Clark is nervous and Bruce can't place exactly why. It started when Diana announced she had signed them up for bachata classes, something he was not aware of until just over an hour before its start. And while he would have preferred she at least tell him earlier, it's not like he's against the idea of dancing classes.
"Why aren't you upset about this?" Clark asks as they walk to their destination. His shoulders are practically covering his ears with how tense he is. "We can't do this! We have a cover story to uphold! What will everyone think when we come as just the two of us? When we dance together?"
Is that the issue Clark has? He doesn't want to dance with Bruce?
"We won't," Bruce says simply. "There will be other people for us to partner with for the duration of the class. No one teaches dance without odd numbers in mind."
Like the flip of a coin -dammit, Harvey- Clark relaxes. "Oh, good," Clark breathes. "Ah, no offense, Bruce. I just...uh, I'm not sure if us dancing would-"
"I get it." Bruce cuts in without meaning to. The reaction surprises him. Why does the thought of Clark not wanting to dance with him...ache?
Bruce is quick to shove it aside. Ignore it. It doesn't matter. "We can't afford to be compromised, even if Diana's leading at the moment."
"Right. Yeah."
They walk the rest of the way in silence.
As soon as they step into the room, the two dance instructors -both dressed in bright red formalwear- turn to watch them. The gaze doesn't last long, but it's strangely intense and Bruce does notice a few lingering peeks before the class officially begins.
It's odd, but not enough evidence to justify Bruce looping them in as suspects of drug trafficking.
The female instructor claps her hands twice, gathering their attention. "Alright, alright! Let's spread out on the dance floor, lovely couples! Stand in front of the tape squares! If you can't find one, come to the front of follow along."
Couples shuffle through the room, dividing from their pairs but never straying far. Bruce tries to stay close to Clark, but there's little he can do when everyone else is rushing to stand on their squares. He ends up directly behind Clark, in the very back row. It'll work, especially with his cane set against the wall a foot or so away.
"Hello, Honeymoon Cruises!" The male instructor stands beside the other, their hands locked together tightly. "I am George and this is my wife Susan. We've been dancing the bachata in the Dominican Republic for-"
He goes on about their career and the history of the dance. It's tidbits he already looked up before coming to the class. George and Susan do well as dance instructors and their son, Xolo, typically stays on the ship with them during long cruises. They were married five years ago and are still going strong in their love for dance and teaching. Susan studied chemistry in college before switching careers. George won an award for dance in California and worked at the bachata camp upon its opening, where he met Susan.
It's all detailed in their social media. Bruce took notes, just in case.
"Now, for what you're all here for," Susan separates from her husband to stand in front of her designated tape square. It's divided into nine squares, all of which barely fit her two feet. "First, I'm going to show you a few variations of three-steps you'll need for this dance. First, is the Cross Back. Also known as Cruzado Atrás."
Susan shuffles over the squares in smooth, swaying motions. Her hips move elegantly with every step she takes, her hands naturally adjusting to accommodate every imbalance. Her feet go from right to left and front to back.
"Do it with me!"
They go slower this time, which Bruce is thankful for. He has little trouble in memorizing the simple steps and attempting to loosen his movements each time he attempts.
But Clark, on the other hand, struggles. His steps are stiff and lean too heavily forward. Clark never looks up from his feet as he stumbles to place his feet into each square.
"Loosen-" Bruce steps forward to help.
"Do you need-"
Bruce stops dead as the person to Clark's right does the same. She stops, looks at Bruce in embarrassment, then quickly backs out at the same time Bruce does.
"No, no, you should help him!" She insists.
"It's fine, you seem to have a better handle-"
"No, go ahead!"
Bruce stops when Clark waves his hands to dismiss them. "I'm alright, thanks! I just need to get more used to it."
"...If you're sure." Bruce steps back to his own square. As if they were waiting, the instructors continue with the next style.
This one is simpler than the last. It's a series of two-steps to either side. Again, the way of hips makes the transition more natural. Clark gathers this one faster and Bruce has to look away when he genuinely starts getting into it.
"Alright, now let's add some music! A lot of this dance is based on feeling, so feel free to mix up some moves of your own using these three-steps!"
The music, a specific genre of Latin dance song, is mostly led by maracas, bangos, and guitar. It has a smoother sound to it, more romantic lyrics. The energy usually found in salsa music is all but gone with the absence of piano.
Clark throws some of his Kansas square-dance into it and Bruce has to stop himself from laughing. It strangely fits, less in a bachata way and in a very...Clark way. His heels stomp harder than they should for the smooth dance, but the grin he throws back is worth any awkwardness.
"Let's correct some posture! Remember to keep your knees loose, arms above your waist, and your hips moving! Sway, sway, like the water!" George demonstrates the proper way to move as Susan goes around helping those who need it.
She, of course, lands on Clark second.
"Like this," Susan holds Clark by the waist and Bruce nearly chokes. He can't hear the rest of what the instructor says against the rush of blood in his ears and the pounding in his chest. He feels hot and his stomach rolls dangerously when Susan pulls Clark a little closer.
Bruce turns away to sit the rest of this out, his hands already gripping his 'injured' leg.
"Bruce? Are you okay?"
He doesn't expect Clark to notice immediately.
"Fine. Just...keep going." The words are difficult to spit out against the growing lump in his throat.
Bruce sits. He breathes in, holds it, then hisses it out again. What the hell is this? Bruce has defused bombs with a steadier heart than now. He trained hard to control his body exactly how he needs. Every breath, every movement is controlled. He owns his body, he moves it. Yet, Bruce can do little against the physical pain blooming in his chest. It starts to ease when he sees Clark is alone once again.
"Now, let's partner up!" Susan announces. "We'll show simple ways to use what we learned, then I'll go help anyone who's missing their partner."
Bruce looks on in dread as Susan and George do their three-steps together, bodies almost uncomfortably close. She spins, he pulls her in for a kiss, then they separate.
She finds Clark again. The only person alone. Bruce's fingers turn white against his wooden cane and the feeling is back two-fold.
He watches them with eyes that burn. It's a miracle he isn't the one with heat vision because the pair would be nothing more than a pile of burnt flesh at this point. Bruce's lips curl down as Susan lets Clark hold her hands above their heads. It morphs into a proper hold, tight around Susan's waist, and the movement of their hips is properly inappropriate now. There is nothing innocent about it. Nothing cute or sweet about the way Clark smiles at her, the way her hands slide down his arm when she spins-
Jealousy, Bruce realizes all too late. This disgusting, dark feeling is jealousy.
And just like that, Bruce can't be mad. He can't hold onto any hatred toward a woman simply teaching Clark a dance. It's not her fault Clark gets to hold her like that, or that the only reason she's there instead of with George is because Lois slipped away with Diana. And would it really change anything, if it were Lois? Bruce would still be here, alone.
The lyrics of the song aren't lost on Bruce.
"And I don't want to continue like this
Being with her and thinking of you
The same is happening to me
I can't stop thinking of you
On the days I wake with you on my mind
I call him by your name
And I don't want to continue like this
Being with her and thinking of you."
What would it be like, to feel Clark like that? They've touched before, but never in this context. Never more than Batman and Superman. Maybe as friends, when Clark lifts him up and flies him through the air, but it's always been professional. Bruce has kept it professional.
And yet, he still wonders. Clark is warm, that much is a proven fact. He would be warm like this too. Possibly smoldering hot. How would it change Bruce, to have that hand press against the small of his back? To have Clark's legs frame his own as they move in sync to the music? Would it rewrite the very being of who Bruce is? Or would he be left cold after the fact, always yearning to have a taste of it again?
"How stupid, how crazy, are you and I
being with others but loving each other
How stupid, how crazy, are you and I
Being with others but still loving each other?"
In that moment, Bruce wishes he were a woman. Maybe then, it could've been just him and Clark. Maybe it always would've been them.
"Is your left alright?"
Bruce doesn't look at George. He can't bring himself to, when Clark's so clearly enjoying himself with the man's wife.
"...It seems a shame to learn the basics just to miss out on the best part," George continues. "If you'd like, I could dance with you for a little while. We'll go as slow as you need."
He doesn't need to go slow, he needs Clark pressed against his front like they were made to be together.
"Yeah," Bruce's body speaks in disconnect to his mind. "I'd like that."
Just as he promised, George is slow as he helps Bruce to stand. It's not romantic or sensual or anything at all but kind. A gesture made to someone struggling. And like the pathetic thing he is, Bruce takes it like a starving dog. He laps at the gentle way George holds him upright while avoiding pressure on his 'bad' leg. He soaks up the attention of a complete stranger, pretending it's someone else.
"You've caught on well," George tells him with an encouraging nod. The man is gracious enough to not get too close. He keeps a good distance between them, a reminder than he is just a teacher and nothing more, even in this moment. His hands stay respectfully on Bruce's side, only enough pressure to stabilize.
"I attribute it more to your skill than my own," Only long nights of entertaining Gotham's elite while high on painkillers keeps Bruce from openly displaying his misery. He has an easy, practiced smile. It's not the bravado of Brucie, nor the hardness of Batman. A subtle in-between, carefully crafted to uphold appearances.
A light tap on George's shoulder pulls them apart. Susan takes her husband back with a grin and spins away, leaving Bruce with-
Clark takes Bruce's hands near-painfully. His grip is stone against Bruce's soft flesh, but it quickly relaxes as they step into rhythm together, just as he did with George.
The surprise doesn't wear off as quickly. Bruce is left shocked as Clark sways with him, his legs framed around Bruce's. Clark's hand shifts to Bruce's waist, pressing them closer inch by inch until they're touching. Bruce can feel him everywhere like this. In their locked fingers, at the dip of his side, the flush of his cheek against Clark's dress shirt.
If they were to fall out of sync, they would be grinding on each other; and nothing has ever been both so terrifying and so thrilling.
He's with Clark. Clark is warm and right here and holding him so very tight. The way a partner might.
But when Bruce pulls away just enough to meet his eyes, all he sees is anger.
"Clark?" Any joy at getting what he wanted, what he yearned for, sours like a rotten corpse.
Clark lets go of him in an instant. "Sorry, did I hurt you?"
Bruce rubs his hands together to ward off the cold that swarms him. "No. I'm fine." He looks down, unable to bear Clark's expression another moment.
"Sorry, I'm...gonna go check in. Diana and Lois should be done by now." Clark pulls away another few inches, then steps out of the room when Bruce doesn't answer.
He doesn't mention the fact Diana said not to wait on them, that they'd be grabbing dinner afterward. He also doesn't comment on the desperate plea that nearly breaks past his lips. Clark slips away from him, leaving something much worse than nothing in his stead. Emptiness has never felt so wrong. Absence has never been so heavy.
It's like coming home to a big house without his parents to fill it. Like putting on the mask, knowing Jason wouldn't be joining him.
Bruce sits until the class is dismissed. He then walks straight to his cabin and closes himself away, hoping to fall asleep before the others return. He can't bear facing them, not like this.
He thinks of calling home, but the thought is dismissed quickly. Alfred is likely busy keeping the kids civil and said kids have little need to hear from him this close to patrol. Dick wouldn't want to hear from him, and neither would Jason, so Bruce pockets his phone and sets up on the armchair.
God, why tonight? Why now? Could this not have waited until they weren't trapped together on a damn cruise? Did he have to realize this little development in the middle of a bachata dance class?
And with someone so clearly upset by dancing with Bruce. He could explain it away, pretend it was something Susan did, or just a bad case of staying up past his bedtime, but Bruce knows. He knows Clark didn't want to dance before they even started. Why would he steal the night for his own selfish needs?
Bruce pulls a spare blanket around his shoulders and positions himself most comfortably in the armchair. He'll wake up sore, but it's a price he'll pay to avoid sleeping next to Clark.
Even if it means spending the rest of the cruise in this very chair.
Despite all the anguish and heartache of the night, Bruce does allow himself to sigh with the knowledge that he...he loves Clark. He is in love with Clark Kent.
And only he will ever know.
Bruce wakes to a vibration against his thigh. He jumps from the armchair and gets into a defensive stance within the second, heart beating hard and fast against his ribs. He swallows, mind still firing on all cylinders when he realizes it's just his phone.
By the time Bruce fishes it out and winces at the bright screen the call has ended. A single missed call fills his lock screen. From Alfred.
Immediately, his heart is picking up again. What could Alfred need at one in the morning?
Alfred picks up on the second ring.
"Hello, Master Bru-"
"What's wrong?" Bruce nearly shouts before Alfred can finish his greeting.
"Nothing's the matter, Master Bruce. I simply wanted to check in on your mission." Alfred's voice acts as a natural soothing agent, each word easing Bruce's muscles until he's no longer itching to act.
Alright, a check-in. That's...normal. Perfectly normal for Alfred to call him. The kids are fine and Gotham hasn't blown up during his leave. It's all...fine.
"I do hope I'm not interrupting your sleep."
It's only then Bruce thinks to check if the others have returned to the cabin. With a sigh of relief, he confirms that the beds are empty.
"No, no, this is a good -a good time," Bruce yawns. He ventures into the bathroom and winces again when the light flips on. Why is everything so bright? "Uh, what did you want?"
"...A check-in, Master Bruce. Tell me how your mission has gone thus far," Alfred answers, ever patient.
Bruce sits back on the toilet lid, his mind slow to regain the details. "We found one of the suspects, but the other's still evading us. Diana will have more info in the morning. Or, later today. We're close to finishing this up."
Alfred goes quiet long enough to make Bruce question if he's been hung up on. "I find that very unlikely, considering your criminals don't exist."
Bruce blinks, then furrows his brow. "What?" Is he missing something? Sleep fades faster now, leaving a pit in his stomach.
"Master Bruce, there is no Mr. Adam West and Ms. Lynda Carter. They're fabrications for a larger scheme constructed by myself. You see, you've been working so very hard lately and I honestly worried-"
"You set this up," It dawns on Bruce all at once. The very serious undercover mission for Bruce specifically. A mission on a cruise line, touching some of Bruce's favorite places to visit in the summer. Two weeks with no contact. Just him.
He and Clark. Diana knows, obviously. She's the one who opened the mission. Lois likely does as well, given her unusually laid-back nature all vacation. But Bruce was the one who insisted they join. Only he and Clark were assigned.
"Why Clark?" Bruce snaps, even if he tries to reel in his anger. "I expect this towards me, but why drag Clark into this too?"
"His mother shared my feelings. I figured two birds with one stone..."
They're friends? Bruce knew Alfred and Martha Kent shared recipes every so often, and they invited Alfred -and the entire Wayne family- over for Thanksgiving, but genuine friends? Close enough to discuss their worries for him and Clark?
To set up this entire fake mission?
"I'm disappointed," Bruce says at last. "This is a complete waste of our time! We could be helping the League with real missions, instead of-"
"That is quite the point, Master Bruce. I've heard your snappish attitude has become an increasing issue as of late. And I'm sure the criminals of Gotham will spend less time in hospitals once you've fully rested."
He wants to stay angry. Bruce wants to shout how this breaches his trust with Alfred, how he dragged Diana of all people into this scheme, how it's an entirely inappropriate use of the League's budget-
But the emotion slips away and Bruce is left feeling tired. Annoyed, yes, but mostly tired.
"...I take it you're the one who cleared out my utility belt?" Bruce sighs.
"I did. I do hope that hasn't gotten you into trouble."
"Nearly," Bruce glares at nothing. Then, he leans back, his head resting against the back wall. "It's pointless to call it off now. We might as well stay the rest of the cruise. But I need to know you won't be doing this again. I need to trust that every mission run past the League is authentic and of real concern."
"I wouldn't need such extreme measures if you would learn to regulate yourself, Master Bruce," Alfred says.
Bruce doesn't back off. "Promise me, Alfred. This won't happen again."
A noise passes through the receiver, but it's difficult to tell whether it's a sigh or cough. "Alright. It will not happen again. You have my word."
"Thank you." He can trust Alfred's word. That alone is comforting enough.
A lul stretches between them, tense but not quite heated. Bruce mostly listens to the sound of Alfred going about his task, whatever it is. There are a few clicks and a tap that sounds like a drinking glass. Dishes, maybe?
It hits him again like a title wave and Bruce is spewing words before he can stop himself. "Alfred, I think I like Clark. And not in the way Batman is supposed to like a fellow hero. I..." He swallows. "I want him. I want to be with him. I want to wash his hair when he's tired and make a fuss about the wrinkles in his cape before he goes off to safe people.
"He'll be right there, in the manor or whatever home we've called our own. The light will hit his face just right to make it appear as if he's glowing. He'll turn from his task and just...look at me. Like he loves me. And I'll love him just as much."
"...Oh dear," Is all Alfred says.
Bruce's chest is heavy with the pure weight of this new feeling. It touches the parts of his heart he's left to rot for decades, the parts that feel like childhood and loving parents. The parts he so tentatively shared with Dick and Jason before...
Before he decided it would never happen again.
"I can't," Bruce fights to keep his voice steady. "I can't do this, Alfred."
Whatever shock Alfred was grappling with must have faded. "Nonsense! You like Mr. Kent quite a bit, it seems. I don't see why that can't come to light."
"We're coworkers." Bruce groans.
"And dating among League members has never been discouraged. In fact, it seems to have done quite a few of your 'coworkers' well."
Bruce glares at the groat building up along the bathroom tiles. "He can't leave Metropolis and I can't leave Gotham."
"A good thing the cities lie so close together, hm?"
"He's Kryptonian!"
"If you've decided to become a xenophobe now, I believe there's a new conversation to be had."
Bruce wants to stomp and shout like his teenage son. He wants to scream in frustration and cry for the time before that stupid bachata class. Instead, he breathes out slowly and controls his temper with an iron fist. Batman is above tantrums.
"There is no future down this line, Alfred. There's no use in fantasies and wishes when reality is set in stone." It'll be hard, Bruce knows. He loathes the journey forward more than his confrontations with Bane, but it must be done. He'll keep his distance and use his years in mental training to ensure this little vine gets cut off as quickly as possible.
It's for the best.
"Master Bruce, have you not yet considered the possibility of Mr. Kent reciprocating your feelings?"
He has, but never in conscious thought. He hasn't dared to let it get that close to genuine curiosity. "If Clark liked me and wanted a relationship, he would've made the feeling known." Clark may be kind to a fault but he isn't as shy as he acts. Clark is passionate and he's never been in the habit of letting those passions lie quietly. He's a reporter, a Kansas farm boy, and a founder of the Justice League. His word holds value and by God does Clark know how to use it.
That's why, when Alfred tries to argue, Bruce counters without a doubt in his mind. "He's had every opportunity over this cruise to confess but hasn't. The feelings don't exist, Alfred. I would know if they did."
Bruce is the one who can't handle continuing to share a bed. He's the one who can't keep his lustful eyes off of Clark's body. He's the one who sat in seething jealousy while Clark danced with the class instructor. Clark has been nothing but a good friend and seeing anything past that would be a disservice to them both.
"I see," Alfred sighs. "Seeing as I can't change your mind, I will bid you a good night and a relaxing vacation."
"Good night, Alfred," Bruce says a little too evenly. "Tell the kids to behave. And that I'll get them souvenirs."
"I will, Master Bruce. Please...please take care of yourself."
Bruce hangs up and tucks his phone away. He sits in the bathroom for another ten minutes, then migrates to the armchair again. By the time he's wrapped up and shutting his eyes to sleep, the cabin door swings open and his roommates come shuffling in. Their voices are slurred and drunken as they chat loudly, then suddenly lower to a whisper.
"S'rry, Bruce," Lois pats his shoulder on her way into the bathroom. "We'll be quieeeet!"
"Ssh!" Diana hisses after her, her sandals held in one hand while the other barely keeps a half-full glass from spilling. "He's trying to sleep!"
Bruce starts counting back from one hundred.
A third figure stops in front of him. Only years of training keep his heart from immediately picking up.
Clark doesn't touch him. He doesn't leave either. The man just stands there, a massive shadow over Bruce's cramped form until the girls stumble back from the bathroom and flopping into their shared bed. Only then does Clark step away, the creak of mattress springs following after.
The romantic part of Bruce's mind cries in agony. Why didn't Clark lift him from the armchair and carry him to bed? Why didn't he insist it'll be bad for Bruce's neck to sleep like that? Why, why, why-
Bruce shoves that voice away and refuses to acknowledge the muffled ache.
"G'night, Bruce!" Lois mock whispers.
"Sleep well," Diana adds.
Clark says nothing.
Bruce sought the pull of sleep so desperately.
Song is Dos Locos by Monchy y Alexandra.