Title: Happily Fractured
Disclaimer: Me no own, You no sue.
Warning: Slash
Note: The information of Bruce and Clark's first meeting is taken from "Batman & Superman: World's Finest"
Another Note: Things are kinda jolty in the beginning, but they'll smooth out and be explained.
-z-
Hips grinding and thrusting; riding the keeper of that red, blue, and gold.
Flesh against flesh.
The sparks fly.
Lust or love?
Neither cares. They have what they have and nothing else matters. The rest of the world can go to hell (figuratively, of course).
-
The anger rises, bubbles to the surface, becomes harder and harder to control.
Snarling and baring his teeth.
His grip on humanity starts to slip.
It's what he's wanted all along.
Insolent clown.
A cry from behind, turn, the pain is abrupt, crippling.
-
"What's the matter, Brucie?" jolted back into reality and, for a moment, he has to remember who and where he is.
Bruce. Bruce Wayne... this is my party.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hilda," he puts a hand to his temple, swoons a little. "I haven't been feeling well these last few days."
"Well then go lie down," Joy Hilda, an elderly and refined woman, orders softly. "You needn't push yourself needlessly."
And the Oscar goes to...
"Bruce," a strong voice and clap on the back.
Clark.
"Glad you could make it," Bruce says, his smile is real and the wink a little inside joke. "Has Metropolis been busy enough for you?"
"Always," Clark smiles, shakes Bruce's hand, giving it an extra squeeze as he says, "And how is Gotham's Prince? Saw the tabloids yesterday; you fell off another horse?"
"The same one actually, that little filly just doesn't like me," Bruce smiles tiredly, rolls his eyes, gestures for Clark to follow. Bruce takes him from the ballroom and into the hallway.
"Tough day at the office?" Clark asks with sincerity, watching Bruce lean against the wall, shoulders slumped and face twisted into a painful grimace.
"You know how bad summer can get here, everyone's so cranky," Bruce touches his side. "Joker escaped, didn't see the thugs behind me until they called out. Turned right into a lead pipe. Several, in fact."
"You break three ribs," Clark states, staring past Bruce's hand, "then throw a party?"
"Wanted to cheer myself up," Bruce shrugs his large shoulders. "And they didn't 'break,' they're just fractured."
Clark raises his eyebrows, sighs and shakes his head. "Tsk, tsk," his eyes stay on the three 'fractured' ribs and tries to ignore the way Bruce is looking at him.
"Get back here, Tim!" the shout comes from down the hall and Bruce is off the wall just in time to see Tim tearing around the corner, Dick not too far behind.
Tim didn't have time to stop.
Clark didn't realize what was happening.
Bruce wasn't fast enough injured. And now, as he lays coughing and sputtering on the floor, the cameras have started to flash and his guests have rushed out to see the cause of the commotion.
Dick hurriedly pulls Tim away, the younger boy apologizing frantically the entire time.
"The hell are you two thinking?" Bruce's voice is hoarse as he tries to sit up, tries to catch his breath, tries to ignore the rest of the socialites watching to see what he'll do.
"Bruce," Clark takes a step closer but freezes, something's off...
Bruce Wayne is pissed.
Bruce Wayne was never pissed. He got irritated, annoyed, indignant, maybe even a little mad, but never pissed.
"Dick," Bruce snarls, "how old are you?"
Dick Grayson looks down at the floor.
"The two of you know better!"
"Tim-"
"No excuses!" Bruce's voice is that of thunder, silencing even the camera shutters. "I've told you hundreds, if not thousands of times: RUN OUTSIDE! You want to be responsible for breaking something?! How long have you lived here, Dick, you can't remember that?" coughing and coughing, the ache of his ribs turns to agony.
"I'm really, really-"
"Go to your rooms," Bruce whispers, voice and breathing ragged. His normally blue eyes now stained black with fury as they stare through the two boys. No room for argument. "I don't wanna see either of you for the rest of the night." The ultimate punishment, banning them from his sight.
They say nothing, wouldn't dare, just turn, heads bowed in shame, and leave.
The silence is heavy and Clark is still afraid to move.
-
"Easy, Master Bruce," Alfred's cultured English voice always seemed to chase away at least some of the pain. The suit came off slowly and painfully. Bruce's breath hitched, the agony reduced to just a horrible ache.
"Well, your ribs are no longer 'fractured'," Clark said from the doorway. "Tim broke them the rest of the way."
"I'm gonna kill those two," Bruce growled under his breath.
"Might I suggest a few days of rest, sir?" Alfred's tone was tight and restrained, as if he shared Bruce's thoughts.
The young billionaire managed to shrug out of the rest of his tux and, clad only in silken boxers, crawled underneath the thick comforters of his large bed.
"Yeah," he nodded imperceptibly, closed his eyes. "Don't hurt 'em too much, Alfred, save me a piece."
"Of course, sir," Alfred bowed and left the room.
"G'night, Bruce," Clark turned to leave.
"Stay a while," Bruce's voice called to Clark's back, tone all dangerous seduction.
"You're injured," Clark reasoned. Then he made a mistake. He turned to look at Bruce as he talked. His grip suddenly tightened on the doorknob as his x-ray vision kicked in almost of its own accord.
"Ever tell you your x-ray vision turns me on?" Bruce's voice is low, almost guttural. A hand travels down, slides beneath the waistband, starts to stroke.
Clark tries to pry himself away, pry himself away from the pulse-accelerating sight in front of him, but he was caught. He knew it. Bruce knew it.
"C'mere, Clark," Bruce's voice is rough and filled with a desperate need.
Screw it. Clark threw the door shut and was grinding against Bruce before the thought was even finished.
Faster than a speeding bullet and all that.
-
"Bruce?"
"What, Tim," Bruce glared groggily at the door.
"Are you okay?" Tim's voice seemed so small as he walked into the room, ignoring the faceless lump at his caretaker's side just as experience has taught him to.
"What do you think?"
That you're okay. You're the one who got laid last night. Tim said nothing, just looked at the ground.
Bruce never took his eyes away from his ward. He could practically smell the guilt radiating from the child.
"There are rules for a reason," Bruce's voice softened. "When you don't follow those rules someone gets hurt. You should know, doing what we do. Now you and Dick get to work overtime until I'm better. Understood?"
The lump stirred and Tim nodded vigorously.
"Good," Bruce yawned, stretched and rolled onto his stomach. "What time is it, anyway?"
"Almost ten, sir." Tim's manners always improved when he was in trouble, either with Bruce or Alfred.
"Crap!" exclaimed the lump. Tim's eyebrows shot up and his jaw dropped as Clark Kent bolted upright.
"Lay back down," Bruce ordered quietly, shutting his eyes and snuggling deeper into his pillow.
Clark glared.
Tim stared.
"Close your mouth, Timmy," said a voice behind the younger boy.
Dick. Tim turned around and pointed to Bruce and Clark and began to stutter.
"It's not nice to point," Dick chided, taking a bite of an apple.
"Bruce and-and-and-"
"Clark," Clark threw out, rummaging around for his clothing.
"Batman and Superman!" Tim finally shouted, "I thought that they hated each other!"
"No," Dick shook his head, "Bruce likes Clark. Batman and Superman don't necessarily get along, though they get the job done."
At Tim's empty look, Dick shook his head again.
"Never mind, it's complicated. Just don't worry about it, it's not our business."
"Very true," Bruce stated as he sat up and grabbed Clark by the shirt he had just put on and pulled him back down onto the bed. "Will you two go tell Alfred to let The Daily Planet know that Clark Kent is doing some undercover work at Wayne Manor?"
"Yessir!" the boys took off, shutting the door behind them and trying to not think about what was going on behind it.
"Alfred," Dick tapped the elderly butler on the shoulder.
"Yes, Master Dick?" Alfred questioned, switching his attention from dusting to the two young men in front of him.
Tim relayed Bruce's message.
"I'll get right too it then," Alfred made his way over to the phone. "The Daily Planet will be wondering why Mr. Kent never shows the day after Master Bruces' parties.
"So," Tim started, turning to Dick, picking his words slowly and carefully, "when did Bruce and Kent, you know, get together?"
"I believe Master Bruce took an interest in Mr. Kent the night they first met," Alfred appeared next to the boys.
"How did you do that?" Tim was amazed.
"Al has magical powers when it comes to phones," Dick said.
"They met via Dr. Grey at the opening of his surgical center. Coincidently, this is also the same night Superman and Batman began their annual meetings."
"So did they, you know, hook up before learnin' that-"
"Several times," Dick interrupted Tim. "Bruce bedded that poor reporter by the third time they met. He may be a criminal's worst nightmare, but he was a Playboy before a Bat. Clark may be able to bend steel and outrun a speeding bullet, but Bruce is the master when it comes to the arts of seduction."
-
Hips grinding and thrusting; riding the keeper of that red, blue, and gold.
Flesh against flesh.
The sparks fly.
Lust or love?
Neither cares. They have what they have and nothing else matters. The rest of the world can go to hell (figuratively, of course).
-z-