Chapter Text
Drip. Drop. Drip.
It’s well into the night. Cold winds drift through the cave. Above, the stalactites dribble their moisture to the stalagmites below. The scent of iron wafts in the air. Bruce draws his jaw tight as the point of a needle pierces skin. Distracted. He takes a breath, narrows his senses. Course thread pulls and stitches his flesh together. Cyclic loops counting. One, two, three, and on. The pain is familiar. Its sharp sting has dulled with aged repetition, but Bruce clings to it, focuses on the jagged friction and smell of antiseptic. With each stitch he hopes it will remind him, refocus him.
“Master Kent stopped by earlier,” Alfred says.
“I remember. You reminded him of my case?” Bruce asks.
“Of course, sir. However, he mentioned his…concerns before leaving.”
“Concerns?”
“He’s come to believe you are avoiding him.”
Bruce grunts. “Kent can think what he wants.”
Twenty-seven days since he’s last seen Clark Kent. It’s been easier to avoid him than Bruce had predicted. For a man who can punch through walls, fly around the world in minutes, and hear a million miles away, he’s polite to a fault. And Bruce can only be grateful for it.
“Master Bruce, if I may,” Alfred asks.
He pauses, mid sew, and meets Bruce’s eyes. In the low light of the cave, the needle glints. A warning that Alfred holds the strings of Bruce’s health in his hands.
Bruce grunts in assent. Alfred’s sewing resumes. They are at eleven stitches. Four more to go.
“The number of injuries you have sustained this month are substantial compared to the year’s average. Resting for the night would be the wisest course of action,” Alfred says.
Breathe in. Three. The needle pierces and pulls his skin.
“Salvatore Maroni escaped tonight because of my mistake. With him back on the streets, the war between Falcone and his gang will reignite. Gotham can’t afford another turf war after Penguin’s bombing of The Narrows last week.”
And breathe out. Two.
“A night will make no difference. Maroni has enough sense to strategize before moving.”
One. A pinch as his chest. Bruce winces. With a tug, Alfred threads the last loop. When the knot pulls taught, Bruce closes his eyes tight. A familiar draw pulls at his navel. It’s not enough. He knew it wouldn’t be, and yet he still curses. He needs to smother this burning, route out the addiction before it takes hold. To get back out there, into the night, into the shadows, into the sludge and grime of Gotham’s streets.
“All the more reason to head out,” Bruce says.
He pulls out his IV and steps off the medical table. A breeze brushes over his bare chest. The hairs on his arms stand. Oversensitive. All his nerves are wound tight like a live wire.
Drip.
Another droplet splatters and echoes through the grottoes and passages. With it a howl of wind shrieks through the cavern. The bats above stir and fly about, panicked.
“And this would have nothing to do with your gallivant off world?” Alfred asks.
“No,” Bruce says.
One of Alfred’s brows raises in disbelief. He’s entirely unconvinced with Bruce’s behavior, and Bruce knows it’s well within his reason to be. Since coming back from Tartarus, Bruce has been…erratic. His moods, near mercurial.
He turns from Alfred to the armory. There he can choose another suit, one free of the tear in its Kevlar. Bruce finds his choice in a carbon nanotube material. Heavier than his other suits but fit for high caliber bullets. He expects Maroni won’t go down without a firefight.
“Nobody can shake off their own shadow,” Alfred says.
“Does it look like I’m hiding from the dark?” Bruce flips the gauntlet on the table round, inspecting it’s grappling hook.
“Lying has become second nature to you. I believe it would even fool me if not for the isolation. Perhaps confiding in someone who was privy to the more discretionary details would be advised.”
Bruce stills with one hand over the latch of his greaves. The sensation of adamantine flesh pressing into skin steals thought.
“Not necessary,” Bruce grits out.
“So you say,” Alfred draws but his eyebrow is cocked, one eye on Bruce’s trembling hand.
Bruce clenches his fist.
Silence drifts in. Bruce eases enough to return to his gear. One by one he attaches the pieces. Greaves, shoulder guards, chest piece, leg plating. He’s slipping into his boots when Alfred clears his throat.
“The woman,” Alfred says.
His fingers twitch. Terribly telling for him. His heart takes one awful slow beat before something vicious and filled with teeth crawls up his throat.
“So, the mysterious woman of Tartarus exists. I had guessed there was one from what Master Kent had mentioned. By accident of course,” Alfred says, impassive.
“No doubt given by your urging.”
Bruce closes his eyes, tries to will in the calm. But the tides inside him have changed. They’ve become wild, erratic.
“I ask only because I am concern, but did she do something to you?”
“Nothing that hasn’t already been done.”
And Bruce doesn’t have to lie. This desire, this treacherous want, had been buried there all along, ignorant as he was. Now that it has been unearthed, he doesn’t know if he can weather the storm, if he can bear the brunt of knowing. So, he clasps the final latches on his boots, takes to the night, and prays it erases the remnant of Tartarus.
Salvator Maroni is jailed at the crack of dawn the next day, leaving Bruce with an inch deep laceration across his abdominals and a week’s suspension from patrol. Which times perfectly with a soiree hosted at Wayne Manor’s West Wing Pool Lounge.
Hidden in the maze of the manor, Bruce readies himself. Calloused fingers smooth across his chest, atop what hides stitched flesh. The synthetic skin patches cover him, removing scars from bullet holes and stabbings. What’s left can be written off as sporting accidents. He takes another look in the mirror, at his tight swimwear and bare chest. His hair is slicked back, drawn in sharp angles. It’s a different costume unlike the one he dons at night. Too bare, too clean. Checking his watch, he’s right on time. Bruce grabs a linen button down, tone matching his shorts, pulls a towel over his shoulder, and exits for the stairs.
As always, Alfred’s work is impeccable. The Pool Lounge is filled tonight with a VIP list of prominent glitterati. Patrons occupy the daybeds, chairs, and sofas idly enjoying their libations as wait staff cater to their whims. Bruce enters through the French doors, smiling at guests as he walks by.
“It’s Brucie.”
“Oh, I see why they’ve chosen a swimwear spread now.”
“So, he did win the polls?”
They murmur and stare but make no approach. It’s an hour till nightfall. Brilliant shades of scarlet touch the horizon through the tall windows as gentle blue filters in through the skylighted ceiling. The gathering is bathed in gold when Bruce stands atop the diving platform. He’s gathered a crowd, as he believed he would.
“I’m sorry that I’m late, but I’m glad to see you all got started without me,” Bruce’s voice echoes across the high ceilings of the lounge.
“We’re in your home, Brucie. How are you the last to arrive?” someone yells, gathering some laughs.
“Perfection takes time,” he smirks, ripping off the linen button-down and throwing it to the crowd.
The synthetic grafts do their job. Flawless skin sparkles under the golden lights while the crowd whistles and shouts.
“I wouldn’t have received a call from People’s magazine if I wasn’t someone worth waiting for.”
He walks down the platform as if a runway. It’s showmanship that guides him. Grand gestures, grand words over a façade of vanity.
“I’ll keep things brief. Yes, you heard it right. I received the call last week from the People’s Magazine. Yes, the invitations to this little party were sent out two weeks ago, but I think we all know I’d never lose.”
He smiles devilishly and once again waits until the whistles subside.
“So, celebrate, drink, party, and get a little wet in between.” He winks. “Oh, and do check out our eligible cover boys and girls, highest bidders by the end of night earn a date with them, after all.”
Bruce falls off the platform, arms outstretched then tucked in to allow for a series of delicate flips. Only a quiet splash sounds as he hits the water. The guests clap and cheer as he comes out, water sluicing over his body. Alfred holds out a tray with a glass on it, unimpressed with the theatrics and pointedly glancing at the covered stitches on Bruce’s stomach. Bruce offers a roguish grin before taking the drink.
There amongst the crowds of guests barely dressed, Bruce settles in. They flock to him with covetous looks. Want bared naked. Wealth, vanity, power. Hedonistic debauchery. Here, it’s easy to find someone to fall into bed with, easy to replace the heat of one with another. And that’s just what he needs. A willing body to warm him at night. Before he knows it, Bruce has a model on one arm and a celebrity of sorts on the other. He allows himself to fall into it, indulge himself in drink, in pleasure, free from the night that creeps closer. So, it comes to him in a rush. Quiet footfalls, the scent of corn flowers, dirt, the summer sun. His jaw winds tight.
“Mr. Wayne, could I have a few quotes for the Planet?” Clark Kent asks.
He’s in a ridiculous set of swimwear. Obnoxious pink and blue flowers atop neon orange fabric. An oversized beach shirt drowns the perfect lines of his body. Something perhaps found on a tourist rack near a beach. Bruce does a once over, expression unimpressed despite that terrible pull at his navel.
“The Planet? You aren’t the five-foot-six blonde I asked for.” Bruce’s brows pinch like the scowl of batman, but it’s all debonair Brucie on show.
The woman on his right arm giggles, while the man on his other smirks.
“Unfortunately, she’s out on a business trip. I came as her replacement,” Clark says.
Bruce blinks. He wasn’t informed of the change.
“That’s rather unfortunate. Miss Grant has always dressed to ‘impress,’ Kemp. I can’t say your shirt and shorts does much for the eye.”
More snickering from his companions follows.
Clark’s lip twitches. “What can I say? Not all of us are winners of People’s ‘Sexiest Man of the Year,’ Mr. Wayne.”
A lie. They both know what hides beneath the disguise. His marble smooth skin, sculpted muscles, and sun-kissed complexion. Bruce frowns, trying to focus on something else, on anything else like the teasing hand running down his chest. He keeps his pulse even with another calming breath.
“Yes, well you said it.” Bruce smirks. “So, what can I do—or answer—for the Planet?”
Clark glances at Bruce’s company. “Perhaps we could do this elsewhere?”
Somewhere alone is what he means. But Bruce isn’t interesting. He’s here for a distraction, to be Brucie Wayne for a night. Clark won’t ruin that.
“I don’t see why we should. Wouldn’t an interview such as this be best conducted amongst the stunningly beautiful and devilishly handsome?”
Bruce grips the woman’s waist tighter against him and trails his hand up the man’s neck. They take to it. A breathy gasp and flirtatious giggle. It anchors him.
Clark coughs. “I’ll have to insist,” and there is none of that bumbling babbling of Clark Kent anymore.
“See,” Bruce pouts, looking at his company for support, “this is why I prefer Cat. You’re no fun.”
The two turn to Clark, ready to beg him in Bruce’s stead. But Clark is faster.
“Ms. Gardener and Mr. Richardson, I’d also like to get a few words from the both of you regarding Vogue’s summer spread and the latest season of Bel-air if you’d allow me to speak with Mr. Wayne first.”
Bruce notices when the woman’s, Ms. Gardner’s, attention strays. It’s in the press of her body. Now angled away from him.
“It’ll only take a few minutes, yeah? Brucie, we can wait next to the bar,” Ms. Gardner says.
Bruce purses his lips but relents.
“Oh, well I guess duty calls.”
He gives a peck to each of his companion’s cheeks before they leave. Tension pours back into him. Senses heighten to an alarm. He gestures Clark to follow, walks ahead to work out the tense lines of his body away from Clark’s notice. They weave through the poolside and towards the stairs and mezzanine. Bruce snatches something stronger from the wait staff before scaling the stairs. Clark obediently follows but does not grab a drink of his own. In silence they find their stop at the marble banister, overlooking his guests below. It’s darker there, hidden in the shadows, aside from the flicker of a candle on the table behind. Bruce hides behind it, even if Clark can see despite the dark.
“Ask away, Kemp,” Bruce says, flourishing a careless hand. In his other, amber liquid swirls. The color of a Goddess’s bewitching eyes. A flare of loss prickles in him. Bruce wills it down.
“So, what went through your mind when you first heard the news?” Clark asks.
And then it begins. Clark’s list of questions is limited to ten. They aren’t invasive, mostly appealing to the vanity of it all. Asking about his younger age in comparison to the winners before, or about his diet and exercise routine. It’s not a challenge to answer with something as vapid and shallow as Brucie Wayne would.
“Just one more question, Mr. Wayne. Describe your ideal partner,” Clark says.
Bruce’s eyes the multitude of celebrities below, his gaze settling on a woman sitting by the far end of the pool. Her long legs slip into the water luxuriously as she leans back. Her hair, dimmed to an almost brown, glimmers in soft red flecks. She’s beautiful. Perhaps even more so than most of Bruce’s guests. But it does little for him. A spark akin to lightning creeps up his neck and cheek. Clark’s eyes are on him, and despite himself, he is helpless under it. Regardless of where he strays, Clark has his attention. Clark looks away, the sensation fades, and Bruce knows he sees what Bruce does.
“Someone delicate. Someone that fits in my arms,” Bruce lies, but knows his heart beats steady. “Beautiful, brave, bewitching.”
Everything that resembles Bekka. Like this it’s easy to fool himself. That with as little time as they spent together, she was enough to bring forth the leashed desires he holds.
“Is there a particular lucky lady or sir that fits the description?” Clark asks.
Bruce turns. He studies the scarlet waves that ripple across Clark’s skin. The candlelight warms him in the image of a brilliant garnet sculpture. It’s breathtaking. Captivating. He looks away.
“You...I, and all of Gotham know there isn’t.”
Another lie. Bruce brings the chilled glass to his lips, feels the burn of whiskey down his throat.
“Bruce.… You,” Clark swallows and stutters. “Alright. I believe that’s all I have. Thank you for your time, Mr. Wayne.”
“No need for pleasantries. I hope you enjoy your evening, Kent.”
Bruce waves him off dismissively, watching the crowd. Clark closes his notes, pockets his phone, but doesn’t leave. Instead, he comes closer, leans against the railing. The warmth of him radiates like a sun. Distracting. Bruce has another sip, replacing one heat with another. Clark doesn’t open conversation as nightfall touches the manor. The skylighted ceiling swallows the light below but remains darkened. Bruce swirls his glass. The clink of ice dances in the low light, amber liquid shifting from gold to burgundy. It’s quiet on this overlook. The guests bustle below, but their noise is muted.
“You know how to fill a venue.”
Bruce remains quiet.
“I think half of the Planet was jealous when they heard I got the job in place of Cat. A bunch of A-list celebs and models at a pool party? Gosh. We’ll be seeing pictures in the tabloids for weeks after this.”
“Most likely,” he says, boorish.
“I think even Lois was a little jealous,” Clark chuckles.
Bruce’s lips pull taut before he can get a hold of himself.
“I can already picture the click-bait articles about best beach babe or beach boy. I’ll bet Cat will write one of her own.”
“Hmm.” He smooths out his expression.
“Now that I think about it, those bathing suits are probably twice my monthly salary. Seems a waste for as little fabric as you’re paying for. You know where I got this?”
Clark gestures up and down at the tourist couture he’s sporting. Bait.
“Enlighten me,” Bruce bites.
“The cruise.” Bruce furrows his brows. “You don’t mean….”
“Yeah. Owlboy. Ultraman. Our doppelgängers or evil twins, I guess. Do you still have that fluffy boa robe?”
“No,” he lies.
It’s in his closet, tucked away in a box. Bruce shakes his head, huffing out a laugh. The responding smile is blinding. And Clark shuffles in a bit closer, elbows brushing.
“Oh, woah. Is that Margo Robbie by the saunas?” Clark asks.
He squints his eyes even though Bruce knows he doesn’t need to. It must be a quirk he’s picked up trying to fit in when he’s always been other. Bruce smiles, facing the crowd, and listens as Clark continues babbling. The incessant chatter should grate on his nerves. Its subject matter, dull. The goal, pointless. But he leans into the banister and lets it drone in the background. Clark has always had that small-town charm. Easily excitable, optimistic, warm. Genuine in a way that softens him. With Clark, Bruce doesn’t have to worry about lies or deception. It’s laid out bare for him to see—to trust. They say opposites attract. Maybe that’s how he’s ended up like this.
Enamored with something he can’t have.
“—Interesting event. A celebration and charity donation all in one. Last I checked the bids on the dates with a cover man or woman were approaching a million,” Clark says.
“Is that so? I hadn’t noticed,” Bruce says a little too low, a little too gravelly distinct from Brucie Wayne.
He’s slipping.
“Yes, using this newfound attention to gather donations for the New York disaster relief fund is very generous. You’re doing a good thing, Mr. Wayne,” and God, Clark sounds so warm, so proud when he says it.
He shrugs, uncaring. “What can I say? Everyone would be a philanthropist if a million were chump change to them.”
“I’m serious, Bruce. You’ve got all this wealth, so much that you could waste away in a manor drowning in riches, yet you give it away with every chance. Whether it be charity, or your other job, you give back. And I’ve never questioned it because you do it so easily. Like your responsibilities and duties are the only thing that you can see. And sometimes…sometimes I forget you’re just a man, that you have wants, desires just like the rest of us.”
The yearning tugs viciously at Bruce’s stomach. It’s irrational, the urge. Suddenly, Bruce wants to give everything away, all his time, money, effort, to charities, non-profits, foundations, all to make Clark look away—look his way. He closes his eyes in a sigh. It sickens him how much he wants.
“It’s been a while since we’ve had time to talk like this,” Clark says, happy.
Bruce can’t meet his eyes. “We both have our responsibilities. Times like these will only grow rarer.”
“I don’t know, Bruce. I feel like the space between us has widened and not because of our duties.”
“Things change.”
Different priorities, different lives. They’ll grow apart as life moves forward.
“Is something wrong?” Clark asks.
When Bruce turns to face him, there’s nothing left of the reporter other than the garish clothing. It’s all Superman, all Kal in those intent eyes.
“Does there have to be?” he asks.
“Answering a question with a question?” Clark says.
“We can go in circles if you’d like.”
Clark levels an unimpressed look.
“You can’t deny you’ve been more distant since…since Tartarus,” he starts, cards already shown. “Everyone has barely seen you in the past five weeks. You appear for your weekly monitor duty and leave without a word to anyone, and I heard from Diana you’re on extended leave from all League missions barring world-ending events.”
“Gotham’s crime rates have risen while I’ve been busy with the League. I don’t have the time.”
“But it’s not just the League, you haven’t let me—” Clark closes his eyes, tired“—or Diana come by the cave either.”
“I didn’t know weekly socials with coworkers were mandatory.”
“Coworkers? We’re your friends, Bruce. I-we care for you,” Clark says, voice rising.
Bruce knows he means it, means it with his whole heart. But it’s not the care Bruce wants. Not the sort that allows Bruce to grab him by that God awful shirt, press him up against the wall, breathe in the scent of corn flowers, lean in, and, and….
“—Listen, I can’t tell if you’re being disagreeable to piss me off…. Actually, never mind. You probably are. But that’s beside the point. We can dance around this forever, but Tartarus was the catalyst of whatever this is. You know you don’t have to be alone. You know you don’t have to force yourself to be alone, right?”
“I’m not.” Bruce brandishes a lazy hand at the gathering below. “Can’t you see the guest turnout? I’m anything but alone tonight.”
Bruce eyes him, angles for another nerve to press.
“That’s not what I-…. Stop. Just stop.” Clark grips his shoulder as if Bruce will flee. “That woman. On Tartarus. I’ve never seen you so…vulnerable. She meant something, didn’t she?”
Bruce’s grip on his champagne glass tightens. “Yes,” he thinks.
“No,” he says.
“Don’t lie to me. I know you, Bruce. I saw it. The way you held her, that look in your eyes. There was something I never thought you were—” Clark stutters, drags a hand down his face. “She meant something to you,” he states.
“Yes,” Bruce growls out, pushing Clark’s hands from him.
The honesty, it feels a little like being stabbed. A jolt of pain, then you’re bleeding out. Slow, sluggish. Exposed.
“You barely knew her.”
If it was anyone else, it would’ve sounded like a jibe. But Bruce knows better. Clark is worried, perhaps even suspects that Bekka put him under some sort of spell.
“Bekka has an…effect on men like me. Men who deny themselves certain…desires. It leaves an impression to have something you crave so desperately within grasp.”
The confession rips him raw. Bruce closes his eyes. He can feel the touch of skin against his, the familiar pull at his stomach. That horrid want Bekka had warned him of.
“I’m defined by a power or obsession. In my case some might call it an affliction. For Darkseid it’s a yearning for ultimate control. For Desaad, it’s an addiction to pain. For me, it’s the creation of desire, both physical and emotional. I draw it from others like a siren’s call…. It happens most strongly with men who have denied themselves love.”
And what love had Bruce denied himself of?
When he opens his eyes, he doesn’t look at Clark, can’t for fear of that disastrous want. Instead, he finds that woman from before. The one still at the far end of the pool. Her amber eyes have spotted him now, glances flirtatious and hungry.
“Like a spell?” Clark asks. “You were bewitched with something you, um, abstain from?” he coughs.
Bruce welcomes the distanced observation. “Well, she is a Goddess, and we both know how dangerous and demanding our work is. I don’t have the luxury for a partner.”
“But you’re in the tabloids every other week for another one of your, one of your, uh.”
“We can call them dalliances for your delicate sensibilities, boy scout.” he smirks.
“You aren’t distracting me from this. So, your one-night-stands don’t count? Then it isn’t just….”
“It isn’t just sex.” Bruce grins wide and mean.
“Oh. Uh. Right.” Clark’s skin flushes scarlet from cheek to neck as he swallows. Bruce tracks the bob of his throat. “Well, I, um, I manage time for Lois. So surely you can, uh, you know.”
Something vile sits in Bruce’s chest. He smothers it.
“We can’t all be faster than a speeding bullet. The risk is to high.”
He can almost hear the frown in return.
“So instead you’re burying yourself in”—Clark makes a vague gesture at the gathering—“in all this.”
“Hedonism is an excellent distraction.”
Bruce shrugs, feels Clark’s eyes finally leave him. The cold has settled in with the night. The sun long set.
“Was she devastating enough to require a pool full of ‘the stunningly beautiful and devilishly handsome’?” Clark asks.
Bekka’s kiss rises to the surface, unbidden. The taste of it is on Bruce’s tongue. He takes a sip—more of a swig—of his champagne, allows the bittersweet tang of sour grapes to swirl in his mouth, taste unlike his desires, unlike that of rich coffee and rhubarb pie. Yet, he can’t seem to forget.
“Yes,” Bruce whispers inaudible to himself and knows Clark hears.
The silence returns, allowing the party’s noise to rest between them.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Clark asks.
“No.”
Bruce huffs out a laugh. It’s a tad more derisive than planned, but he doesn’t care. It stops the questioning at least. If only Clark knew. If only he knew how Bekka drew him in. How she’d become all the love that he repressed, how she had been twisted in another’s image, made him face the truth. The passion, obsession, and desire he holds in tight reign. The scent of cornflowers and the summer sun, the press of adamantine skin, the taste of coffee and rhubarb. He wants.
It’s always been Clark.
God help him.
“I’m so sorry, Bruce,” Clark whispers.
And Bruce can’t speak. His throat is tight. He fears his jaw may not work. In a strange way, Clark’s apology is a rejection. Bruce can only be thankful for it. It’s enough to fuel his resolve. To withdraw from Clark, slowly, intently. Systematically pull away from him. He has Lois, and Bruce has his obligations. With one short nod, Bruce steps away from their corner without a goodbye. The woman has been glancing at him suggestively. Her red hair burns bright underneath the lights that cascade down. She’s nothing of what he desires, but everything of what the siren’s call appeared to be. Bruce downs the rest of his drink and discards the glass at some table. He’ll drown himself in pleasure tonight, and perhaps it will be enough to rid him of this disastrous want.