Italian cut in navy, wool-silk blend; London cut three-piece charcoal business suit with silk tie; Savile Row tuxedo with crisply starched shirt, bowtie, cufflinks. Every conceivable combination of cuff and collar, stripe and check, button and lining. An entire drawer of collar pins and tie clips. They might be expensive, the collection vast, but fact is they're just costumes. Artifice.
That's not to say he doesn't like them—there is, after all, nothing quite like a man in a good suit—but their primary function is to give Bruce Wayne, who has been constructed with as much attention to detail as any of his ensemble, a certain verisimilitude. None of them have been spared a drink down the front at one point or another.
His best suit, though, the one that, if pressed (pressed very hard), he'll admit has a borderline fetishistic importance, that suit is worth more than all of them put together. As black as Gotham's darkest shadow, tighter than his own skin, it's a kevlar and leather creature that helps keep the howling void of his heart from collapsing him into a black hole.
It's armor. It's a weapon. It's the truth of him.
*
Kent turns down his gift, of course. He sends a letter, hand-written and carefully worded—oh, so carefully worded, as though he fears Bruce will read it as a rejection of more than just the suit.
But Bruce is excellent at reading between the lines, and can only be pleased by the show of integrity even if Kent is wavering on the interpersonal side of things. He may project an air of youth, but is not as easily malleable as Bruce first thought—is not as naive as he seems. Bruce is familiar with such fronts, and it makes him wonder what secret Kent might be hiding.
It is by no means important that he find out, but Bruce is not one to ignore a mystery, nor back down from a challenge.
*
He chooses to be more punctual for engagements on his own turf; it's the kind of thoughtless self-centredness that people expect from him. The car pulls up and he closes his eyes briefly, takes a breath, prepares to go through the motions. Slink out of the back seat, button his jacket. Shake with whomever offers a hand; pause halfway up the hotel steps and smile, vacant and glassy-eyed, to the paparazzi. Enter Bruce Wayne, stage right.
It's black tie tonight so his outfit didn't need much consideration: midnight evening suit, bow tie imperfectly tied—just slightly off, barely noticeable but subtle enough to make him seem slightly more approachable than usual. He has a feeling in his gut, a low-key portent that he trusts well, so there are also narrow blades in the seams, smokescreen tabs in hidden pockets, a tranq dart up his sleeve.
He takes a flute of champagne from a passing tray, turns to mingle with the hall of suits and low-backed dresses and extravagant glitter—and instead is presented with Clark Kent in profile, standing across the floor, gesturing with a canapé to an entertained-looking woman.
Bruce's heart skips. This is the first clue that he has misjudged something. The second clue comes a fraction of a second later when Kent stops mid-sentence and turns to look directly at him, precisely where he stands among all the other identical black ties in the room.
Bruce watches as Kent says a few words to his lady friend, all self-depreciating smiles and apologetic gestures: work, you know?. Then he's striding towards Bruce, extending his hand before he's even a half-dozen paces away, gauche and unassuming as though he hadn't just pinpointed Bruce in a crowded room before he could even take a breath.
And, of course, he's wearing that same goddamn suit. With a bowtie this time, which is emphatically not an improvement.
Bruce takes his hand, fixes a smile on his face and draws him in close to mutter in his ear, "dial it back a bit, kid. I have a reputation to maintain."
"And we all know how much you value your reputation, Mr Wayne," is Kent's soft reply, eyes sharp behind the glasses. Still, he drops Bruce's hand, takes a step back. "I wanted to thank you," he says, more warmly. "In person. It was a generous gesture, but you understand why I couldn't—"
"Of course," Bruce says. He talks slightly over Kent's shoulder, brief reconnaissance while he figures out his next move. He reaches a decision, licks his lips. "I have the penthouse suite booked." Smile, friendly pat on the shoulder. Exit stage left.
*
"And I just wanted to make sure you knew," Kent says, a little flustered as Bruce edges him into the corner of the elevator. "I didn't think you were trying to, to buy me, or…"
Bruce grasps the elevator bars either side of Kent's arms, caging him in. Their reflections spread into infinity along the elevator walls, that damned suit reflected over and over again, tight across his chest, twisted around his wide arms, creased at his hips. "Good," he says. "Because I'm not."
"It's just, ethics," Kent says. The elevator dings at the seventh floor and Bruce leans in, applies a bit more pressure in the form of his lips near Kent's mouth. He's panicking a little, and if he's going to slip, it will be now. "Mr Wayne. Mr Wayne, please."
But Kent doesn't try to physically move him or move around him, or any other interesting tricks. The doors slide open, and he sags with relief when he sees there's nobody waiting to witnesses this little indiscretion of his.
"Please, what?"
Kent just lets out a breath and a nervous laugh, and tugs at Bruce's lapel. The doors glide shut again and the elevator continues upward.
*
The room is predictably ostentatious: low-lit gold and cream, thick pile and polished surfaces. Outside the immense windows, Gotham shimmers beneath them like a smoke haze. Kent takes it all in with unadorned delight and it kind of pisses Bruce off that the fresh-faced farmboy thing isn't actually an act.
(He's done a little research: Clark Kent is a Kansas boy through and through. Apparently.)
"This thing is probably bigger than my actual bedroom," Kent says. He pushes his hand against the bed, makes the mattress dip.
Bruce sighs internally and unfastens the button of his jacket, sits on the edge of the bed and gestures for Kent to come closer. He does, obedient in a way that sets Bruce's teeth on edge, because he can tell that is more like an act. It's frustrating, trying to get a solid read on the guy.
"Take that damn jacket off," Bruce says.
Kent smiles wide as he slips the buttons then shrugs it to the floor, and Bruce knows that he has been waiting for him to say that.
"You wore it deliberately," Bruce says, tugging Kent's shirt free from the waistband of his slacks. "Didn't you?"
"I told you, it's my best jacket."
"It's not a jacket, it's a crime." Bruce slides his palm under Kent's shirt, against the flat of his stomach; he feels the shift of muscle at Kent's gentle laugh. He'd be well-built for a physical trainer. For a reporter, he's outright ludicrous.
Bruce's chest tightens with suspicion even as he pushes the shirtcloth aside, even as he cups Kent's hips and lowers his head to kiss his stomach, as he mouths at his warm, unscarred skin.
He hears Kent's breath hitch, and again when Bruce presses the heel of his hand over him, already firming under the gabardine of his pants. "On your knees," Bruce says quietly, mouth against the arch of Kent's hipbone.
Bruce splays his legs and Kent drops between them, fingers shaking a little as he unfastens Bruce's fly. His glasses are slightly askew. Bruce goes to adjust them or take them off maybe, but Kent ducks his head away. "Don't," he says, clipped.
"Why not?" Bruce asks, because that tripped an alarm, set some red flags waving. He tries again, fingertips brushing a lens before Kent jerks away again.
"Because without them I'm blind," Kent says, his hand around Bruce's cock, warm and still. He fixes Bruce with a steady gaze. "As a bat."
It's plainly a bluff, even if it's uncomfortably precise one. Bruce shakes off the sudden spike of adrenaline and grins lazily, holds both hands up in mock surrender. Kent thins his lips but starts sliding his hand down Bruce's cock, which means Bruce can sigh and loll his head back and make indulgent, distracting noises.
"Good," he murmurs, when Kent finally puts his mouth on him. He's clumsy, obviously hasn't done this before but he's trying hard to please, and something about that is threatening Bruce's control. His heart skips again, puts a dent in his iron will, and again he gets that feeling that he's misjudged something, he's missed some critical clue.
(He does this very infrequently, contrary to the prurient speculation in the gossip rags. And never with the same person twice, never—)
"Up," Bruce says, and then gestures for Kent to lean in so Bruce can unfasten his bowtie and tug his collar open, drag his mouth against Clark's (Clark? Kent's) neck until his stubble reddens his skin. "Take your shirt off, son."
Kent leisurely unbuttons, eyes flicking between Bruce's mouth and his cock, wet and curved against the dark of his suit. "You're really into this, huh?" he says.
It's not untrue, but Bruce isn't the only one who's hard, here. Kent is flushed from cheekbones to chest, the line of his pants conspicuously ruined. Bruce just raises an eyebrow. "Back on your knees," he says.
He touches Kent's face as he sucks him, runs his thumb across Kent's strong jaw, softly pats his cheek to let him know he's doing good, he's learning. By the time Kent figures out what to do with his tongue, Bruce is almost there and has to pull himself from between Kent's lips so he can come on his collarbone, across his shoulder.
Kent jerks himself while Bruce watches, one hand splayed over Bruce's leg, pulling the fabric taut. His mouth is slack; Bruce slips his thumb across his lower lip. "Tell me what you're thinking about."
"You," Kent gasps, and licks at Bruce's thumb. "Last time, in the car."
"What about it?"
"I— I wanted to kiss you."
"Why didn't you?"
"I don't know…" Kent is panting, face tight as he works at himself. "I didn't think—"
Bruce takes his chin, tips his head back and kisses him firmly, holds him like that until he finishes shuddering and gasping against Bruce's mouth. He lets go and Kent goes lax, rests his cheek against the inside of Bruce's thigh.
Bruce pets his hair while making a show of checking his watch. "Listen, I have to go say a few words downstairs soon. Get yourself cleaned up."
*
"I have a question," Bruce says, as they stand in the elevator foyer. The bell dings and the doors slide open. "Downstairs, earlier. How did you mark me so quickly?"
Kent starts almost imperceptibly, and his expression becomes carefully still. He shrugs. "I'm not sure. I just knew."
"Out of an entire hall full of people."
Kent nods, steps into the elevator. "Well, you know. Some questions are hard to answer," he says, pressing the elevator buttons. He pauses, indecision plain in the furrow of his brow, until the doors begin to slide shut. Then he says, "for instance, why are you armed to the teeth, Bruce Wayne?"
*
Batman crouches atop one of Gotham's spires, looking out over his city, waiting. It was pretty damned obvious, in retrospect, and he would feel like an idiot if the boy hadn't also fooled the rest of the world along with him. Still, for his efforts, he's managed to learn a few things that he doubts anyone else knows.
(He thinks about Kent wanting to kiss him, and his heart skips.
FILL: Sometimes, Always, Never (2/2!)
Italian cut in navy, wool-silk blend; London cut three-piece charcoal business suit with silk tie; Savile Row tuxedo with crisply starched shirt, bowtie, cufflinks. Every conceivable combination of cuff and collar, stripe and check, button and lining. An entire drawer of collar pins and tie clips. They might be expensive, the collection vast, but fact is they're just costumes. Artifice.
That's not to say he doesn't like them—there is, after all, nothing quite like a man in a good suit—but their primary function is to give Bruce Wayne, who has been constructed with as much attention to detail as any of his ensemble, a certain verisimilitude. None of them have been spared a drink down the front at one point or another.
His best suit, though, the one that, if pressed (pressed very hard), he'll admit has a borderline fetishistic importance, that suit is worth more than all of them put together. As black as Gotham's darkest shadow, tighter than his own skin, it's a kevlar and leather creature that helps keep the howling void of his heart from collapsing him into a black hole.
It's armor. It's a weapon. It's the truth of him.
*
Kent turns down his gift, of course. He sends a letter, hand-written and carefully worded—oh, so carefully worded, as though he fears Bruce will read it as a rejection of more than just the suit.
But Bruce is excellent at reading between the lines, and can only be pleased by the show of integrity even if Kent is wavering on the interpersonal side of things. He may project an air of youth, but is not as easily malleable as Bruce first thought—is not as naive as he seems. Bruce is familiar with such fronts, and it makes him wonder what secret Kent might be hiding.
It is by no means important that he find out, but Bruce is not one to ignore a mystery, nor back down from a challenge.
*
He chooses to be more punctual for engagements on his own turf; it's the kind of thoughtless self-centredness that people expect from him. The car pulls up and he closes his eyes briefly, takes a breath, prepares to go through the motions. Slink out of the back seat, button his jacket. Shake with whomever offers a hand; pause halfway up the hotel steps and smile, vacant and glassy-eyed, to the paparazzi. Enter Bruce Wayne, stage right.
It's black tie tonight so his outfit didn't need much consideration: midnight evening suit, bow tie imperfectly tied—just slightly off, barely noticeable but subtle enough to make him seem slightly more approachable than usual. He has a feeling in his gut, a low-key portent that he trusts well, so there are also narrow blades in the seams, smokescreen tabs in hidden pockets, a tranq dart up his sleeve.
He takes a flute of champagne from a passing tray, turns to mingle with the hall of suits and low-backed dresses and extravagant glitter—and instead is presented with Clark Kent in profile, standing across the floor, gesturing with a canapé to an entertained-looking woman.
Bruce's heart skips. This is the first clue that he has misjudged something. The second clue comes a fraction of a second later when Kent stops mid-sentence and turns to look directly at him, precisely where he stands among all the other identical black ties in the room.
Bruce watches as Kent says a few words to his lady friend, all self-depreciating smiles and apologetic gestures: work, you know?. Then he's striding towards Bruce, extending his hand before he's even a half-dozen paces away, gauche and unassuming as though he hadn't just pinpointed Bruce in a crowded room before he could even take a breath.
And, of course, he's wearing that same goddamn suit. With a bowtie this time, which is emphatically not an improvement.
Bruce takes his hand, fixes a smile on his face and draws him in close to mutter in his ear, "dial it back a bit, kid. I have a reputation to maintain."
"And we all know how much you value your reputation, Mr Wayne," is Kent's soft reply, eyes sharp behind the glasses. Still, he drops Bruce's hand, takes a step back. "I wanted to thank you," he says, more warmly. "In person. It was a generous gesture, but you understand why I couldn't—"
"Of course," Bruce says. He talks slightly over Kent's shoulder, brief reconnaissance while he figures out his next move. He reaches a decision, licks his lips. "I have the penthouse suite booked." Smile, friendly pat on the shoulder. Exit stage left.
*
"And I just wanted to make sure you knew," Kent says, a little flustered as Bruce edges him into the corner of the elevator. "I didn't think you were trying to, to buy me, or…"
Bruce grasps the elevator bars either side of Kent's arms, caging him in. Their reflections spread into infinity along the elevator walls, that damned suit reflected over and over again, tight across his chest, twisted around his wide arms, creased at his hips. "Good," he says. "Because I'm not."
"It's just, ethics," Kent says. The elevator dings at the seventh floor and Bruce leans in, applies a bit more pressure in the form of his lips near Kent's mouth. He's panicking a little, and if he's going to slip, it will be now. "Mr Wayne. Mr Wayne, please."
But Kent doesn't try to physically move him or move around him, or any other interesting tricks. The doors slide open, and he sags with relief when he sees there's nobody waiting to witnesses this little indiscretion of his.
"Please, what?"
Kent just lets out a breath and a nervous laugh, and tugs at Bruce's lapel. The doors glide shut again and the elevator continues upward.
*
The room is predictably ostentatious: low-lit gold and cream, thick pile and polished surfaces. Outside the immense windows, Gotham shimmers beneath them like a smoke haze. Kent takes it all in with unadorned delight and it kind of pisses Bruce off that the fresh-faced farmboy thing isn't actually an act.
(He's done a little research: Clark Kent is a Kansas boy through and through. Apparently.)
"This thing is probably bigger than my actual bedroom," Kent says. He pushes his hand against the bed, makes the mattress dip.
Bruce sighs internally and unfastens the button of his jacket, sits on the edge of the bed and gestures for Kent to come closer. He does, obedient in a way that sets Bruce's teeth on edge, because he can tell that is more like an act. It's frustrating, trying to get a solid read on the guy.
"Take that damn jacket off," Bruce says.
Kent smiles wide as he slips the buttons then shrugs it to the floor, and Bruce knows that he has been waiting for him to say that.
"You wore it deliberately," Bruce says, tugging Kent's shirt free from the waistband of his slacks. "Didn't you?"
"I told you, it's my best jacket."
"It's not a jacket, it's a crime." Bruce slides his palm under Kent's shirt, against the flat of his stomach; he feels the shift of muscle at Kent's gentle laugh. He'd be well-built for a physical trainer. For a reporter, he's outright ludicrous.
Bruce's chest tightens with suspicion even as he pushes the shirtcloth aside, even as he cups Kent's hips and lowers his head to kiss his stomach, as he mouths at his warm, unscarred skin.
He hears Kent's breath hitch, and again when Bruce presses the heel of his hand over him, already firming under the gabardine of his pants. "On your knees," Bruce says quietly, mouth against the arch of Kent's hipbone.
Bruce splays his legs and Kent drops between them, fingers shaking a little as he unfastens Bruce's fly. His glasses are slightly askew. Bruce goes to adjust them or take them off maybe, but Kent ducks his head away. "Don't," he says, clipped.
"Why not?" Bruce asks, because that tripped an alarm, set some red flags waving. He tries again, fingertips brushing a lens before Kent jerks away again.
"Because without them I'm blind," Kent says, his hand around Bruce's cock, warm and still. He fixes Bruce with a steady gaze. "As a bat."
It's plainly a bluff, even if it's uncomfortably precise one. Bruce shakes off the sudden spike of adrenaline and grins lazily, holds both hands up in mock surrender. Kent thins his lips but starts sliding his hand down Bruce's cock, which means Bruce can sigh and loll his head back and make indulgent, distracting noises.
"Good," he murmurs, when Kent finally puts his mouth on him. He's clumsy, obviously hasn't done this before but he's trying hard to please, and something about that is threatening Bruce's control. His heart skips again, puts a dent in his iron will, and again he gets that feeling that he's misjudged something, he's missed some critical clue.
(He does this very infrequently, contrary to the prurient speculation in the gossip rags. And never with the same person twice, never—)
"Up," Bruce says, and then gestures for Kent to lean in so Bruce can unfasten his bowtie and tug his collar open, drag his mouth against Clark's (Clark? Kent's) neck until his stubble reddens his skin. "Take your shirt off, son."
Kent leisurely unbuttons, eyes flicking between Bruce's mouth and his cock, wet and curved against the dark of his suit. "You're really into this, huh?" he says.
It's not untrue, but Bruce isn't the only one who's hard, here. Kent is flushed from cheekbones to chest, the line of his pants conspicuously ruined. Bruce just raises an eyebrow. "Back on your knees," he says.
He touches Kent's face as he sucks him, runs his thumb across Kent's strong jaw, softly pats his cheek to let him know he's doing good, he's learning. By the time Kent figures out what to do with his tongue, Bruce is almost there and has to pull himself from between Kent's lips so he can come on his collarbone, across his shoulder.
Kent jerks himself while Bruce watches, one hand splayed over Bruce's leg, pulling the fabric taut. His mouth is slack; Bruce slips his thumb across his lower lip. "Tell me what you're thinking about."
"You," Kent gasps, and licks at Bruce's thumb. "Last time, in the car."
"What about it?"
"I— I wanted to kiss you."
"Why didn't you?"
"I don't know…" Kent is panting, face tight as he works at himself. "I didn't think—"
Bruce takes his chin, tips his head back and kisses him firmly, holds him like that until he finishes shuddering and gasping against Bruce's mouth. He lets go and Kent goes lax, rests his cheek against the inside of Bruce's thigh.
Bruce pets his hair while making a show of checking his watch. "Listen, I have to go say a few words downstairs soon. Get yourself cleaned up."
*
"I have a question," Bruce says, as they stand in the elevator foyer. The bell dings and the doors slide open. "Downstairs, earlier. How did you mark me so quickly?"
Kent starts almost imperceptibly, and his expression becomes carefully still. He shrugs. "I'm not sure. I just knew."
"Out of an entire hall full of people."
Kent nods, steps into the elevator. "Well, you know. Some questions are hard to answer," he says, pressing the elevator buttons. He pauses, indecision plain in the furrow of his brow, until the doors begin to slide shut. Then he says, "for instance, why are you armed to the teeth, Bruce Wayne?"
*
Batman crouches atop one of Gotham's spires, looking out over his city, waiting. It was pretty damned obvious, in retrospect, and he would feel like an idiot if the boy hadn't also fooled the rest of the world along with him. Still, for his efforts, he's managed to learn a few things that he doubts anyone else knows.
(He thinks about Kent wanting to kiss him, and his heart skips.
It doesn't take long for him to be found.)
"Hey," Superman says. "Nice suit."
***