Planning interlude

[moonshadows]

Planning interlude.

It wasn’t until Bruce swanned through the door and the tension that had been knotted across his shoulders evaporated that Clark realized he’d been worried the other man wouldn’t show up. Watching Bruce put on the Batsuit earlier that morning had hurt, almost physically. It was more than donning the costume; he’d watched Bruce wall himself away until there was nothing but the Dark Knight. He hadn’t even said goodbye as he climbed into the hovering Batwing, just looked in Clark’s direction and nodded once, minutely. But now Bruce Wayne, rich playboy, was smiling and laughing with copy boys and file clerks. He hadn’t forgotten. He’d come back.

Clark watched from behind a poker face as Bruce sidled up behind Lois, so intent on her story that she didn’t notice until she hit enter and leaned back in satisfaction and there he was, perched on the edge of her desk as smug as you please.

“Bruce! What a pleasant surprise!”

Did she have to sound so happy to see him?

“What brings you to our fair city this time?”

“Your smile, of course,” he fairly purred. “Think I could steal you away for lunch?”

She glanced over at Clark, professional competitiveness written all over her face. “You’re up to something,” she told Bruce dryly. “I decline to answer until I find out what it is.”

He laughed, but it was the fake rich-boy laugh. “You got me! I really came hoping to pick your brain.”

Lois looked intrigued and flattered. “Really. On what subject?”

“I’m thinking of establishing a residence in Metropolis,” he confessed cheerfully. “I thought I might see if I could get your expert insider’s opinion.”

She thought about that for half a minute before smiling sharply. “And let Kent grab whatever juicy story breaks in the next two hours?”

Here it comes, Clark thought, swallowing his smile.

“If you want my expert insider’s opinion,” Lois threw the words down like a challenge, “then the price of my information is lunch for myself and for Smallville over there. If I’m going to be out of the office, then he’s coming with me so I can keep an eye on him. And I want to pick where we eat.”

Bruce had to be just as surprised as Clark was, but he just grinned. “You drive a hard bargain, Ms. Lane. It’s a deal. That is…if Mr. Kent will consent to join us.”

And now that lady-killer smile was aimed at him, and Clark remembered that Batman cared, and he simultaneously wondered how much of the charm being poured on was a genuine offer, and if he wanted to accept if it was. His face felt hot as he stammered acceptance, the question of what he wanted and what Bruce might want distracting him enough that he followed the other two in a haze that didn’t clear until they were seated in a small, intimate booth with a menu in his hands and Lois’s voice calling his name repeatedly.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” he asked, turning to look at her instead of at Bruce’s amused expression across the table from them.

“Geez, Smallville, get it together. I asked if you wanted to split an appetizer.”

“Uh, sure.”

That bought him time to glance at the menu and pick an entrée almost at random, and then the waiter was gone to deliver their order.

“Alright,” Lois said in the voice she used to ask the hard questions, “why are you thinking of getting a place here?”

“I anticipate having to drop in on a more regular basis,” Bruce answered easily. “It would make things much more convenient if I didn’t have to worry about hotel rooms and packing.”

Lois nodded, no doubt anticipating the look on Lex’s face. Then she asked, “And what’s the real reason?” Bruce just blinked, as guileless as anyone could ask, and she turned to Clark expectantly. “Come on, Clark. What’s the real reason?”

Face hot again at all the implications she wasn’t insinuating, he protested, “That is the real reason.”

“Mm-hmm. That may be the real reason,” she said, skepticism dripping from every word, “but there’s a reason behind that real reason, and I want to know what it is.”

Luckily for both men, the waiter arrived with their drinks. That wouldn’t distract her long, though, and they knew it.

Bruce threw him a dry grin. “How subtle did you want to keep this, again?”

“I think we should keep it as quiet as possible,” he answered with admirable calm, despite how red his face had to be. “Rumors will spring up on their own.”

Lois looked like she was ready to climb a wall to get at the story she was being denied. “One of you’s going to talk,” she threatened, brandishing her fork at each of them in turn.

“Obviously,” Bruce said in his rich-boy voice as the waiter set down an order of – what exactly had he agreed to split with Lois? – and some plates, “I won’t be living there more than two or three days out of every month. I’ll need someone to manage the place for me – make sure nothing breaks, keep food in the fridge, maybe pick up the dry-cleaning. That sort of thing.”

“I nominate Clark,” she said instantly, making him choke on his water.

“Why me?” he said when his lungs were clear enough to form words.

She smiled at him, the one she saved for having trapped someone.

“Uh…question withdrawn.”

“It’s related to that thing we don’t discuss,” Bruce said casually.

This time, Lois choked on her – really, what had they ordered? Some kind of vegetables on bread of some sort was all he could identify.

“You can imagine my life is pretty stressful,” he continued, helping himself to whatever-it-was. “It’s been pointed out to me that I should get away from things now and then, and I thought having my own place here in Metropolis would be convenient for business and leisure.”

From the look on her face, Clark wasn’t the only one expecting him to have said ‘pleasure’.

“Leisure,” Lois repeated, all but making air quotes around the word, eyebrows skeptically high.

Bruce smiled disarmingly. “I don’t relax enough, and particularly not in the company of good friends.”

“Friends, plural?” She looked like she was trying very hard not to leap to any conclusions. “Are you including me in that category?”

“Open invitation,” he agreed cheerfully.

Clark buried his gaze in his water glass, certain his face was beet-red and hoping with at least three-fourths of his mind that he was misinterpreting Bruce’s offer.

The silence stretched.

“Bruce, I think we’re going to need to talk about this somewhere private before Smallville has an aneurysm, and I’d like some clarification as well.”

“Fair enough. But now that you know roughly what I’m looking for…where do you suggest I look?”

 

Evening saw them at Clark’s apartment, clustered around his laptop. The Pizza Palace delivery boy had remembered his address and beaten two others out, hoping for another tip as generous as the last time. He hadn’t been disappointed, but Clark figured a pizza delivery guy needed one of Bruce’s hundred-dollar bills more than he did. To Clark’s left, Lois Lane nibbled on veggie delight pizza, all her attention on the screen. To his right, Bruce was somehow managing to demolish an entire large curry chicken pizza without either looking up from the laptop or spilling anything. He was pretty sure Pizza Palace didn’t even have a curry chicken pizza, and that they’d improvised one just for him on the strength of having tipped forty dollars on a sixty-dollar order the last time he’d called. The potential apartments they’d made a list of were being checked for heaven-only-knew-what; Bruce seemed to be looking for something different with each one. When he got to the end, he sat back with a noncommittal grunt and turned the rest of his attention to his dinner.

“Well,” Lois said dryly, “this is a side of you I’ve never seen before.”

Bruce glanced at her. “Oh?”

“You’re packing that away like you haven’t eaten for a week. Aren’t you going to make yourself sick?”

“Nope.”

She let that go with a shrug. “Okay, so now are you going to tell me the real reason you want your own place in our fair city?”

Clark knew that body language; that was as clear a ‘no’ as Batman ever gave without saying the word. “I’m emotionally blackmailing him,” he said into the silence.

Oh, that was a glare. Batman declined to say anything, though, and Lois looked shocked.

“On three occasions,” he ventured bravely on, “I’ve assisted Batman as he recovered from severely traumatic injury, and it became clear to me that aside from my apartment not being the most convenient place for that, his support system is somewhat lacking.”

Bitter laughter from Bruce, quickly cut off. 

Lois turned to kneel on the couch, facing Bruce across Clark. “Were you ever serious about me?” she asked sharply. “Or was it just an attempt to distract the reporter most likely to uncover your secret?”

Clark turned to look at his other guest. This was an answer he was deeply interested in.

“You’re a remarkable woman,” Batman said reluctantly. “You deserve better than an arrogant rich kid with issues and a martyr complex badly medicated with violence and risky behavior.”

“Bruce…”

He flinched at Clark’s stern tone. “I think you deserve better than me,” he corrected himself sullenly, each word forced out as though against his will. “You deserve the opportunity to make the choice in full knowledge of everything you’d be getting into, and left to my own devices I’d push you at Clark and watch from a distance, satisfied as long as you’re happy, with little or no regard for what I may or may not want for myself.”

While Lois gaped, Clark reached out and took Bruce’s fist in his hand, gently conveying reassurance and approval through touch. “That means he cares about you,” he said gently.

Glaring, Bruce shoved the rest of a slice of pizza into his mouth so that he couldn’t say anything.

“It’s true, then,” Lois said somewhat hollowly. “You’re Batman. And Clark, you’re emotionally blackmailing him?”

Batman’s seething resentment bored into him, but the fist beneath his hand didn’t move. “He cares about me, too,” Clark said gamely. “He can’t exactly see a psychiatrist, so a friend whose opinion he trusts is the closest he can really get to professional help. Getting an apartment in Metropolis was his idea; moving in was mine.”

“Are you two…” she let the question trail off.

Clark glanced to his right, but Bruce was still chewing. He did, however, stop glaring long enough to look smug. “We don’t know,” he sighed. “He doesn’t give himself the luxury of figuring out what he wants, and only in the last twenty-four hours did I figure out that he trusts me enough to come to me for help with issues that aren’t medical emergencies. Even if it’s like pulling teeth to get him to admit anything,” he added, teasing.

Bruce just grimaced and reached for another slice.

For a long minute, Lois knelt on the couch, watching in silence and thinking. Finally, in her usual dry tones, she asked, “Does he always eat like that when he’s not in public?”

A muffled sound that might have been choking or laughter – or both – came from the other man, and Clark grinned. “I was thinking of entering him in a pie-eating contest.”

“Dibs on the by-line,” she said immediately. “So, in the restaurant, when he asked how subtle you wanted to keep things…I assume he meant the inevitable rumors that you’re gay.”

“His idea,” Bruce growled before shoving more pizza into his mouth.

“My idea,” he repeated. “I thought it would be a good way to keep Clark Kent and Superman separate in the public eye. I’ll also be ceding all stories regarding Bruce Wayne and Wayne Enterprises to you.”

She approved; it was all over her face. “Thus giving me a legitimate reason for being in this hypothetical future apartment that has nothing to do with Clark Kent. Clever.”

“And in the meantime, if Bruce needs to get away from Gotham for a night and lay down his responsibilities, he can do it without Batman having to sneak into or out of my apartment, or worrying about not being able to leave without the cover of darkness.”

Lois had that speculative look on her face again, and Clark braced himself. Bruce, finishing the last piece of his pizza, didn’t catch it. “Tell me you didn’t make him sleep on the couch, Smallville.”

That was his face on fire again, and he was pretty sure that was sniggering coming from the right.

“I take it back,” she said gleefully. “Don’t say a word. I don’t want you to ruin this lovely mental image.”

Bruce swallowed. “I’ll need at least a king-sized bed for whichever apartment I choose,” he said, and Clark covered his face preemptively with both hands. “Clark’s bed isn’t really big enough for both of us.”

“Much less the three of us?”

…he was very, very glad his face was already covered, because that silence was damningly speculative.

“That’s his choice to make,” Bruce said firmly.

“I think we’re scandalizing his wholesome Smallville values.”

“Too bad.” He could almost hear Bruce’s grin. “He should have thought about that before he kissed me.”

That’s it, he was never coming out from behind his hands. He’d spend the rest of his life sitting here, covering his face and not looking at whatever expressions Lois and Bruce were making.

“Whoa, hold up, Bruce. You can’t just drop something like that on me without giving me the details.”

“But the details will ruin your mental image,” he protested with blatantly false innocence, and while Clark was glad he was out of his burning resentment and feeling good enough to banter, he wished it wasn’t at his expense.

“I don’t care. Give ‘em anyway.”

“He was angry at me for being arrogant and making decisions that involved him without asking for his input.”

“Decisions like…” Lois sounded like she wanted to be taking notes.

“Like giving myself hypothermia to excuse my need for physical comfort. I…” Bruce trailed off, and when he continued, it was in a gentler voice. “I called him a pushover. Said that if I just asked for something, he’d do it because I asked whether or not it was what he wanted. To make his point about asking rather than assuming, he kissed me.” He sighed. “You don’t know me, Lois. I…don’t let people get close to me. I’m too afraid that bad things will happen to anyone who does.”

“Harvey Dent,” she said calmly, and there was a pause where he assumed Bruce was nodding. “So Clark snuck past your defenses, and you don’t know what to do with someone who actually knows how much he means to you, but you’re terrified of chasing him away. That’s how he’s emotionally blackmailing you.”

“That about sums it up,” he replied darkly.

Clark let his hands fall cautiously, and discovered the other two staring grimly at each other.

“And the reason you mysteriously forgot to call would be…”

Bruce grimaced. “It’s two reasons. First, I do that to all the girls. That’s part of why I’ve got a dubious reputation. Second…I was being arrogant and making decisions involving you without asking for your input.”

“Clark was right,” she said, arms crossed. “No shrink in the world would ever be able to get past your defenses, but you need help before you self-destruct. Count me in.”

 

At home, at night, in the Batcave, he sat and digitally skulked through Metropolis. Building after building was brought up, blueprints examined, financial records sifted through. One by one, they were discarded. Then his gloved fingers stilled on the keys, and an incomplete wireframe spun lazily on the screen. Yes…yes. This one would do. Financial trouble, ownership issues, it could easily turn into a dead weight on someone’s blotter. He’d go through shell companies and foreign parent companies to purchase the whole building, a convoluted trail muddied long before it came to rest in Gotham. He had three weeks before the next night he’d agreed to spend in Metropolis, more than enough time to get the gears turning. Then he could drive back for a visit, cart some poor real estate agent halfway across the city, be picky and demanding and vague and apologetic enough to drive him or her to frustrated tears, and then finally decide on this one and ask innocently if the owner would allow him to make renovations. The inevitable news leak that Bruce Wayne was establishing a residence there would attract more than enough tenants to make the place profitable.

If he claimed the whole top floor, there’d be more than enough room for everything. The second, unfinished penthouse that took up the western half would become a miniature Batcave under the pretense of having his own helicopter hangar, and he’d actually use it for that. He did have his license, after all. He could add a gym there, in what would have been the master bedroom, and take advantage of the plumbing already in place. The heavy kitchen circuit would suffice for the kind of computers and machinery he’d be bringing in, and a few misleading pieces of equipment would make it seem like he had a high-tech entertainment center for his…questionable leisure activities. The mostly-finished penthouse, of course, had more than enough room for Clark to live comfortably in the second bedroom. Or the third, more modest one, if he preferred. It would be expected of Bruce Wayne to claim the opulent master bedroom, of course. But the other two were hardly shoeboxes and whichever Clark chose, the one remaining would make a lavish guest room.

The private elevator leading from the lobby to the penthouse would normally be a concern, but with the plan specifying two penthouses there was a convenient little hall already built in. It wouldn’t take much to reinforce those walls, and in Metropolis, reinforced walls would hardly raise an eyebrow. Biometric scanners might, but that’s where his own reputation would come in handy. Naturally, Mr. Wayne had to have all the newest toys for himself. If they made it easier for him to slip into his little hideaway while at less than full faculties, well, no one would be so crude as to say that directly. The other security measures would be added surreptitiously. As for Superman being able to enter and leave discreetly, Lex’s obsession with large windows more than took care of that. Alter a few to open out from the bottom, European-style, or install a biometric scanner on them, or on the skylight. There was a patio attached to the living room with a functional door, and one for the east-facing third bedroom. Plenty of options.

He’d have to get Clark’s okay on the place, of course, but he was finding that idea less…restrictive…than he’d expected to. He typed up a brief email to Lois, included the building’s address, and sent it off. She’d relay it to Clark, who’d check it out and give it a yea or nay via ambiguous phone call. He’d have his answer within seventy-two hours, and then he could start the wheels turning. By the end of the month, construction would likely have begun on his Metropolis residence.

Feeling remarkably satisfied with the night’s work, and strangely optimistic besides, Batman stood up from the computer and left the cave. Maybe tonight he’d go to bed early for a change.