A week later, Bruce called Kent.
The information that the reporter possessed was potentially disastrous and in no way could the situation be trusted to resolve on its own. To complicate matters further, it was made up of two separate issues which needed to be dealt with in separate ways: Firstly, the reporter himself needed to be carefully managed, so as to make sure that the published story would make as little of an impact as possible. Secondly, there was the matter of his source; where he had gotten a hold of the transaction records, and whether whoever controlled the material had or would leak it to others.
Kent was the key to all of it.
If the situation went any way other than perfectly, it had the potential to destroy everything. Even just a mediocre piece, published in a paper like the Planet, had the potential to marshal enough interest that someone would decide to take a closer look at his financials. And if they dug deep and hard enough…
All this Bruce told himself and still it felt like surrender, pressing his thumb to the glass on his phone.
"Hello?"
Bruce's heartbeat did something idiotic, and he closed his eyes and regretted every decision in his life that had brought him to this point.
"Yes, this is Bruce Wayne speaking."
The brief moment of absolute quiet told on the fact that Kent had not expected him to call. "Mr. Wayne! What can I do for you?"
"Get my butler off my back, if all goes well," Bruce replied.
"I'm sorry?" Kent asked, plainly confused.
"He made me promise to reimburse you for time spent napping," Bruce reminded him. "I've called to see if we could arrange settling the debt."
"Oh!" there was something distinctly uneasy about Kent's exclamation. "Well, I-"
"Please," Bruce interrupted, putting a stop to any objections before they could be voiced. "He seems to have lost all faith in my sense of manners and hasn't stopped pestering me about it; this is me selfishly saving my own skin."
Alfred hadn't mentioned Kent's visit once.
Very pointedly hadn't mentioned Kent's visit once.
Kent chuckled, and when he spoke the professionalism in his voice was cracking slightly. "I can see your problem there, Mr. Wayne, but really there is no need. Actually, I believe I owe you an apology."
"Is that so?"
"Yes, well, you see, after the incident at our first interview I called your PR department to see if it was possible to reschedule, and the lady that answered-"
"Yes, I understand that your heroics with the bomb charmed Alice sufficiently that she took a temporary leave of her senses and gave out my private number to a member of the press. Don't worry, she's not in any trouble."
"Well, that's a relief to hear, but the fact remains that-"
"Don't make me beg, Kent."
Goddamnit, he was flirting.
There was a heavy pause at the other end of the line.
"I suppose I won't, then," Kent said, in an odd tone of voice. "When would you like to meet?"
"I'll be in Metropolis all of next week."
"I'm… probably free Thursday afternoon. Four? Would that be suitable?"
"Yes, that'd be fine," he said, though his schedule for the day was, of course, packed.
"Where would you like to meet? Your office, mine?"
The question snapped Bruce back to the real issue at hand; either office was far too public to discuss the matter of the donations.
"Actually, I've been feeling a bit paranoid about having one-on-ones with the press in Metropolis as of late. Would you mind terribly if we met somewhere where we're not as likely to be interrupted by homicidal robots?"
Kent sounded reluctantly amused when he asked: "Did you have somewhere in mind?"
"I have a penthouse over by Fourth and Park, if that works?" Bruce said before he had time to properly think of the consequences.
Still, he hadn't anticipated Kent's hesitation.
"Of course you have a penthouse," Kent said, finally, somewhere between resigned and amused, "Yes, that'll be… fine."
Kent was late.
Not by much – not yet – but the extra minutes nevertheless had Bruce restless. The amber liquid in his glass was real whiskey, this time, by virtue of him being in away from Gotham and under enforced abstinence from any vigilante-related activities for the evening. The glass, however, had been neglected long enough that the ice in it had melted and diluted his drink.
Having felt stifled in the apartment he'd retreated onto the large balcony and now stood by its very edge, overlooking the foreign cityscape of Metropolis. The sun still hung bright in the clear sky, but had begun its descent towards the west and the shadows from the skyscrapers were growing tall. The life down on the streets was bustling, vibrant and noisy.
The unmistakable streak of red and blue that was Superman had swept across the skies twice, only during the time while Bruce had been outside.
He enjoyed the seclusion of his own home, but he could certainly appreciate the tactical advantage a view such as this would offer.
The doorbell rang.
Bruce startled, splashing whiskey over his hand.
Staring down at the dripping mess, he reminded himself he didn't believe in such things at bad omens.
He drew a deep breath, put the glass down on the table to his right, and chose the longer way inside. He took the route by the pool and dunked his hand in the water on his way by. There were towels stacked in the loungers, left there by housekeeping, and he picked the topmost one off the closest one and brought it with him, drying his fingers as he walked.
As he threw the towel over a barstool in the kitchen, he wondered if it wasn't perhaps just as well that he would smell like he was inebriated.
The doorbell rang again, just as Bruce jerked the door open.
Kent wore an ugly blue-checkered shirt, haphazardly tucked into beige khakis, and a faint blush.
"Good afternoon," Bruce said, a great deal less pleasantly than he had intended.
"Mr. Wayne!" Kent exclaimed, as though it was a surprise to find Bruce there. "I'm so sorry I'm late, I got… held up by a…"
Kent trailed off, eyes on the collar of Bruce's shirt. It was open, Bruce realized, and more so than could be considered decent, far down his chest. He wasn't wearing an undershirt.
The signs were fairly obvious: the flush deepening, licking of lips, probably some pupil dilation. But Bruce knew immediately, from the agitation in his own chest, that he wouldn't be able to make use of it.
Distractions ceased to be useful once they affected him as well.
"By a what?" he prompted, turning his back to Kent and heading back into the apartment, inviting the reporter to follow with a jerk of his head.
Once his back was to Kent he buttoned his shirt back up.
"Er, uh, I- a mugging," Kent said, hurrying to wrangle his coat off and throw it onto the hanger, pulling the door closed as an afterthought.
"A mugging?" Bruce inquired, sitting down in one sleek and uncomfortable couch and gesturing for Kent to take the other. "Is that newsworthy in Metropolis?"
"Er, no," Kent said, unshouldering his messenger bag and fishing pen and paper out of it. "I walked into it, a bit."
Bruce kept his eyes firmly in a different direction as the reporter bent over.
"Walked into it, a bit?" he repeated.
"Yes," Kent confirmed, finally sitting down. "I was taking a shortcut through an alley, and there they were. The guy startled and ran when I showed up, but the woman he'd tried to rob was pretty shaken up, so I stayed until the cops showed."
"Hm," Bruce said, "can't fault you for being late, then."
"I appreciate it," Kent said, smiling slightly.
Awkwardly.
His shoulders were hunched again, his voice high and trembling ever on the edge of a stutter, and he kept pushing up his glasses with the knuckle of his forefinger. Bruce disliked the reversion – more than was strictly warranted.
Gritting his teeth and reminding himself that he, too, had a persona to protect, he said to Kent with a wide and vapid smile: "Shall we get started?"
"Sure," Kent said, bending forward to pick up his bag. "Do you mind if I record?"
"Could we perhaps limit ourselves to notetaking?" Bruce asked; he had not yet settled on a method of persuasion and a recording device in the room would certainly limit his options.
Kent looked up and raised his eyebrows, and that piercing look did not belong to the fumbling reporter he pretended to be.
Bruce hurried to push down the vicious stab of satisfaction.
"It will take longer," Kent warned, not lowering his bag. Probably this was a powerful dissuasion to busy CEOs.
Bruce smiled, and forgot to think of connotations before he spoke. "I'm yours all night."
For all its... faults, the statement did prove efficient in getting Kent to drop the subject.
"Ah, okay, great," he said, flushing and letting the bag fall to the ground. "Perfect."
"Hm," Bruce said.
Kent was so busy with a doodle along the top of his pad that he didn't look up when he asked: "Why don't we start off with a comment about the attack?"
They did.
For the next two hours or so, Bruce was the perfect interviewee. He answered questions in detail, elaborated without having to be asked, paused often to give Kent time to take his notes, and gave several exclusive pieces of information. Kent, though this was their first proper interview, was clearly suspicious, but not so much so that he called Bruce out on what he was doing.
Then, finally, Kent clicked his pen twice and asked: "And would you like to comment on the charitable donations we discussed in our previous interview?"
Bruce, for all his planning, found himself at a loss for words.
"I have brought the papers with me if you would like to look over them?"
Bruce glanced up at Kent, wondering if the offer was meant as the opportunity for stalling that it sounded like. "Yes, please."
Kent nodded and brought forth a very thick blue folder from his bag. He rose slightly from the couch and reached across the table to hand it to Bruce. Their eyes met.
Bruce cleared his throat and opened the folder up.
Inside the stacks of paper were grouped with paperclips, stretched to their limit. Small and colorful tabs stuck out from between pages and, at a cursory flip-though, nearly every page seemed to contain annotations penned in a cramped hand. The topmost pile appeared to concern the money to the Affordable Housing Coalition that Kent had mentioned last the topic had come up.
Bruce looked up, and found Kent watching him.
"Well," he said, lips twisting upwards slightly, "what do you say, Mr. Wayne?"
"I'd say very much like to know who gave this to you, Kent."
To Bruce's surprise, Kent looked first confused, then insulted. "I do my own research, Wayne."
"I'm sure you do," Bruce said, "but this information is only available to someone with considerable skills with a computer."
Irritation twisted into slight bewilderment, and then cleared completely. Finally, Kent smiled wryly. "I see. Well, believe what you will, Mr. Wayne, but I do have the resources to retrieve that information on my own. No one else has it, and only you and I have seen it."
Bruce watched Kent, but the reporter only met his eyes unwaveringly.
"If you say so," Bruce said finally, not convinced either way, and leaned back on the couch.
Kent smiled. "If we could, perhaps, go back to my original question…?"
Bruce nodded.
Kent's smile widened, but he broke eye contact in favor of looking down at his notes, scribbling something that was probably nonsense in the margins.
It was – fairly plainly so – a way of giving Bruce space. An odd tactic, in Bruce's general experience: reporters tended to try to stress information out of him.
Perhaps that was why it gave him such pause. Was why Bruce didn't run through his tactics to find the most efficient, didn't check his list of lies to find the most convincing. Was why he sat and watched Kent try to make him feel comfortable enough to open up, and felt it work.
Damn it all to hell.
Bruce closed his eyes with a sigh, dragged a hands across his face and through his hair. "No."
Kent looked up, brow furrowed, pen still hovering over the paper. "No?"
"No, I would not like to comment on the donations," Bruce elaborated, shaking his head. "Frankly, Kent, it's something I have worked very hard to hide. To have it in the open like this…"
Kent's frown deepened, and he didn't move his hand away from his pad.
"I understand that it isn't a fair thing to ask of you, but I would see it as a favor, to me personally, if you could refrain from publishing."
Kent leaned back in the couch and narrowed his eyes. "Why?"
Bruce met the reporter's eyes across the table, leaned forwards with his elbows on his knees. He weighed his following words very carefully. "Because I… have cultivated a certain reputation for myself. A reputation that I find… useful. These… things that you wish to expose about me would have the potential to ruin this reputation, and through that… other things in my life, which are important to me."
Kent held his gaze steadily, his face an unreadable mask. The tension pressed heavy over Bruce's chest, rippled across his skin like an itch. The threat of this having been a miscalculation loomed heavy, and all that he stood to lose seemed already beyond his capabilities to save.
He was at Kent's mercy.
He took one last gamble. "I tell you this because I think that, perhaps, you might understand the benefits of having people think that you are something different than you are."
For a moment, Bruce wondered if this was taking it a step too far; the tension hung thick in the air, and Kent's pen hovered a bare inch from the page, the frown deep on his face.
He swept a calculating look over Bruce.
Then he flipped the pad closed with a heavy sigh, and a tightness left his shoulders.
"I do understand," he said. "Your secret is safe with me."
It was so sudden that Bruce was, for a moment, certain that he must have misunderstood. "I-… you are sure?"
Kent snorted, suddenly the man Bruce had glimpsed last time they'd met. "Hasn't anyone told you about looking gift horses in the mouth, Wayne?"
Bruce found himself huffing a laugh, too startled to be able to stop it had he wanted to. "I suppose I expected more resistance."
It was too soon to call it victory – Kent could still turn around and publish tomorrow if he wanted – but this way, at least, there would be no comments from him in the report.
As if having read his thoughts, Kent shook his head with a rueful smile.
"Why don't you keep that," he suggested, nodding to the blue folder still in Bruce's hands.
The smile slipped off Bruce's face. "What?"
"I'm sure that you would feel more comfortable if it was in your possession instead of mine," Kent said. "It's the only copy. It has print dates, too, so you can see approximately how long it took for me to uncover it all, if you feel the need to start moving your assets around regularly."
Bruce blinked down at the documents,
"I could argue with you some more, if that would put you at ease?" Kent offered wryly.
Bruce took another moment to stare at the papers, to get his head in order. "Thank you. Clark. I… cannot overstate how much this means to me."
Clark waved the appreciation away, but his smile was broad. "If you say so… Bruce. But don't think I'll forget that favor anytime soon."
Perhaps it was the relief of a vanished threat, perhaps it was the sudden pounding in his chest when Clark said his given name, but there was something… extra to Bruce's tone when he said: "Please, make sure that you don't."
Clark blushed, and Bruce could not help but to feel pleased with himself.
"Well then," Clark said, and cleared his throat and stood, "I suddenly have quite a bit of work to catch up on."
Bruce stood as well. "Anything I can do to help."
"Yes, well, I should be able to piece something together from all this," Kent said, waving his small notebook.
"I'm pleased to hear that I didn't entirely waste your evening," Bruce said.
"Not at all," Clark assured him.
They walked the steps to the hallway in silence, and on a whim Bruce grabbed Clark's coat from the hanger.
"May I help you with your coat, Mr. Kent?" he offered with a slight twist of his lips.
From Clark's smile, it was plain to see that he remembered the exchange from their last encounter.
"Of course, thank you," he said, grinning and turning to slide his arms into the sleeves. "Glad to see that you're still working on those manners. I'll be sure to report to Mr. Pennyworth next I see him."
"Much appreciated," Bruce said. "No one holds a grudge like the British."
Bruce put his hands on Kent's shoulders to smooth out the lines of his jacket, much like Alfred always did to him. But then he found his hands lingering there, even as the shoulders underneath the fabric grew stiff. Clark turned, and Bruce's hands ended up right where they had been before he had moved.
The jacket did nice things to Kent's shoulders, Bruce observed distantly as his hand moved over the light fabric.
"…Bruce?" Clark asked, voice slightly strained.
"Hm," Bruce said, moving his hands so that his thumb could reach the bare skin just above Clark's collar.
There was a delightful hitch in Kent's breath and the skin under Bruce's thumb flushed.
And for once, Bruce didn't think, didn't plan, didn't meticulously examine every possible consequence.
He shoved Clark up against the wall and kissed him.
Their lips collided with a distinct lack of grace, but Bruce never missed once he had taken aim. Kent made a soft noise of surprise when his back collided with the wall and Bruce swallowed the sound greedily. Their stubbled skin scraped where they touched but Clark's lips were softer than they looked, gliding warm and wet against his own, and the-
Suddenly he realized his hands were closed tight around the reporter's wrists, and that he had him pinned against the wall.
He snatched back as if burned.
"I apologize," he said, still backing away, but his voice betrayed a tremble. "It wasn't my intention to-"
In the next moment, his back had slammed against the wall behind him and Kent's lips were back on his.
Bruce's mouth fell open from the shock of the impact and Clark wasn't shy about pressing the advantage. His hands came up to clutch at the hair at the back of Bruce's head, grabbing and angling him for better access. Instantly the kiss became deeper, filthier and wetter, and Bruce's hands found their way inside Clark's jacket. He grabbed his shirt and pulled him even closer. Kent ground against Bruce in response, and Bruce's head was spinning, drowning, in a rush of endorphins as his body flushed with heat.
They broke apart, finally, both breathing heavily.
Kent's glasses had been knocked askew at some point, and his lips were red and glistening. They quirked slightly, even as Bruce found himself unable to look away from them.
Kent's hands untangled softly from Bruce's hair, dragged against the back of his neck as they departed. Bruce's eyelids fluttered closed at the sensation. Then Clark was stroking across his shoulders, and then tugging gently on his arms until he held them above his head, mirroring Kent's position from earlier. There, he gently placed his palms against Bruce's wrists and smiled.
"I didn't mind," Kent said, voice husky.
Bruce tore his gaze from Clark's lips and looked up into his eyes.
There was only the very slightest touch against Bruce's skin, and he could doubtlessly break free even if Clark truly attempted to hold him. He leaned his head back against the wall.
"Glad to hear."
His voice came out darker and raspier than he had expected – almost dangerously close to Batman's – and Clark's breath stuttered and his fingers twitched around Bruce's wrists.
The faint promise of the heavier touch killed Bruce smile in an instant, and send a flush up his neck.
And Clark, it seemed, never missed anything.
He froze, and Bruce held perfectly still. Then, very carefully, finger by finger, Kent closed his grip on Bruce's wrists. And squeezed. Bruce felt the beating of his heart go faster, faster, as the pressure steadily increased. Once Clark held him firm, it was thudding almost painfully in his chest.
Outwardly, though, he showed no change. Did not break eye contact.
"Is that everything you've got, Kent?" he asked, making no attempt to make his voice sound more decent.
Again Clark's hands twitched tighter, and Bruce smirked. He wasn't usually vocal, but he certainly knew how to exploit a weakness.
Before he got the chance, though, Clark's lips were back on his.
It was a different kind of kiss, this time. Where before they had met and parted rhythmically, Clark now only pressed closer, never letting Bruce up. His whole body crowded near, a leg slipping between Bruce's, and though Bruce had gleaned some of the muscle Clark liked to pretend he didn't have, he had underestimated its extent; the firm mass of it pressed against him and was almost as unyielding as the wall at his back. Closer and closer, until there seemed to be nothing but him.
His chest, his hands, his legs, his lips.
It should not have been arousing, not with what was usually going on when he found himself pinned to walls, and yet it tore a quiet moan from his lungs.
Suddenly his hands were free and his feet were no longer touching the floor. Kent's hands were on his arse and he had wrapped Bruce's legs around his hips.
"Bedroom?" Clark breathed, seeming almost oblivious to Bruce's weight.
The abruptness of finding himself carried for the first time in god knows how many years almost tore him out of the haze enough to wonder what Clark meant. But then Clark's fingers curled against the inside of his thighs, and it slammed back into him with full force.
"Yes," he rasped. "First door to the right."
Clark didn't waste any time, and Bruce found himself on his back on the bed within seconds.
"Jacket off," Bruce ordered, when Clark made a move to follow, and began working on his own clothes.
Clark obliged, wrenching his arms out of the sleeves and letting the garment fall to the floor. He toed off his shoes and pulled off his glasses, and then started pulling on his tie.
Bruce's own movements faltered halfway through his own buttons.
Clark noticed, smiled, and turned to wrench both shirt and blue undershirt off in one go, without bothering with more than the topmost buttons.
Even what he had felt earlier hadn't led Bruce to expect what he saw.
The large windows let through the orange light from the darkening city outside, and rays of it fell on Clark's body. His back was unmistakably toned, muscles moving and rippling under the skin as he balled up his clothes and threw them into the corner. His waist was slimmer than the clothes hanging from his broad shoulders would lead one to believe and the build of his body was powerful and lean, the kind that was more for practical purposes than esthetic.
The kind that Bruce had.
Then Clark unzipped his pants and bent to pull them off. He straightened and turned, wearing only a pair of tight black boxers that did a very poor job of concealing… anything.
"Come on," Clark said, smiling and kicking his pants underneath the bed. "You're making me feel underdressed."
Bruce's eyes flicked back up to Clark's face. "Why don't you come here and help me?"
His voice wasn't quite as dirty now as when his mouth had just been kissed raw, but it still seemed to have positive effects on Kent. His smile dropped and his eyes darkened, and then he was climbing into bed and onto Bruce's lap. He ground down, pressing hard against Bruce's groin. It caught Bruce unawares, and his head tipped back in a moan as his hands flitted uselessly to Clark's hips.
Then Clark was kissing along the edge of his jaw, biting down every so often, and making quick work of his shirt. When the last button was undone Clark bunched the fabric up in his hands and tugged Bruce upright by it. Bruce went willingly, angling his head to give Clark continued access to his neck. He batted Clark's hands away from the fabric and pulled the sleeves off and threw the garment off the bed.
Clark leaned back from his ministrations then, put a hand to Bruce's sternum and pushed. Bruce allowed it, falling obligingly onto his back, his arms dropping to the sides.
Clark stilled, suddenly, in the middle of a movement which purpose Bruce couldn't guess. Then the hand on his chest moved outward and down, fingers finding scars and tracing them lightly.
"You're beautiful," Clark said.
Bruce had heard it said before, but Clark sounded so sincere that it sent a thrill up his spine.
"Kiss me," he demanded.
A small smile broke on Clark's face, and his lips were still curved upwards as he did as told. The kiss was slower but just as deep as their previous, and Clark shifted his legs until one was between Bruce's both and he was half laying on top of him.
Bruce was painfully hard in his pants.
Clark's kissing did little to ease the pressure, hard and determined, but the hand that had rested almost chastely on his abdomen finally traveled lower. It stopped, though, just at the hem of Bruce's boxers and Bruce groaned.
He felt, more than heard, Clark's chuckle.
But two could play that game.
"Clark," Bruce moaned - hardly an effort - and was satisfied when Clark's fingers twitched. "Clark."
Clark bit down on Bruce's neck at the same time as he rolled his hips down sharply, and vertigo had Bruce momentarily mute and gasping.
"Fuck, Clark," he managed, and this time he wasn't putting on any sort of show.
Still, the words dragged a stuttered moan from Clark, and he rested his forehead against Bruce's shoulder.
"You voice," he said, pressing kisses against Bruce's chest. "You could finish me off just by talking."
Bruce chuckled deep. "Good to know."
Clark half groaned, half laughed. "Tempting though it might be, I had hoped that we maybe could engage in some… other activities?"
"By all means," Bruce said, licking his lips, "don't let me stop you."
ooooo
Bruce woke in a dark room with the mattress shifting beneath him.
Clark was getting out of bed, taking great care to be quiet and careful during the process. Despite this, his movement caused the blanket to slide off Bruce's shoulders and without it and the other man's presence beside him he found himself unpleasantly cold.
Still, he must have nodded off, because suddenly Clark was crouching by Bruce's side of the bed fully clothed.
"Hi," he said, smiling softly and touching gentle fingers to Bruce's face.
"Hi," Bruce mumbled back, gravel in his voice.
"I need to leave," Kent said.
Bruce skin tingled hot under Kent's fingers. "Okay."
"I'm sorry I woke you up. I just wanted to say goodbye."
"Hm. Goodbye."
Kent chuckled. "Not much of a morning person, are you?"
"Not morning yet," Bruce pointed out.
Again Kent chuckled, then he stood and pressed a quick kiss to Bruce's forehead. "I suppose that's true. I really have to leave now."
Still his fingers lingered on Bruce's skin. "So you said."
"Yeah, okay, I'm going," Kent sounded faintly amused as his fingers finally slid off.
Bruce's skin rose in goose bumps as he watched Kent's dark form move across the room, glance back once, and finally close the door softly behind him.
It was a graceful exist, all things considered. Far more so than many that Bruce had performed, actually. Dignified, quiet, polite, and caused no unnecessary harm. Perfect etiquette, under the circumstances.
And Bruce hadn't been prepared for it in the slightest.
Sleep would not return to him, and when his phone rang with the alarm from the Cave he was relieved.