AN: Yes, I'm alive. I've been slacking in the writing department but I hope you can forgive me and drop some reviews. Enjoy! :)


"The office is about to close, Mr. Kent."

Ripping another sheet of paper from his typewriter, Clark crumpled it in his hands as he leaned back in his swivel chair. "Thanks, Albert. I'm almost done here."

It was a chilly day in March, the sky a bright grey as the sun hid behind the swirling clouds—such a contrast to earlier, with the streets buzzing with dozens of happy drunk Metropolitans, decorated in shimmering shades of green clothing and odd shades of vomit.

Clark had been on this planet for as long as he could remember, yet, there were still some times were he felt a tad bit…alien.

Tilting his head, the custodian said, "You look like you've got a lot on your mind, son."

The reporter stretched, a small, tired smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. Sure, when he had been canvasing the field earlier that day outside of the building, he had been greeted with so many bellowing Hey, brahh's and screeching Whasuup's that his head was probably still spinning. He'd experienced St. Patrick's Day countless of times before and it never ceased to amaze—no, confuse him. But, that wasn't what was on his mind.

"Work is on my mind," he said, lying between his teeth as he adjusted the platen knob of the typewriter, and the custodian nodded knowingly. "Just trying to finish this Q&A."

Because, Clark Kent had a lot of things on his mind: bills, family, groceries, Perry-probably-firing-him-for-this-terrible-article, and all the in-betweens. But, it all narrowed down to his desk. In the corner. His answering machine. Blinking. One message. That message, 10 seconds, was on his mind.

So, it was a bit of stretch—work wasn't on his mind. Not really. Which was why he was the only person left in the office, the clock ticking well past the end of his shift.

Albert smiled and began pushing his mop bucket wringer. "Well, I'll leave you be. Hope you've got some plans tonight that'll distract you from work."

He almost snorted. There were plans tonight, yes, but that didn't mean they'd be the distraction he was looking for over an hour ago. The League members and Clark had been seeing a lot of each other outside of missions lately. All this time Clark thought he knew his fellow leaguers fairly well by diffusing bombs and managing hostage situations together but who would have known that Diana has a penchant for slapstick comedies and John despises pickles? It was great seeing everyone in their civvies without the stench of doom upon them. Mostly everyone.

"You have one new message."

It was almost an hour past his shift at the Daily Planet and Clark stopped caring hours ago. Pulling the carriage release lever, he ripped off the paper and shoved it into a folder as he grabbed for the rest of his belongings, annoyance radiating off his shoulders.

"Pick up your phone, Kent."

Barely 10 seconds long but jarring nonetheless. The billionaire wasn't the type of person to leave messages let alone exactly call people. Bruce had always preferred the emerging-from-the-shadows notification. But, he hadn't seen much of Bruce for a while and, honestly, it wasn't like the Smallville man was trying much anyway.

Clark tossed the folder into Perry's mailbox before heading into the elevator, huffing as he leaned against the wall. It was in his nature to extend olive branches but, lately, he was getting pretty tired of having to always look out for others. The day before, Wally had asked him if Bruce was going to be joining them for, in his words, "our green late night festivities." And, it wouldn't have bothered him…if Diana hadn't already been asking about the Gothamite and if J'onn hadn't mentioned him during monitor duty the other week.

Sure, Diana clearly liked Bruce but did Clark have a sign on his forehead, labeling him Batman's Babysitter? That job was already entitled to an elderly British man with a pencil mustache.

Checking his watch, Clark stepped out of the building and into the cool evening air of downtown. The sounds of the city had intensified with the shadow of St. Patrick's Day: taxi horns, bicycle bells; chatter and shouts from commuters. It was later than he realized but Maxwell's Bar wasn't too far from the office. Maybe a nice walk would do some good to clear his mind instead of super speeding—

"He lives."

Clark nearly tripped down the steps of the Daily Planet and stuttered to a less than graceful halt. His eyebrows shot up. "Bruce? What're you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same," Bruce said, leaning against the door to a black Mercedes Benz, which was parked on the aligning street. Arms crossed, his grey tie fluttered in the wind and it was clear that he had—driven? flown? teleported?—straight from Wayne Enterprise or a business meeting of some kind.

"I work here." Clark scowled, suddenly not liking the obvious accusation dripping from his tone. "You don't even live here."

"…Hmph. I'll give you a lift."

He watched, perplexed, as Bruce spun around and got into the car, the Mercedes roaring to life. There goes extending the olive branch. Except he never thought it would turn out like this. Holding back a sigh, Clark followed and lifted his briefcase into his lap.


"—You don't even know where I'm going."

"—You're sitting on important documents."

"What?"

"Get up."

It was starting to hurt when Clark rolled his eyes, but he did so anyway as he scrambled off the seat, hands lifting a smooshed file folder underneath.

"Those are the datasets and initial notes from our last mission," Bruce said before Clark could open his mouth. "245 pages. I was only able to transcribe them recently."

Several thoughts were running in the Smallville man's mind at that statement, but his mouth chose one. "You came all the way here. To drop off a mission file."

Bruce grunted and changed lanes. "If you're implying something, you might as well just say it."

"I'm not implying anything."

Another grunt.

"You can grunt all you want but it's a long drive from Gotham to Metrop"—

The car took a sharp turn and if it weren't for his super senses, Clark would have dropped the files onto the floor. The billionaire glared ahead. "I was nearby for a conference, Kal'El."

Leave it to Bruce to berate Clark like he was a petulant child. It was beyond ridiculous and the peeved mood he was in a few minutes ago returned.

"Duly noted." He grasped the handle. "If that's it then, I've got to get going."

"I'm dropping you off, you don't have to fly off."

"You don't know where I'm headed," he repeated but as the words fell from his mouth, Clark noticed the car was going in the right direction.

"Maxwell's Bar. I overheard…" he cleared his throat and checked his side view mirror. "Anyway, it's three blocks east."

The car inched forward through the thick horde of traffic and they both knew that it would be faster walking or probably even crawling. But, the two remained quiet as stubborn as they were. If Alfred were around, he would have clucked his tongue at the site.

Clark halfheartedly thumbed through the pages in the folder. "It was pretty busy at the office today." And when the billionaire didn't say anything, Clark added, "I was behind on a few things."

Bruce snorted. "Your lying skills are as bad as that disguise."

"Predictable," he mumbled, already regretting the drive. There was a reason he avoided his phone call and there was a reason they're only recent interaction were on-missions. Because, as much as they were undeniably some form of friends and, at times even warring brothers, Bruce's personality was exhausting.

His eyebrows crinkled. "Predictable. You think I'm predictable?"

Maxwell's Bar came into view and the Mercedes slowed down as it pulled up to the entrance. Perched above the double doors, an Irish flag waved in the air and the sign in front flashed green. Squinting, Clark could see the rest of the JLA members inside, sitting on stools with a few drinks in their hands.

"I believe that's what I said." But the look on Bruce's face was beyond incredulous so Clark lifted a finger. "Brooding, argumentative, reclusive. Rinse and repeat."

He blinked. "Rinse and repeat."

"Oh, and skeptical." The car door swung open as Clark stepped out and shoved the documents hastily into his briefcase. He knew he was being quite argumentative himself but he was beyond caring. Sitting in a cubicle for hours could do that to a man. His knuckles gently rapped the roof of the Mercedes Benz. "I'll see you at monitor duty."

All the reporter needed right now was a drink, awful karaoke music, and friends who were more than remotely happy. He wasn't asking for much. But as he walked to the entrance, unzipping his jacket as he did so, he heard the car door swing open. Spinning around, eyebrow raised, Clark watched as Bruce stepped out and put money into a nearby parking meter.

After a few moments tinkering with the device—Clark was pretty sure Bruce had never actually used one—the billionaire made his way over, roughly brushing his shoulder as he walked by.

"Well?" he called over his shoulder.

Clark could basically hear the smirk in his voice.


"Well…" Wally blinked a few times, "Either someone laced my drink with something or that's not a hallucination and really is the Big B."

Snorts of agreement and chuckles rippled through the group as they lounged in the corner booth of the bar, eyebrows raised. The bar wasn't too crowded, save for the full counter watching the Patrick's Day parade on a small hanging TV, there were a few patrons scattered throughout out as classic rock played in the background.

"Sorry if I'm late," said Clark as Bruce simply raised an eyebrow at Wally. "Had a…change of plans."

They were all dressed casually—jeans, shirts, and sweaters—but leave it to the speedster to hand out green beaded plastic necklaces to get into the spirit. He didn't know if he was supposed to offer an explanation for the surprise guest because he wouldn't even know where to start. Clark slid next to John who was nursing a drink.

"We did not know you would be joining us, Bruce," said J'onn, incognito as a bald headed investment banker eerily similar to Lex. A bowl of peanuts sat in front of him in replacement of a drink. "But, if I may speak for the rest, am pleased with the change of plans."

Grinning, Wally tossed a necklace at Clark. "For sure, Bats! But you guys haven't really missed much. Well, except for Shay trying to get us all to do shots."

"Can't we just get drunk like normal people?" the Thanagarian whined as she shifted in her seat. "Clark, c'mon, remember New Years? You're not the innocent farm boy like everyone says you are."

"Wha"

"I would prefer just simple conversation instead," Diana said, eyes flickering briefly towards Bruce, which caused Shayera to inwardly groan.

Wally shuttered. "Ugh. Last time I did shots with Shay, I woke up in an alley somewhere with a couple of rub on tattoos." He wrinkled his nose. "Yeah, you can count me out."

"Trying to outdrink a Thanagarian." Shayera tilted her head back as she gulped down her beer and snickered. "Tough luck, buddy."

John grunted. "No one wants to play your stupid drinking game"—

"I'll do it."

All eyes zeroed in on the billionaire at the end of the booth, who simply shrugged at the sudden attention. "Not all of my playboy antics are acts."

"Wow. You feeling okay?" The Thanagarian tilted her head in observation and shrugged. "Cause they don't serve martinis here."

"Funny. Shots are on me."

It was strange—the entire group worked as a team when they were under pressure from the likes of Solomon Grundy or Sinestro. Get them in a room together without the capes and the story could change very quickly. He wasn't exactly sure what Bruce was trying to prove but, the Smallville man came here to relax so, instead of donning his Batman Babysitter sash, he let the alcohol slide down his throat.

The glasses clinked on the table as Shayera and Bruce took their first shot after the waitress left. She grinned. "I always thought you were an uptight asshole but this is kind of nice."

He frowned. "Thanks."

"Yeah." Wally nudged Clark's shoulder. "What kind of bet did Bruce lose for you to drag him here?"

He raised his hands. "Don't look at me."

"I'm perfectly capable of making decisions without Clark's guidance." Bruce refilled the shot glasses and cocked his head. "Ladies first."

The Thanagarian chuckled before she threw her head back for a drink. "Never thought I'd live the day to see this."

"I'm betting alien body swap," the red-headed speedster whispered to Clark, who raised an eyebrow questioningly. Wally jerked his head. "For old Brucey boy over there. Could be a robot, too. Hmm, but mind control should never be ruled out cause I mean Waller's crazier than Luthor."

"I think you're overreacting. Look, we all came here to relax so let's relax." The Daily Planet reporter glanced at the Gothamite. "He's fine."

But, a while later—count that several shot glasses later—Clark wasn't so sure how to define fine anymore.

More people had trickled into the bar in green shirts, jewelry and hats as the evening progressed, the atmosphere shifting as Celtic music grew louder. They easily blended into the scene with a hyperactive Wally West, which was normal. A flushed but graceful Diana Prince, which was somewhat normal. And a sulking J'onn J'onzz, which was pretty normal.

The Very Talkative Bruce Wayne, however, was not.

"Of course I enjoy fun," Bruce said to Wally, pointing a finger. "You. You don't enjoy fun."

Clark had seen a lot of strange things in his life as Superman—on and off world. But, this, this trumped them all as the single strangest experience. Ever.

Wally balked. "Please! I bet all of your robins would disagree on that one."

"They've never been to any of Bruce Wayne's parties."

Surprised laughter echoed throughout their corner booth and Clark found himself shaking his head for the umpteenth time that day. It was like experiencing some out-of-body phenomenon.

"I must say that it is good to see you enjoying yourself, Bruce." J'onn smiled as Diana nodded. "Odd but good."

Shayera belched. "And all this time Clark was worried that you were going to ruin everything. Good thing you came anyway!"

A beat passed and John cleared his throat before taking another gulp of beer. Bruce's expression didn't change—the slight teasing grin still stretched his mouth and his head remained tilted easily. But, the slow blink was a clear indicator that he understood.

"I mean, he didn't even want to mention it!"

"I think Clark was just tired of us, what was the word used, hounding him about it?" Diana frowned in thought. "Correct?"

Clark reddened. "I didn't mean it"—

"Nah, he's just tired of playing den mother all the time, am I right?" Wally grinned as he slapped his shoulder. "Even though you're so good at it!"

"He has to put up with a lot of shit—particularly from you Wally," the billionaire jabbed another finger in the speedster's face, "but Clark's still a good man. He does good things—all the things. He does them. I mean," he gestured, "he's probably better than all of us combined."

It was as if time froze for a moment in the corner booth as they all stared at the Gothamite. Even Shayera, who was probably drunker than Bruce, raised an eyebrow.

Diana spoke. "Wow, Bruce...that was a really kind thing"—

"And another thing." Bruce frowned, blue eyes bluer than before. "I don't even understand why I'm here in the first place because I have too many things to do all the time. Always. So, I don't want"—

Clark stood up and grabbed the rambling billionaire's arm, hauling him to his feet. "Alright, time to go, Bruce. We've got to all do this again some other time, right?" He tossed a quick wave to the already confused JLA members and exited the bar before Bruce could say anything else that he never wanted to say aloud.

The cool night air hit the Smallville man's face and he was grateful for the sudden breeze that swept through them. The two stood outside of the bar for a few moments, quietly watching Metropolitans walking by on the sidewalk.

"Clark," he finally said. "I don't know if you realize this but I'm a bit drunk."

"I can see that."

He hummed softly and closed his eyes for a moment. "I might…require your assistance to the car."

A crooked smile bent the corners of Clark's mouth. He wasn't exactly sure what to say, but it was good to know that as much as he had Bruce's back, Bruce would always have his, too. Shifting slightly, he lifted the billionaire's arm over his shoulder and made their way towards the Mercedes.

"I hope you know," said Clark, balancing Bruce's weight and the car keys, "that the only thing I've ever driven before was a tractor."

"Pfft—predictable."