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This can’t be happening. He’s prepared for this. He knows what to look for, who to look for, but there’s been no signs and yet here he is. He’s been poisoned somehow. It may just be strong drugs, but if so, they’re unlike anything Bruce has ever come in contact with before and he can’t remember the last time someone tried to drug him in public. At least not drug Bruce Wayne in public. Ivy is still trying to perfect her pollen, but she doesn’t mess with Bruce unless he happens to be in the crowd she’s dousing; she usually goes after Batman if she wants a one-victim situation. His breathing is getting labored, and he’s been nowhere near stairs or other kinds of physical exertion; he’s not allergic to any of the food that’s been served, and it doesn’t feel like an allergic reaction anyway. He goes through the mental checklist he’s worked out with Alfred to make sure it isn’t an anxiety or panic attack. There have been no triggers, his pulse isn’t acting up, his palms aren’t prickling. His brain is working as usual so that isn’t it either. It has to be drugs or poison, but how?
Never mind the how for now; he has to figure out how to leave discreetly, but his legs have started to shake. He’s not sure he can make it to the nearest exit, never mind discreetly. What is he supposed to do? He can’t let anyone know what’s going on in case it’s a slow poison and someone has done this to Batman. Bruce Wayne falling over with the symptoms after Batman being hit would be too much of a coincidence, even for Gotham.
Lack of oxygen may be causing his brain to overthink things, but he’s still conscious enough to nod along politely to something someone said – his vision is getting blurry too.
Alfred isn’t here; he’s taking a very rare night off, because Bruce told him to. ‘Nothing is going to happen at a charity for a children’s hospital, Alfred,’ he’d said, very convincingly. Of course, this is the one time he’s been utterly wrong about the dangers of being Bruce Wayne. He doesn’t have air to call someone, even if he did want to bother Dick, or God forbit, ask Jason for help. He’s out of options – at least out of human options.
He's been working with the Justice League for more than two years now; he trusts them as much as he trusts anyone outside his family. He knows any of them would come if he called, but he can’t physically call anyone at this point. He’s even having a hard time holding onto the champagne glass in his hand.
Bruce needs to get back to the cave in record time and while Flash is the fastest man alive, he doesn’t have superhearing. Superman does. And Bruce trusts Superman to save- to help him without making a scene. The only issue is that Superman doesn’t know who Bruce is; he doesn’t know that Batman is actually Gotham’s favorite billionaire. Bruce isn’t sure he’s willing to give up that piece of information, but he doesn’t really have much choice at this point. He shakily puts the glass down on the nearest flat surface. He’s relieved when it doesn’t shatter; he really isn’t sure what he put it on.
Civilian identity be damned, he can’t waste any more time thinking this through.
“Superman,” Bruce chokes out. “Immediate extraction needed.” He coughs into a handkerchief to hide most of the syllables, but he really doesn’t have to bother. He’s not sure even Superman’s otherworldly hearing can pick up the sound, but he has to try, even if it is more wheeze than words at this point. “Banana muffin,” he adds with difficulty, despite hating the damn ‘safe word’ Kal came up with, just in case it isn’t clear that he needs assistance now. He’s suffocating and he can’t even conquer up enough air to excuse himself from the group crowding against him.
He expects the doors to slam open, the roof to save in, anything, but nothing happens. Perhaps Superman really hasn’t heard his call for help. How the hell will he get out of here when he can’t even make out the faces surrounding him? Even Bruce Wayne doesn’t get this drunk at a charity gala. At least not this quickly. Panic is slowly starting to creep in; he hates being this useless and without options.
“Excuse me, do you mind if I-” a gentle voice breaks through the whooshing in Bruce’s ears. “Yes, my apologies, I just- Bruce, hi,” the voice says and on pure instinct Bruce plasters his signature smile on his face as he nods at the blurry silhouette in front of him. The voice said Bruce, not Mr. Wayne, which means they’re comfortable with him. Or the image of him they’ve decided he fits into anyway.
“Can I steal you away for a minute?” the voice asks. Bruce has to crane his neck up to look in the vicinity of the man’s face. It’s still mostly just a blur but Bruce notes dark hair and broad shoulders.
Bruce really doesn’t want to be “stolen away” by anyone other than Superman or maybe Alfred at this point, but he doesn’t have enough air in his lungs to decline. He blinks, trying to focus and keep his breathing shallow to allow some type of air to get through. The blurry figure sharpens a bit but Bruce blinks a few more times. He could’ve sworn he saw Superman, but in front of him is a stranger in an ill-fitting suit, pushing a pair of thick frames up his nose. Does Bruce know this man?
The crowd doesn’t let up until the stranger says, a little too loudly: “You promised me a minute to ourselves, remember?” He pushed his arm underneath Bruce’s, making Bruce grab hold of his forearm by instinct. There’s a private tinge to the guy’s voice that finally gets through the people wanting a piece of Bruce to themselves. They know well enough what kind of minutes Bruce gives people. At least attractive people. Bruce thinks this man is attractive; at least he’s freakishly tall and the arm underneath his hand is firm.
Bruce has enough mind left to nod. “Of course,” the last drop of air is forced out through his lips but it’s enough to get them through the crowd.
Bruce knows his oxygen is low, he’s not getting enough through to his brain and he’s starting to feel lightheaded, which is the only reason he lets this stranger carry most of his weight. It seems to help his lungs expand better, now that he doesn’t have to focus on both breathing and standing up straight.
He tries to call for Superman again – a last ditch effort; he has no idea how he’ll explain why he’s calling for Metropolis’ golden boy, but he has to do something. He has no idea where this man is taking him, although he trusts himself enough to get out of any sticky situation – even if he’s been drugged. He vaguely registers that the stranger has no issue holding him up and guiding him through the hall, despite Bruce being well over six feet and on the heavy side of the 200 pounds. He would’ve been impressed if he wasn’t trying very hard to keep his head still enough to have his tongue work on pushing a single word out of his mouth. It feels heavy and swollen in his mouth.
“Kal,” he manages to half-whisper, because it’s much easier to say than Superman – and to explain if the stranger holding him up asks. It’s barely even a word, easy enough to brush off a drunken muttering, especially in the state that Bruce is in.
“Right here, B,” a voice close to him says. Too close, actually.
Bruce frowns and tries to focus his swimming vision. Something isn’t right. This isn’t the bright blue and red he’s been mentally preparing for. The material is all wrong and it feels scratchy brushing against his skin. Superman’s suit isn’t scratchy. It’s smooth and comforting to touch; whatever he’s touching isn’t. This isn’t Superman, this is that stranger and his weird suit. It’s- it is-
“So ugly,” Bruce mumbles at the offending greyish brown fabric he’s got his cheek pressed against. When did his head fall to the side? Probably about the same time an arm wound around his back. He must really be out of it if he hasn’t registered the stranger wrapping an arm around him.
“Excuse me?”
“Superman would never,” Bruce finds himself muttering because he really wouldn’t. Kal would make a grand entrance, make sure to get Bruce to safety. This person – whoever this tasteless man is – might be tall and sort of handsome if Bruce focuses hard enough on his face, but he’s no Superman.
“Pretty sure he would,” mutters the stranger but it’s clear from his voice that he’s smiling, which confuses Bruce. Did he tell a joke?
Oh God, this poison is worse than he thought. His breathing is easier now that he’s got some support, but there’s pain blooming in his chest and he’s pretty sure he’s starting to sweat. What in the world has he ingested? He would’ve felt a needle, it must’ve been in the food. Is anything else affected? He tries to straighten up and look around but all it does is make him dizzy and he slumps even heavier against the broad shoulder.
“How am I going to get you out of here,” the shoulder mutters. Or the man probably does the muttering. Bruce is slowly losing his mind. “There are paparazzi everywhere outside.”
“Alley,” Bruce’s last brain cell offers. He feels off, almost like he’s drunk but with more respiratory difficulties.
“Alley, yes, that’s good,” the voice says, and Bruce is almost sure he lifts both of Bruce’s feet of the ground to get him out the double doors. They might not be double. Is he seeing double? Were they double when he got here? “Won’t they follow us though?”
“Agreement,” Bruce explains, very eloquently. “No nudes.” He’s pretty sure he’s got more words than that, but his tongue is once again not cooperating, and he really needs to get more air into his lungs; he sounds like an old smoker walking on stairs. “Kisses,” he adds, because that’s the agreement. They don’t publish naked photos of him if there are other people present and in exchange Bruce does his best to give them plenty of opportunities to capture him with a new beau on his arm.
Speaking of…
Bruce squints at the giant next to him. He is rather handsome, isn’t he? There’s something familiar about him too, about his silhouette. He’s about to open his mouth and ask – what’s the harm in asking? It’s not like it’s weird of him to ask to know the name of the guy dragging his heavy body outside – but before he can force words out of his mouth, they pass through the doors and are assaulted with flashes and yelling.
“Oh God,” the stranger says, and the arm around Bruce’s back tightens minutely. “It’s even worse like this.”
Bruce wants to comment on this man’s experience with bright lights and screaming journalists, but he really does not want to waste oxygen by talking when he won’t be heard over the yelling anyway. He’d much rather think of a way to get rid of this guy – even if they make it to the alley, Bruce can’t call for the batmobile with him there.
One problem at a time though. They need to get past the sea of reporters wanting quotes or pictures or whatever else they usually get out of Bruce by the end of the night. Granted, he’s leaving much earlier than expected, but they don’t seem to mind.
“Mr. Wayne, over here, look this way!”
“Bruce, Bruce, who is this?”
“Is this your partner, Bruce?”
“You haven’t dated men in a while, what’s changed?”
“Mr. Wayne, how long have you been seeing each other?”
“Bruce, is this another one-night conquest?”
It looks like the stranger is getting upset by the questions – they’re not the worst Bruce has ever gotten honestly, and they’re somewhat fair questions knowing what they usually scream at Bruce at the end of the night – so Bruce gathers what little of his brain still works to smile at the crowd.
“He’s handsome, isn’t he?” Bruce slurs – and hopes it sounds more coherent to their ears than it does his own – as he pets the stranger’s chest. Jesus, how buff does someone have to be? It’s like petting concrete. As soon as he speaks, the questions stop; they’re all dying to hear what the prince of Gotham has to say. He doesn’t even have to pretend to be drunk at this point, he’s pretty sure the only thing holding him up is the arm around his waist. The flashes hurt his eyes, and he shuts them before reaching up – and up, how tall is this guy? Bruce isn’t short by any means – and grabbing a very strong and square jaw. He pulls down with his hand as he stretches onto his toes.
He presses his lips to the stranger’s and tries not to be offended when he freezes up. Bruce should’ve known there was a possibility that this guy was straight – or even homophobic; smallminded people still exist, after all – but his brain isn’t really working on full power at the moment. Even just pressing their lips together feels like running a marathon with Croc on his heels. He’s also fairly certain kissing someone he doesn’t know in front of a bunch of other strangers wouldn’t be his first choice of action if his brain was functioning properly. Although it's not the craziest thing he’s done in front of paparazzi and he has to admit landing one on a tall beauty is much better than, say, swimming in a fountain or purposefully getting caught in a supply closet with a member of the staff.
Bruce is about to lean back properly onto his feet when the slack arm around his back tightens and brings their chests together. Bruce nearly yelps from the sheer force of the movement. Another hand sneaks up and holds his face close. His own hands scramble to grab more firmly onto a shoulder, and he holds on for dear life as his lips are parted by a warm tongue. He tries not to moan as his head is pulled to the side, bringing their mouths closer together.
Oh, this guy can kiss.
And evidently, he doesn’t need to breathe because he keeps kissing Bruce, not even stopping for a second of air when he runs a hand down to cup his neck. Great kisser or not, Bruce didn’t have a lot of air to begin with – he should’ve thought this through before grabbing and kissing a stranger, but alas, even Batman has off-days, especially if they involve getting drugged – and he has to pull back soon enough. A shame, really, he can’t remember the last time he was kissed with such passion.
A thought for another day because when he opens his eyes, he wants to claw them out of his own skull. The camera flashes are torture for his senses, and he tries his best not to flinch. He’s got to get home in the next couple of minutes or he’s pretty sure he’ll suffer permanent damage – if not from the poison, then from his own actions; he has no sense of boundaries left as he barely stops himself from squeezing the stranger’s left pec.
“I fear-” Bruce tries to play the gasp for air off as excitement instead of the actual need for air. It’s not a hard sell after that kiss. “He’ll keep me busy. All night.”
There are some oh’s and ah’s in the crowd – Bruce has no idea how they keep this up; he’s been in the public eye for as long as he’s been alive and yet they’re always somehow baffled and impressed by anything he says or does.
“Lesgo,” Bruce says in the general vicinity of the stranger (despite still clinging onto his shoulder) and more or less stumbles down the two steps from the building. He wonders where his t’s went as the paparazzies make room for him and his companion. Always so polite. He’ll have to give them a proper show some other day. That thought has him stop, effectively making his makeshift cane-slash-crutch halt in his steps as well. Is he really so intoxicated that he’s starting to rely on and appreciate reporters of all people? That can’t be a good sign.
The stranger tugs on his arm and Bruce follows obediently. He’s still trying to work out how he’s going to get rid of him by the time they’re nearly at the alley. He’s losing precious time rearranging and overanalyzing his own thoughts. He’s been poisoned, there’s no rhyme or reason to his mind right now, but he doesn’t have time to be slow. He needs a plan. Now.
“You said they wouldn’t follow,” Tall-and-handsome hisses and Bruce wonders why he’s so panicked. Who wouldn’t want seven minutes in heaven with Bruce Wayne? He rolls his eyes at himself. Splitting his person up this much in his own head can’t be healthy.
He does however see his savior’s point when he glances over his shoulder. There are indeed cameras and people following them. Huh. Well, he knows how to get rid of just about anybody at this point in his life, whether it be reporters, colleagues or whatever falls in between. He twists around to wrap his arms around the stranger’s waist and hook his chin over his shoulder so he’s facing their admirers. He has to stop himself from frowning when he once again is forced onto his toes to manage the maneuver. He hopes it looks like an intimate embrace and not just him draping himself over someone he doesn’t know.
“Warm up show,” Bruce stage-whispers at the crowd of paparazzies and they all laugh and shake their heads at him. Good, old Brucie Wayne. He hopes they don’t notice how muttered his m’s are sounding. First t’s and now m’s? He needs an out before the rest of the alphabet goes the same way. Bruce throws a wink their way – at least he hopes it’s their way, he really can’t see much anymore – and then staggers the rest of the way into the alley with the help of his new friend. This time they’re not followed.
“Clever,” Mystery-Man says quietly.
Bruce would smile at him, but he’s finally run out of ‘power through’ juice. His eyes are throbbing and he’s approximately four minutes and twenty-five seconds away from vomiting up what little food he’s eaten today. He’s shaking and his knees feel like that one time he had to jump off a roof without his grappling hook and he landed awkwardly on his feet like an untrained moron. He’s acutely aware of how much of his weight the stranger is holding up.
Bruce can’t remember the last time he’s had someone this close for this long – at least not anyone who isn’t family – without it involving less clothing and less panting. Okay, maybe the same amount of panting but Bruce isn’t usually the one gasping for air. Not always, anyway. What was he thinking again? Ah, right, getting rid of the man-tree holding him up before he either a) vomits all over him or b) faints in his arms. Easy peasy.
“’hanks for ‘e assis’,” Bruce says and frowns. Those damn t’s. Is his tongue really swollen? He can’t tell with the saliva starting to fill his mouth. There are too many conflicting symptoms, and he can’t gather his thoughts enough to analyze them. “Imma l- l-” Stupid e’s. “Imma go.”
He manages to wiggle out of the stranger’s arms – oh, it’s so cold out here, how did he not notice before? – but somewhere along the way he’s miscalculated because either the oaf-man has just kicked at his feet or he’s falling over them himself.
Either way, not good.
***
Clark watches as Bruce takes a wobbly step and then promptly tilts to the ground. This is Batman, there’s no way he’s letting himself fall to the wet concrete of a dirty alley, no matter how much of a drunk he supposedly is. Clark has never seen Batman like this before and he’s starting to get worried. He knows he’s not acquainted with Bruce’s public persona, but even as far as drunk people go, this isn’t right. Bruce is making no sense at all and it’s quite frankly terrifying to witness. Clark is still waiting for Bruce to stop the charade, but he also knows that Batman is always several steps ahead of everyone around him and maybe they’re being watched. Clark would like to think he’d notice something like that but he’s humble enough to admit that it’s possible for him to miss something Batman has noticed. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Which is why Clark doesn’t immediately run to catch Bruce when he falls.
When Bruce lands – more luck than skill – with one hand under half his face, Clark has a moment of pure shock. He knows he should rush to Bruce’s side, but he’s just witnessed Batman – the Batman – fall gracelessly on his face. He’s torn between wishing he’d caught him and wishing he’d gotten that on film. Bruce groans and Clark is snapped out of his own thoughts. He’s by Bruce’s side in seconds.
“Are you okay?” Clark knows the answer before he’s even asked it. Of course, Bruce isn’t okay. Clark can’t help him if he doesn’t start talking, but from the looks of it it’s more likely that Bruce is going to be sick than he’s going to start talking like he usually does. ‘Talking’ might be too extreme of a word seeing as Batman mostly communicates in scolding, grunts and huffing sounds, not to forget his patented Bat-Glare.
If the situation was in any way different Clark would have been laughing his ass off. Bruce has rolled over to sit up; the right side of his face is smothered in dirt, and he looks like a disgruntled kid. It’s sight Clark is sure he’ll never forget. He does, however, have enough self-control to push his initial amusement aside for now.
Bruce tilts to the side a little but Clark is there to catch him this time. Bruce looks at the hand on his shoulder like it’s personally offended him.
“I’ve been drugged,” he says to Clark’s hand, words a little jumbled together.
“I gathered that much.” Clark doesn’t roll his eyes but it’s a close call. Bruce’s brain must be affected by the drug. This isn’t the man he’s used to dealing with and he’s starting to worry that something’s really wrong with him. Something permanent. Luckily Batman is always prepared – even for situations when he can’t be prepared himself.
Clark reaches into his jacket to withdraw the small vial he always keeps on him. Batman has given antidote vials to everyone on the Justice League – it’s just a small concoction, it’s not a miracle, but it’s enough to hold off nearly every drug known to man until you can bring the victim to safety. Clark is probably the only one who keeps his in his civil identity’s suit, but Superman can fly someone to a hospital in the same time it takes to pop the cap off the vial, while Clark might need a little more time to help out.
Clark puts the cap between his teeth and pulls it off. Seeing as Bruce is still holding a staring contest with his other hand, he swiftly jabs the needle into his upper thigh. No air bubbles, Batman made sure to design the vial and cap perfectly – at least that’s what he told Green Lantern when Hal had the audacity to ask how to make sure they wouldn’t inject air into someone’s veins.
“Ow!” Bruce exclaims and finally turns his face towards Clark’s. If Clark isn’t entirely mistaken, he’s actually tearing up a bit too. God, did he just make Batman cry? “Why’d you do that?”
“You- you told me to use this if you ever got poisoned somehow,” Clark explains, like Batman isn’t the one who forced him to carry the vial in the first place. “And I seriously doubt this is how you usually behave at these things.”
“What,” Bruce says as he rubs his thigh with his bottom lip sticking out. He looks like a pouting child. It’s kind of endearing.
Clark finds himself glancing at Bruce’s lips and licks his own. There’s a faint taste of champagne on his tongue. He hasn’t had any champagne tonight. He wonders if Bruce can taste him on his tongue as well.
Clark shakes his head to chase those particular thoughts away and waits for the rest of Bruce’s sentence but apparently that’s it.
“You called for me,” he says slowly. Perhaps the drug has reached Bruce’s mind and that’s why he isn’t making much sense. “But I couldn’t exactly fly through the room dressed like this, you know. I always bring that with me though, because you made a point to tell me how important it is and-”
“What,” Bruce repeats. At least he’s looking at Clark this time although he’s still pouting – it’s an odd mix with the way he’s frowning. Clark tries to focus on the conversation and not on the fact that Batman looks like an angry child.
“You- you said banana muffin,” he explains. For Batman to ever utter those words the situation must be really bad – he’s always sworn he wouldn’t use their safe word even if he was dying. Batman does have a habit of being slightly dramatic, of course.
“I did.”
Clark cannot for the life of him tell if it’s a question or a statement and even his patience has its limits. The antidote seems to have done nothing but make Bruce act even more drunk but at least his breathing is sounding better.
“You’ve been drugged,” Clark says and rearranges his hands. He’ll have to get a proper grip on Bruce before he can fly them out of here and he really would’ve liked some other way to do this, but at least the paparazzi seem to have moved on. He can hear them asking questions near the entrance again and this might be the best chance they’ll have.
“Poisoned,” Bruce corrects him, because of course he does.
“Poisoned, okay, that’s not any better.” Clark rolls his eyes and ignores how dirty his hands are getting from holding onto Bruce’s suit. God, the cleaning is going to cost a fortune with a suit this nice. Clark’s happy he’s not the one footing the bill but he also feels bad for Bruce – he’s clearly not aware of how damp his pants are getting; he’s sitting right in a puddle. “You called for me, B, do you remember?”
“I Superman’d,” Bruce says so eloquently. He wraps his arms around Clark’s neck without any prompting which is a nice touch – Batman never lets Superman carry him anywhere unless it’s a life-or-death situation – but also makes alarm bells go off in Clark’s head.
“You sure did, buddy,” he says gently as he lifts Bruce off the ground.
“What do I call you?” Bruce asks suddenly. His speech seems to be better now, which must be a good sign. Clark still wants to get him somewhere else though. No reason to delay any longer.
“Kal is fine.” Nobody can hear them in the alley.
“Is not your nam’ though,” Bruce says as a matter of factly and then reaches up to grab the glasses off of Clark’s face. It feels like an oddly intimate gesture and Clark blushes.
“It’s-” While Bruce is technically right, he’s also technically wrong. Batman always sees three steps further ahead than anyone else, so Clark decides to trust him on this. If anyone made the connection between Kal and Clark, he’d be in trouble. “Clark, then.”
“Mark’s good,” Bruce nods as he pushes the glasses up his own nose. He frowns – probably at the lack of prescription, but even Superman gets a headache if he has to wear prescription glasses all day when he doesn’t need it.
“It’s-” Clark starts and then sighs. Why bother with correcting him when Batman is clearly not in his right mind. “You know what, let’s just get you somewhere safe.”
He waits for a moment, but Bruce doesn’t seem to notice as he keeps fiddling with the glasses. Clark holds him a little tighter to get his attention.
“Where do I take you?”
“Wherever you like, handsom’,” Bruce grins and bumps his head against Clark’s shoulder. The plastic of his glasses creak as it’s squished into firm flesh.
“Jesus,” Clark mutters and ignores the way his stomach flutters when Bruce rubs his cheek on his shirt. “I mean, where do I take you to, B? Is- is the manor safe?” Everybody knows where Bruce Wayne lives but Clark can’t be sure that’s where his Bat-base of operations are. “Do you have somewhere else we should go? You need some kind of proper antidote or treatment.”
“Second star on the right and straight ‘till mornin’,” Bruce says very seriously as he points in the general vicinity of Wayne Manor. At least Clark hopes that’s what he’s pointing towards because there’s no way he’s flying Bruce to Neverland.
“Oh God, okay, the manor it is.” Clark does one final scan of their surroundings before he shoots up in the sky. The wind is a little strong and he wishes he’d had the chance to change before flying Bruce home. At least then he could’ve wrapped his cape around the shivering man in his arms.
“Cold,” Bruce mutters and presses his face into Clark’s neck. He’s still holding on tightly and Clark can’t help but notice how Bruce squirms in his arms as if he wants to be even closer. It makes something fluttery move in his stomach.
“We’ll be there in a moment,” he says to distract himself from the butterflies and to reassure Bruce. “Close your eyes and hold on.” He doesn’t have to give Bruce any directions; he’s carried Batman to safety many times the past year alone (albeit not as willingly), but he can’t quite seem to fit Bruce and Batman together into one person when Bruce is rubbing his cold nose again Clark’s collar.
He tries desperately not to think of how young Bruce looks, especially all cuddled up to him like this. They’re not that far apart in age, but he’s always thought Batman to be much older and wiser, because of his ‘when you’ve been in the business as long as I have’ speeches.
Clark flies as fast as he can while still making sure Bruce doesn’t get any colder than absolutely necessary. It’s not a long way to Wayne Manor despite the slower flight but Clark does keep holding onto Bruce even as he asks where to go from there. He doesn’t want to wake anybody up inside Bruce’s home, but he needs to make sure Bruce is safe. It has nothing to do with Clark wanting to be close to Bruce a little longer, it really doesn’t.
Bruce – somehow, miraculously – makes enough sense to guide Clark through a hidden entrance (did Bruce really line his cave with led or is there something else disturbing his vision enough that he didn’t notice the giant void beneath the manor?) and into what he so eloquently calls the Bat Cave. Clark doesn’t laugh but only because he doesn’t wanna offend Batman while he’s vulnerable like this.
Clark sets them down in the cave, careful to keep an arm around Bruce’s middle even as he lowers his feet to the ground. For a moment or two he waits to see if Bruce can stand on his own and when the Gothamite stalks out of his arms towards a table in next to a computer, Clark lets him, although he does follow closely behind.
Bruce runs his hands over little instruments Clark doesn’t even know how to begin to describe (most of them look bat-themed though), and then he jerks upright like he thought of something that needs his immediate attention. He wobbles through the cave towards what looks like a fancier version of a gym changing room but instead of stopping, he goes straight for the showers.
Even with all the superspeed on his side Clark does not expect Bruce to turn on the shower and so he’s a second too late to stop the downpour of water falling over his face. He does get there just in time to accidentally duck his own head underneath the stream before he shuts it off.
“What are you doing?” he asks as he gently wrestles Bruce out of the stall.
“I’m hot,” Bruce complains even though his lips have turned blueish. The glasses – Clark’s glasses, and okay, that makes something else flutter in his chest that Clark chooses to ignore – on his face are fogging up from the combined temperatures.
“You were cold not even a second ago,” Clark mutters as he looks around for a towel or anything else to wrap Bruce in. He didn’t get himself completely soaked but his jacket and shirt are wet, and he needs to get out of them before the poisoning will turn into pneumonia. He peeks through the many lockers and locates the towels. “Let’s get you warmed up.”
A hand on his chest stops his movements and Clark looks from the strong, calloused hand to Bruce’s face. He looks surprisingly sober.
“You’re Superman,” he says.
“I’m- yes, Bruce, you already know this,” Clark responds slowly. The poison must really have reached his brain for Batman to be this slow in his responses. Clark reached up to grab Bruce’s hand. “You-” he starts but is interrupted by a very solid weight smashing into his shoulder.
“That’s hot,” Bruce says into his suit. Clark is now absolutely certain that his glasses are broken. At least it doesn’t look like Bruce’s nose is.
“W-what?” Excellent hearing can’t save Clark from nearly missing what Bruce said because, well. Because it doesn’t make any sense.
“You’re hot,” Bruce declares when he un-smushes himself from Clark’s body.
Once again Clark is left rather speechless. There shouldn’t be any danger here, so it isn’t Bruce trying to keep his cover. There’s no way he’d say these things if he was of his right mind though, so Clark answers the best way he can around the butterflies trying to fly out of his mouth.
“I’m- uh. Thank you?”
Bruce smiles at him and it’s such a carefree and warm smile that Clark can’t help but smile back. Then Bruce pats him on the cheek and says: “I need you to stab me.”
“What?”
“Antidote.”
Oh. Clark hopes Bruce can’t see the blood rushing to his face and he thanks God that he isn’t his usually attentive Bat-self, otherwise Clark would’ve had to explain why he’s blushing like an idiot.
“Of course. We need to get you out of these clothes though. Where’s the antidote?”
“Second shelf, third cabinet, don’t touch anything blue or green and don’t jostle the purple,” Bruce says as he’s making his way out of the shower area. At least his speech is getting better, but his balance is not. Clark has to keep an eye on him and fly back and forth from the cabinet three separate times to make sure he doesn’t fall over on his way to the stairs.
With the antidote securely in his hand Clark makes the executive decision to live through the inevitable Bat-glare he’ll be on the receiving end of and wraps his arm around Bruce’s waist to hoist him up the stairs. They’ll never make it to the top if he leaves Bruce to walk by himself; it’s like watching a newborn fawn take its first steps. Repeatedly. On ice. Up several flights of stairs.
“Alright,” Clark says when they reach the top. “Where do we go from here?”
“Bedroom,” is Bruce’s very thorough answer.
Clark is becoming an expert at ignoring his body’s responses to Bruce’s words, because hearing that dark voice say that exact word when Bruce is leaning his entire body up against Clark’s is… evoking quite a few reactions. All of which Clark ignores, obviously. He does swallow with difficulty though. His mouth is suddenly dry.
“Yes, right, but where is your bedroom?”
“Superman it,” Bruce says and throws his arms around Clark’s neck. “Why aren’t you holding me? Aren’t ya savin’ me?”
Ignore, ignore, ignore. Clark does as he’s requested and pulls Bruce into his arms once again. It feel rather natural at this point but he’s not about to voice that out loud. Bruce might be out of his mind right now, but Clark has no illusions; somehow this will come back to bite him. Batman won’t let him live this down, his pride would never let him.
Clark ‘Supermans it’ and locates what he guesses is Bruce’s bedroom. It’s the only larger bedroom with a full closet so he figures it’s a safe bet. He gets them there with no incidents, despite the fact that he’s pretty sure his heart is ready to leap out of his chest because of his Bruce is holding onto him and rubbing his damp hair all over his neck.
“Okay, you need to get into dry clothing, Bruce, you’re shaking,” Clark says as he settles Bruce down on the bed. He’s still dripping but his pants weren’t drenched, and he figures it’ll be okay as long as Bruce is comfortable.
“Okay,” Bruce agrees easily – too easily, Clark doesn’t trust how pliant he is like this. It might be endearing but it’s also so far from how Batman usually acts that it’s worrying to witness.
Then – because the universe doesn’t think Clark deserves a break – Bruce falls off the bed trying to get his suit jacket off. How he manages it, Clark has no idea, but he’s fast enough to make sure Bruce doesn’t knock any teeth out or break any bones.
It’s not like he hasn’t done this before. Batman is human. Sometimes he needs help peeling off a broken piece of his uniform if he’s been particularly badly injured. But he’s always had that skintight black undersuit on and this isn’t exactly like helping out a teammate. Clark licks his lips and takes a calming breath. Of course, it is. This is Batman. It’s just like when he’s physically incapable of moving a broken arm and needs Superman’s help wrestling out of the batsuit.
“I’m gonna help you,” he says, just to make sure Bruce knows what’s going on. He shouldn’t have worried because Bruce actually looks relieved to not have to fumble anymore with the single button on his suit jacket.
Undressing someone else isn’t that big of a deal, Clark tells himself as he gets Bruce out of his suit. The shirt is easy enough to unbutton, as soon as they get Bruce onto the bed again. Then comes the pants and Clark- Clark hesitates. Not long enough for Bruce to notice, he doesn’t think, but long enough that he starts overthinking. It doesn’t take long for Superman to do that in situations like these. Has he ever been in a similar situation though? Usually he doesn’t have to actually be this close to Batman for this long after he starts noticing how his body reacts when he’s near.
Clark might not be an expert on crushes, but he’s (almost) human, he knows what they feel like. And he knows he should’ve probably had someone else from the League help Batman tonight, considering his feelings, but Batman used their safe word. Not the emergency comms, not even a regular call for help. No, he called for Clark and Clark alone.
Clark’s not above feeling flattered even if the situation is more life and death than Bruce actually wanting to see him.
He’s getting off topic. Thankfully Bruce is so far away still that he hasn’t noticed Clark’s hands hovering over his belt for a few seconds. One last breath of air that he doesn’t actually need and then he pulls at Bruce’s belt and gets his pants off. It’s a little awkward but that’s mostly because Bruce tries to help by standing up and Clark nearly faceplants into his crotch. All in all the undressing is a success when, a moment later, Bruce falls back onto the bed.
He wiggles around on the maroon sheets like a lazy cat and Clark’s mouth could rival the Sahara. Until it can’t because Bruce is reaching for him and he still needs to jab him with the needle and God, is it getting hot in here? Clark fumbled with the antidote for a second because he can’t help but notice how Bruce’s boxers match the sheets and he really should get on with it but Bruce keeps staring at him.
“Be gentle,” he says, and Clark nearly swallows his own tongue.
Bruce has to be doing this on purpose. Perhaps he knows about Clark’s crush and is teasing him but then again most of his brain doesn’t seem to be working so it might just be coincidence and Clark really needs to move. He isn’t as quick as with the first antidote, but he knows to be swift, and he keeps his eyes firmly on the needle as he pushes it into Bruce’s skin. The skin on his thigh. His very naked thigh.
The maroon is a nice contrast against Bruce’s legs; silken and dark against rough and pale. Clark snaps his head up to focus on Bruce’s face.
“All done,” he says and hopes he sounds more confident than he feels. “How do you feel?”
“Better,” Bruce mutters.
He reaches out towards Clark and who is he to deny Bruce some comfort? He rests a knee on the bed and takes Bruce’s hand gently. He tries for a reassuring smile – even Batman has to be scared sometimes, right? – but it’s quickly wiped from his face when Bruce wraps his fingers around Clark’s wrist and tugs. He’s pulled forward and lands on his free hand to avoid crashing into Bruce’s chest.
God, he’s strong…
“Ya wanna check for yourself?” Bruce asks with a half-smile as he presses Clark’s hand to his chest. His skin is warm to the touch, his chest hair coarse but soft. Clark’s right pinky is right by an old scar, resting gently on the raised skin. Bruce’s fingers around his wrist feel cold and the contrast to the skin of his chest is fascinating to Clark – or would be, if he wasn’t doing his best not to squeeze Bruce’s pec.
Bruce’s words are a little slurred together. The antidote seems to be working and it’s making Bruce blink slower, like he’s trying not to fall asleep. Sleep would be good for him though after the night he’s had. Sleep would also mean that Clark could get a moment to himself to make sure his face isn’t actually on fire.
“Uh,” he says, eloquently. “Better, yes, I would say you- you’re better.”
“The betterst,” Bruce agrees and finally lets go of Clark’s wrist.
It takes Clark just a few moments too long to remove his hand and sit back on his haunches. If Bruce is this intoxicated and vulnerable it wouldn’t do to leave him on his own. Clark can hear another heartbeat in the house, but he doesn’t feel right leaving. It has nothing to do with the fact that he wants to see Bruce’s face in the morning. It’s his duty as Superman and as Bruce’s teammate.
While he’s doing his mental gymnastics to make excuses for himself, Bruce has somehow managed to wiggle underneath the sheets and is yawning loudly. He blinks his light eyes up at Clark and squints.
“Kal,” he says, very seriously. Clark moves a little closer to give Bruce his full attention.
“Would- would you still love me if I was a worm?” If it hadn’t been for his blank face Clark would’ve thought Bruce was joking. But he’s waiting patiently for a reply and Clark has none to give him.
“What?”
“If I was- worm, if I was a worm-” Bruce falls over his own words and he’s getting frustrated judging by the way he’s clasping at the sheets.
“No, yeah, I heard you,” Clark reassures him quickly.
“I heard Timmy ask Bern- Bernd- Bernrd the other day and it seemed significant,” Bruce says meaningfully.
Let it be Bruce Wayne who can’t say Bernard when he’s drunk but has no issues with significant. Clark isn’t sure which one of the boys is Timmy but he’s fairly certain it’s one of Bruce’s kids. The fact that Bruce feels comfortable enough to share this – even if he has been poisoned to do so – with him makes Clark smile and relax. He’ll go through his own mental chaos later; right now he’ll just sit on the edge of the bed and run a hand through Bruce’s hair.
“Significant how, B?”
“Like. Close. They’re, y’know, they’re not friends,” Bruce says with a flourish of his hand. Or what is supposed to be a flourish. It gets stuck in the sheets and Clark has to help him untangle himself before he can continue. “Friends aren’t them, ya know? They’re- it’s the worms, ya know?”
“I’m not sure I do, honestly,” Clark says as he pulls the sheets up over Bruce’s shoulders. He’s not tugging him in, per se, but it keeps Bruce from moving around too much.
“Worms, Kal,” he repeats seriously even through another yawn. “Ther’s the yes. To the worms.”
“Okay, alright,” Clark says and tries not to laugh. He can’t help but brush the hair away from Bruce’s eyes. “I understand.”
“You do?”
“Yes, Bruce, the worms.”
“’hat’s right. Worms.”
***
Bruce wakes up to a pounding in his head. He can’t remember ever feeling this shitty after a charity gala, not even the few times he’s actually let himself drink. He doesn’t open his eyes but he can still feel the light from the sun burn into his skull. He turns over and buries his face in a pillow as he groans. Why is everything so loud and bright? Alfred would never do this to him unless he’d done something wrong. Has he done something wrong? He can’t quite gather his thoughts long enough to figure it out.
Wait. He got poisoned. If anything, Alfred should let him sleep in, not try to kill him with natural sunlight. Something isn’t right. It takes him far longer than it should to notice that there’s someone in the room with him – someone who isn’t Alfred. This person’s breathing is odd; purposefully loud like they’re trying to make noise.
“Good morning,” a warm voice greets him and Bruce freezes.
Kal. Superman. Clark Kent? Memories floods his mind and Bruce wants to die. Being poisoned can excuse many things – even some generally unforgivable things – but this? Exposing his identity, possibly making the front page of the gossip magazines, showing Clark the cave, on top of acting like a drunk child in front of an esteemed colleague? He squished his face further into the pillow but doesn’t scream despite the overwhelming need to do so.
“Or maybe just morning then,” Clark says.
There’s laughter in his voice and Bruce is too curious to keep hiding. He pokes his head up and squints at Clark where he’s standing by the window. Of course, it’s him who’s pulled the curtains back to torture Bruce. And to top it off, he looks immaculate as always, stupid alien with his stupid hair and his stupid face. Stupid, attractive, smiling face. Looking at Bruce like they’re friends, like this experience has brought them closer.
Bruce needs coffee.
He rolls over and stares at the ceiling. His head feels less fuzzy but there’s a bitter taste in his mouth and his upper thigh is weirdly achy. Ah, the antidote vials. Good thing he forced the team to carry those around with them. This will be a learning experience for the entire League. Unless Bruce accidentally makes sure no one ever knows what happened. That sounds reasonable too.
“The answer is yes, by the way,” Clark says conversationally.
“What?” Bruce grumbles. He hasn’t asked any questions and he’s not in the mood for games.
“Yes,” Clark repeats with a broadening smile. He’s walking closer to the bed, but at least he’s blocking out most of the sun from reaching Bruce’s tired eyes.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I’d still love you if you were a worm.”
“Oh God.” Bruce throws the comforter over his face. He really wants to die. Can he somehow in the span of a day conquer up a Kryptonite cocktail laced with drugs strong enough to cause amnesia? Nothing too pungent, obviously, just enough to erase the last twenty-four hours from Clark’s mind.
“Coffee?” Clark says. When Bruce glares at him he tilts his head towards the door, indicating that no, he isn’t offering to bring Bruce some, it’s already brewing in the kitchen. Bruce’s kitchen. Which Clark shouldn’t know about.
“As long as there’s food too,” Bruce mutters and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. No time like the present to have the awkward conversation.
But Clark doesn’t ask about yesterday; he doesn’t even try to discreetly bring it up. He simple turns back to the windows to let Bruce have a moment of privacy. When Bruce goes to the bathroom, he half expects Clark to be gone by the time he comes out but no such luck. Clark is still there, all smiles and warm eyes and soft-looking curls.
Bruce clears his throat as he wraps his favorite robe around himself. Even he is allowed to have comfort clothes and he is not ready for any type of pants right now. Maybe after coffee. And food.
“I think I smell eggs and bacon,” Clark says like he’s reading Bruce’s mind.
“You think.” Bruce rolls his eyes.
“There’s eggs and bacon on the stove,” Clark amends. Bruce huffs but doesn’t reply.
When Clark follows him to the bedroom door, Bruce turns around to look at him. Clark lets him look all he wants which... isn’t exactly the reaction he was expecting. Then again, he hasn’t really had the opportunity to stare at Clark before – when they’re on missions he can’t be distracted by Superman’s bulging… arms or his bright smile. He’s barely ever noticed either before, actually.
“You’re staying,” Bruce states. He knows he should phrase it more like a question, but this is Superman – he knows Batman better than most people and this is how he speaks. Clark doesn’t seem to mind, at least judging by the smile that grazes his very handsome features.
The poison must still be messing with his mind.
“Obviously,” Clark answers Bruce’s bat-question. “After the evening I’ve had, you owe me at least dinner and a movie. Not to mention a new pair of glasses.”
“Alright,” Bruce agrees far too easy. It must be the guilt. He did break Clark’s glasses, but still. He should object; why would he let a stranger eat with him even if that stranger more or less saved his ass the day before? Except that this isn’t a stranger, is it? This is Superman. Bruce trusts Superman, albeit begrudgingly.
Clark, a voice in his head reminds him. Not just Superman, but Clark Kent. And isn’t that a fascinating thought? Bruce may have exposed his identity, but in the midst of it all he got to know who Superman really is. Because there is no question about it – this, right here, this is who Clark is when he’s comfortable and safe. This soft spoken but confident man standing in his bedroom, smiling at him like Bruce is something spectacular to witness.
“Will you be staying after breakfast as well?” Bruce asks because he’s already taken the leap.
“Oh,” Clark says, clearly surprised. “What did you have in mind?”
“I think we have some things to talk about,” Bruce says because ‘I just want to spend more time with you, preferably without being poisoned out of my mind’ just doesn’t sound as cool and collected. Not Batman enough.
“I agree,” Clark says instantly. Perhaps he wants to talk about the dangers of being a public figure or maybe even what to do about the identities.
Bruce lets the tiny hope flutter in his chest despite knowing better than to do so. “It’s a deal then. After breakfast.”
“There won’t be any more stabbing involved, will there?” Clark jokes.
“I won’t promise anything,” Bruce says with a genuine grin. You never know in this family.