so out comes Clark’s Sunday best.
It cost him the best part of his first paycheck. Technically, it’s a ready-to-wear affair with a serendipitous cut that he took to a tailor for some adjustments. Hardly bespoke, but it fits better than any suit he’s ever owned. (Bar one.)
It’s classic black gabardine, flat across his shoulders and smooth down his chest, half-inch of linen at his wrists. It accentuates his broadness more than he’d like, but he can’t bring himself to slouch while he’s wearing it.
He combs his hair, slides on his glasses and grins at the mirror. “Look at you, Smallville,” he says, and then ruins the line of the jacket by putting his voice recorder in one pocket.
*
It's approaching midnight when Clark thinks about wrapping it up; most folks have had enough champagne that any further thoughts they have on the downtown regeneration projects are somewhat fuzzy at best and meandering into interminable anecdotes about people Clark has never even heard of at worst.
He’s outside loosening his tie when a vintage Aston Martin pulls up, and there's a commotion amongst the glitterati who have drifted outside throughout the evening. “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” one of them says dryly. “Fashionably late as always.”
“He's here for last week's party,” another says, laughing.
The man unfolds himself from the back of the vehicle, smooths down his coat. And that, Clark thinks, is an expensive suit. That’s easy to tell, even to an inexperienced eye: black wool over a black shirt and a charcoal silk tie that sets off the touch of gray at the man's temples. It’s an exceptional fit; it moves with him like a second skin--doesn’t ride up or rumple or crease in the wrong places as he raises a hand to the photographers. Clark doesn’t even want to think about what it might have cost.
“Gentlemen,” the man says with a warm smile and eyes that are harder than flint, and heads to the foyer, passing Clark on the way.
He stops short, turns around and gives Clark a long, considering look, head to toe then back up again. It is thoroughly embarrassing in a way Clark can't put his finger on, only that he hasn't felt like such a country bumpkin since his first week in Metropolis.
This time the lopsided smile touches the man's eyes, though it's only a fraction friendlier for it. “Kind of a faux pas, son,” he says to Clark, then slides a finger inside Clark’s jacket, runs it down and unfastens the bottom button.
*
The man was apparently Bruce Wayne, to Clark’s surprise--and to Perry’s deep despair, when it arose that Clark had spoken to him and yet has nothing useful to show for it. And no, Kent, fashion tips don’t count.
*
Which is probably why he’s being assigned to each and every high-profile socialite gathering that Perry gets wind of. If Clark has to eat one more experimental variation on a smoked salmon canapé this week he will genuinely cry. These ones appear to be mousse extruded into salmony ribbons (on toast), and if anybody ever needed proof that there is no God, Clark would present that as exhibit A.
Exhibit B would be when he spots Bruce Wayne, impeccably groomed, cufflinks and collar pin glinting under the crisp gallery lights as he gestures in conversation with an attentive lady. Wayne catches Clark’s eye before he can look away, and the man raises his eyebrows as if to say: really?
That is when Clark remembers that he’s wearing the same suit as last time they met. He feels heat rise in his face, along with an indignation because dammit, not everyone can afford a rotating wardrobe of tailored Italian three-piece suits with fluid, unbroken lines, shot through with pinstripes that... accentuate an obviously great physique. Wide shoulders, narrow hips, and--
Clark realizes that he’s staring and covers it by shoving the canapé into his mouth. He regrets it pretty much instantly; firstly because it’s like eating fishy soapsuds and secondly because Wayne is heading right at him.
He swallows, makes eye contact and in an act of defiance, fastens the bottom button of his jacket.
Wayne raises his eyebrows again, shakes his head very slightly. “Bruce Wayne,” he says and offers his hand. “I believe we’ve almost met.”
Clark takes his hand cautiously. His knuckles are dappled with faded bruising, which is interesting. Bruce Wayne strikes him as the kind of man who might cause a fight, but wouldn't necessarily stick around to see it through. “Clark Kent, Daily Planet.”
Wayne gives him a single, firm shake and then slides the hand into his pants pocket, breaking the sleek lines of his suit with casual indifference. “You look a little out of your depth, Mr. Kent,” Wayne says. His gaze drops from Clark’s face to his tie and then to the buttons of his jacket. Clark hears the faintest stutter in his breath, a fractional uptick in his heart rate. “How about we blow this joint?”
“I thought you didn’t give interviews,” Clark says. He has absolutely no idea what to make of this--whether his minor sartorial rebellion has incensed Wayne somehow, or if he’s signalled something that he didn’t entirely intend.
Not entirely.
Wayne leans in, voice low and dark in Clark’s ear, edge of roughness like metal on a grindstone. “Who said anything about talking?”
*
Which is how Clark ends up in this ridiculous automobile with its mirrored windows and cream leather upholstery, while its owner, billionaire philanthropist and without a doubt one-hundred-percent indiscreet and indiscriminate playboy Bruce Wayne, splays over the back seat and tells him to take his goddamn jacket off.
“I like this jacket,” Clark tells him as he unfastens the top button and wonders if he’s making probably the worst career decision of his life. “It’s my best jacket.”
Wayne just takes Clark’s lapel and tugs him over. He doesn’t kiss him (Clark suspects they are not going to kiss, which is somehow disappointing but also a relief as he’s pretty sure he knows what his breath smells like) but grates the stubble of his cheek against Clark’s chin and then encourages him to climb across his lap. Clark has to duck his head and arch over to fit against the low ceiling of the car.
“It’s a nice jacket,” Wayne says up at him, which is obviously not what he thinks at all, but Clark appreciates the tact even if it’s low-effort, “but it’s too tight on you.”
“It’s hard to find anything that fits.”
“I can see that.” There’s a faint note of approval in Wayne’s voice that makes Clark shiver. Bruce’s hand slides up the tail of his jacket, tugs his shirt loose from the waistband of his pants. Clark has a split-second of panic even though he knows he’s not wearing the suit, but then Wayne’s hand is warm, flattened against the bared skin at small of Clark’s back. An abrupt arousal cascades through Clark’s body; he lets his hips tilt against Wayne’s.
Wayne makes something like an approving noise, and presses back in response. Clark can’t help but watch the shift of fabric, the way the pinstripes of Wayne’s suit distort around his erection.
“I could give you the name of my tailor,” Wayne says, rocking excruciatingly slow, just enough to gather some friction but nothing more. His cologne is strong in Clark’s nose, rich and spicy, activated by the heat from his skin. There’s also a low note of something like… engine grease riding under the decadent fragrance, something metallic and earthy. It’s weird, but Clark can’t quite get his brain to focus on it right now.
“That’s… really not what… hnn.” Clark’s hands fumble at Wayne’s jacket, slips the buttons and spreads it open, and his vest, surrounds Wayne in satin lining against the leather upholstery. He tries his luck with the tiny goddamn buttons on his dress shirt, but Wayne pushes him away, encourages Clark to wrap a hand around his tie instead. The fabric is smooth and cool around Clark’s fist; he keeps a hold, presses that hand against the headrest, keeps the tie in tension and Wayne pinned to the seat.
“You’d look good in blue, with a stripe.” Wayne grins, a white slash of teeth in the semi-dark, and Clark hears the gentle shush of zipper pulled open, Wayne’s warm hand touching him. “American cut, but double vents, maybe.”
Clark closes his eyes, hears a second zipper. “I have no idea what that means,” he says, then Wayne’s hand is around them both, pressing together and Clark doesn’t know what to do with his other hand so he just pushes it into Wayne’s hair, messes it up without meaning to, really.
“I know,” Wayne says tightly, and Clark bucks into his hand, rising in counterpoint to Wayne rocking under him in a steady rhythm, the slip of wool over their thighs and the close heat of their bodies. It doesn’t take long, not when Wayne keeps palming at Clark’s hip with his free hand, fingers running over the waistband of his pants, just barely skimming his stomach.
“Oh--” Clark gasps. Wayne holds him still, gives him no choice but to come over the crisp white of his dress shirt. “--God.”
Wayne closes his eyes, gives both of them a couple more firm jerks, and does the same.
“Jeez, I’m sorry, your shirt--” Clark says, pats at his pockets for a handkerchief, but Wayne waves him off.
“It’s fine, son,” Wayne says, fastening his vest and then the jacket over the whole mess while Clark watches, kind of enthralled and also kind of feeling sorry for whoever does his dry cleaning. Wayne combs his hair back into place with his fingers, and then straightens Clark’s tie for him. “Is there somewhere I can drop you off?”
“Uh, that’s okay,” Clark says, dazedly leaning to open the car door. “Thank you, but I think I. Need some air. I’ll get a cab.”
*
Perry is mad when he comes back empty-handed, as expected. Especially the week after, when the parcel arrives.
“If I‘ve told you once,” he says, slapping it onto Clark’s desk, ”I’ve told you a thousand times. Don’t get your eBay junk sent here.”
“Sorry, boss,” Clark says as mildly as he can, then lifts his glasses so he can take a look at what’s inside.
It stops him short. Folds of fabric samples, mostly dusky blues and grays, both pinstriped and plain. There’s also business card, embossed with a tailor’s logo but with handwriting on the back:
Do me a favor and get yourself properly fitted. It’s on me.
FILL: Sometimes, Always, Never
Clark Kent doesn’t own many suits.
There’s the one he keeps for the usual occasions: weddings, funerals and assignments to the endless procession of galas and fundraisers. The others are a mish-mash collection of pants and shirts and blazers, sport coats and off-the-rack suit jackets, whatever fits across his shoulders and isn’t too short in the arm. These have a habit of losing their buttons or getting torn. Or stained, or burned, or sliced to ribbons. Sometimes salvageable, caught on a telephone wire or abutment or fluttering in the breeze above the Metropolis skyline, but mostly not.
Honestly, it costs Clark a small fortune, but the integrity of his clothes or his wallet tends to be the last thing on his mind when he hears a panicked shout, gunfire, screaming.
He doesn’t think much of it, day to day. The Daily Planet bullpen is all slacks and rolled-up shirtsleeves, where nobody minds if your shirt is 65% polyester and you got a bit of your lunch down your five-dollar tie. But tonight Perry’s got him covering a high-society charity soirée, so out comes Clark’s Sunday best.
It cost him the best part of his first paycheck. Technically, it’s a ready-to-wear affair with a serendipitous cut that he took to a tailor for some adjustments. Hardly bespoke, but it fits better than any suit he’s ever owned. (Bar one.)
It’s classic black gabardine, flat across his shoulders and smooth down his chest, half-inch of linen at his wrists. It accentuates his broadness more than he’d like, but he can’t bring himself to slouch while he’s wearing it.
He combs his hair, slides on his glasses and grins at the mirror. “Look at you, Smallville,” he says, and then ruins the line of the jacket by putting his voice recorder in one pocket.
*
It's approaching midnight when Clark thinks about wrapping it up; most folks have had enough champagne that any further thoughts they have on the downtown regeneration projects are somewhat fuzzy at best and meandering into interminable anecdotes about people Clark has never even heard of at worst.
He’s outside loosening his tie when a vintage Aston Martin pulls up, and there's a commotion amongst the glitterati who have drifted outside throughout the evening. “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” one of them says dryly. “Fashionably late as always.”
“He's here for last week's party,” another says, laughing.
The man unfolds himself from the back of the vehicle, smooths down his coat. And that, Clark thinks, is an expensive suit. That’s easy to tell, even to an inexperienced eye: black wool over a black shirt and a charcoal silk tie that sets off the touch of gray at the man's temples. It’s an exceptional fit; it moves with him like a second skin--doesn’t ride up or rumple or crease in the wrong places as he raises a hand to the photographers. Clark doesn’t even want to think about what it might have cost.
“Gentlemen,” the man says with a warm smile and eyes that are harder than flint, and heads to the foyer, passing Clark on the way.
He stops short, turns around and gives Clark a long, considering look, head to toe then back up again. It is thoroughly embarrassing in a way Clark can't put his finger on, only that he hasn't felt like such a country bumpkin since his first week in Metropolis.
This time the lopsided smile touches the man's eyes, though it's only a fraction friendlier for it. “Kind of a faux pas, son,” he says to Clark, then slides a finger inside Clark’s jacket, runs it down and unfastens the bottom button.
*
The man was apparently Bruce Wayne, to Clark’s surprise--and to Perry’s deep despair, when it arose that Clark had spoken to him and yet has nothing useful to show for it. And no, Kent, fashion tips don’t count.
*
Which is probably why he’s being assigned to each and every high-profile socialite gathering that Perry gets wind of. If Clark has to eat one more experimental variation on a smoked salmon canapé this week he will genuinely cry. These ones appear to be mousse extruded into salmony ribbons (on toast), and if anybody ever needed proof that there is no God, Clark would present that as exhibit A.
Exhibit B would be when he spots Bruce Wayne, impeccably groomed, cufflinks and collar pin glinting under the crisp gallery lights as he gestures in conversation with an attentive lady. Wayne catches Clark’s eye before he can look away, and the man raises his eyebrows as if to say: really?
That is when Clark remembers that he’s wearing the same suit as last time they met. He feels heat rise in his face, along with an indignation because dammit, not everyone can afford a rotating wardrobe of tailored Italian three-piece suits with fluid, unbroken lines, shot through with pinstripes that... accentuate an obviously great physique. Wide shoulders, narrow hips, and--
Clark realizes that he’s staring and covers it by shoving the canapé into his mouth. He regrets it pretty much instantly; firstly because it’s like eating fishy soapsuds and secondly because Wayne is heading right at him.
He swallows, makes eye contact and in an act of defiance, fastens the bottom button of his jacket.
Wayne raises his eyebrows again, shakes his head very slightly. “Bruce Wayne,” he says and offers his hand. “I believe we’ve almost met.”
Clark takes his hand cautiously. His knuckles are dappled with faded bruising, which is interesting. Bruce Wayne strikes him as the kind of man who might cause a fight, but wouldn't necessarily stick around to see it through. “Clark Kent, Daily Planet.”
Wayne gives him a single, firm shake and then slides the hand into his pants pocket, breaking the sleek lines of his suit with casual indifference. “You look a little out of your depth, Mr. Kent,” Wayne says. His gaze drops from Clark’s face to his tie and then to the buttons of his jacket. Clark hears the faintest stutter in his breath, a fractional uptick in his heart rate. “How about we blow this joint?”
“I thought you didn’t give interviews,” Clark says. He has absolutely no idea what to make of this--whether his minor sartorial rebellion has incensed Wayne somehow, or if he’s signalled something that he didn’t entirely intend.
Not entirely.
Wayne leans in, voice low and dark in Clark’s ear, edge of roughness like metal on a grindstone. “Who said anything about talking?”
*
Which is how Clark ends up in this ridiculous automobile with its mirrored windows and cream leather upholstery, while its owner, billionaire philanthropist and without a doubt one-hundred-percent indiscreet and indiscriminate playboy Bruce Wayne, splays over the back seat and tells him to take his goddamn jacket off.
“I like this jacket,” Clark tells him as he unfastens the top button and wonders if he’s making probably the worst career decision of his life. “It’s my best jacket.”
Wayne just takes Clark’s lapel and tugs him over. He doesn’t kiss him (Clark suspects they are not going to kiss, which is somehow disappointing but also a relief as he’s pretty sure he knows what his breath smells like) but grates the stubble of his cheek against Clark’s chin and then encourages him to climb across his lap. Clark has to duck his head and arch over to fit against the low ceiling of the car.
“It’s a nice jacket,” Wayne says up at him, which is obviously not what he thinks at all, but Clark appreciates the tact even if it’s low-effort, “but it’s too tight on you.”
“It’s hard to find anything that fits.”
“I can see that.” There’s a faint note of approval in Wayne’s voice that makes Clark shiver. Bruce’s hand slides up the tail of his jacket, tugs his shirt loose from the waistband of his pants. Clark has a split-second of panic even though he knows he’s not wearing the suit, but then Wayne’s hand is warm, flattened against the bared skin at small of Clark’s back. An abrupt arousal cascades through Clark’s body; he lets his hips tilt against Wayne’s.
Wayne makes something like an approving noise, and presses back in response. Clark can’t help but watch the shift of fabric, the way the pinstripes of Wayne’s suit distort around his erection.
“I could give you the name of my tailor,” Wayne says, rocking excruciatingly slow, just enough to gather some friction but nothing more. His cologne is strong in Clark’s nose, rich and spicy, activated by the heat from his skin. There’s also a low note of something like… engine grease riding under the decadent fragrance, something metallic and earthy. It’s weird, but Clark can’t quite get his brain to focus on it right now.
“That’s… really not what… hnn.” Clark’s hands fumble at Wayne’s jacket, slips the buttons and spreads it open, and his vest, surrounds Wayne in satin lining against the leather upholstery. He tries his luck with the tiny goddamn buttons on his dress shirt, but Wayne pushes him away, encourages Clark to wrap a hand around his tie instead. The fabric is smooth and cool around Clark’s fist; he keeps a hold, presses that hand against the headrest, keeps the tie in tension and Wayne pinned to the seat.
“You’d look good in blue, with a stripe.” Wayne grins, a white slash of teeth in the semi-dark, and Clark hears the gentle shush of zipper pulled open, Wayne’s warm hand touching him. “American cut, but double vents, maybe.”
Clark closes his eyes, hears a second zipper. “I have no idea what that means,” he says, then Wayne’s hand is around them both, pressing together and Clark doesn’t know what to do with his other hand so he just pushes it into Wayne’s hair, messes it up without meaning to, really.
“I know,” Wayne says tightly, and Clark bucks into his hand, rising in counterpoint to Wayne rocking under him in a steady rhythm, the slip of wool over their thighs and the close heat of their bodies. It doesn’t take long, not when Wayne keeps palming at Clark’s hip with his free hand, fingers running over the waistband of his pants, just barely skimming his stomach.
“Oh--” Clark gasps. Wayne holds him still, gives him no choice but to come over the crisp white of his dress shirt. “--God.”
Wayne closes his eyes, gives both of them a couple more firm jerks, and does the same.
“Jeez, I’m sorry, your shirt--” Clark says, pats at his pockets for a handkerchief, but Wayne waves him off.
“It’s fine, son,” Wayne says, fastening his vest and then the jacket over the whole mess while Clark watches, kind of enthralled and also kind of feeling sorry for whoever does his dry cleaning. Wayne combs his hair back into place with his fingers, and then straightens Clark’s tie for him. “Is there somewhere I can drop you off?”
“Uh, that’s okay,” Clark says, dazedly leaning to open the car door. “Thank you, but I think I. Need some air. I’ll get a cab.”
*
Perry is mad when he comes back empty-handed, as expected. Especially the week after, when the parcel arrives.
“If I‘ve told you once,” he says, slapping it onto Clark’s desk, ”I’ve told you a thousand times. Don’t get your eBay junk sent here.”
“Sorry, boss,” Clark says as mildly as he can, then lifts his glasses so he can take a look at what’s inside.
It stops him short. Folds of fabric samples, mostly dusky blues and grays, both pinstriped and plain. There’s also business card, embossed with a tailor’s logo but with handwriting on the back:
Do me a favor and get yourself properly fitted. It’s on me.
FYI: the Gotham Charity Ball is next month.
BW
**