The Soul Is An Idiot
by imp

The Soul Is An Idiot

imp

Summary

Lois loves Clark; she can tolerate Bruce. Bruce loves Clark; he can handle Lois.

Until, of course, they can't.

Notes

Title from Willi Carlisle's Your Heart's A Big Tent.

This is complete at 57k and will be posted roughly twice per week, unless I change my mind and drop the whole thing in one fell swoop, who can say.

Like many people I write comics fic as an amalgam of stuff I like from various continuities and runs. There is one probably-glaring exception here and that's Clark's family, because I was like "huh I wonder what's going on with the Kents in nu52 and later" and attempting to acquire that knowledge melted my neurons like if Chernobyl's radiation damage were animated by the guys who did the NOS shots in the Fast & the Furious. Stay safe out there.

Lois

Lois had broken up with a lot of people. Usually she knew why she'd do it within a week or so of meeting them, though she always tried to keep the knowledge locked down for as long as possible, enjoying the ride and all that. In a world of meta-humans and aliens, of course she'd considered that it might be precognition of some kind, but she'd long since ruled that out. No, Lois had normal human problems: above-average insight, natural suspicion, a competitive nature, and uncompromising morals. Mostly it was the insight and suspicion, though. Her morals weren't usually the issue.

Usually. But they might be, this time, because Bruce was miserable and he wouldn't admit it.

She tried to tell herself that it wasn't her problem. Bruce wasn't dating her; he was dating Clark. Sure, she was also dating Clark, but that wasn't a good reason to involve herself in their business. And on the flip side, there were great reasons not to: feminism, for one, and her own sanity as a close second. Also, Bruce was fucking annoying, and Lois didn't tend towards charitable impulses for people she didn't like.

The problem was that Clark liked him, and Lois preferred for Clark to be happy. Lois was doing this whole thing in no small part because it made Clark happy. Oh, she got a lot out of it too, but if Clark were a little less wonderful -- a little less generous with his joy, a little less of a fucking Boy Scout -- she wouldn't ever have even considered it. And on that knife's-edge ooshy-gooshy pile of feelings lay a weird, furtive sense of responsibility for Clark's fucking boyfriend.

"You need to talk to him."

Bruce didn't look up from his coffee. "It's Tuesday."

"Wow, thanks, only one of us has a real job here and it's me: I know it's Tuesday."

A long sip of coffee. A beleaguered sigh. It made sense that Bruce's eldest had chosen to move away, Lois thought; facing this paternalism as Bruce's actual son must be unbearable. "I didn't intend to imply you didn't know what day of the week it was."

Obviously. What he meant was that Monday, Thursday, and Friday were the nights Bruce stayed over. Lois usually kept to her apartment, made other plans, until after work the next day. Bruce hadn't expected to see her. The ratty boxers made that plenty obvious.

But this, too, was a distraction. "You still need to talk to him."

Another slow, grim sip. Thick fingers drumming on the counter. It was strange, Lois thought, how different he was like this: ruder and less approachable, but softer too, entirely divested from his public persona's careless cruelty. There was a story there, she was pretty sure, even if it wasn't exactly newsworthy. "About what."

Speaking of the news. Any story worth breaking had moments like this, where you could say the right thing and tease useful information out of a source, or say the wrong thing and find yourself up shit creek with nothing to show for it. It should've been easy to figure out how to achieve the former with famously vapid Bruce Wayne, but Lois already knew that the man sitting at Clark's table wasn't, precisely, famously vapid Bruce Wayne.

Still: she'd cracked tougher nuts. She took a deep breath and said, "You're not happy here. With this. With me, specifically."

A quirk of the lips, a condescending tilt of the head. "I'm not with you. Specifically."

"If you didn't want to be having this conversation you'd leave, so how about we both agree to quit playing games? You don't like having half of Clark's nights. You don't like knowing he has a life with me in addition to his life with you. You don't like me." She narrowed her eyes, watching the line of his shoulders shift and, somehow, tense even further. "You might even hate me, I don't know -- and that's not an invitation to tell me. But you definitely hate this." She waved a hand between them illustratively. "Tell me how off-base I am."

"Not terribly so," Bruce said. "You're correct about the aspects of my state of mind that you've cared to elaborate upon."

"Are you talking like this to be a dick, or is this just what the man behind the mask is like?"

"The what," Bruce said, pulling a hand away from his mug.

"The mask." Lois made a face that she hoped approximated Bruce's vacant expression when photographed at shareholders' meetings. "Bruce Wayne, the famously vacuous guy whose only justification for getting within twenty yards of Wayne Enterprise's C-suite is his name. You're not that guy, Clark wouldn't date you if you were that guy, so I'm asking if you naturally speak in circuitous self-referential ciphers or if you'd pulled that out special just for me."

"Circuitous self-referential ciphers," Bruce murmured. "It's an accusation I've faced before."

That was as good an answer as she figured she'd get this morning, and worse, it was almost good enough to distract her. "But that was the second question I asked." She crossed her arms, leaning against the counter. "Question one: you hate this."

"Not a question."

"Are you going to tell Clark you hate this?"

"I did answer your question, actually, or at least I started to." Bruce picked up his coffee again, draining the mug in one improbably graceful gulp. "You're right, but it doesn't matter, because Clark loves this, and you. If Clark is happy, then I'll adjust. I have to run; two meetings require my famously vacuous presence before noon. It was lovely seeing you, Lois."

Alone in Clark's silent kitchen, Lois drank the rest of the perfectly prepared coffee. Fuck, she hadn't even known Clark's Mr. Coffee could produce anything this good. It was probably a little unfair to feel like Bruce would forever haunt Clark's kitchen because of a really good cup of coffee. But then, it was probably a little unfair to have cornered Bruce on a Tuesday morning at all.

Lois loved Gotham just a tiny bit more than she loved Metropolis. It was one of the things that made Clark look pinched around the eyes. Firstly, of course, because Superman avoided Gotham as much as he could. "He doesn't like me in his city," Clark had demurred, and he'd only looked at the ceiling, smiling a little, when Lois had muttered about where the Bat of Gotham could stick his conceit. Problem one: Clark liked to humor his friends, which meant that when Lois was chasing a lead down one of Gotham's poorly-lit streets, he could listen in but had to at least give Batman a chance to respond if she called for help.

The other reason was more straightforward. Clark was a Kansas boy. He loved Metropolis more than any other city in the world, and he didn't understand how Lois could possibly disagree.

"These noodles are better," Clark allowed, making a face down at his bowl like their tastiness offended him. "But it's not like we've been to every pho place in Metropolis."

"It's weird that you do this," Lois said. "Accompanying me, I mean. He knows who you are; doesn't he object?"

"He knows who I am, so he doesn't object." Clark's cheeks, oddly, pinked. "He gets it."

And Lois just couldn't resist such a cute opening. "Wow, look at that. Don't you think splitting your nights into thirds would get a little tiring, even for you?"

Clark's soup spoon rattled against the porcelain. "I don't! I mean, I uh." Pink turned to deep red, a blush that lit up his whole head. "It's fine. I like what we have. What -- what I have."

She almost dropped it, but something about Clark's hunch, his blush, made her pause. It felt like an itch at the base of her skull, always-on observational skills refusing to let her ignore that something was off. "Have you asked Bruce about it? How he feels?"

Clark didn't move. At all. Still as a pigeon inches from a cat, hands still even as he said, "We talked about it. Us, I mean. All, uh, three of us." A sheepish, too-stiff smile. "I guess I thought we could leave it alone for awhile. You know, see how things go."

Lie, whispered the itching intuition. But it was a nice evening, she trusted Clark on anything that mattered, and she had work to do. She'd just have to dig into this mystery later.

"Remind me again why we're here?" Clark said a few hours later. He sounded awfully petulant for a guy who'd volunteered to come, in Lois' opinion, though it wasn't like she was having much fun either. They'd been crouched in this muddy corner for almost an hour now, waiting for the guy Lois was tailing to emerge from the secondhand furniture shop that Lois suspected functioned as a money laundering hub for the municipal PAC currently flooding city and state races with candidates who were firmly against investigating corporate malfeasance.

All of which Clark knew. So instead of going over it again, she said, "You want to go buy us some pizza? I won't judge if you stop by to see Bruce on the way."

"Batman would judge," Clark said glumly. "The super-speed alone? No, thanks. I don't want to get yelled at."

"He's hard on you, huh."

"He's hard on everybody." Clark tilted his head. "Speaking of which..."

Damn it. Batman was in there; that's why Lewis Skanes hadn't come out yet. "Again? Seriously?"

"The shop's a real business. And, um, they do this kind of business for more than one group. Seems like the Penguin's tangled up in it."

Fucking Gotham rogues. "Fine. Tell your guy we're packing it up for the night, but if he finds anything about Metropolis for All, I want it on my desk ASAP."

"Yes ma'am."

At home, Lois undressed Clark slowly, resisting the ever-present urge to rush. It was hard to feel like they had more time: Clark was Superman, who could be trapped off-world for the rest of Lois's life with the snap of a supervillain's fingers. Lois could get shot by the mob, or assassinated, or finally murdered when some Metropolis rogue decided to kidnap her again. Clark could, a tiny traitorous voice whispered, decide he was tired of dating someone so combative and retreat forever into the safety of Bruce Wayne's vapid, amiable arms.

But here, in Clark's bedroom, it was impossible to really believe that last one. Clark stared at her like he'd never seen something better. There might be cologne Lois rarely smelled in the bathroom, a tie she'd never worn crumbled between the nightstand and the bed. It might not be her nightstand or her pillow, even. None of that mattered compared to Clark kissing her collarbone, Clark swaying into her as she unbuttoned his shirt, Clark bending over when she said, "Down," and slapped his flank.

He wasn't hers forever. But he wasn't Bruce Wayne's forever, either.

"I'm going to be at the Gotham Children's Museum gala tonight."

Clark froze. Sipped his coffee. Poked his eggs. Said: "Bruce asked me to go with him. Since it's our night."

"I know. I'll be there as press."

She didn't need super-hearing to catch the little whuff of dissatisfaction. "Let me guess: you haven't been reassigned to society news."

"Wayne Enterprises keeps popping up in the money I'm tracing."

"Perry doesn't think this is a conflict of interest?"

"Perry doesn't know," Lois said, "and he's not going to find out till we're running things through Legal, or at least until I've confirmed Wayne Enterprises is even involved."

"If you decline to investigate your boyfriend's boyfriend's financials, people might not believe you that he's not involved."

"Yes, thank you, Clark, I went to j-school too." She sipped her own coffee, made a face. Clark had shifted to buying light roast now. 'Bruce says it's better,' her foot. "It's a risk, but I'm not giving this story up. Not just yet. The money's really tough to trace, that means something's there; I'm the best person the Planet has to track this down."

"I wish that wasn't true." Clark took a huge bite of eggs, scowling as he chewed. "I mean, I know it is, but."

"You've already got one incurious, idle dilettante to date." She quirked a smile at him. "It's about balance, right?"

"Balance," Clark said. His voice sounded a little faint, his mind clearly already elsewhere. "Right."

And, okay. It wasn't like Lois hadn't noticed that something was up, here. But she'd read the self-help books and talked it through with a friend already. She couldn't solve Clark or Bruce's issues with their relationship. She'd already stepped in it a little too deeply by confronting Bruce about his painfully obvious misery. She wasn't going to get even further involved. She and Clark were happy, steady; what Clark did with his time with Bruce was none of her business, not her concern. And if she just kept repeating that, eventually she'd believe it.

It was just -- a little annoying.

She'd been at the gala for an hour now, sipping champagne as slowly as possible while circulating among the lawyers, C-suite executives, and various other personalities who had twenty grand to drop on a children's museum. The gala was being held in the lobby of Gotham's historic Union Depot, a gorgeous, massive homage to Art Deco architecture and Gilded Age luxury. Like all events hosted by Wayne Enterprises, the food was genuinely good, the drinks generously poured. It was lovely and boring as hell right up until, five minutes ago, Bruce Wayne had made one of his loudly fashionably-late entrances, Clark fucking glowing on his arm.

The problem wasn't Clark. It wasn't even really Bruce. It was the effect Bruce had, the magnetism, the way everyone in the room clearly wanted to be in his circle despite half of them loathing the guy. Lois knew Bruce wasn't like this all the time, but in a setting like this, it didn't really matter. No one seemed more real or more present than Bruce Wayne, already one champagne flute in, charming the absolute pants off the Chief Operating Officer of Gotham Accelerated, Inc.

Lois genuinely had some questions to ask him, which meant she had to watch him. That was why she kept him in her line of sight. That was why she noticed the faint red line on his neck, the way he gripped Clark's arm extra-tightly after someone sharply dismissed a waiter. That was why, when he made eye contact with her, she crossed the room like a fish on a hook, not even thinking about leaving him and Clark to enjoy the evening.

"Mr. Wayne, how lovely to see you again."

"And you as well, Ms. Lane." A smug little smile. "I'd introduce you to tonight's squeeze, but I think you two might already be acquainted."

"We've met a few times. Doing okay over there, Smallville?"

Clark smiled, goofy, a little bashful. Fucking adorable, and Lois couldn't even really resent him for it. "The drinks definitely aren't stronger than the Planet's holiday parties. I'm good."

"Well, fewer miscreants to spike the punch." Bruce winked. It looked ridiculously sleazy. "But now I must be blunt, I'm afraid. Ms. Lane, I doubt you came over here for Clark's review of the libations."

Libations, was he serious? But he was. Or, rather, he wasn't, just like Bruce Wayne was never serious, unless he was sitting in Clark's apartment looking tired and perfectly at home among the scuffed linoleum and stained ceiling.

Right now, with the languid curve of his lips and his wandering eyes, he couldn't have been further away from that Bruce. Lois hated this version of him, which was useful: it stiffened her spine. "Correct. I can always get Clark's take off the record later."

"Ah. Because we're on the record, right now. All three of us. Together."

A blatant attempt at distraction. Lois was almost insulted that he thought she'd fall for it. "Everyone at this gala's on the record, but most don't have a full-time employee dedicated to antiquities acquisition. Wayne Enterprises is an outlier. I'm hoping to get a comment -- or, dare I shoot for the moon, an explanation."

She'd surprised him. He was very, very good at hiding it, but there were a few tells: Clark's wince, for one, the reaction of a man who could hear his boyfriend's heartbeat and lost every hand of poker he'd ever tried to play. But Bruce himself had a few tells, too. A tightening of the jaw; a shift of the leg. She let her own reaction show, a knife's-edge smile to diffuse some of the energy that was zinging down her spine. Gotcha.

"I'm feeling the need for a stroll. Ms. Lane: may I?"

She looked to Clark, of course, who only said, "I'll go chase down some of those little pigs in blankets. Yum!" Which of course meant he'd be listening in.

"Might as well," she said, and tucked her hand into the crook of Bruce's elbow.

He surprised her for the first time that night, waiting until they'd walked up two floors and down the north-south corridor, a full five minutes of walking, before saying, "Ms. Lane. Let me be direct, and this is off the record. What the hell are you doing investigating Janine's vertical?"

"Given our relationship, don't you think you should call me Lois?"

"Oh, certainly. And I suppose the nature of that relationship will be included in the Daily Planet's conflict of interest disclosures?"

"Gotta make it past legal review first, Mr. Wayne, you know that. And that's only if there ends up being a conflict."

"You mean, it only matters if Wayne Enterprises is involved." Bruce stopped, whirled around. Leaned against the wall with a practiced slouch, looking like he hadn't turned on a dime and halted their progress for no reason at all. "Which leads me to the next question, of course: how do you think Wayne Enterprises is involved? And -- in what, precisely?"

It was a good effort, Lois would give him that much. He'd turned the conversation around, put her on the defensive. A different reporter would probably give him a high-level sketch of the situation: political funding, shell companies, odd antiquities purchases, Gotham rogues with an interest in the occult. It wasn't like she thought he was behind any of it. That sort of disclosure was normal and safe.

But Lois wasn't a different reporter. She had three Pulitzers and dozens of industry awards, and also, Bruce Wayne irritated the shit out of her. So she said, "Didn't I tell you already? Antiquities trading. Not entirely out of left field for a company as august as yours, of course, but it's...interesting, that you only have one employee full-time on the project; that she reports directly to the CTO rather than through R&D; that she matriculated with a law degree. Call it professional curiosity. Why does Wayne Enterprises need such an individual on the payroll?"

Now Bruce looked bored, his eyes at half-mast. Not his most convincing performance. "Why does anyone need anything?"

"In a Fortune 50 company? Profit. What does Janine do for your organization, Mr. Wayne?"

"How many novel industrial compounds were patented last year, Ms. Lane?"

She didn't grit her teeth, or stomp off, or huff out an angry breath. She did go still for as long as it took to vividly visualize throwing Bruce off a balcony, though. "Globally or within the United States?"

"Well, I'd think accounting for a global patent system would be beyond the scope of this conversation. Let's say just the United States."

Her answer would have been the same, anyway. "No idea. How about you tell me?"

"Now, Ms. Lane, why on earth would I know? But Janine does, of course. Old enamel coatings, ancient artifacts with interesting patinas, even a rare fungus -- Janine coordinates research and acquisition of antiquities that might reveal Wayne Enterprise's future, through closely targeted study of the past." Another smile, this one smarmy and close-mouthed. Very, very punchable. "So unless I know a little more about the precise nature of the information you seek, I'm afraid I can't help you."

"Fine." Lois pulled out a tape recorder, gesturing until Bruce's eyes flicked to it. She clicked the record button and said, "Mr. Wayne, on September 14th, a five hundred thousand dollar donation was made to the Metropolis for All PAC. This donation came from Standard Holdings LLC, which in turn is registered to Slow Reach Capital, which in turn has sold three unnamed items at auction to Janine Spears, representing Wayne Enterprises during the sale. Care to comment?"

"Wow," Bruce said, "that sounds -- ha! -- very complex. I must admit, Ms. Lane, I'm not in WE's accounting department, so I don't think I'll be much help to you. But if you'd like, I could get you someone's number. Ah -- well, Ralph's the CFO. I can't get you his number; he's too important to bother with a little inquiry like this. But perhaps one of his VP's direct reports. Would that help?"

And then that motherfucker had the nerve to lean in and smile at her. "If it would help, I'm happy to do it. Overjoyed, in fact."

She thought he was angling for a slap. Maybe a shove or a shout, something unprofessional that would embarrass her if not get her kicked out. She refused to give him the satisfaction. Instead of aiming for the kneecap, she returned his smile with a much more polite one. "Oh, don't worry; we have other contacts we can request clarification from. Thank you so much for your time, though."

Then she clicked off her recorder. Tucked it in her purse. Took one step forward, then another. Bruce didn't move, didn't even lean back, so she ended up just barely touching his chest, their breath nearly mingling when she hissed, "Every day, Bruce, I wish to God Clark had decided he was in love with Diana. You know why? Because I can stand Diana. I like Diana. I'd invite Diana home myself. But no, he decided his heart was set on you, and I love Clark so I want him to get what he wants. But I swear to God, I know you're hiding something. If you don't come clean, I'll get my scrubbing gloves, understand?"

Bruce waited one, two, three too-fast breaths. Lois hated that he could probably tell, this close, how worked up she was; but she'd closed the gap between them, and she certainly wasn't going to be the one who broke first. She was working, though, so she noticed everything in spite of herself: the broadness of his chest, the offputtingly spicy perfume, the odd, fading bruise on his jaw. The way his lips were chapped yet still looked soft. The minty smell of his breath, like he hadn't been throwing back champagne with Clark.

Finally, interminable seconds later, Bruce said, "Always lovely speaking with you, Ms. Lane."

He pushed himself off the wall. He walked away. He didn't look back.

Lois shook her head and said, quietly, "Clark. You should go to him."

And then she left. She'd gotten what she came for: something was going on within Wayne Enterprises, and now she knew which levers she needed to pull.

Of course, knowing the levers wasn't the same as being able to reach them. She had numerous contacts within WE, but none of them had any information on the antiquities purchases, and Janine Spears wasn't picking up the phone. She'd have to look further afield. Fortunately, Janine was an active woman with a bunch of hobbies, one of which happened to be a membership at the same boxing gym Diana Prince frequented.

Her bimonthly Thursday coffee with Diana just happened to fall a week after the gala. She waited a heroic ten minutes before saying, "You're acquainted with Janine Spears, aren't you?"

Diana twitched an eyebrow. "Clark mentioned this might come up."

Clark had been shockingly understanding about all of this. Well, maybe that was unfair. He was a reporter, too; he'd pushed Bruce a time or two in that capacity. Still, knowing he'd talked about it with Diana made Lois feel a little twitchy. "What else did he tell you?"

"Your gala, ah, altercation, was only briefly mentioned. Lois." Diana put a hand over Lois's. "I have wanted to throttle Bruce Wayne a time or two myself. You won't face censure from my quarter, not about that."

"I know. I mean, thank you. I'm just frustrated. I know something strange is going on with this funding, and the worst part is, I doubt the ultimate goal is influencing municipal politics. I'm missing something; I just don't know what it is."

"A colleague of mine might be able to help you with that. I'm sure you've heard of him." Diana sipped her coffee, berry-red lips curving. "Pointy ears. Talk of the town, in Gotham, after midnight at least."

Lois groaned. "I don't want to talk to him."

"Most don't. But --"

"He might know. Yeah. Thanks." Her latte tasted worse, suddenly. "Tell me something else. Something different. You were in Paris a few weeks ago, right? How'd that go?"

Thank God Diana was a strong conversationalist. All Lois had to do was nod and ask leading questions, her attention already drifting to when she could reasonably hunt down Gotham's rudest cape.

Except that as it turned out, the man was nowhere to be found. Lois made it to Gotham that same evening, taking the 3PM high-speed train out of Metropolis. She wouldn't be staying; she had a hotel room and a noon ticket the next day. That put her on a tight timeline to track Batman down, but he'd pretty much always shown up when she started poking her nose into things. She had no reason to believe tonight would be any different.

No reason except the black-and-blue butt currently waving itself in her face.

"Oof! Sorry about that." Nightwing finished his flip, landing disturbingly close to Lois. "The big guy's busy. He told me you'd be skulking around, though."

"How did he -- never mind. The big guy's always busy. I still need to talk to him. Unless, of course, you can tell me about Wayne Enterprise's interest in antiquities, and why money Janine Spears spent on Ottoman vases is ending up in Metropolis PACs."

"Wow, that's so weird," Nightwing said.

She waited. He blinked at her.

"Seriously? That's your line? 'Wow, that's so weird'?"

"On the record, if you want."

His smile was both charming and irritatingly familiar for no reason Lois could think of. For a moment she allowed herself the glorious fantasy of hunting Batman down to throttle him herself. But she'd been down this road before and had no desire to watch her leads go cold while some caped crusading asshole hogtied random third-stringers and left them outside for the cops to ineffectually lock away for a few months; no, she had to be strategic about this. She said, "Right. Well, tell him I stopped by," and went back to her hotel to try and squeak out a solid night's sleep.

But she couldn't help it: her mind fixated on the issue, disrupting her sleep and ruining her trip home, almost making her forget to update Perry on timelines for the piece. Batman was an asshole and a huge pain in Lois's ass specifically, but he didn't usually stonewall her investigations like this.

What had changed? The most obvious answer was nothing, because Batman's presence had never been a guarantee. Anyone who'd dealt with Gotham knew the Bats did their best to obscure who was actually in the city at any given point in time. If Batman were off-world, Nightwing would show, but that wasn't the only time he appeared. Sometimes he was with Robin, sometimes not. Sometimes one of the purple ones showed up, other times they weren't seen for years. Etc.

So Batman could be off-world. Except, of course, that Clark was Superman, and if Batman had to be off-world for some reason, Lois would know. Even if Clark's presence wasn't required, she'd know. Clark liked Batman, bafflingly, with the same shining-bright loyalty he offered to Lois or Bruce. He worried about Batman when he was off-world. Hell, he worried about Batman when he was working a particularly tough case in Gotham.

It was much more likely that Batman was incapacitated somehow. Overwhelmingly likely, actually. Lois couldn't imagine that her case had anything to do with it, but that didn't mean much; the Gotham Bat always had a lot on his plate.

If it had been her night with Clark she'd have called Superman to her and explained. But it wasn't an emergency, and damn it all, Lois wanted Clark to have his stupid nights with Bruce. She stuck to the plan: hotel, sleep, early train, sleep on the train.

Her head was fuzzy when she woke up, and going outside didn't help much. She tapped the address in the yellow cab app and closed her eyes as they peeled onto State Street. Up three flights of stairs, keys in the door, corner light on because Clark worried about guests stubbing their--

"Bruce. Fuck, Bruce, do that again."

Clark. Clark's apartment. Clark's apartment, at seven in the morning on Bruce's overnight.

For a moment she couldn't move. Clark must have known she was there, or at least he would have if he were paying attention. But they didn't stop, didn't even pause. She heard Clark's jagged breath, his whimper. A murmur from Bruce, too low to make out, thank God. And still she couldn't move, frozen like she'd never been when in real danger, as Clark whispered, "Please. Give it to me, I -- yes. Please."

It was the second please that broke her reverie, fractured and breathy as it was, threaded through with a familiar desperation yet somehow a tone she'd never heard from him before. She moved silently: two steps back, a careful twist of the door handle, the fastest possible lock, a rapid walk down the hall the wrong way, back towards the north exit she never used. Down the stairs, not the elevator. By then it was clear no one was following, but if she'd had to see one of Clark's neighbors or even some situationally aware stranger, she wasn't sure what she'd do. Hyperventilate, if she was lucky. The other options were more embarrassing.

When she got back to her apartment she was wide fucking awake. She let Perry know she'd be on email and made herself a full pot of coffee, then sat down with her tablet and tried to think things through.

First: logistics. Lois suspected Clark hadn't been paying attention to anything but Bruce, but that he'd remember later, when he was no longer distracted, what he'd heard while Bruce was --

Bruce. Please. Give it to me.

-- while he and Bruce were occupied. That was what had happened the first time she'd gotten herself off while he made breakfast. He'd been preoccupied with the eggs, but halfway through Sunday morning action movies his head had snapped up and he'd said, "Oh my God, Lois, you sounded amazing."

Mind you, he probably wouldn't think that this time. But she'd done the right thing. An honest mistake, quickly rectified. And, the most cowardly part of her whispered in a nasty little tone, Clark wouldn't know the difference between being too tired to pick the right apartment and being too tired to leave right away. He was always careful about admitted human weaknesses, so conscious not to overstep. All in all, he wouldn't be mad. He'd probably apologize without even realizing he was owed one.

Lois wanted to leave it at that, no more need for planning or introspection, except she was halfway through her pot of coffee by now and she knew damn good and well there was a much bigger issue at hand. Because she'd thought she was fine with it, damn it. She'd gone through the initial soul-searching and self-actualization, she'd tried to nudge Bruce into being emotionally honest, she'd dealt with the stupid gala, she'd talked over her frustrations with Diana or her therapist when things felt weird. She'd done everything right. But whatever she'd felt when she'd walked into Clark's apartment, it hadn't been even-keeled disinterest in Clark's other partner.

She hadn't seen anything, but every time she closed her eyes her brain helpfully presented her with the image of Clark as she knew him, naked and desperate, his back arched beautifully on his hideous flannel sheets. Bruce, on his knees, fucking into Clark with that mildly lazy determination he had. That was one of the weird parts, Lois thought; even the best version of Bruce, the one he apparently pushed on Clark with the determination of a Comcast salesman, was lazy. Louche. But the tone she'd heard from Bruce hadn't been yielding, even if she didn't know what he'd actually said. Clark had been trembling like he did when he asked Lois to take him apart.

Where had all that come from? How had Bruce gotten Clark there? Had Clark told him what he liked, what he and Lois had worked out that he liked? Had he blushed or was he shameless with Bruce? Had Bruce smirked and called him vanilla? God, she was mad at Bruce if he'd smirked and called Clark vanilla. Though Clark hadn't sounded ashamed or the slightest bit embarrassed while he begged Bruce for --

It. Fingers? Cock? Tongue? A thirty thousand dollar butt plug encrusted with Wayne family diamonds? Lois chugged the bitter dregs of her third mug, then poured the last of the pot. It didn't matter how they fucked. She tried to scrub the images from her mind.

Was she jealous or intimidated? Or maybe just much more naive than she'd have guessed was possible? She'd known what they were doing. She was so sure she was okay with it, mostly because she'd been irritated with them both often enough to be confident she wasn't repressing anything. Clark's wavering please reverberating through her fucking skull put that delusion to bed, at least. There was knowing and there was knowing. She'd crossed a line, and that would be true even if Clark never realized what he'd heard while Bruce was -- doing whatever he'd been doing to him. Or in him, she was pretty sure, but it wasn't like she was going to ask.

She scraped together some decent work, touching base with a research intern on some shell company traces, setting up appointments with a few known associates of Metropolis for All's biggest financiers. Clark went into work that day, and aside from a few virtual check-ins, they didn't really talk until Lois let herself back into his apartment that evening.

Clark sat at the breakfast bar that faced the door. Soup -- chili, based on the smell -- simmered on the stove. He had his tablet out, swiping through what looked like a book; he looked up and smiled when she closed the door behind her. "Hey. How was Gotham?"

"The Bat didn't show, so pretty useless. How was your night?"

"It was good." He did one of his awkward close-mouthed smiles, closer to Clark Kent Who Is Definitely Not Superman than he usually was with her. "The morning was too."

So he had heard. "Clark, I'm sorry, I --"

"No! No, it's fine. I get that you, I mean, you must have been really tired."

It was a gracefully offered out, and Lois throttled her pride before she could say something like 'actually I was just shocked by how turned on you sounded'. "Yeah, I was. Sorry."

"You don't need to apologize." He slid off his stool, coming over to her and pulling off her coat, taking her keys. "Lois. I meant it. This whole...everything, with Bruce, it's not contingent on nothing ever being uncomfortable or a little weird. Is it?"

"Of course not!"

"Well, of course not for me, too." He smiled, crooked and goofy. Endearing, the same way he always was, damn him. "And you left pretty quickly. I know you weren't eavesdropping or anything, so I didn't tell Bruce."

Lois decided not to tell Clark how little she cared about Bruce Wayne, of all people, knowing someone had briefly overheard his sexcapades. "Great. Thank you, I mean. Also, um." She leaned in, touching his jaw and kissing him. He exhaled slowly as she pulled away, shoulders dropping, blush receding. Happy, she realized, the way he hadn't been before, because he'd been worried too. Huh. "Hi."

"Hi," he said, and gave her one of his beautiful smiles.

After they'd finished dinner and loaded the dishwasher, settling onto the couch for a Clark-chosen dolphin documentary, Clark said, "So, I spoke with Batman today."

"Oh? Tell him to return my calls."

"Haaaaa," Clark said.

Lois couldn't hold back her grimace. "Sorry, that was unfair. I'm just annoyed I couldn't catch him yesterday. That's on me."

"No, no, it's. Um. A good point. The JLA, actually, they need me to go off-world for a week."

Damn. "With Batman, I'm assuming?"

"Diana and Arthur, too."

"I don't suppose I can interview him before you leave?"

Clark grimaced. "I could ask him. But if it's an open case of his..."

"He won't tell me anything, I know." Lois gave Clark a half-hearted kick to the thigh. "Your coworker sucks, Supes."

For some reason, that made a blush fan out over Clark's cheeks. "He's not so bad."

They made it an hour into Clark's dolphin documentary before Lois felt herself getting tired. And horny. Clark, of course, noticed the latter before the former, darting her nervous little glances like he needed an engraved invitation before he'd slide a hand up her leg. Loving him was unbelievably annoying sometimes.

"Hey. Clark."

Red, red, red, on his cheeks and down his neck. Lois wanted to bite. "Lois?"

"Come to bed."

It wasn't about Bruce. It wasn't. Lois had dignity and functioning self-respect, she wasn't trying to get one over on the vapid idiot Clark had inexplicably chosen to share his life with. But, well, she dragged Clark to the bedroom and couldn't help but notice the clean sheets, the too-fancy cuff links on Clark's dresser. Left there carelessly, Lois assumed, because Bruce couldn't be bothered to keep track of his things. Maybe Clark loved that about him.

"Lie down," she said, something a little mean unwinding in the pit of her stomach.

Clark couldn't even have the grace to be cynical enough to suspect anything. He turned improbably redder and moved as directed, pulling his shirt off on the way. Sprawled there in his sweats and nothing else, glasses slipping down his nose, he looked -- he looked --

Well, she kissed him about it. Straddled his hips and tangled a hand in his hair, tugged hard like she rarely did even though she knew she couldn't hurt him. He moaned into her mouth, one hand running restlessly up and down her back like he was looking for directions.

He was. When she pulled away, already a little short of breath, it was obvious in how he looked at her. Gigantic baby blues, fingers going lax. She said, "You want it?", and he nodded, falling back into the pillows.

"Pants off."

She made quick work of her own clothes while he wiggled free. This part was easy and familiar, kissing him while he ran his hands over her, moving her hips just enough to tease, his cock warm and hard between them. She was distractingly turned on, so wet her own hand slipped when she tried to hold herself open. But that just made it easier to do what she wanted: pushing him down roughly, then settling herself on his cock, moaning at the stretch.

The thing about Clark was that he could stay hard, if you asked him to. Could get hard again remarkably quickly. Lois didn't have to hesitate and she didn't have to hold back: she could get what she wanted right then, secure in the knowledge that Clark would keep himself ready for as long as she wanted him. Got off on it, in fact, his breath coming in rapid bursts when she dragged her nails down his chest and said, "Come on. Fuck me."

"God, I'm going to miss this," he breathed, curling his hands on her hips and fucking into her exactly how she wanted it, harsh thrusts and soft thumbs skimming her hips. "I always do, you know. When I'm gone. I miss you."

Lois didn't know what made her say it. Well, okay, that was a lie, she did know; the memory of Clark's half-whined begging had been rattling around her skull all day. But she didn't know how the mean little thought sneaked past her filter and into the world: "What about Bruce? Will you miss him?"

She'd meant it as a jab, maybe, or she would have if she'd meant to say it at all. But Clark -- Clark let out a whimper, sounding almost hurt, his thrusts faltering then returning, harder and faster than they'd been a moment ago. She half wanted to insist he answer, but she got the feeling it wouldn't go over well; he was flushed bright red all down his chest, and she swore she'd felt his dick kick inside her. All of this was so much more than she'd bargained for when she'd said yes to this arrangement.

And, worse, she couldn't back down now. She'd opened the door. She'd committed to this. She squeezed around him very deliberately, touching her own clit as she said, "I think you'll miss us both. Maybe we should call you, hmm?"

"Oh fuck," he said, and came inside her.

It wasn't quite enough to get her off, but God bless Clark, that never mattered. As soon as he was done he rolled them over, moving to put his mouth where his cock had just been, sucking her clit like everything depended on her coming. And of course, she did, once on his mouth then again on his fingers, then one last time with him inside her, bent over, her head pressed into the mattress, his warm body curled around her, panting her name into the nape of her neck.

It was so close to perfect. If only she'd been able to stop wondering what Bruce would think, if he saw them; how jealous Bruce would get, if she goaded him; how red Clark would be, if she called him on his JLA mission and finger-fucked Bruce for him.

With Batman off-world for at least a week, Lois decided to focus on the mundane aspects of her investigation. Campaign finance fuckery could never be reported deeply enough, but the mechanics were still pretty boring. Shell companies, gifts that weren't really gifts, the overwhelming bullshit of PACs: tons of paperwork, very few people to corner and press for answers. Not Lois's favorite gig. The main reason she was so focused on this story was because it couldn't possibly be only municipal campaign finance corruption. The antiquities trade, the Gotham connection: it pointed to a deeper corruption, national politics or occult stuff, the Planet's purview or Batman's. She trusted her instincts, and her instincts said she needed to keep digging.

It had, of course, occurred to her that Bruce might be more forthcoming when he wasn't representing his company at a gala. She went to Gotham the day after Clark left to try and hunt him down. She checked Clark's apartment before she left, on the reasoning that it was one of Bruce's days with Clark, and he might decide to spend time at Clark's apartment even if Clark himself was gone. He knew about Superman, after all, and Clark's apartment was homey. Comforting. Particularly, Lois assumed, to a soulless billionaire orphan. It was certainly comforting to Lois, and she was only estranged from her family.

But he wasn't there.

He wasn't at Wayne Manor, either, the disapproving butler informed her. He wasn't at his Gotham office nor his Metropolis one, per two assistants Lois had bothered plenty of times before. He wasn't traveling, per multiple flight trackers. Maybe he was on a train wearing a big hat, but Lois doubted it; social media searches didn't turn up any sightings, per Jimmy.

It was that last one that made her sigh and say, "If I tell you Bruce Wayne is missing, how crazy will you think I am?"

"I literally can't think you're crazy," Jimmy said. "I mean, I used to? All the time? But not so much, any more. You're right too often, and even when you're wrong you're usually also kind of right, so."

Normally Lois would have taken a few minutes to be touched. Right now, she was too distracted. Her mind returned to Bruce over and over again, a tight knot of uncertainty sitting in the pit of her stomach.

She dug into the old WE files that night. She was familiar with the Bruce Wayne era, of course, and most of that stuff was in the digital Planet archives; but she'd checked all the obvious places, which meant she needed to dig deeper. The physical files took up her and Clark's desks with piles left to go. Old building schematics, information on Wayne ancestral properties, documentation of past murder and kidnapping attempts...

Wait, fuck, why hadn't she thought of that before? Kidnapping would explain the butler Alfred's reticence as well as the odd radio silence from Wayne Enterprises. If they were trying to resolve it independently, without getting police involved, they'd be doing their absolute best to cover up that Bruce was a missing person. And of course, Clark was off-planet: even he couldn't hear a cry for help from several thousand light-years away.

She was about to return to Wayne Manor and attempt to give Alfred a late-night grilling when one of the old Manor building permits caught her eye. They'd renovated the East Wing almost twenty years ago, when Bruce was a young adult. Someone at the Planet had flagged it because the materials purchased and stored for the renovation were significantly greater than the permitted work should require. That was meaningless, but still odd. What if Bruce had some sort of hidden area of the Manor, a basement or false wall leading to a hidden room? What if we was being kept there? But then Alfred would know, or at least suspect, so that couldn't be it. He'd been so obviously worried when Lois had checked in.

But something about the discrepancy still bothered her. She checked Wayne Enterprises appropriations from roughly the same time period. Nothing particularly suspicious, though there were a number of R&D line items that appeared to have produced very little beyond humiliatingly failed experiments. Was that Bruce's focus? Did they humor him because he occasionally struck gold?

Eventually she came to the conclusion that there was nothing for it: she needed to go to Gotham, and it was too late to accomplish that today. She failed to resist her own urge to go to Clark's apartment. Bruce might not have stayed there when Clark was gone, but for Lois that apartment was home, much moreso than her own place. If it weren't for Bruce, she'd have probably told Clark she was moving in by now. And Clark would've gone along with it, she knew that. Probably would have been relieved to know she wanted to. He loved her, but he was so careful with deepening their relationship, like there was always something he had to hold back.

Bruce kept very few personal belongings in Clark's bedroom. Another pair of cuff links on the side table, a stray tie in the top drawer: echoes, shadows more than anything else, not enough to draw any conclusions about how they were together. Not that Lois wanted to, of course, but it made her feel a little weird about her corner of Clark's closet, her toiletries in the bathroom, her favorite mug in Clark's dishwasher.

Maybe she could talk to Bruce about that, when she found him. Assuming she found him; assuming he needed to be found.

She left for Gotham early the next day. It was a work trip in more ways than one: she spent her afternoon in the Gotham Public Library's archives, tracing records of turn-of-the-millennium political contributions. Nothing came up, of course; the Falcones, the Penguin, the Bertinelli family, every Gotham rogue who might be interested purchasing a Metropolis election had covered their tracks too well, or were dead, or both. Similarly, the Waynes and the Dents seemed to be squeaky-clean.

But Lois had an ace up her sleeve, of a sort. Batman was out of town, and she doubted he'd told all of his masked underlings what she was trying to investigate. After the sun dipped below the high-rises, Lois went for a walk by the docks.

It occurred to her that Bruce might be kept around here, of course. He hadn't been far from her thoughts today even when she was investigating his businesses. The next time she saw him, she was going to ask about the seventy thousand extra tons of concrete, the lawsuit regarding Wayne Manor's utility easements, the relocated hundred-year-old oak tree. Ideally, the next time she saw him he'd be healthy, both capable of and angry about answering her questions.

Ideally.

It only took her twenty minutes to find a Bat. Down by the docks they were predictable. A Falcone friend-of-a-friend was unloading some bulk grains that almost certainly had other product mixed in, and kitty-corner to the warehouse sat Batgirl and Spoiler, feet dangling off the fire escape, invisible from the ground but obvious if you scaled the loading dock's service ladder.

"...know we're here," Spoiler was saying. "But like I keep telling B, you can make your presence part of the threat, you know?"

Batgirl hummed. "Surveillance."

"Exactly! If it's good enough for the federal government then it's good enough for me. It will have a chilling effect on crime. But obviously when I said that to him he just went, 'I wonder at your confidence in your theoretical framework. Do you think I haven't tried such a tactic before?'. Like beating people up is working so well!"

Batgirl stiffened, and Lois understood that she'd been caught. She waved in their direction. Spoiler flipped her off. Lois glanced down at the loading dock to see if they'd been spotted -- and when she looked back, Spoiler and Batgirl were gone. Fucking Bats.

"I'm looking for Bruce Wayne. I think he's in trouble," Lois said out loud.

No one responded. If this area was bugged, they weren't interested in engaging with her.

It was funny, she thought on the walk back to the hotel, the way Spoiler seemed to talk about Batman. Like he was an uncle she argued with a bunch, or something. The phrasing was bothering Lois, too, ping-ponging around the back of her mind, oddly familiar despite the fact that she'd never heard Batman say that long a sentence. She couldn't help but think she needed to figure out what it reminded her of.

But her subconscious didn't surface anything useful. She tidied up her notes and went to bed at a sensible hour, dreaming of coming back to Clark's apartment, the light on in the corner, the purple-and-green of the billboard down the street reflecting off the kitchen counter, the batarang discarded on the floor, the ugly rug he wouldn't get rid of because it had been a cousin's housewarming gift, the low noises from his bedroom...

Well, it wasn't a nightmare, at least.

When she woke up the next morning, Bruce had been missing, probably, for around twenty-four hours. She couldn't turn off her mental countdown clock even though she knew he wasn't legally a missing person. The news had nothing; searching 'Bruce Wayne' brought up the usual mix of financial news and gossip. Bruce's own butler had claimed he was out. His exact whereabouts were none of Lois's business, except in the sense that if he died while Clark was off-world, Lois would never, ever forgive herself.

So she went back to Wayne Manor, and this time, when Alfred opened the door, she stuck her foot in it. Literally.

"I know he's not just 'out'."

It wasn't the first time Lois tried to analyze a brick wall's body language and it probably wouldn't be the last, but unlike the White House Press Secretary or the spokesman for Philip Morris's mergers & acquisitions department, Alfred had at least one tell. He went very still, perfectly unreadable; but that was the problem. He went still. He didn't push her away or move to call the police. He didn't even tell her to back up or say 'no comment'. He only froze, his eyes focused somewhere over her shoulder.

And then she remembered what she'd seen, that night she barged in on Bruce and Clark. Shadows in the corner; a batarang, twice-forgotten, on the floor.

Seventy thousand tons of concrete unaccounted for. Holy shit.

She met Alfred's gaze and saw the moment he realized she'd figured it out.

"Bruce isn't missing," she said. "He's off-world. With Clark."

Alfred stepped back, pulling the door open. "Miss Lane. I think you'd better come inside."

"I suppose you're angry with Clark for lying to you?"

Lois took a careful sip of tea. "Why aren't you asking if I'm angry with Bruce?"

They sat in the kitchen at a long, heavy breakfast bar, marble countertop over dark wood. Unlike every breakfast bar Lois had seen in well-appointed inner-ring suburban homes, this one looked like it got regular use, its chairs sporting a few minor scuffs and its cabinets stocked to bursting with mugs and plates. Alfred pulled one of those plates out now, adding a few cookies from a well-concealed pantry cabinet, then setting them between his seat and Lois's. "What reason do you have to be angry with him? He's not your partner; Clark is."

"Well, it's his secret to tell. I'm sure that's what Clark would say, and I happen to agree."

"I suppose you'd have to, given Clark's occupation."

"You mean the fact that he's Superman." She waited for Alfred's nod. "I assume this is one of the most secure buildings on the Eastern Seaboard, the Pentagon very much included. Why not just say it?"

"The etiquette of vigilante secret identities is something I still struggle to grasp. Clark is your partner; I thus deferred naming his occupation to you."

"But you knew I know."

"If you worked out Master Wayne's extracurricular activities, I had no doubt you were aware of Clark's."

And that, ooh, that annoyed her. "Clark's not any less capable than Master Wayne," Lois said. "Wait, no, scratch that, he's more capable; he actually works for a living."

Alfred didn't do anything undignified like narrow his eyes, but somehow she felt a chilly blast of disapproval all the same. "I assure you, living a triple life is no easy feat. I have regularly begged Master Wayne to allow his children to take on more responsibility, in fact, but he thus far stands firm against me."

"A triple life." Bruce Wayne, Batman, and...who? But the answer presented itself in the form of a memory, tired eyes and oddly intelligent commentary. "Because he actually does spend time running the business, just not under his public persona."

"Precisely so, Miss Lane."

"That's insane. When does he sleep?"

"A question I often ask myself." He put his cup of tea down with a decisive clink. "Cookies aren't enough sustenance. You must have missed lunch to come out here. May I offer you a plate?"

Lois thought about what she'd do over a ridiculously elaborate charcuterie board, during her long cab ride back into the city, waiting in the train terminal, and during her entire ride home. She thought and she worried and she guessed, probably badly, at how concerned parties would respond. Not just Bruce and Clark, but Alfred too. His children. Nightwing. Diana; the JLA as a whole, really.

There was nothing more to be done. She knew Bruce wasn't missing, so she could turn her attention back to the parts of the story she could unravel. And once that was finished, well, Clark had said they should be back within the week. Lois could be patient, wait for the right moment. She'd made a career of it.

It kept hitting her at random moments. The clues she'd missed, the connections she'd failed to make. She'd noticed Clark's Bruce was different from Bruce Wayne, she'd noticed his erratic schedule, she'd asked Clark if he wanted to fuck Batman too...Christ, she felt like an idiot.

The worst part was she couldn't even blame Clark unless she wanted to lie to herself. She understood his affection for Bruce much more now, knowing that Bruce was also Batman. Of course Clark wanted him. He was everything someone like Clark admired: duplicitous, brilliant, driven, a little mean. Lois, of course, didn't think there was room for two of that type of person in a relationship; that was why she was with Clark, who for all his brilliance could barely tell a lie and had to work at meanness.

It gave her insomnia, though, thinking about it. She lay in Clark's bed and thought: Bruce has been here. Batman has been here. It had been Bruce, the Bruce who was capable of being Batman, who'd been with Clark that night. And knowing it was Bruce-who-was-Batman made it easier to picture what she'd overheard. Clark probably thought he was professional around Batman, and he was, to people who didn't know him. Either of them. But Lois, apparently, did, and the way he blushed around Batman, his deference to Bruce and his dreamy-eyed gaze when someone mentioned some impossible feat Batman had accomplished: all of that painted a very clear picture for her, Clark bent at the waist or prone on the bed, being fucked or being ridden. Clark giving himself over to one of a handful of people on the planet who could kill him, and the only one of that cohort who would die for him, too.

There, in Clark's bed, with his clean sheets and carefully dusted headboard, Lois put her hand between her legs and let herself imagine.

She'd had to coach Clark through it the first few times, was the thing. He'd been shy, careful, until she'd pushed him down and made him take what they both wanted, fucking her until she was seeing double. After that, he gave it to her hard when she asked, ate her out for hours when she put him between her legs. But with Bruce --

Bruce wouldn't want that. Bruce would want to take care of Clark, to worship him. She'd thought she'd heard Clark's voice breaking; she thought of Bruce bending Clark in half, wringing orgasms out of him, those inscrutable blue eyes fixed on Clark's face. Making him feel loved, protected, working out their only shared feeling on Clark's body.

Her fingers slipped over her skin, messy as anything. She was swollen now, wet and getting desperate, her cunt clenching around nothing as she rubbed her clit. She couldn't stop herself from chasing that thought: their Clark, together, both of them. Bruce fucking Clark while Lois rode his face. Bruce leaning in and kissing her, for Clark, so Clark could see, so Clark could feel what it did to her. Clark fucking her, fuck, Clark fucking her and Bruce fucking Clark, Lois meeting Bruce's gaze over Clark's shoulder and knowing with perfect clarity what it meant to him to be here. Lois's heart full, coming -- yes. Coming on Bruce's fingers, held by Clark, kissed by both of them. Watching them kiss each other. Watching Bruce on his knees, taking Clark apart.

She came with a gasp, feeling like the air had been knocked out of her. Harder, faster than she usually managed on her own. She felt herself clenching around nothing, too desperate to even grab one of the toys she kept at Clark's, fisting her free hand in the sheets. It was almost humiliating, knowing what had taken her over the edge, but even as her heartbeat slowed, she found herself rolling over and grabbing the sex toy box (helpfully labeled, because Clark couldn't help himself), gearing up for round two.

She'd get it out of her system now, and then she'd be able to think clearly again, so that when the time came she could say what she needed to say.

Nine days after Superman and Batman exited Earth' orbit, they returned to the Watchtower, disembarking side by side, capes flowing in the wind. Batman, Bruce, noticed Lois first, freezing with one foot still on the shuttle ramp. Superman floated out after him, smiling and opening his mouth to tell, if Lois was any judge, a very bad joke. He made eye contact with her only after he'd noticed Bruce at a standstill and followed his gaze -- well, the mask's gaze -- to where Lois stood, notepad in hand, a few feet from the only exit.

"I hope you're not angling for a quote," Batman said.

"And why's that? Journey too long, or was your reason for being off-world too uneventful for local press coverage?"

"Lois," Clark said, eyes widening as he looked between them.

"Chin up, Supes." Literally: he looked too much like Clark, with that hangdog expression and hunched shoulders. "I think we need to talk."

Bruce

Bruce's first instinct, wild and revelatory and thoroughly humiliating: to shield Clark from his own partner. He resisted it, barely, one boot twitching a few inches in the wrong direction. Clark, of course, noticed.

Lois might have noticed too, but Bruce didn't know her well enough to make such a determination. Certainly he shouldn't have counted on her not noticing other things.

"Conference room?"

"Lead the way," Lois said, as cold as Alfred when Bruce decided to patrol with a knee injury, and significantly less readable.

Bruce, out of options, obeyed. Lois strode past him without bothering to check the room, sitting down at the head of the table. Bruce closed the door behind Clark, engaged the security system, performed a mostly-prefunctory sweep of the room, and settled down at Lois's right hand, across the table from Clark.

Clark, unable to be anyone but himself, broke their uneasy silence immediately. "Lois, you have to understand, I didn't want to --"

"No." Lois held up a hand. "This isn't about you, Clark. And it's not about you either." Bright green eyes turned towards him, giving the uncanny impression of a gaze met despite his mask. "Bruce."

In for a penny. He took his cowl off and chuckled ruefully. "I don't suppose 'no comment' would suffice, would it, Ms. Lane?"

"This isn't an interview." An amusing comment, he thought, from a woman with a legal pad and brutally efficient shorthand. "Nor is it a request for comment from Bruce Wayne."

He tried a smile. "Then may I ask what it is? A proposal that we alter our...arrangement?"

"Bruce," Clark said quietly, at the same time Lois snapped, "Cut the shit, Bruce. You look ridiculous, you know. The useless-idiot tabloid routine doesn't work in that."

He couldn't ignore the solid thwack of her hand against his armor. He caught her wrist, meeting her gaze again, feeling the sweat at the base of his neck with unwelcome acuity.

"Lois," Clark said, still quiet but distinctly unhappy.

Bruce had taken off his gloves. He could feel her pulse, predictably steady, not elevated at all. Well, she had been here first. Bruce would feel confident as well, if he had such power to dictate the terms of his partner's life.

"Cards on the table," she said, not looking away from Bruce. "Clark. Obviously I'm not going to tell everyone, so stop looking like I stole your gingerbread house."

"I never made one of those. Ma said they're wasteful."

"Bruce. Quit acting. I can't talk to you like this."

Unfortunately, he couldn't. Literally. He tried, releasing her wrist and taking a deep breath, letting it out slowly, centering himself beneath Clark's gaze. But then he opened his mouth and said, "You look remarkably well-rested for someone who's uncovered the scoop of the century. Unless you already filed with the Planet? Are we in final legal review?"

"Bruce," Clark said again, unhappiness shading into the kind of upset Bruce had never heard from him before. Because Bruce held this part of himself back in front of Clark, of course, as much as possible. When he'd let it slip last time, also with Lois, Clark's expression had been flat and tense as he fucked Bruce into the mattress. An unusual dynamic between them, though not unprecedented. Bruce hadn't taken it as a chastisement because Clark hadn't meant it that way. It was only Clark resisting an accurate understanding of Bruce's mindset, his character.

Not so with Lois. Her eyes flickered between Clark and Bruce, and then she pressed her lips together and set her notepad down on the (cheap; Bruce had been overruled during office requisitions) table. "You're fucking it up with Clark right now," she said, and she had the nerve to make her tone kind. The generous, understanding wife, throwing her husband's lover a bone, since she got to have the whole meal.

Never mind that Clark and Lois weren't married, that Clark was painstaking in his division of time, that Bruce would have turned Clark down if he'd suggested they marry. None of that mattered; he didn't think of any of it. He only looked at Lois, too-sharp green eyes with a killer's mindset, and felt his body do its best to burn from the inside.

"He's not," Clark said, too late for it to be true. Bruce snorted and found himself finally -- thank God -- able to break Lois's gaze. She didn't seem to mind, or more accurately, she minded too much to give him even a hint of her true state of mind. She was a statue, a beautiful heterosexual Ma-Kent-appropriate statue, and Bruce -- Bruce felt like he rarely had since Dick had come back to Gotham. Helpless, furious, scattered. Emotional.

"Clark," he said. "I --"

"I don't think you need to apologize." Clark's tone was sharp, his expression mulish. Not accusatory: he understood what he was asking Lois to accept. But still, he asked. "I think we did our best, I did my best to be honest, and there's no need to reconsider. Anything. Nothing has to change."

"Some things have to change," Lois said. "Perry'll notice if I recuse myself on Batman stories, you know."

It was, unfortunately, an eminently fair point. Lois had run interference for Clark, even though she hadn't known why Clark didn't want to cover Batman, beyond the obvious conflict of interest presented by their alter egos. Clark had told Bruce about her efforts during one of the many phases of discomfort he'd gone through, desperately wanting to continue their arrangement and also feeling "like the kid with his hand in the cookie jar, Bruce, and Ma hated that." Even filtered through Clark's pep-rally-booster cheer, it had sounded like a good thing to do. A nice thing. The kind of thing you did for your partner when you were in love, even if you had to share him with someone you'd happily feed to the wolves.

"...reassign. Bruce?"

He closed his eyes in frustration, then remembered his cowl was off and opened them with a jolt of panic at his own pathetic lack of situational awareness. Clark's expression just sort of collapsed at that; he'd have heard the kick of Bruce's heartbeat, his adrenal system never quite accepting its master. "I. My apologies, reassign how?"

It was Lois who jumped in, Clark who snapped his jaw shut with a goofily grateful expression. She explained their discussion, that Bruce Wayne acting hostile towards Lois Lane would be more than enough reason to put another journalist on the Gotham beat. It was a thin plan, of course, lacking contingencies and competent threat analysis, brimming with assumptions about others' behavior that may not pan out, utterly absent any sense of urgency about what they might do if it didn't work. But Bruce wasn't shy with his guesses about others' behavior. The grimace on Lois's face indicated that she agreed with him: there wasn't a better plan. They would have to be optimists, and if Bruce had to get into print media to ensure Lois didn't lose her platform -- well, it wasn't a profitable vertical, to hear Lucius speak of it, but Bruce Wayne was permitted his little distractions.

All of this he decided without Lois or Clark's input. He only said, "I agree. I'll escalate open of business Wednesday."

"Gee, thanks," Lois said, dry as a bad sauvignon blanc.

Bruce kind of spasmed, a little. Repressed, barely, the urge to smile. Not a provoking smirk, no, but rather the grim half-smile of a co-conspirator. A 'we're in this shit together' smile. Absolutely inappropriate. He tried and failed to think of something to say; at the ten-second mark of his silence, Clark's big, warm hand landed on his thigh. "Bruce?"

"It's your night," Bruce said. "It's Tuesday. Barely even cocktail hour, in fact, so given we've agreed upon next steps, I see no reason to keep you." He stood up fluidly, smoothly, his heart rate under control, his breathing perfectly normal. "Clark, debrief is tomorrow, nine PM."

"I'll be there."

He would be. Bruce knew better than to count on Clark's selfishness or carelessness. But someone who knew him less well might be tempted to repeat himself. Clark and Lois had started staring at each other with warm, eager affection, wrapped up in a two-person world that could have shut out a tornado. It twisted the pit of his stomach, pointlessly, absurdly. There was nothing remarkable about the melting adoration of Clark's gaze. Bruce would feel that way too, if he'd left a beautiful woman planet-side for over a week. It wouldn't matter if Clark had been with him, kissing him, loving him. He still would miss what he lacked.

They said no further goodbyes. He left the Tower directly, bypassing the residential quarters.

Long ago, before Bruce had ever heard of the Flying Graysons, before Jason and Barbara and Cassandra and the rest of it, Bruce had decided it was best to live with the dreams.

He'd done his research back then and he'd kept himself updated in the intervening years. Nothing in the fields of neuroscience or psychiatry indicated he was incorrect in believing that his dreams were a useful valve from which to vent the pressure of his necessarily stressful life. If he dreamed about his leg being slowly sawed off, he wouldn't freeze the next time someone got a lucky hit in. If he relived Barbara's hollow-eyed rejection when he offered his condolences, he couldn't be duped by Scarecrow's attempt at replicating the same. The dreams were unimportant except in the sense that they served a specific and invaluable role in his day-to-day maintenance routine.

Waking up from this particular dream sorely tested his hypothesis.

In the dream, Lois had loomed over him. She wasn't holding anything so cliché as a riding crop; no, it was worse, personalized and in-character. Intimate. She had a single issue of the Daily Planet lying on Bruce's chest; she sat in one of Bruce's sitting room chairs, holding her notepad and gazing at him keenly.

"How long have you been jealous of Clark?" she asked, tapping her pen on paper. When Bruce clenched his jaw shut and refused to respond, she sighed, rubbing the crease between her eyes. "Clark. Again."

Clark's mouth, Clark's hands, bringing Bruce right to the edge and holding him in implacable too-gentle hands when he tried to fling himself over. When he tried to come, when he was desperate for it, hard and aching, thighs burning from how long he'd been desperately holding them open, keeping himself on offer.

"You can tell her, I promise. She won't do whatever you're afraid of," Clark said quietly, like he thought his love and trust was somehow communicable.

Bruce clenched his jaw and shook his head. His whole body jerked, his back arching, muscles painfully clenched against the agony of frustrated need.

"All right," Lois said. "Five minutes, Clark."

Silence, silence, silence. Dread. The deadly curl of Lois's hand on a nondescript blue Bic pen.

"How long have you been jealous of Clark," Lois said again, but this time she was naked, they both were, her tits smooth and perky and inches from him, somehow -- and horror shot through him, commingled with his orgasm. Too soon, he'd come too soon. He'd let them down.

He woke up right then, of course, not coming but right on the edge of it, grinding down into the mattress. He had exactly as long as it took to grip his cock and then it was all over, squeezing his eyes shut and doing his level best not to humiliate himself further by making any noise.

Not that anyone was around to hear. But sometimes he thought -- maybe Clark indulged, maybe Clark kept an ear out.

Pathetic. And an echo of the dream, these fleeting little longing thoughts, the baggage they brought with them. Avoidable, for months, when Lois only knew the half of it. Glaringly obvious now.

He'd have to do something about it. He stayed awake the rest of the morning trying to figure out what.

"So," Dick said, "we noticed you've been in Metropolis a lot lately."

Bruce drank another glass of champagne. The full glass. "We?"

"You know, me and the kids. Barbara. The usual." Dick sipped his own champagne, eyes scanning the crowd idly. The perfect picture of a bored spoiled son at a charity event, because Dick had always known how to play this role with precision and grace. "Clark and Lois break up?"

"No."

"Ah." Now it was Dick's turn to drain his glass. "Very, uh, modern?"

"Is that a question about my love life, or a statement?"

"A ha," Dick said. "Look, I wouldn't be bringing it up, except. You haven't quite been the same since your last League trip."

Well, fuck. "Did you and the others also discuss this?"

"No. This is a Dick Grayson original." He snagged two more flutes of champagne from a passing server, thanking her and then turning to hand one glass to Bruce, gaze fixed on him. "But I'm not wrong, am I?"

The hell of it was that he wasn't, and Bruce had always been very bad at prevaricating in front of Dick, much less to him. He said, "Later. This can't go past me and you."

"Aw, come on, you think people would eavesdrop on us here, at a cancer benefit? A cancer benefit for children?"

Bruce gave Dick an unamused look.

"All right, fine, I know the rules."

And so, on the ride back to the Manor a few hours later, Bruce said, "Lois knows about Batman."

"Well shit."

"And, to confirm your significantly more intrusive assumption: yes, I'm seeing Clark, and he's still seeing Lois."

Dick was silent for just long enough for Bruce's shoulders to marginally relax, hopeful that they could drop the subject altogether. They hadn't even left the highway before Dick proved optimism was an operational security risk. "So, Lois figured it out? Are you and she...I mean, is that a thing, then?"

"No," Bruce said, too sharply and too bluntly. Humiliatingly revelatory.

"Oh wow." Dick patted his knee. "Sorry, B."

"It is what it is," Bruce said, and endured Dick pulling all the usual faces in response to Bruce deploying cliché.

Dick didn't keep prying, a small mercy Bruce was embarrassingly grateful for. He told himself the truth couldn't possibly be so obvious to people who weren't his son. No one who didn't know him so well would realize what was happening when he skirted around the topic of Clark and Lois; hardly anyone knew of his dual identities, and even most people in that tiny group wouldn't know how little distance there was between 'she figured it out' and 'I'm desperate for her'.

And even Dick might not fully grasp that part. How bad it was, how deeply Bruce had managed to fall. A suspicious-minded person would reach the correct conclusion: he had been falling long before, and Lois' discovery only cemented his fate.

He hated introspection. In this case it was the only appropriate course of action. He applied himself to the task upon returning to the Cave, sitting at his desk and taking notes as he stepped through it.

How long had he been fixed on Lois? As long as he'd understood how Clark loved her, not just the fact of his love but its depth and endurance. Clark loved everyone, worthy and unworthy. Bruce was too selfish to hope he'd ever learn to be more discerning. He had dealt with Lois Lane, Daily Planet reporter, only a few times; he was familiar with her bylines, but he was also familiar with the ways careerists inflated their credentials. He thought Clark might be being lied to or taken advantage of. Then he thought Clark might be honestly in love with someone who would still abandon him in the end. Then he'd realized the first two were merely wishful thinking; on paper Lois was an accomplished and brilliant journalist with unimpeachable ethics and a strikingly powerful deductive mind, and in person she was all of those things and also completely, obviously, undeniably head-over-heels for Clark.

And Superman, of course. Bruce had been nothing to either of them when Lois had known Clark was also Superman. He should never have deceived himself regarding her character, knowing that, but the power of jealous hope had again outstripped common sense.

He thought, looking back, that he'd started falling before Clark had proposed this arrangement. Clark had coaxed them both out to dinner, he remembered, a quiet night at Clark's favorite Greek spot in Metropolis, the three of them crammed into a booth that hadn't been built for someone of Clark's height, Bruce's muscle mass. Lois had taken the aisle seat next to Clark, leaving Bruce alone on the other side of the booth, holding his head a little oddly so he didn't collide with a hanging pothos. Lois's eyes had flicked up to the pot two or three times, a tiny smirk lurking at the corner of her mouth; Bruce had thought, she notices everything. And that had been the point at which his preoccupation began, he thought, if not his fixation.

After Clark had suggested he date them both, after they'd worked out a schedule and basic ground rules, after Clark had spent the night with Lois and the afternoon with Bruce: that was the start of the full-on fixation. He'd smelled Lois's perfume on Clark's shirt and wondered if it was a deliberate rebuke, then gone into Clark's bedroom to find space cleared for him: half a nightstand, most of a dresser. Clark had said he'd told Lois he could share, too, wanted to share, but Lois had insisted upon subdividing the remaining space, operating on the logic that she and Bruce both had separate homes. It was sound reasoning. Bruce would have done the same, for the same reasons.

Bruce would have done the same: there. That was the source of the problem, the fixation, the fall. It wasn't narcissism, exactly. Or entirely. His preoccupation with Clark stemmed from delight in their differences, admiration at all the ways Clark understood, loved, and surpassed humanity. He was funny, smart, and always understood what Bruce was driving at and why. Of course Bruce loved him. But Lois...with Lois, it felt like she was the flint and he the tinder. When they butted heads, he felt lit from within. When he watched her dig into someone, even a suspect he'd have preferred to interrogate, he was suffused with an odd, wild joy, the same joy he'd felt watching a storm roll in over the Great Steppe. A challenge he wanted to meet.

A ridiculous way to feel about his boyfriend's partner. It had to be acknowledged. Clark was too nice to laugh at him, but Bruce could only hope Lois would see the truth and put him out of his misery, should they ever have to confront it. He couldn't bear to think about it too much.

So: the incident report. His feelings had germinated very early in his relationship with both of them. He had failed to curtail his obsession, or even adequately acknowledge it; consequently, it had grown and deepened, entrenching itself in his emotional landscape. And now Lois knew his identity, and would consequently be more involved in both their lives, uncowed by any distancing lies Bruce might try to tell. When Clark had to meet Batman on one of his and Lois's nights, Lois could come. When Bruce needed Clark for one of Batman's investigations, Clark could tell Lois as much. Lois might even volunteer to help.

He considered that prospect. It evoked a feeling similar to claustrophobia. Could he prevent it? Not without revealing significantly more about his emotional state than he was comfortable with.

Contingency plans, then. Exposure therapy; compartmentalization; induced inhibition. He was an old hand at all of them. This preoccupation would not threaten his day-to-day work.

"Are you serious," Bruce couldn't stop himself from saying.

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

"You look like you always do."

"Wow, looks like I'm not joking." Lois clicked her pen. Ballpoint, this time. Still Bic, though this -- unfortunately -- wasn't a dream. "So: what do you know about Wayne Enterprise's antiquities purchases?"

There was no real danger inherent in this line of questioning. Sure, they were in public; undeniably, the 'public' in question was an alley frequented by Falcone's accounts receivables thugs. But Batman had spoken to reporters about this sort of thing before, including Wayne Enterprises business. It was more or less fair to corner him here and ask the same question she'd been asking anyone, cape or otherwise, who seemed like they might have a clue.

No, it was making Bruce's spine itch for the obvious reason: Lois's too-knowing gaze really was too fucking knowing, and Bruce, hatefully, didn't want to lie to her.

"Bruce Wayne might have a better answer for you," he managed to say, "though I've heard he rarely shows his face to reporters before cocktail hour. Excuse me."

A jump, a grapple, and he was free. For now.

Lois showed up at the Manor at eleven sharp. Bruce had been awake for fifteen minutes and was only just pouring coffee in the kitchen when Alfred appeared, said, "Miss Lane to see you, sir," and allowed Lois fucking Lane to stroll into his sanctum and hop onto one of the breakfast bar stools.

"Make yourself at home," Bruce said, sipping his coffee and glaring at Alfred.

Alfred, of course, didn't make any pretense of backing down. "Quite."

"We've had tea in here before," Lois said. Not an apology, but half an explanation, delivered with a very direct look.

She was always looking at him. It made him itch. Clark would never stop laughing if he admitted as much. "Let me finish my coffee. Then we can talk."

If she picked up on how grudging he felt -- and really, how could she not -- she didn't let on. Alfred went about his day-to-day duties and Lois typed energetically on a slim laptop. One mug, then two; his brain, reluctantly, came online. "All right. Follow me."

With the decision made, he saw no reason to postpone its consequences. He led Lois directly to the Cave, not bothering to obscure the security system or hidden entrance. She had no recording devices running, or his systems would have caught them, but he doubted that mattered with her. She surveyed the Cave once, twice, three times, gaze pausing on Jason's case each time. After this, he was certain she'd be able to recount the whole thing from memory with great accuracy. He'd already accepted the risk.

"This is where I do my work. Where we do our work."

"Clark?"

"Has his own access code."

Lois didn't do anything so gauche as ask for one of her own. She smiled a little, walking over to his computer and setting two fingers lightly on its chassis. "Old-school."

"Several orders of magnitude more powerful than it was when first installed," Bruce allowed.

"Very impressive." She nodded towards the far end of the Cave. "Holographic training rooms?"

"Similar to the ones the Justice League uses, yes."

"Nice. And a full gym, of course. Climbing, tumbling. Vehicles." She quirked an eyebrow. "Closets -- disguises, I assume?"

Bruce nodded.

"Wow. Gotta say, this is about as comprehensive as I'd expect from Batman." She turned in a slow circle, tilting her head up towards the endless dark of the caves. She looked beautiful like this; Bruce didn't want to notice, but once he had, he couldn't stop. Her elegant hands turned, palms upward, like she was absorbing the slightly humid air through her palms. Her thick, soft-looking hair escaping its ponytail around her temples. Her jaw, sharp and uncompromising, slackened slightly in awe as she took in the scope of Bruce's excavation.

"Seventy thousand tons of concrete," Lois said, tapping the floor with one well-worn leather pump. And Bruce understood the trap closing around him.

Too late to do anything about it, though. He only shrugged. "A bit more." Several times more. "But yes, this is where it ended up."

"Amazing. I really mean that, Bruce. What an accomplishment."

Those eyes, fixed on him again. He fought the urge to say something, do something, to keep them there. Not now. Not ever, really, for the two of them, but especially not now. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. But there's something I don't see anywhere. Not even in the closet, I'd bet, though that's just my gut speaking. You understand."

That a three-time Pulitzer winner's gut was worth its weight in gold? Bruce did.

"What I don't see anywhere...are antiquities. Of any kind. Nor is there any record of them in your office, or on display, or donated to local museums. Or national museums, for that matter." Lois clicked her nails on Bruce's keyboard. "I have absolutely no doubt that neither you nor Batman nor Bruce Wayne nor any of your associates are donating money to All of Metropolis. They don't share your political leanings, but even if they did, you wouldn't move money for them like that. But that raises another question. Why antiquities, Bruce? If you can't answer, it'll become a story I chase down. I need you to understand that."

For a horrible, frozen moment, Bruce wanted very badly to laugh. How many times had he delivered precisely this warning? How often had he urged people -- millionaires, petty thieves, billionaires, mobsters -- to tell him what he needed to know and let him focus on someone else? Lois's delivery came with a pen to paper rather than a batarang to the throat, but that was a distinction without a difference.

He managed, barely, to contain his laugh. He cleared his throat and said, "I understand." About this, certainly. About Clark, more and more. He wondered, very briefly, what she'd do if he said that. Slap him, ideally.

"Then if you understand, hopefully you'll also tell me what I need to know."

He'd already decided. "It's nothing. I mean that literally. The antiquities themselves follow a restoration and repatriation process, or they're donated to an unrelated party. The latter is significantly rarer, which is why you haven't found any yet. The acquisition is practical: several of Batman and Superman's enemies are very interested in antiquities, for magical or scientific purposes. If we, Wayne Enterprises, acquire them first, we can confirm they're unlikely to be exploited for sinister means."

"So it's catch-and-release for potential magical objects?"

"Yes."

Lois sighed. "Well, that's not something Perry'll want, at least."

"You're not eager to unmask The Batman for your boss?"

"I'm not eager to embroil myself in an ethical quagmire, no."

Dry as dust, eyeing him up like she was reconsidering something, and maybe it was this juxtaposition in tone and content that made him want to just -- push. Pull. Unravel the odd thread between them. "Biggest story of your career and you're going to bury it. Speaking of ethical quagmires."

"That's the second time you've said that." Tap-tap-tap went Lois's pen against Bruce's desk. "But it's not true."

"What scoop could you possibly get that's bigger than Batman's identity?"

If Clark were here, he'd make that little hangdog face he was so good at. But Clark wasn't here, and Lois only laughed, bitter and sharp. "Celebrity gossip will never be one of the biggest scoops of my career, Bruce, thank you so much. I think we're done here." She brushed past him, thwacking his chest with her hand as she did. "Thanks again."

And then -- it was over. Lois left; Bruce had nothing else to do but get to work. He had no reason to keep thinking about it, about her. Wondering, worrying. Turning her over in his mind like enough tumbles might turn craggy rock into smooth gem. Absolutely no reason.

"Does it bother you that Lois is sitting on this story?" he asked that night, within five minutes of kissing Clark hello. Christ.

"Ummmmmmm." Clark paused midway through unbuttoning his shirt, blinking at Bruce with confusion, a painfully attractive picture that would have amounted to coy artifice if Clark were anyone else on the planet. "No? I mean, why would it?"

"I won't claim to be particularly educated on journalistic ethics, but Lois is now sitting on an absolutely enormous story with far-reaching implications in Metropolis and Gotham; in fact, she's made herself part of this story, and could change her mind regarding disclosure at any time. Seems like an ethical quagmire."

"Ha. Well, maybe." Clark finished unbuttoning his shirt, hanging it carefully over the chair. Just in case he wanted to be company-ready later. Bruce hated the way it made his chest feel a little tight, endearment worming its way into his rib cage. "If I were reading about it in the Planet, I mean if I didn't know her or you or myself at all, I guess I'd think it was wrong. But you know Lois."

"Do I?"

Clark made a face at him. "She'd throw her credentials into the Atlantic before she let her feelings overrule her ethics. She's keeping my secret and she always will, and when there's a real conflict of interest, she figures out a different way to disentangle herself. She'll do the same for you. So no, it doesn't bother me."

For a moment, Bruce wondered if Clark understood the false equivalency he'd drawn via casual assumption that Lois had the same drive to protect Bruce as she did Clark. But Clark wasn't stupid and rarely spoke without thinking. If Bruce interrogated the premise, he was sure Clark would dig into Lois's care for him, Clark, how it affected her attitude towards Clark's close associates, and why that meant Bruce was safe. Bruce wasn't even sure he disagreed, but he wanted to pick at the assumption anyway, which meant he absolutely shouldn't.

"All right," he forced himself to say. "Have I mentioned you look good like this?" Clark's undershirt was worn and stained; his jeans had seen better days. He'd been out and about today, Bruce surmised, chasing a story or a lead, for himself or for Lois. He saw her every day, worked with her, fucked her. Loved her. Bruce was lucky to have made it this far.

Clark quirked an eyebrow. "Once or twice. Want to show me you mean it?"

"Sure. Come here."

Clark kissed generously, an open-mouthed slide of lips and tongue. On the nights when Bruce's sins had caught up with him, Clark let Bruce bend him over and fuck him, make him beg for it, until Bruce thought he might be able to sleep. Most of the time, it was Clark who bent Bruce over, Clark who gently bullied Bruce onto the bed and climbed between his legs. It was Clark, now, who rolled Bruce onto his hands and knees, sliding two lubed fingers over Bruce's ass and then pressing, almost too gently, inside.

Bruce loved it. Savored it, even on the days when he felt more or less certain he'd get to have this again. Clark acted like sex was brand new every single time, and Bruce had gone from being warily charmed to finding it hopelessly hot: the little gasp Clark let out when Bruce spread his legs and arched his back, the way he whispered, "Oh my God, Bruce," when Bruce fucked himself back onto Clark's hand. He'd done this before, God willing he'd do it again, and every single time Clark would act like Bruce's body was some kind of revelation.

"You're so perfect," Clark whispered, fucking inside him. Big and broad, heavy and hot, need lighting up Bruce's spine. He grunted in response, moving his head back until Clark could capture his lips for a kiss. And --

And he wondered, in the part of his mind he didn't have enough self-control to silence, if Clark was like this with Lois, too.

Even now, with Clark thick and hot inside him, with his own breath ragged and noisy, he could squash that thought. Box it away, at least, so it didn't grow. He focused on Clark's hands on his hips, Clark kissing the back of his neck. Clark, whispering Bruce's name as he came deep inside, cupping one huge hand around Bruce's cock to bring him along for the ride.

"Fuck, that was really good," Clark said into Bruce's back. They'd lain together awhile, Clark pulling out and then plastering himself against Bruce like he thought Bruce might run away. Which Bruce had, once, out of panicked self-hatred. Clark clung to the idea that he could physically prevent a relapse.

"Yes. It usually is." Bruce kissed Clark's hand, played with his fingers.

"Do you think we should all go to dinner? The three of us?"

It felt like missing a stair while carrying a heavy load, or like when Dick had moved out. A sudden absence of anything making sense, followed by throttled panic. "The three of us? You mean us, with Lois?"

"Mm-hm."

Bruce was not at his most eloquent post-orgasm. All he could think to say was absolutely not, are you insane.

"You think it's a bad idea."

"I think." He forced himself to breathe. To think. Rolling over helped, being able to see Clark's bright eyes and utterly guileless expression. "I think it's...nice...that you want to. Take advantage of Lois's newfound knowledge, to bring us closer. But."

Clark screwed up his face in a rueful grimace. He was so stupidly beautiful, Bruce thought, never more than after he'd come, flushed and joyful with it. "I know. It would be weird! I swear, Bruce, I really do know that. I know it's not how it is for me, with you guys. I just thought it might be good to, I don't know, clear the air. Somewhere nicer than the Watchtower."

"The Watchtower's pretty nice," Bruce said mildly.

"For dinner, I meant."

"When you say 'how it is for me': you mean that you're in love with both of us. Correct?"

Clark nodded, looking like he wanted very badly to hide his face. Bruce leaned in and kissed him, coaxing, reassuring. More reassuring than he actually felt, but that couldn't be helped. He made himself say it: "It's okay, Clark. I understand what you mean. If you want to get dinner, just let me know. I'll set it up."

"Lois might not want to let either of us pick the restaurant."

"I'm the one with the least reasonable security requirements. I can give Lois a list of restaurants that meet those requirements, and you two can make the final choice."

"She'll make the final choice. I have bad taste."

"Well, I didn't say it," Bruce demurred, and allowed Clark to tackle him down, laughing, for round two.

So he was going on a date with his partner and his partner's partner. Fine.

He and Alfred had a shortlist of restaurants for engagements like these (well, no; fake dates for Bruce Wayne, but they had identical security requirements), but they were all in Gotham. Bruce created his own Metropolis list, three restaurants with good sightlines, clean owners, and feasible points of exit for Batman and Superman. He sent it over to Clark with a note about each option: ramen, Italian, Oaxacan. Clark replied: funny - that's me and Lois's favorite ramen place. Let's go there. :)))

It would be humiliatingly revealing to revise the list. Bruce squashed the urge, and their reservation went forward.

Logistics dictated timing; they met at Metropolis Mega Ramen that Friday night. Clark and Bruce were dressed similarly, slacks and button-downs as work dictated, but Lois...

Lois, Bruce noticed too quickly and thoroughly, must have changed or structured her professional attire very cleverly. She wore pumps and slim-fit slacks, a plunging v-neck blouse that was almost certainly silk, and a single pendant necklace. Her hair was still pulled back, but she'd styled the ponytail into a sleek curl. She looked good; she looked a little mean. She looked like most of the women Bruce had ever wanted, and very few of the women Bruce Wayne had ever slept with.

"I didn't actually think this place took reservations," Clark said.

"They don't." But they met every other requirement, including being a place he'd thought Clark would want to step foot in, and any restaurant became the sort that took reservations when Bruce Wayne's assistant called.

Still, some creeping sense of not-quite-rightness made him ask, "Is there an issue with our seat? The service?"

"Well, we've only just sat down," Lois said. "At least let them screw up my order first."

For a moment Bruce wasn't sure if he was meant to be chastised. Then Clark laughed and Lois's lips curved in one of those almost-mean little smiles of hers, and he was able to relax.

No one's order got screwed up. Lois carried them through the main course on the strength of a rousing story about legal review of her last published piece, and Clark happily chattered about the farm through dessert. Then two sets of bright eyes turned towards Bruce as he handed the waitress his card.

Bruce tried for a smile. "Second location for drinks, or are we too old for that?"

"You look like you might just go puke in the bar bathroom." Only from Clark would such a statement sound gentle. "What if we went back to my apartment? Or -- " His eyes flickered towards Lois.

Never let it be said Bruce would miss a cue. "No need. I'm in Metropolis for the week; we can go back to my penthouse. Alfred's got a better mind for cocktails than whatever mixologist is working the Flowerhouse tonight."

Lois snorted and slapped his arm. "Nice one. Yeah, I'm down. Smallville?"

Clark answered. Bruce was sure of it: Clark had impeccable manners and wouldn't have just grunted or even nodded. But Bruce didn't hear his response, or Lois's flirty rejoinder, because it was only early autumn: Bruce wore a linen button-down. All of his attention was focused on the burning memory of Lois's hand on his arm, the way his skin screamed to be touched again.

Thank God, this wasn't the sort of restaurant where settling a check was such a delicate process that he'd be left alone for his horrible, horny reverie. The waitress all but shoved the card tray in his face, and within five minutes they were back in the car, Bruce behind the wheel, Clark --

"Absolutely not," Bruce said when he tried to slide in the front. "Don't leave Lois alone back there."

"I'm fine," Lois said, over Clark's, "But I don't want to leave you alone!"

Bruce put the car back in park. Pointedly. "The backseat, Clark."

He wasn't sure why that, of all things, made Clark flush, bright red from nose to -- well, navel at least; Kryptonian circulation was a marvel. Before he had a chance to ask, Clark was sitting in the backseat, pressed against the door, looking as awkward as a teenager on his first date. Bruce watched in the rear view mirror as Lois rolled her eyes and tugged Clark close, long fingers tangling in his hair.

She met his gaze in the mirror. "I think we're good."

He looked away. He turned the car on. He drove at precisely the speed limit until they reached the penthouse.

Alfred had been alerted by the penthouse's central computer, so by the time they made it to the door, he was already setting a glass of water on the counter. Bruce doubted his pause and recalibration was visible to anyone but him, but pause Alfred did, his eyes flicking between Lois and Clark before finally landing, judgmentally, on Bruce.

"You've fraternized one too many times, Alfred," Bruce said. "Clark angled for an invitation back here. He wants a drink."

"I did not!" Clark protested, but he was laughing, and then Lois was laughing at him: the icebreaker had done its job. Alfred was happy to prepare drinks, and happier to leave them to it, making noises about needing to do something upstairs.

("Your penthouse is two floors," Lois said. When Bruce shrugged, she poured herself another shot of whiskey.)

The penthouse's kitchen had never seen such a party. Bruce leaned against the interior of the breakfast bar, a careless elbow away from the sink. Lois and Clark sat across from him, their knees very obviously pressed together under the counter. Lois's cheeks were lightly flushed, and her blouse - well, it was a v-neck. She kept leaning over, her pendant flashing in the light.

Bruce felt dizzy. Hungry. Despite the fact that Clark and Lois were arguing about wheat yields, of all things.

"It just doesn't make sense," Lois said. She gestured with her drink, nodding thanks to Clark when he super-sped his hand over to keep it from spilling. "I get that the whole regenerative soil thing is so they use less fertilizer, but why are yields a third lower?"

"It's the herbicide," Clark said. "Or lack thereof. I mean, if you kill everything but the corn, the corn's gonna do better."

"But the soil's supposed to be so much better!"

"Have you ever milked a cow?" Bruce asked Lois.

Silence. Bruce was also tipsy, also flushed. Clark, of course, wasn't. Well, he wasn't tipsy. He was flushed, biting his lip like he was trying not to laugh.

"That's the main thing I know about farming," Bruce said. "Cows."

He just wasn't expecting to get kissed over that. But Clark was apparently endeared by ignorance, a fascinating quality in a journalist. Bruce let himself get lost for a moment, warm skin and slick spit. But even tipsy, he felt Lois's gaze on his neck like a brand; even with Clark's hand on his jaw, he was acutely aware of the distance between himself and the two of them.

When they pulled away, Clark licked his lips and said, "I, um. We should...it's late? Probably get going?"

Bruce opened his mouth to gently mock Clark for his garbled phrasing. What came out was, "This apartment has four bedrooms. Take one."

Clark made an odd wheezing noise. Lois's eyes widened, just barely, still more expressive than Bruce would have expected. They looked at each other, a brief glance that nonetheless seemed to function as a full conversation; it was Lois who turned to Bruce and said, "You sure?"

We're going to fuck, she meant. You'll be alone and pathetic, she meant. But it wasn't like Bruce could back down now. "I wouldn't have offered if I wasn't. Alfred makes breakfast in the morning, it's a short commute. Why not?"

It was the wrong question to ask, Lois's wry expression informed him, the wrong question on top of a bunch of wrong statements, offers, and decisions. Too late. Clark said, "We'll take it, Bruce, thanks," and kissed him again.

And then they left him alone. Horribly turned on, feeling like he was burning from the inside out, completely alone in his enormous kitchen while Clark led Lois upstairs, their fingers tangled together.

Lois hesitated on the landing, turning to catch Bruce's gaze one last time. Bruce forced himself to look back, as placid as he'd been the first time a reporter asked him about The Bat-Man.

"Sleep well," Lois said. A taunt? A peace offering? He had no way of knowing, and Clark was too busy tugging Lois's hand to be of much help.

He waited, of course. Prepared some herbal tea and meditated in the living room, staring out over the twinkling lights of the city. He wasn't due to patrol tonight, but if he checked in, even Oracle wouldn't tell him to fuck off. But she would notice, and draw likely-correct conclusions about why his night off had become a night out. Whether she told Stephanie or not, the news would leak, and once Stephanie found out it would be a bona fide bat-mystery, and thus, soon solved. No, he couldn't show his face tonight, even if the flight wouldn't be a pain.

When an hour and fifteen minutes had passed, he rinsed his mug, turned on the dishwasher, and made his way upstairs. He expected to hear very little noise, maybe some music if they'd found the sound system, so the gasp and throaty Clark that greeted him made his breath thick in his throat.

He hurried down the hallway without waiting to see if Clark responded. He had to know, had to have heard Bruce coming, but there was no movement in the hallway; they'd chosen to mutually ignore one another, apparently.

That was good. It meant Bruce didn't have to feel guilty about what happened next.

He'd never felt more relieved to get a hand on his cock, more humiliated to know Clark could hear his bitten-off gasps and moans. It was normal, damn it, he had a completely average sex drive, but he felt ridiculous: guilty, illicit, his mind racing to remind him of the last time he and Clark had done this. Clark with his heels up by his ears, holding himself open for Bruce, bright red and clearly uncertain of himself yet determined to give Bruce what he'd said he wanted. Beautiful, trusting. All Bruce's, if only for that night.

He spread his own legs, fucking into his hand. His thoughts shifted, without his consent, to Lois. He didn't want to imagine how she might be in bed. Couldn't, if he wanted to stay sane; but maybe he'd already crossed that rubicon, because all he had to do was think of Lois's judgemental gaze on him, and he was coming.

He bit back any vocalization, stilled his shaking limbs as soon as he could. It was no use, of course. Clark had undoubtedly heard him.

"You're troubled."

"I'm busy," Bruce corrected, throwing another batarang.

The radar gun screen showed 120mph. Cassandra knocked the batarang away like he'd gently lobbed it. "Distracted." A kick that he parried, a strike that he didn't. "Sloppy."

"I apologize."

"That won't help." Another strike, then a kick, and this one landed. Bruce hid the practice mat with a subvocal oof.

He accepted her hand up. "What do you think will help?"

Cassandra cocked her head, making a face like she'd smelled something off, then shrugged. "Talking, maybe? An arrest? Depends on the problem."

He had to bite back the urge to congratulate her on her elocution. It wasn't something she needed anymore and it had never been something she wanted. But still, he felt pride warm him, even as he said, "What if I said it was relationship problems?"

"It's good to share. Emotional isolation is mentally and physically unhealthy and leads to compromised outcomes across a broad range of health concerns, including the ones that impact our work." She pointed a batarang at him. "Oracle."

That did, indeed, sound like something Barbara would say, in a strident tone, after having read multiple books on the topic. Bruce sighed, turning to begin a timed rope climb.

"Me too."

He managed not to fall, barely. Braced himself and climbed back down the ten feed he'd managed. "You too? You mean -- romantic problems?"

She nodded.

He had...no idea how to handle this. No clue of what to say. Cassandra looked at him, still so startlingly young, hands that had saved and ended lives hanging lax against her body. Five, even three years ago, he'd have cut this conversation short and gotten them back on track with training. Now, he couldn't imagine doing so; he saw the wrinkle in Cassandra's brow, the concern in her eyes, and knew that he couldn't coach her to forget about it. Compromised outcomes, indeed.

"We've been at this for three hours. What if I treat you to lunch?"

She lit up, nodding eagerly. Only after their burgers and fries had come and been demolished did she say, "It's Steph."

"...ah."

"You're not angry...?"

"Of course not."

"Surprised?"

Of course not, he didn't say again, wanting to spare her pride even though she'd read the lie on him. "Only a bit."

Sure enough, she kicked him lightly under the table. "She's beautiful. Smart. She is." As if he'd argue when he was trying to have a nice lunch. "And she's funny, makes me laugh...I like her. But I can't tell her."

"Tale as old as time," Bruce said. "If you're telling me this so I can provide advice, please know that it's not my strength."

"Ha ha ha ha ha," Cassandra said. "No. That's what Oracle is for."

It manifestly was not what Oracle was for, but if Barbara hadn't disclosed her own disastrous romantic history then Bruce wasn't going to do it for her. He could, however, offer his own vulnerability in return. "You know I've been seeing Clark."

Cassandra nodded.

"I find myself interested in Lois. His partner."

"Other partner?"

"They've been together for longer." And Bruce had no idea how Clark saw him, really, except of course that Clark loved him. But he loved everyone he bothered to spend time with, because his heart was too soft and open by half. "She's beautiful. Smart. Three Pulitzers and a fourth on the way, in all likelihood, and she, ah, knows. As well."

Cassandra's eyes widened slightly. "She knows? How?"

"Figured it out during my last business trip."

Cassandra thumped back against the booth. "Wow. The perfect woman."

"Indeed."

"Will you join them? All three?"

This was why he'd waited to finish eating before allowing discussion. "Unlikely."

"Thanksgiving?"

"They'll receive an invite." And hopefully wouldn't come; Bruce imagined they'd be too busy having their happy little nuclear family holiday at the Kent farm.

"Wow."

"Indeed." Bruce took a long sip of his water.

"Steph asked me to practice kissing and when I asked if she and Tim had never kissed despite their history, she invented a 'potato emergency' and left me alone on the roof."

Bruce didn't spit out his water because he was a vigilante and had also survived ten years of old-money etiquette lessons, but it was a near thing. He set his glass down very carefully. "You should talk to her."

Cassandra bit her lip. "But --"

The restaurant was empty and obscure enough that Bruce felt reasonably confident speaking bluntly, if not explicitly, of their shared life. "Cassandra. Talk to her. Clear the air. This sort of issue impacts mission readiness, it damages rapport in the field. You need to deal with it."

It was funny, he thought as he watched Cassandra muddle through the order. She and Dick shared no genetic material and had very little in common with regards to background, upbringing, culture, or personality. But for a moment, watching her face firm into a mask of nervous resolve, he saw Dick, right before his first date with Barbara. Pretending at a level of confidence he didn't feel, yes, but also biting back criticism of Bruce himself. A teenage rebellion, not quite finished curing.

"All right," Cassandra finally said. "I'll...talk to her."

She'd have sounded happier if Bruce ordered her to run a marathon. "Thank you."

"You'll talk to her too."

"To Steph?"

Cassandra raised her eyebrows and waited.

Bruce did not like being outmaneuvered by a teenager. "All right. I can commit to clearing the air with Lois."

"Timeline?" said his too-smart daughter.

"...end of year. It doesn't impact my combat readiness."

"Mmph." But that was good enough, apparently; they changed the subject to Tim's mycology research, and Bruce was free to put Lois-and-Clark back in the little box he reserved for feelings he didn't want to examine too closely.

Lois suggested the next dinner but Clark delivered the invitation, a breezy little aside dropped in among updates about the Planet and strikingly verbose musings on the relative value of getting a dog.

Bruce, of course, accepted, at which point Clark informed him that Lois had picked the restaurant, a Gotham hole-in-the-wall with the best Mediterranean food she'd ever eaten. It was consistent, Clark said, with what Lois had deduced to be his criteria for a secure location; maddeningly, when Bruce conducted his own analysis, he had to concur.

So: Mediterranean. Pointedly casual; jeans were practically dressing up. A waiter and front-of-house staff that didn't seem to know or care that they had Bruce Wayne in a south-facing booth. A cacophony of multilingual discussion behind the counter, betraying a need for a more modern ordering system. And, yes, the best ful Bruce had tasted in years.

"I used to take sources here all the time, they'd do an $8 lunch deal," Lois said. "Out of this world bang for your buck. A full platter of food and tea."

Bruce sipped his wine. "Used to?"

"Rent went up, I guess. Now it's $12 and Perry says take 'em to Starbucks, you know." Lois winked at Clark, who laughed. Journalist inside joke? Lois-and-Clark inside joke? Bruce declined to ask and tried not to wonder. He failed at the latter as they ordered their main courses and Clark engaged them in a discussion about Martha Kent's adventures with animal husbandry.

"So I told her, well, maybe renting out the goats is a good idea -- it's trendy! And Smallville has the revitalized downtown now, so there's lots of younger people with big houses and lawns they don't want to use gas mowers for, but -- "

"Hold that thought, Smallville." Lois answered her cell. "Hey, John, what's up? Oh, wow, already? No, no, I get it, you don't want...yeah, I can do that. I'm actually in Gotham right now." She met Bruce's gaze, for some reason, in order to mouth sorry. "Sure, of course. That works for me. See you in a bit. Thanks." She slipped her phone back in her bag before Bruce could even catch the make, much less her notifications. "So, this is so awkward -- I'm sorry, but -- "

"Source?" Clark said. "Lois, it's okay. I get it."

"I know you get it." She rolled her eyes, tone achingly fond. "Bruce, I promise this isn't a regular occurrence. But I need to go."

It was interesting, academically, being on this end of it. When Bruce had to leave dinner with Clark, Batman and Superman were usually both needed. "Of course. We'll catch up later."

No fond kiss for him, only a relieved smile and awkward wave. She was gone in moments, walking briskly north. No cab, Bruce noted. The source was close, or she intended to take the subway. "This doesn't happen often?"

"Well." Clark pushed his glasses up his nose, making an apologetic face. "Usually if a source calls, I just ride along."

"Like us."

"Like us," Clark said, seemingly without a hint of irony, envy, or nerves. Must be nice.

Well, nothing good was likely to come from that train of thought. "You're right, by the way, about the goats. Martha should consider it."

Clark looked as grateful as if he'd handed over a five-figure check. "You should tell her, she'll listen to you."

"I doubt she'd respect my domain knowledge as far as goats are concerned."

"Market trends, though." Clark kicked his ankle lightly under the table, smiling when Bruce met his gaze. "You're good at that stuff."

It was oddly tender, stupidly knowing. Bruce spared a moment's frustration with himself for failing to conceal his anxieties, then he pivoted, putting his hand over Clark's. Lifting it, kissing the knuckles. "Thank you."

By mutual agreement, they parted ways after dessert. Bruce hadn't arranged for anyone to cover his territory that night. A few hours after kissing Clark goodbye, he found himself on the edge of Gotham's Greektown, crouched on a fire escape, listening to a hushed conversation about a weapons transfer. It was roughly what he expected: multiple stakeholders, six figures' worth of illegal weaponry, and a guy ignominiously named 'Ugly Fredrico' who was brokering the whole deal. He got the recordings, tied up the culprits, called the police. Standard procedure.

Then, right before he fired the grapple gun, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Ronda's Diner, open and bustling despite the later hour, but that wasn't what had caught his eye. No: it was the people in the window. A nondescript man in a disheveled off-the-rack suit, nursing a coffee and one of Ronda's obscenely big slices of pie, talking to Lois Lane, her coat from dinner easily recognizable despite her beanie and tied-back hair, her plate of eggs and toast barely touched. Her nods sympathetic, her hand busy with her notepad.

Whatever their topic of conversation, it was unlikely to be Bat business. Bruce involved himself in all forms of injustice, certainly, but the Planet's best reporter on an issue meant the Bat almost certainly didn't need to help. There was no reason to hang around; plenty of other emergencies in the city, trouble he could find or that Oracle would send him to.

He tapped his communicator and made his way to the diner roof.

"Oracle. Ears, please."

"Seriously, B?"

"The sooner the better."

Barbara had a talent for judgemental silences, but she nonetheless obtained audio from the diner, piping it into Bruce's ear. He crouched on the roof as Lois said, "RICO's a pretty heavy set of charges. I'm sure you know that; they always give campaign finance types that training, right?"

"Not me. Not this campaign. I mean, they had us click through an online training. But it was fast, and then it was all, oh, Ted, take this bank slip, transfer this money. Hey, don't worry about the cash. You know? A lot of little moving pieces."

"Pieces you moved?"

"Well, I didn't know I could say no!"

He couldn't see Lois from this angle, and he didn't need to; asking for video feed would test Barbara's patience beyond the breaking point. He thus couldn't be sure if Lois understood the extent to which her source was lying. Her voice was warm and sympathetic, not a hint of judgment as she said, "Right, I get it. I mean, your job was on the line."

"Exactly. Look, if I give you this, you swear you won't say who you got it from? Promise me."

"Of course. On background, John, that means I don't attribute the information you give me." A pause. "It also means I publish the information, as much or as little as I need to support the story."

"I got that. I'm fine with that. They'll get the realtor for RICO maybe, not me."

"All right."

"He's handing her a USB drive," Barbara said.

"Understood," Bruce murmured. "And is she as sympathetic as she sounds?"

Barbara snorted. "Is Lois Lane sympathetic to a low-level employee of a PAC her story's going to nail on campaign finance fraud allegations? What do you think?"

"A simple 'no' would have sufficed."

"Well, we don't always get what we want in this life. Speaking of which, you're needed over by the docks. There's heat on N."

He'd already shot a grapple. "Understood."

It was only later, after some punching and kicking and debriefing, that he let himself think of Barbara's answer. What do you think, indeed.

Bruce thought he'd have done exactly what Lois had, at dinner. Bruce thought the Planet was wasting their best reporter by not giving her a publication of her own. Bruce thought he could probably buy the Planet or a similar newspaper and install Lois as editor-in-chief, and she'd spit in his face for it. Bruce thought that if this emotional state persisted, he'd be finding out soon whether or not embarrassment could kill.

It was date night and Clark had been different from the moment he greeted Bruce in the lobby of the bowling alley.

He didn't seem upset or concerned. He was attentive as they spoke, laughed at Bruce's jokes, argued with him about his favorite Metropolis pizza (potatoes, corn, and squash? No, Clark). But despite his seeming normalcy, despite his not mentioning any problem to Bruce, something was off, and Bruce couldn't ask about it. He'd have to admit what he'd noticed: that Clark was being too damn sweet.

He just kept -- looking at Bruce. Smiling softly at him. When they'd waited for mediocre torte, he'd played with Bruce's fingers on their table, stroking his thumb over Bruce's knuckles. He'd kissed Bruce on the cheek, so lightly, while they waited for the car. And now he moaned as he pressed inside Bruce, stroking a hand down Bruce's spine and then slowly, so carefully, pressing Bruce's face into the pillow, one enormous hand flat against Bruce's ribs as he snapped his hips exactly the way Bruce liked it.

"Harder," Bruce said, needy and unthinking in the way he could only be with Clark. Clark dropped a kiss on his shoulder and obliged, making Bruce feel pinned, hollowed out, full and needy and hungry.

He braced himself a little, knees to the bed, getting enough space to let his hips fuck into the sheets. Clark loved this, making Bruce so desperate that he could come just from a little friction against his cock. He rocked against the bed, hands sliding up towards the headboard, knocking into a pair of sunglasses under the pillow --

He didn't want to notice, was the thing. He was close to coming, he was desperate for more, he loved Clark with an intensity that felt all-consuming, and he wanted to ignore that the sunglasses were the wrong style, shape, and size to be Clark's. But he couldn't. He pulled them out from under the pillow, moving to set them on the nightstand.

"Bruce, what -- oh."

He returned his hand to the bed, gripped the sheets. Set his mind against the question of whether he could smell her shampoo, whether Clark had been so desperate for her that they hadn't even finished undressing before going to bed. "Can't let them get crushed."

"Oh my God," Clark said, a distant and lost noise. He collapsed forward, hauling Bruce up with one arm like he weighed nothing at all, setting his teeth to the meat of Bruce's neck. "Bruce, Bruce, I -- she -- Bruce."

"Yes," Bruce said, and Clark began to move again.

He lost track of time after that. Clark fucked him like he might never stop, drawing wrenching moans and gasps from Bruce, needy little noises he tried and failed to swallow. It was only after Clark had come inside him, only when Clark had him on his back with his legs splayed as wide as they could go, playing with his fucked-out hole, that Clark said, "We couldn't wait. It was after we got lunch with you on Tuesday, we came back here and she -- I was naked, she still had her coat on, she fingered me and made me come, she asked me what you'd think of what I looked like."

The only consolation was that it was Bruce's own hand on his cock when he came, so hard he nearly blacked out, thinking of Lois's slim, strong fingers wrenching moans from Clark. Clark wouldn't be able to feel the way Bruce's dick kicked when he said she asked me about you.

Slim consolation, given that Clark's fingers were hooked inside him, rubbing his prostate as his orgasm crested, holding politely still as Bruce clenched around him and then, slowly, shivering, came back down to Earth.

"Hi," Clark said, kissing him.

Through the strength of his desire not to make a fool of himself, Bruce managed not to demand to know if Clark's story was true. It was a near thing. Bitten lip, lack of coherent speech. Fortunately, Clark seemed to interpret his reticence as a sign that he'd come too hard to think straight, which had the benefit of being almost true.

Clark spooned him that night, a warm heavy weight making insomnia nearly impossible. But only nearly. Bruce spent a number of hours with his eyes open, staring at the sunglasses neatly folded only a few feet away.

Catastrophic collapse typically occurred immediately upon completion of an inherently flawed project or after a long period of insufficient inspection and repair. This was true of modern software, mainframe systems, bridges, tunnels, and, apparently, Bruce's psyche.

He had spent a year and a half more or less happy with his and Clark's arrangement. The parts that he disliked, he still found bearable, because the payoff was Clark's time and attention. His affection, his love. He'd thought he could continue indefinitely. He hadn't counted on finding himself exactly where he'd been the spring before last, messily desperate for something he couldn't have.

He'd never disliked Lois, but he'd also never particularly liked her, and he'd thought that was a shield: wanting her, being obsessed with her, respecting her, but not really liking her. It was disorienting and deeply unpleasant to find his own affections so rapidly altered. She was utterly absent from his life yet also somehow omnipresent: he saw the Planet being sold in Gotham newsstands, her favorite brand of sparkling water advertised in a bus shelter he passed on patrol, her byline on PBS Gotham's scrolling chyron.

And he thought of her. Often. Constantly. Not just in lecherous contexts, either. They'd turned dinner into a recurring, not quite weekly appointment, and he'd learned about Lois's favorite music, her love of animal husbandry, her dislike of blueberries, her unbelievable commitment to the Planet. She had a texture and depth that shouldn't have surprised Bruce, but continually did. She was something of a puzzle, and Bruce loved puzzles.

All of that, he could have dealt with, compartmentalized as unusual but welcome friendship. Pure sexual attraction, he also could have compartmentalized, a natural side effect of sharing Clark with her. But the two together were unbearable. Urgent. He felt affection, genuine and deep, and the worst part was he couldn't even fool himself into thinking he was betraying Clark. Clark bloomed during their dinners together. He actively sought to extend their evenings with drinks or coffee, sitting around a too-small cafe table or taking their now-usual stools at Bruce's penthouse. Bruce couldn't make himself take the sensible steps back that he knew he desperately needed, not when faced with Clark's bright eyes, flushed cheeks, and unvarnished, unashamed happiness.

"And this attachment is why Lois and Clark are now regular guests at the penthouse?"

Bruce eyed Alfred over his tea. He felt bone-tired, weary in a way he hadn't in years. He'd been out all night with most of the Bats, tracking down mob activity that seemed to have materialized out of nowhere. He'd come home only to find Lois had left a few messages for him, asking to meet regarding her story; the subsequent emotional response, thirty seconds of staring into space while accidentally shattering the screen on his phone, prompted Alfred to bully him into the kitchen. And now here Bruce was, drinking tea and being coaxed into talking like he was thirteen again.

"They're guests because it's easier for them to stay than try to make it back to Clark's. It's two trains or the slowest bus in the city."

"Clark could get them both back in moments, surely."

Bruce closed his eyes. "Alfred."

Whatever Alfred saw in his expression, it must have been humiliatingly revelatory. He changed the subject to Damian's grades, of all things.

There was no need to overreact. This was a temporary fixation, nothing more. Bruce would deal with his feelings because he had to, and soon enough he'd be back to normal. All he had to do was survive until then.

End Notes

Bruce you are wrong about psychiatry, and several other things. ♥

Clark

Everything was fine. Everything was actually great! He had Bruce and Lois, and once a week or so he had them together. The fact that he would have taken more -- a lot more -- like, together every night, for dinner and then after too -- that was beside the point. Clark was just happy to have them.

Fall turned to winter, and Lois became incredibly busy with her All of Metropolis investigation, pushing to confirm the funding sources she suspected ahead of April's special election for the mayor. Clark did his best to support her, but she didn't want his super-hearing or Bruce's hacking, so he ended up spending a lot of time on rooftops, in Metropolis and, rarely, in Gotham, with Bruce.

On one of those rare nights ("I don't need Superman," Bruce had said grimly, "but if Clark Kent wants to help me on a stakeout, I'm not going to complain."), Bruce said, "Damian's birthday is next week."

"Oh yeah?" Clark said. He'd met Damian once and it had gone okay in a very strange way. Damian had frowned at Clark and said 'if you are Father's partner, why do you live in Metropolis', which, okay, a ten-year-old's judgement on his polyamorous semi-long-distance relationship just wasn't what Clark had been expecting. "That's great. Congratulations to you both."

"Alfred's preparing dinner. A feast, really." A long pause. Bruce took out his binoculars, looked across the highway, and put them away again. It might have been dignified, served a purpose, but it was still fidgeting. "I'd like you and Lois to come."

It would've been okay if Clark had fallen off the roof, physically speaking, but he was still grateful he didn't. It was a close thing though. "Oh wow. Um, okay. I'll ask her."

"I've had an invitation sent to her home."

Lois checked her mail maybe once per quarter. 'If it's important they'll email me; if it's a tip, they shouldn't have my home address', she told Clark. Clark though she just hated dealing with the inevitable giant piles of envelopes, but then, he was a daily mail-opener. "Cool."

"But I see you one-on-one regularly. So I didn't mail an invitation."

"Uh-huh."

Silence, perfect silence, somehow growing grimmer by the second. It took Clark a minute, his brain moving syrup-slow while he tried not to picture a happy family dinner with all three of them, to realize that Bruce thought he didn't want to come.

"Of course we'll be there," he said. "I mean, I'll ask Lois. But we will."

"Wonderful. It's next Sunday, the twelfth."

"You really want to subject yourself to Dick's innuendos about Bruce's hip new lifestyle?" Lois said when Clark told her to check her mail.

"I mean," Clark said. "To make Bruce happy."

Silence on the other end of the phone, once again growing grimmer by the second. "But you don't have to, obviously," Clark said hurriedly.

"I know that. It's fine. We'll go, of course."

Lois sounded a little distracted, but not really upset, not like someone who was experiencing emotional infidelity -- and she wasn't! It wasn't infidelity to want something he was okay with not being able to have. Clark wanted Lois and Bruce, and they knew it, and that part was good; the fact that Clark wanted Lois-and-Bruce wasn't either of their problem, and hopefully not too obvious to them.

Though Clark wouldn't put it past either of them to politely ignore his pining and let him think he was getting away with it. But either way, it wasn't infidelity. Stupidity, maybe.

He'd mostly managed to quash those thoughts by the time next week rolled around. He'd asked Bruce what Damian wanted and had received a dead-eyed stare in response. "Let me know if you figure it out," Bruce had said; but Clark and Bruce had been partners for awhile now, and friends for a long time before that, so Clark knew that despite Bruce's panic he would come up with a good gift, and Clark and Lois needed to do the same.

Lois got Damian a set of cryptography textbooks. "He's a nerd. He'll need these for coming up with zero-days." Which was true, but not really Clark's style. He mentioned as much to Ma the Thursday before the dinner, expecting some suggestions from when Clark was that age. He did not expect to be handed a homemade quilt.

"I was saving it, to be honest with you," Ma said. "For when you had a little one of your own, of course. But this seems appropriate for the occasion, don't you think?"

Like all of Ma's quilts, this one was beautiful. Minimal machine stitching, big vibrant yellows and blues. It didn't really look Bat-y, but it also didn't look like Superman merch. It looked like Kansas in the summer. Clark's heart twisted in his chest. "Thanks, Ma."

"Of course." She leveled him with a look. "You'll have to talk to Lois and Bruce together at some point, you know."

Which, okay. Clark did know that. But he still took a moment to imagine telling Bruce that Ma had been giving him advice on his fun new lifestyle. "Ha. I know."

Clark hadn't been sure what to expect from a Wayne family birthday dinner. Sometimes Alfred really pulled out all the stops, decked the halls and prepared four courses, then denied he'd gone to any trouble at all. British people were weird like that. It was Dick who answered the door, though, looking normal in a normal-looking Manor-- which was to say Dick was wearing an incredibly expensive cashmere sweater and the Manor was still the nicest building Clark had ever been in, much less the nicest home, but there wasn't a ton of tinsel or a full orchestra or anything.

"Clark, Lois, come in," Dick said. "I'm assuming you don't need help with the parking."

"Got it in one, kid." Lois elbowed past Clark to hug Dick. "It's good to see you, you know, in person."

"Mask-free, I get you." Dick grinned. "Good to see you too. Hey, I hear you're working a big campaign finance story."

"It's gotten a bit beyond that, actually. Here, let me show you what the comptroller sent from my Freedom of Information Act request..."

They were off down the hall like that, leaving Clark with the wrapped birthday present. For a moment Clark entertained the idea of feeling offended; then he heard the heartbeat and saw Bruce lurking in a corner of the foyer, eyes fixed on Clark.

"Oh, um. Hi."

"Hello," Bruce said. Two steps forward, one big warm hand on Clark's jaw. A kiss, not deep enough to be lewd but not exactly a peck on the cheek. "Big box."

"Oh, um, yeah. They're both from us, but the bag was all Lois. I had a little help with the -- present selection." Clark could feel himself blushing, but he didn't mind when his blushes made Bruce look like this, warm and familiar with a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I hope Damian likes it."

"Don't worry. If he doesn't, he'll tell you, despite mine and Alfred's best efforts. We've got canapes in the living room, along with the present pile. This way." Bruce caught Clark's hand and led him down the hallway, never mind that Clark knew where to go.

The living room was clearly one of the places Alfred had focused his efforts. There were, indeed, little finger foods piled all over the sideboard, sandwiches and cut vegetables and what Clark was pretty sure were hand-fried kettle chips. Tasteful seasonal greenery, pine garlands and holly, decorated the mantel and the picture rails; soft flute music underpinned conversation. A fire burned in both of the fireplaces, and little candles could be found on most of the end tables.

The room itself was furnished and arranged to facilitate small group conversation; Steph, Cass, and Jason were sitting in one group of armchairs, while Damian and Barbara frowned over a screen at a table near the far end of the room. Alfred and Dick sat across from one another near the window, reviewing a paper schedule Alfred had drawn up. Tim, for now, stood with Duke at the window, both holding a mug of something steaming, but he'd clearly just left Damian and Barbara; his coat still lay draped over one plush armchair.

It looked perfect. Homey, warm, inviting, and festive, but not overwhelmingly so. Clark had spent enough time with Damian to know how much he wouldn't have welcomed a big glitzy party (five minutes. Damian didn't have a subtle personality). Alfred had created something party-like without alienating Damian, and Clark...

It was like a fish hook in the pit of his stomach, how badly he wanted this, how clearly it wasn't and would never be his. But that was okay. You don't always get what you want, Ma's voice whispered, kind and implacable. He squeezed Lois's hand, not missing that she, too, looked a little misty-eyed. "Bruce, it's beautiful. Damian! Happy birthday!"

Damian, of course, scowled. But apparently Superman rated a polite-ish greeting, because he stood up and gave a grumpy little nod, sticking out his hand. "Kent. Good to see you. Ms. Lane, I don't believe we've been introduced."

"We haven't, but it's wonderful to meet you. Happy birthday."

"Father has informed me you are investigating misuse of campaign funds in Metropolis municipal political races. I'm curious why these races merit investigatory attention from someone with your stature and tenure at the Daily Planet."

"Good question, and one the piece will try to answer before getting into the nitty-gritty. But it'll make more sense with my notes. May I?"

This to Barbara, who said, "Go right ahead," amusement coloring her tone even when Damian wrinkled his nose at her. Clark watched as Lois settled in and flipped her notebook open.

"She's good at this," Bruce murmured from Clark's elbow.

Clark managed not to jump, though he couldn't credit the superhearing. His focus had been thoroughly captured by the picture in front of him. "Yeah. Everyone thinks she's abrasive all the time, but she's the best reporter on the continent. She knows how to get people to talk to her."

"A skill you also have in abundance."

"Oh, like you don't." Clark turned to Bruce, unable to hold back his smile. "You do a good job pretending the Bat is your truest self, but I've seen you work a crowd."

When he smiled like this, bright blue eyes and barely-tan skin against his black turtleneck, warm flickering firelight catching the contours of his face and the shadows of his scars, he looked beautiful. Like the only thing Clark could ever possibly want, even if living proof otherwise was currently charming Bruce's son. "You've caught me out."

"Only a little." Clark couldn't hold back another smile. "Seriously, thank you for the invite. Everything looks beautiful."

"Of course. Alfred's outdone himself." Something shifted in Bruce's expression. He looked, abruptly, a little stiff; not mean or angry, but decidedly non-relaxed. "I wanted you here, Clark. Both of you."

It was so generous of him, clarifying that he'd invited Lois of his own free will. Clark knew that was hard for both of them, mediating their weird not-relationship. It would be weird to feel weird about it. "Thank you."

"If you thank me again I'll throw you out," Bruce said, deliberately and generously light. "Dick! Come show Clark the new grappler designs."

Dinner was a real feast: dolmas and three different kinds of salads, pita and cheese-filled flatbreads, warm spiced chickpeas and an amazingly tender braised vegetable stew. The food was clearly from a menu Damian had asked for, but Alfred also served Bruce's favorite cheesecake and Dick's preferred scalloped potatoes. "Too bad so sad for the birthday boy, more for me," Steph said about the cheesecake, laughing when Damian stuck his tongue out at her.

The food was good, the company was great. There was only one real problem: Alfred had done the place settings, and Bruce sat at the head of the table with Lois to his right and Clark to his left, Alfred all the way at the other end of the table. No one else was ordered by age. Clark couldn't have felt more pinned if Alfred had whipped out a crossbow with Kryptonian-tipped arrows.

"He's good at making a point," Bruce said at one point, when most of the table was overtaken with an argument about Duke's failed attempt at baking pretzel buns.

"Is that what this is?"

"He wants me to be happy." Bruce's eyes flickered to Lois, then away. He addressed Clark and only Clark, which should have been rude, but somehow just seemed -- intimate. Trusting. "He'll never be my father. He knows that, I know it. But he's...the person, here, who reminds me of the human parts of life. That there's someone here who wants for me what I want for all of them." A minute nod to the rest of the table.

"Does he disapprove of this?" Lois asked.

"Mm, no. If anything, he made his approval of you inescapably clear." Clark probably shouldn't feel so deeply satisfied by that, but who could blame him? Anyone worth knowing knew that Lois was great, and Alfred was definitely worth knowing. "This is his way of ensuring we get some time together, and...demonstrating, perhaps, how he'd prefer things work."

"He knows, though," Lois said. "That we're not -- I mean. You know. Right? He knows."

Bruce, thank God, decided not to be a pill and pretend he didn't know what she was talking around. "I haven't told him. He'd say it's none of his business. But for something like a child's birthday party, of course we are involved. How could we not be?"

"Right," Lois said. "Of course."

She'd let herself be a little more readable, Clark knew, with the stuttering and the vulnerable questions. Now, though, she became Lois Lane, as surely as Bruce would be Bruce Wayne for Damian's public birthday party next week. Clark wasn't even sure Bruce noticed. Lois was really good at hiding when she felt off-kilter, and even Clark struggled to tell the difference sometimes. She charmed Alfred, engaged Dick in a lively discussion about Bludhaven's public records policy, and spent thirty minutes helping Barbara with some data exfiltration issue that had preoccupied her through the dessert course. Bruce and Clark spent plenty of quality time alone, together, and together with Lois. There was no reason for anyone watching them to suspect something was up.

As the evening bled into true nighttime, Alfred brought Damian his gifts. He opened them one by one with the grouchy air of a child who had too much pride to admit he could be shy: Cass's artisan leather gloves, Tim and Dick's ludicrously expensive motorcycle accessories, Jason's custom-made knives, Duke's micro-soldering setup, Lois's cryptography books, Bruce's expensive watch and promise that another present awaited Damian in the Cave, Alfred's wooden gift box of spices.

He opened Clark and Lois's second present last -- maybe coincidence but, knowing the Bats, maybe not. It didn't really matter, anyway; one minute the present was wrapped and waiting, and the next minute Damian was examining the quilt with a completely unreadable expression on his face.

Clark opened his mouth to say something, probably stupid, too apologetic or defensive. Lois, thank God, preeempted his embarrassment. "Courtesy of Clark's mother, but she was nice enough to let us put our names on the tag."

"It's very beautiful." Damian's face screwed up a little, like he'd smelled something bad. "Jon has one. Superboy. Not like this. His is less complex, I think."

"Jon's used to be mine," Clark said. "Ma's evolved her craft over the years."

Damian skimmed fingers over a complicated bit of stitching at the edge. "I can tell. The scraps?"

"Oh, this and that. But there's some Supersuit in there."

Sharp as a batarang: "With your approval, Father?"

"Naturally." And Clark knew it wasn't even really a lie.

Clark could hold his breath for a really long time, but at the end of the day his heart did beat like a normal person's. He let his breath out all at once, a whoosh of stress. "Happy birthday, Damian."

"Thank you. And thank you, Miss Lane."

"Any time. Happy birthday."

Alfred broke the tension by passing dessert plates and hot chocolate around. Clark didn't miss, though, the slight pause before he handed Lois and Clark their mugs. And it would have been impossible for Clark to miss the quiet comment: "Very well done, both of you."

Clark had arrived with Lois and planned to leave with her, too, a quick flight back to Metropolis so they could finish the night at Clark's apartment like it was any other Sunday. It was Bruce who cornered them after dessert, handing them both coffee and saying, "I've asked Alfred to prepare a room in the east wing for you."

The family wing, he didn't say, but Clark knew where Bruce slept and had been a Boy Scout, so he got the implication. It made him feel like a bird in a cat's sight and like the cat somehow. Lois barely waited for Clark's nod and Bruce's exit to say, "Where the family sleeps."

"How'd you guess?"

"You're not gonna believe this, Smallville, but your poker face could use some work."

They retired shortly after the kids did, a rare night off for everyone, apparently. Or almost everyone; Clark could hear Damian and Tim negotiating their turf with roughly equal parts antagonism and mutual understanding. He kept listening, feeling fond and weird and concerned, until Lois poked him in the side. "Earth to Clark. Pajamas?"

"Bruce'll have them in the dresser." And indeed, there they were, women's and men's sets laid out side-by-side in the top drawer of the dresser opposite the (enormous, comfortable-looking, sexy-looking) bed.

"Do we just have really average bodies or are these suspiciously tailored to us? Don't answer that, it wasn't a real question," Lois added, unhooking her lacy bra as Clark made a face at her.

Anyway, it wasn't something that demanded Lois's investigatory prowess or even Clark's own; Clark knew with reasonable certainty that Bruce would have stocked the room for him and Lois, the same way he'd found the penthouse full of extra toothbrushes and Clark's favorite brand of granola bar and Lois's preferred contact lens solution.

It still felt weird, shimmying into silky pajamas Bruce had purchased with him in mind, feeling the soft fabric against his skin. It was even weirder to see Lois in an almost-matching set. He couldn't help but wonder if Bruce had pictured them like this. Maybe he'd wanted it: the two of them, unmistakably changed by the simple act of wearing sleep clothes they never would've purchased for themselves.

"Well," Clark said. "You look nice."

Lois made a face at him.

"It's weird," he admitted. "I mean, obviously. The two of us. Here."

"With him."

"But also not with him." Which was kind of the problem, at least for Clark.

He didn't know what the problem was for Lois. He knew there was a problem, in an abstract sense. Things were off, and while Clark was equally happy with her and Bruce, it wasn't like he could just ignore the not-quite-rightness he felt when he was with one of them. But he'd tried to push with Bruce, a few times, before they'd even settled on this arrangement. It had never worked.

In some ways, Lois and Bruce were so similar that it distantly embarrassed Clark if he thought about it too hard, and conflict management was definitely one of them. If he pushed either of them they'd bristle, get mad, snap, and then maintain a stiff distance for as long as it took them to stop being mad. At no point would they 'talk it through like adults' or even 'acknowledge the real problem'.

"Clark! Hey, Earth to Smallville."

"That joke doesn't get any funnier with repetition, you know," Clark said. But he couldn't hold back his smile, tentative and wobbly though it might be. Lois was still laughing at him when she kissed him, warm and open, tasting like home.

"Thank you for coming to dinner, and please do pass on my thanks to your mother for the lovely quilt," Bruce said, steadfastly avoiding eye contact with Clark.

It was Monday evening in Metropolis, not even twenty-four hours after the party. Clark and Bruce were having dinner in, sharing an enormous casserole dish of baked ziti that Bruce had pulled out of his Metropolis penthouse's freezer. They'd mostly been discussing League business so far, but now Bruce looked almost funeral, staring into the middle distance with the faintest hint of red on his cheeks.

Clark, of course, couldn't look away from Bruce; helpless fondness threatened to collapse his chest. He wanted to kiss Bruce's blush. He wanted to tell Bruce about eating Lois out in Bruce's guest bed before they fell asleep together. He wanted to describe how Lois had been the morning after, biting her own wrist so she didn't scream as Clark slipped a hand inside her fancy guestroom pajamas to make her come, the new day's sunlight turning her skin golden. He wanted to get down on his knees and make some more memories he couldn't ever share with the other part of his heart.

Instead of any of that, he said, "Of course," way too late for Bruce not to realize he'd been staring. "We were happy to come, you know. We -- I mean, I love you, and Lois..."

"Tolerates me?"

For one awful, visceral moment, Clark found himself longing to tip Bruce's chair over, or maybe smack him just a little. Not hard. Not painfully! Just enough to remind him that there were people who cared about him, on his own merits, not because they had to or because he had money or anything like that.

He settled on verbal argumentation: "No. Of course not, Bruce, come on. She likes you. She wouldn't have come if she didn't."

"Making nice with the other Bats is hardly proof of sentiment, Clark."

"Calling your literal family 'other Bats' is ridiculous even by your standards, Bruce."

Maybe it occurred to Bruce that it was really ridiculous to be glaring at each other over loaded-down plates of pasta. Whatever the reasoning, Bruce gave in almost immediately, dropping his gaze and saying, "Anyway, we all appreciate it."

"Good," Clark said, feeling belligerent.

"...and I do like Lois. Obviously." He ate a bite of pasta, toyed with a stray bit of cavatappi. "She's brilliant, funny, beautiful. The perfect match."

Clark didn't think it was worth hiding his nascent irritation, so he asked flatly, "Is this a jealousy thing."

"Will you believe me if I say no?"

"Depends on whether or not you're lying."

"It's not a jealousy thing."

Eye contact, steady voice, steady heart. No excessive sweating or twitching. Clark couldn't help but think it must be a lie, but by all indications Bruce was telling the truth.

"But you feel weird about her. About this." About us, Clark couldn't bring himself to say.

"Clark, I'm in my mid-forties and navigating polyamory with a lack of skill that makes me feel profoundly juvenile, of course I feel 'weird' about it. But that doesn't mean I feel jealous and it doesn't mean I don't trust you, all right? Please believe me about this."

It was something about the please. Bruce often said 'please' and meant it as a demand or an order. But this was Bruce entreating Clark. Not begging, not quite -- but not not begging, either. Clark wanted to kiss him and press him down into his too-sterile hardly-used bed and, horribly, call Lois so they could both admonish him for being ridiculous. For assuming his respect for Lois would be met with contempt.

Instead of saying or doing any of that, Clark took his sweet time chewing a bite of sausage, then said, "I want to fuck you tonight."

He never got tired of the way Bruce's eyes widened, just a little. Like in spite of how well he knew Clark, he was still shocked that Clark could be vulgar. "I...would be amendable to that."

Clark kicked him under the table, hooking a foot around Bruce's calf. "Would you, now."

"Clark, come on. Of course I would."

"Maybe I just like to hear how much you like it."

Bruce rolled his eyes, but the blush was back. Clark wanted to kiss it. Bite it. Bite him. "You already know I like it, Clark. I could hardly have hidden that from you."

Clark didn't have too much pride to preen at that, and after they'd put away their leftovers and halfheartedly cleaned up the kitchen, he also didn't have too much pride to go to his knees like he'd been thinking, blowing Bruce right there on the bar stool, holding him still when he tried to wiggle away. Bruce let him, loved it, gasped out Clark's name. When they made it to the bedroom, he said, "You know I don't have your refractory period," and Clark let himself smile as wide as he wanted when he said, "Sure, but that's what making out is for."

It didn't escape Clark's notice, of course, that while this bed was one he'd never fucked Bruce in, it was indistinguishable from the others: the beds at Wayne Manor, the Gotham penthouse. The pajamas Bruce would direct him to were the same as the ones he'd worn with Lois. The Bruce of it all was everywhere, unavoidable and undeniable. But Clark was fine with that. Eventually, Bruce would understand why: he had no desire to escape. Kind of the opposite.

Damian, being Alfred's son as much as Bruce's, wrote a thank-you card for Ma; Clark, being Smallville's son as much as Krypton's, delivered the message by hand.

Ma was delighted, tutting over the card and putting her hands up to warm cheeks, saying, "Oh, what a sweetheart! Bruce is raising him well."

"Pretty sure he gets the manners from Alfred."

"Bruce's manners are exquisite." Ma raised an eyebrow. "When he's talking to me, anyway."

"Ha ha," Clark said, too weakly for it to pass muster.

Ma didn't say anything at first, only poured him a glass of Coke in one of the old pebbled plastic cups. Clark stared down at it, brown plastic surrounding darker brown liquid, as Ma said, "You're upset."

"I wouldn't say that."

"Clark, honey, you're the worst liar I've met on a good day. Today you're managing to look tired. In this!" She gestured to the cold, early-winter sky. Blue all the way to the horizon. "Talk."

"I --" He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. For a moment, just a few seconds, he let himself feel all the stuff he'd been trying to repress: the look on Bruce's face when he'd realized what Damian was holding. The look on Lois's face, looking at Bruce. The way he kept dreaming, in either of their arms, about being surrounded by both of them. Watching them kiss above him. Being protected by them, all that sneaky sameness they didn't seem to realize they had. "Can we...sorry. I just..." If he opened his eyes right now he'd see Ma looking at him all soft and sympathetic, and then probably he'd explode, or at least lose control of his laser vision, no Kryptonite required, for the first time since he was fifteen. "The -- the irrigation. You mentioned a new system. How'd that go this year?"

Ma's expression softened awfully. She patted Clark's shoulder. Clark held his breath, preparing for the most embarrassing superspeed-to-the-barn incident since he was a teenager, but thank God: Ma didn't press, only said, "Well, you know your father, he's wary of anything requiring a computer, but I did tell him the warranty looked good, and I asked Bruce to review the tech, too, and he sent me to Barbara, who told us it checked out, so we went ahead and hired the Huber boy - the eldest, he was a few years ahead of you in school, you remember?" She waited for Clark's nod. "He's doing wonderfully, he contracts out of the Farm & Fleet for these sorts of things. So he ran our install. Now, we did run into some issues with the broadband..."

God bless Ma, she ran with that for almost a full hour. Clark learned more about irrigation than he thought there was to know, and by then it was almost dinner time. The sun was well on its way to setting, the golden hour passing while Ma talked about the steadier tomato crop and how the cucumbers survived the August heatwave for once. He helped Pa with the chores, wrapping things up for the night --

(Pa didn't ask about Bruce or Lois, but it wasn't, Clark knew, because he wasn't interested. He didn't know how to talk about it, how to ask. Clark sympathized. He didn't know how to ask, either.)

-- and then he flew home, a little calmer but no less confused.

It was wrong to feel this way. Right? They'd discussed it, they'd all agreed on what they wanted. It was rude at best to change his mind like this. A bait-and-switch. He wasn't going to do it.

He had both of them, and he was happy, and that was more than enough. He was lucky, he thought, checking his phone to see when Lois would be wrapping up work and coming over. He was so lucky. He was the luckiest...guy who had eighteen missed calls?

"Clark."

"Ohhhh boy." Fortunately his jump from terror was faster than a human could track, probably. You never knew with Bruce. "Bruce! I didn't see you."

Bruce shifted out of the shadow he'd been crouched in. He wasn't even wearing the suit; he was, in fact, wearing sweatpants. "Yes. You're very distracted."

"I have eighteen missed calls. Which you know," Clark said when Bruce's expression sort of twitched. Cold fear squeezed his heart. "What's wrong? Where's Lois?"

"Safe and stable," Bruce said quickly, his hand twitching like he'd meant to reach out to Clark and then thought better of it. Well, he shouldn't, Clark thought wildly, panic turning into a desire to fight, to run. "At Northwest General. My car's downstairs."

Right. Because Clark couldn't, shouldn't, superspeed over to the hospital. "I...stable? What happened? Is she okay?"

"All they know is she fell. They're keeping her sedated. No cognitive impacts expected, but she broke her wrist, and they operated on it."

Oh, God. Clark squeezed his eyes shut, his face feeling hot, tears fighting to escape. "Why didn't she call me?"

Bruce at least understood that Clark didn't mean 'on the phone'. He hesitated, biting his already-chapped lower lip (chapped lips, eyebags, broken wrists, why could these things happen to people Clark loved?). "She was probably investigating LexCorp, and she knew it. I could tell her Wayne Enterprise's antiquities acquisition had nothing to do with Metropolis municipal political funding, and I couldn't find anything pointing to Luthor. But."

"But it probably was him," Clark said, "and he probably hit her with something that meant she couldn't call me."

Bruce nodded.

"Okay. Right." His heart was still racing. It made it hard to think. "Can we -- you said you have a car downstairs. Can we go?"

For a second Clark thought Bruce was going to say something. The brightness of his eyes, the way he flexed a hand. But he only swallowed hard, looking away from Clark as he jangled his keys. "This way."

It was a short drive to the hospital, ten minutes even with bad traffic. Bruce pulled into visitor parking and said, "I'll be here when you're done. Just text me when you're leaving."

Lois, unconscious in a hospital bed. God. "What if I don't leave?"

"Then text me that, and I'll ensure Perry's informed."

"Okay." Wait. "You're not...I mean, you could come in? I'd like if you came in."

Bruce pinned Clark with a measured look. "If Bruce Wayne, in his pajamas, goes into that hospital and asks to see Lois Lane, there will be questions none of us can answer. She's fine, Clark. She's probably awake by now, even. Go to her."

So Clark went. A bunch of floors up, one nurse's desk, and then he was in a small room, 1321, staring at a bruised-and-pale Lois as she scrunched up her face and said, "There you are, Smallville. I see you didn't get my calls."

"Or Bruce's," Clark said. "Or, um, the hospital's...or your dad's. Are your parents coming?"

Lois snorted. "If my father tried to travel internationally for a broken wrist I'd assume he'd been replaced by an alien. No, no one's coming. Bruce let me know you guys were on your way." She tapped her own phone with the hand that wasn't in a gigantic cast. "It's not even as bad as it looks. Well, I had some tendons that were -- mangled? I'll have to get PT. But it's not my dominant hand and they say I'll be fine as long as I do my PT."

Clark nodded. Mangled tendons. Right. That sounded awful, actually, but Clark wasn't about to be the guy who made his injured girlfriend comfort him about her injury. "That's good, that's good. I'm really sorry, I was down in Smallville, and I just. Uh. Didn't check my phone?"

She waved her cast, winced, and set it back on the hospital bed. "It's fine. I could have called for you, you know. I didn't."

"Oh my God," Clark said, his voice gone embarrassingly shrill. "On purpose? You didn't call on purpose?"

"Whoa, calm down. I mean when I woke up, Clark, not when Lex's creepy murderbot suplexed me. Yeah, it was LexCorp, not that I have any goddamn proof. But I don't think they were expecting me; they didn't even steal my phone. Just pushed me down that fire escape. No cameras, obviously, no way to prove it was them."

"Right." Lois had a gleam in her eye, now, that 'I'm onto something' look that usually meant trouble and journalism awards. "So...I'm guessing you're going to keep pushing when your wrist is healed?"

Lois raised her eyebrows at him.

"Or when you're released from the hospital," Clark concluded glumly.

"Actually I've been texting Barbara Gordon, so I've got a few leads to follow up on," Lois said. "But yeah, that's tomorrow's agenda. They said they'd release me when I had someone to take me home. I told them you'd be here before visiting hours ended."

"I really am so --"

"Clark. Come here."

Clark shuffled to her bedside. When he was within grabbing range, he found himself being yanked down and kissed, very thoroughly, by someone with extremely bad breath.

"I'm telling you I knew you'd come, and that I knew you needed time with your parents. Okay? Now come on, flag someone down and get me out of here."

They sent her out in a wheelchair, which Clark had thought was mostly a TV thing. Bruce blanched when he pulled around and saw it, but stayed in the car -- no disguise, Clark realized, like he'd panicked and come over to Clark's without thinking through what he'd do after. He had to set that aside to think about later, already too overloaded with feelings to look at it directly.

Lois insisted on sitting alone in the backseat, leaving Clark to keep Bruce company. Not that he needed company for long; the ten-minute drive was twelve minutes this time, and then it was just Clark, Lois, and Bruce in a parked car, Bruce staring over the dash as Lois gave Clark a list of things to retrieve from her place.

A couple minutes later, Bruce and his sweatpants and his car were gone, and Lois had Clark pinned to his own front door, kissing him frantically.

"To be clear," she said, popping a button on his flannel in her clumsy one-handed haste to remove it, "I did have a near-death experience. I got very lucky. The doctor said if I'd landed at a different angle I'd probably be dead."

"Oh my God," Clark said for what felt like the fiftieth time in the last couple hours, "why are you telling me this?"

"Because I'm trying to get laid, and you're going to get squeamish when I --" She stepped back, swaying a little. Her pupils were huge. "Tell you that I'm very stoned, and I can't get these buttons. Fix it." She slapped his chest.

"Should we be having sex if you're high on pain meds?" Clark couldn't keep the dubiousness out of his voice.

"Well, I'm getting off. You can be involved if you want." Lois walked, extremely unsteadily, into the bedroom, head held high. Clark heard her curse quietly as a seam ripped. But, well, if she could rip her underwear she wasn't totally out of it, right? Her muscles still worked. Mostly.

The sneaky, unwanted thought: Bruce would know. But Bruce wasn't here, and Clark was, and his girlfriend, his partner, was very much fingering herself in his bed. So he put Bruce aside --

(Sweatpants and a henley, how panicked had he been to not even change? Why hadn't he called for Clark? But Bruce wouldn't do that if Lois didn't want him to; Bruce would defer to Lois's judgement, that wherever Clark was, he needed to be left alone. He'd bottle up his panic and apparently lurk in a dark corner of Clark's living room for however long it took, but he'd respect Lois's wishes.)

-- he put Bruce aside, and he followed Lois to bed.

Clark was halfway through his favorite sandwich at his standard, also favorite gyro place, alone because Lois was on strict bed rest, when he got the text: Lois will need some time to recover. I'll see you Monday.

Right, because it was Thursday. But Bruce had peeled out so quickly. And it wasn't like they hadn't all spent time together before. He frowned, then messaged Lois. OK if Bruce comes over?

The response came within seconds, because Lois was already bored out of her skull. Sure except you're going to need a 2-bedroom.

Which...actually, that wasn't a bad idea. He flipped back to Bruce. Lois will get mad at me if I hover over her. But my apartment's small. Penthouse?

No response.

Clark took a big bite of falafel, chewed it much more thoroughly than he actually needed to. Swallowed. Contemplated space travel until his heart stopped feeling weird. Added, Because it has multiple bedrooms. but if you'd rather not that's ok.

No response. He tacked on a hasty, hopefully-reassuring, no worries if not ^_^!

When Clark was poking his last falafel into the house special dip, Bruce texted, I've arranged for a courier. The penthouse has three bedrooms; Lois will take the master bedroom. This is a better idea. The building has a comprehensive concierge service. If she needs anything at any point she can ring for it.

Clark was torn between his stomach flipping horribly, like little sparklers had taken residence somewhere near his spleen (he had a spleen. Bruce had confirmed), and rolling his eyes at Bruce's palpable anxiety. A semi-colon in a text, was he serious? Thanks! That's a really nice thing to do.

A thumbs-up reaction and nothing else. Clark snorted, then let Lois know the plan. She'd probably give him shit for it later. She'd definitely give him shit for it later. But right now she just said wow Smallville, I'm starting to understand the perks of dating a richie rich, which was Lois-speak for 'thank you'.

But it was still weird. A little.

By the time Clark wrapped up his workday, Lois had already moved, or been moved. Clark entered the penthouse to find her sitting in a chair overlooking the Metropolis skyline while Bruce poured drinks. He didn't look particularly excited by the prospect of whiskey, but he had one glass for himself and delivered the other one, extremely stiffly, to Lois.

And of course they'd both have noticed him coming in. But he still said, "Uh, hi guys," setting his backpack down close to the closet. Bruce didn't even have an entryway in this place. It was punishingly open.

"Clark," Lois said, "did you know Bruce has encyclopedic knowledge of which drugs you can drink on?"

"Ibuprofen's not ideal," Bruce said.

Lois toasted him and tossed her drink back.

Blue, blue eyes met Clark's. "Old-fashioned?"

"I'm good, thanks." Clark couldn't quite stop himself from glancing at Lois -- but she was looking out the window again, good hand tapping her notebook restlessly. And Lois wouldn't want him to pretend this was anything but what it was. Clark took a deep breath.

This place had so many windows. It got amazing morning light, he remembered.

"It's good to see you." Twenty steps, God, Bruce's apartment was too big, but then he was at Bruce's side, tilting his chin very slightly up and kissing him.

He probably imagined Bruce gasping into it. That didn't seem like something Bruce would do. But the hands in his button-down were entirely real, twisting the fabric until it pulled taut against Clark's stomach, Bruce collapsing back against the counter and yanking Clark against him.

Clark heard Lois's heart speed up and waited for her to say something appropriate, dry, 'Don't mind me' with a quirk of her eyebrow to show that she didn't care if they stayed or went. But none of that happened. When he glanced over, too quickly for Bruce to catch, Lois was still looking out the window. And Bruce had his eyes closed, like remembering where they were would be too much for him.

What could Clark do? He kissed Bruce again, and again, deep kisses and shallow ones, a few nips against his jaw. "Dinner can be heated up," Bruce murmured: more than enough information to justify Clark grabbing his hand and pulling him into the guest -- the second -- bedroom, kicking the door shut and pushing Bruce down on the bed.

He felt slightly insane. Lois's heart was still hammering away, not noticeably quieter despite the luxuriously thick doors and walls that now separated them. He closed his eyes in an effort to ignore it, kissing Bruce's neck and trying to focus on what he wanted here, now, but of course Bruce had to ruin it: "Can you hear her?"

"Bruce," Clark hissed, unable to hide how scandalized he was. They'd never come close to anything like this. "You don't need to know!"

Bruce shook his head, an almost-mean expression stealing over him. "Need to know? That's not the point. On the best of days I want to crawl inside your guts, Clark. If you're experiencing something, hearing someone, I want to know."

It felt a little like being dunked in ice water, if being dunked in ice water could also make you desperate for touch, hot and needy and abject. He kissed Bruce with all of that need rushing through him, and Bruce rose to meet him, hooking a leg around Clark's and pressing their bodies together so tightly it had to have hurt, rocking his cock against Clark's hip.

"Her heart," Bruce reminded Clark when they parted.

His lips were shiny and red, his breath coming faster than usual. This close, it would've been impossible for him not to notice the way Clark shook, the way he couldn't keep his hands still, the need for heat and friction overtaking common sense. "Still beating quickly. She's -- she's probably thinking about this. She knows what we're doing."

"Do you think she wishes she didn't?"

Clark wrinkled his nose. "Lois would never choose not to know something."

He didn't quite understand why that made Bruce laugh, a thin huff through his nose, but that was fine; in fact, it didn't matter. Very little mattered right now except for getting Bruce's hands on him. If he could have the same from Lois -- but he couldn't, and it didn't bear thinking about right now, when Bruce had layers to remove and skin to kiss, hair to tug, and a cock to suck, his hand landing heavy on Clark's head when Clark got down to business.

The fantasy of kissing Bruce quiet was just that: a fantasy. Bruce would never allow himself to lose control enough to be overheard. But it felt almost possible like this, tapping out the still-rapid rhythm of Lois's heart against Bruce's thigh as Clark relaxed his throat and let Bruce inside.

"Fuck," Bruce said. Not a whisper, not a shout: an almost-measured speaking voice that Lois almost certainly wouldn't hear. "Clark, you're fucking gorgeous, you know that?"

Clark glanced up. He saw wide, eager blue eyes for just a moment, and then Bruce was groaning and slamming his head back against his pillow, his legs falling apart even wider, his body going -- well, not soft, but softer. Looser. Clark let himself slip into it, eyes shut, focusing only on what he could hear, feel, smell. The soft curls of Bruce's hair, the way he jumped just a little when Clark sucked the head of his cock. His hard, warm thighs, the weight of his balls in Clark's hand. It was so easy like this, giving himself over to Bruce. The only way it could be easier is if Lois were here, too.

Bruce had absolutely no psionic ability. Clark knew that. Still, he kind of panicked in the seconds after Bruce covered Clark's tapping hand with his own and said, "Her heart?"

Caught, not quite ashamed, Clark nodded.

Bruce didn't groan this time. He petted Clark's hair a little, his dick still hard in Clark's mouth. Clark was getting ready to pull off and apologize when Bruce seemed to come to some kind of decision: his hand tightened on the side of Clark's head, a mean thumb digging into his jaw. "Do you think she'd tell me to fuck your thighs if she were here?"

Oh, God.

"Clark. Do you?"

He had to pull off to nod. "Yes. Please."

It was Bruce who manhandled him into place, big hands pushing Clark's shoulders and pinning his arms, kicking his thighs apart with that assertive faux-carelessness that Bruce knew made Clark feel insane. He didn't start with Clark's thighs, oh no: he rubbed his cock over Clark's ass, against his hip, until Clark's spit was long dry and he had to lube himself up to get the slide he needed. "Here," he finally said, lifting Clark's hips a little and pushing his thighs back together.

"You really like making me spread my legs, huh," Clark said. It had been completely unnecessary, but -- "Bruce."

Bruce paused with his thumb pressing against Clark's hole. "No?"

Lois was moving around now. Putting her glass in the dishwasher, going to the second bedroom. Soon she'd be getting into bed and then, well, she'd know Clark could hear but maybe she'd think he was too distracted to listen in. Maybe she'd touch herself. Maybe --

"What's she doing?"

"Getting ready for bed and yes," Clark said, dropping his head to the pillow and just. Giving in.

Giving in to Bruce fucking him shallowly for a moment, just for fun, before dropping a kiss on Clark's spine and slicking up his thighs. Giving in to the overwhelming feeling of Bruce fucking against him, into him, his cock sliding between Clark's thighs and nudging against Clark's balls, not enough friction to make him come but more than enough to keep him desperate. It was all so good and already too much, and then Bruce decided to keep talking.

"I like this." A thrust, hard enough to jolt Clark. Bruce sounded so fucking satisfied, so smug, even though his voice was shaking a little. "But it would be easier to take direction with another person, I think. You're not as distracted when you don't have a cock in your mouth -- or a cunt, I assume."

Oh God.

"And it's lovely on my end too, of course, but not quite as...consuming...as fucking your throat can be." Another thrust, another ragged breath. "Which means that if Lois wanted to be fucked while I fucked you, or if she wanted your mouth while I took your thighs, well, I think we could make it work. Don't you?"

Objectively speaking they hadn't been doing anything for very much time at all. That didn't stop Clark from coming all over himself, shaking and desperate, barely managing to muffle his moan in the pillow. Bruce kept going for a moment, petting Clark's back and murmuring inaudible, loving nonsense; it felt grossly inevitable when he came all over Clark's ass, messy and territorial and exactly what Clark wanted.

"Fuck." He rolled so he could grab Bruce and force some cuddling, though for once he didn't seem inclined to protest. "That was good."

Bruce kissed him, long and deep but not really filthy anymore. Just satisfied. Familiar, almost, if familiar could also be sexy. "I'm glad."

Moments passed. Clark let himself drift, his sleepy hearing finding Ma and Pa long asleep, Dick and Tim causing trouble in Bludhaven, Damian and Alfred conferring in the manor, Jimmy snoring in front of an abandoned video game of some kind. He didn't listen for Lois until Bruce kissed his jaw and said, "Is she asleep?"

"She's reading. I think her wrist still hurts." Her heartbeat was back to normal, which could mean she'd decided to focus on other things. Horribly, of course, it could also mean she'd taken care of herself while Bruce took care of Clark.

It made his heart twist and he didn't even want to think about why. Bruce was there for him, thank God: cupping his face for a kiss, commanding and a little pointed, like he was trying to remind Clark of something important.

Clark knew Bruce, which meant he knew what was going unsaid. He did his best to put it into the kiss: I love you, I want this, I love you both.

But it ended up being one of those nights where sleep, however unnecessary, was a long time coming.

Bruce left early the next morning, kissing Clark with a rueful smile and some stuff about a meeting he couldn't get out of. Clark was still debating how pathetically grateful he should feel for Bruce's tact when Lois emerged from the master bedroom, wearing her second-favorite fluffy green robe and a deeply cranky expression. "Coffee?"

"Good morning, Lois," Clark said, going over to Bruce's espresso machine and selecting his 'Lois' preset. It required, Bruce had explained at length, the biggest mug in the apartment, to accommodate both a ton of frothed milk and a triple shot of espresso. "It's nice to see you, too. I slept great; how about you?"

"Horribly. My hand hurts." But Lois's lips quirked in a way that meant she found Clark's insistence on manners amusing. "Thanks, though. Heading in soon?"

"I'm working remote today. I've got a bunch of edits to get through and phone calls to make -- maybe a source to meet, if I get lucky." But Dive Bar Dave had said he'd be out of state today, 'running an errand', which of course Clark would have to figure out how to press him on.

But there was also the other reason he wanted to stay here, and her pointed snort told him she knew it. "Ah, you're babysitting me."

"Not babysitting. Just, you know. Keeping an eye out?"

"It's fine. I need babysitting at this point, I feel five minutes from a tantrum. Perfect, God, thank you." She took the mug Clark proffered, inhaling deeply, eyes falling shut in bliss. And, well, it didn't look particularly unfamiliar, expression-wise. Different venue and reason than when they were in bed, same Lois. But if he dropped to his knees -- if Bruce realized they didn't need him at work after all and came back --

Clark thought maybe he was going insane.

Fortunately, Lois had no idea where his head was at. Clark was very certain about that: if she knew, he'd be experiencing a dressing-down. So instead of apologizing or explaining, he plastered on a smile and said, "Every time I get hit with Kryptonite I wonder how you guys do it."

"This is cushier than how I recovered from my last big injury, I'll admit." Lois sighed, rolling her neck and turning towards the big wall of windows, her body still slightly angled towards Clark. She had a particularly nasty bruise on this side of her body, Clark knew, already livid purples and greens from her hip all the way to the nape of her neck. "You ever think how many properties he has like this, just lying around?"

"I try not to. Then I wonder if that makes me a bad journalist."

"You're a good journalist, don't be ridiculous."

Clark waited a beat.

"But yeah, me too."

"It's nice of him to let us stay here."

Lois made a grumbly noise into her coffee. "Clark, he thinks the sun shines out of your ass. He'd probably give you this place if you asked for it."

It was true, but something about the way Lois said it bothered him, a wiggling little back-of-the-mind objection he struggled to tease out. "Okay, but he also knows I wouldn't ask for it."

"Boy Scout," Lois agreed. "Well. I'm going to go back to bed and sulk. Call some leads. The usual."

"Bed rest for at least today and the weekend, though."

"Barbara Gordon --"

"Can wait a couple days, Lois. Please? For me?"

"That's dirty pool and you know it," Lois said, taking in Clark's wide eyes and pleading expression with an exaggerated scowl of her own. "...and yes, I'll wait a few days. I promise."

It made him feel off-kilter, on a Friday morning, to lean down and kiss Lois. Friday was Bruce's day, just like Saturday was Lois's. He felt like he was going to get caught; he felt like he was doing something that would warrant getting caught.

Lois kissed back, soft but firm, until heat started building between them. Only then did she step away and say, "Get to work, Smallville. You know where to find me."

Clark did. And he did, and he did, finding her at every second of the day: her heartbeat, her skin shifting against the bedroom's linen sheets, her soft sigh, her pained grunt when she got up to use the bathroom. They ate lunch together and that was the easiest part, being able to distract himself with conversation. The rest of the time saw him trying and failing not to dial in on her every minute movement. The fact of her, alive and mostly-well, just one room over.

Bruce came back while Clark was wrapping up an email to a fact checker. He tilted his head towards the master bedroom: how's she doing? asked silently, eyebrows and, horribly, a specific tilt of his hip that turned his pose into one vaguely reminiscent of Lois.

"We're good," Clark said. "Quiet day. Had some ham sandwiches, your bread is really good."

"It's from a bakery a few blocks down. I get it delivered. What are your plans for tonight?"

Clark shut his work laptop, shaking out his shoulders. "I feel like I should be asking you that."

"I've informed Barbara my time should be reallocated."

Meaning he wasn't going on patrol, because Lois was here. If it had just been a normal Bruce-and-Clark date night, they'd patrol together. "You sure? I could fly us both over there, she wouldn't mind."

"I'm not worried about her minding."

Clark waited, and waited, for some kind of elaboration. But Bruce had decided to be extra-Bruce this evening, apparently, because he only stood there, expression blank, like he and Clark stared at each other in silence all the time.

Well, okay, they did, but usually they were doing other stuff too. Like last night, Bruce bending Clark in half and --

Not a productive line of thought. "Right. Okay. So, I don't know, I could make spaghetti? I think the Generals are playing."

Bruce's face did something weird. "I can order us Italian if that's what you'd like."

"Fully stocked kitchen, groceries I know Alfred picked out, and a working stove? I can cook. I like to, you know."

Another weird face. "I know that. But you're a guest; you don't need to cook."

"You could make us spaghetti," Clark said, just for the horrified look Bruce gave him.

He won that fight, of course. Ma hadn't raised a slouch in the domestic department, and Clark really didn't mind cooking, especially when Bruce opted to sit at the kitchen island and engage him in a rousing discussion (or, okay, semi-lecture) on the history of Italian food. "I'm just saying," Clark said, turning the heat down on the red sauce and starting to form the meatballs, "Mrs. Gianelli would be pretty shocked to hear her cooking was a nationalist fabrication with roots in post-World-War nation-building."

"You read that article too, huh?" said Lois from across the room.

Clark was forming the meatballs on the island, facing Bruce and the (still way too big) great room, which meant he could see everything with perfect clarity: Lois, standing in the doorway of the master bedroom, hair washed and clothes changed but still very much wearing pajamas. Her favorites, actually, thick well-made green striped flannel that clung to her hips just so, her hair pulled back in a ponytail and wool slippers on her feet. She looked like a Sunday morning, the kind where you'd forget the rest of the world existed and kiss for hours under the covers. Just a glance made Clark want to go to her, a hook below his ribs.

And Bruce. Well.

Bruce's sneaky smile, the one he wore when he was teasing Clark, had fallen away. His eyes were a little wide, but not so much that Lois would notice, Clark thought. His hand, where it rested on the counter, had gone very still, clenched muscle showing starkly in his forearm. He looked like Clark was accustomed to seeing him: lonely and intense, desperate and wanting. Clark hadn't realized how rare that expression had become in the last several months. Seeing it felt like a too-warm day in January, everything off-center, nothing quite right.

But then Clark blinked, and all that was gone. Bruce, ordinary again, cleared his throat and said, "Yes, actually, but there's a book in the works as well. Alfred's an enthusiast regarding culinary history, so I end up with a hobbyist's body of knowledge."

"Sounds useful." Lois had navigated the great room by then. Clark watched, very stupidly silent, as she hopped up on a bar stool -- and as Bruce helped her, a steady hand under her good elbow. She shot him a grateful look, then turned a sunny smile on Clark. "What are you making?"

"You already know what my spaghetti smells like."

"Mrs. Gianelli's spaghetti, anyway."

It barely counted as teasing, but Clark found himself smiling anyway, relieved. Happy, even, at least until he glanced at Bruce and saw him practically vibrating while he glanced at the door.

Absolutely not. Clark pointed a ground-beef-covered finger at him. "You're both staying. Bruce, I forgot to turn the burner on, can you put it on medium? The one under the cast iron pan."

Bruce shot him an I-know-what-you're-doing look, but a few minutes later oil was sizzling and ready for Clark's meatballs to be seared, so Clark was counting that as a win.

So it was fine, really, Thursday and Friday, Bruce and Lois and Clark all having dinner together before Clark and Bruce retreated to the not-a-guest room to kiss, to fuck, to talk in low voices about Diana's proposal for League involvement in a Lantern-brokered galactic treaty. It was fine. Clark missed Lois, because Lois had actually read and reported on treaties and Clark hadn't as much, but that was okay. Clark knew the deal.

Saturday was weird.

Bruce didn't leave for work or Bat stuff. Clark had kind of expected him to. Lois got the weekends; Clark often didn't hear anything from Gotham until lunchtime Monday. He'd thought Bruce might be a little worried about Lois, but he was trying not to think about it, because it made him feel weird: hopeful and depressed about feeling hopeful. Ridiculous, basically.

On Saturday, though, it was impossible to ignore that Bruce was worried, and not just slightly. The great room provided perfect sightlines for Bruce to stare at Lois literally all the time, rushing to her side if she had trouble with her water glass, or getting settled on the couch, or taking off her sweater. By the time he was cutting her sandwich for her, Clark could all but feel Lois's irritation. When she said, "I'm gonna hoof it around the block, get some coffee," and Bruce said, "I'll come with you," Clark knew what was about to happen.

Lois, flatly: "Absolutely not."

Bruce made a face that Clark normally would've found cute, scrunched-up eyes and pressed-together lips. "You only have one working hand, Lois."

"And that hand is more than enough to get me to the nearest cafe. I'm good, thanks."

"You can't even button your pants."

"There's this technological marvel you might have heard of, most people call it a drawstring, and I wouldn't expect Bruce Wayne to know this, but cafes tend to have pretty relaxed dress codes. So if you don't mind." By now Lois was standing, holding her purse -- had Bruce noticed she'd been sitting with it? Maybe that's why he'd been so tense -- clearly ready to go. And Bruce wasn't blocking her path, exactly, but he'd been leaning against the kitchen island and she'd crossed the room, so they were -- close. Not nose-to-nose, but within reach of each other.

Clark held his breath, very thankful that he was the only person in the room who could hear that all three of their heartbeats had sped up, anticipation and annoyance all muddled together.

Lois crossed her arms. When she spoke, it wasn't Lois, Clark's girlfriend; it was Lois, three-time Pulitzer winner and the only person Clark had ever heard Ma admit might be more stubborn than a Kent. "Bruce, I'm going. And you're not following. You and Clark can call Diana and finalize the treaty, okay? Or you can start a food fight for all I care. But if I get even a whiff of you I'll embarrass us both, and it'll be a hell of a lot worse for you."

Clark, still on the couch, could only see Bruce's expression. It was still a lot to look at. Eyes a little weird, his hand flexing at his side. Searching Lois's face like he'd gotten some of J'onn's telepathy. Clark found himself holding his breath again, knowing they were on a precipice of some sort but still pretty certain Bruce wasn't going to do anything about it.

Sure enough, his shoulders dropped and he circled back around the island. "Enjoy your coffee."

"Uh-huh, thanks, I will. Can I get you anything?" This to Clark, who almost dropped his phone in response.

"Oh, um, no, I'm good. Thanks, Lois."

"You're welcome." A pause, and then Lois's back stiffened -- oh boy -- and she whirled around to stomp back to the couch, bending over for a lip-biting, deep goodbye kiss, so sudden and so much that Clark's toes curled.

"See you in a bit," she tossed out to them both, and then she was gone.

Bruce exhaled very slowly, his heart still pounding. "Is this how you spend most of your Saturdays?"

"Not even close."

On Sunday, Bruce went back to Gotham for his weekly family dinner, and Clark dropped to his knees in Bruce's stupidly big penthouse great room and pushed Lois's robe open at the waist.

They'd been kissing for what felt like hours, lazy slow movements that had his head spinning with need. Every time he'd tried to get to second base, she'd shaken her head and tugged his hair, pulling him to her for another kiss. By the time she sighed and leaned into his hands, he felt like he was burning up from the inside, like he'd never learned to control his heat vision and had no choice but to accept his own immolation. Her skin smelled like her winter lotion, almonds and lavender, and she moaned when he nibbled at her thighs, gasped when he pressed his tongue against her clit.

"Clark," she said, her voice all fucked-up, thick and broken. She tugged his hair urgently and he obeyed her, slipping a finger inside, crooking it, adding another when she panted and begged.

He wished the hair-pulling hurt a little. A wistful thought, there and gone: Bruce could make it hurt, would work out the precise amount of kryptonite that would let it hurt him while he still enjoyed it. And Lois would like that, he thought, watching him shiver as he pressed his tongue against her clit and sucked and --

Oh, no.

It was only a moment, the blink of a non-human eye, right as Lois came around his fingers. But he heard it, from hundreds of miles away, mingling with her gasps and moans. Bruce's heartbeat, steady and disinterested. Both of them, apart but together, bearing down on Clark.

He kissed her through it, then resumed his work, wringing another one out of her. She rode him, after, eyes glittering, tits bouncing. She was beautiful and she made him come the same way he always did, under her and with her, transcendent. He loved her.

Everything would be so much simpler if that was the whole truth and nothing but, instead of just true.

End Notes

The referenced article.

If you were hoping Clark would have it together a little more than the other two, well. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Lois

Notes

Note the updated tags.

She was so fucking annoyed all the goddamn time.

Part of it was the wrist. A week in and it was healing, of course it was; it was immobilized and she was a perfectly healthy young-ish woman who'd been shoved into the arms of Metropolis's finest emergency care, and she was living in Bruce fucking Wayne's penthouse, which meant Batman was watching her every move. No, her wrist was fine. It was all the other stuff that kept getting on her nerves.

Firstly: the penthouse. It felt like Bruce was there all the time, even though that definitely wasn't true; he made himself scarce on Lois's days with Clark, and even on the other days, the penthouse had four bedrooms and took up two floors, so it wasn't like she and Bruce were ass to elbow on a starter apartment's tiny loveseat while Clark cooked, or anything. But -- well.

The problem was that they might as well have been, because no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't stop noticing him. Bruce's cologne under her bathroom sink, Bruce's suits shoved in a corner in the closet, Bruce's shoes in the doorway, Bruce himself on the couch or leaning against the kitchen counter or doing the dishes in a stupid apron or, just now, on Friday morning, emerging from the other bedroom, his hair a mess, a trail of red marks livid on his shoulders and neck, his collarbone distractingly bruised.

"That looks painful," Lois said, nodding at the bruise in question.

"It'll heal." Bruce squinted at her, then the drip coffee machine.

Oh, he was pathetic. She grabbed a mug and filled it up for him, no cream or sugar. "Your espresso machine supports automatic brewing, you know."

"Thank you." He took the proffered -- shoved, really -- drink, inhaling deeply and then taking a sip. "I don't keep a consistent enough morning schedule for that to work, unfortunately."

"If only you had a boyfriend with super-speed who could go turn it on for you. Shame."

Bruce snorted. "Clark's not a morning person and you know it."

And that -- huh. It was true, obviously; the man had superpowers and had grown up on a farm, but he'd sleep till ten if you let him. But Lois hadn't expected camaraderie from Bruce, of all people, whose partner she was arguably stealing. Monopolizing. With her human foibles and her lack of kevlar and vulnerable carpal bones. "I guess."

"Anyway, I tell myself I'll step down caffeine every few years. Well, Alfred tells me. Apparently chronic heavy use of stimulants isn't good for you."

"Huh, I had no idea."

"Who could've predicted?" An elegant, louche shrug: not quite Bruce Wayne, but not not, either. "I'm in one of my stepdown periods. I drink less coffee if I have to make it first."

"So, what, I'm enabling you?"

"Well," Bruce said, and his eyes crinkled at the corners as he took another drink.

That was -- annoying, Lois decided. It was annoying; he was annoying. She wanted to fuck him. It was incredibly irritating.

"I'll be tracking down one of the contacts Barbara sent me," Lois said. "I might be out late."

To his credit, he hid the frown quickly; still, Lois didn't feel like going easy on him. "I'm not going to stop doing my job because you and Clark think my bones heal more slowly than yours do."

"That's not what I think at all. But --"

"But Clark would rather I not risk myself. I know that. I'm going anyway; he knows I'll call for him if I need to."

"You didn't last time."

Low, bland, but an accusation all the same. "I'm not planning on turning my back on an open door this time."

Bruce took another drink of coffee. Looked to the side, out his massive wasteful window wall. Squinted into the sun, sipped his coffee again, and sighed. "I would also rather you not risk yourself, you know."

And that was also annoying, Lois decided. Deeply annoying. More annoying, even, than how badly she wanted to fuck him. "Trust me, I'm well aware your top priority is keeping Clark happy."

For some reason that seemed to surprise him. Long moments passed before he said, "I have other priorities. Justice, for one."

As if she needed a reminder that she stood across from the Gotham Bat. "I'm aware."

"Well, then. Good."

"Good."

Lois left before Clark could wake up, before Clark could come into the room with his wide, sleepy smile and say, "Hey, guys, what's up?" She left before Clark kissed Bruce good morning, and before he'd have a chance to do the same to her, awkward and hesitant, clearly wishing Bruce couldn't see.

Their relationship was good. It was all Lois wanted, a life she'd had plenty of time to think over and one she'd worked so hard to keep. But this part was still weird. Maybe it would always be a little strange, slightly off-kilter from what she'd thought adulthood would be like. She could handle that.

Fortunately, her agenda for the day didn't leave much time to dwell on her personal life. Barbara Gordon had sent her a nice, long list of names, one of whom was responsible, through fifteen shell corporations, for a remarkable thirty-six percent of contributions to the Metropolis For All PAC. A rich guy trying to buy a city wasn't the kind of story Lois needed to chase down personally, except that Gus Delvrey wasn't a rich guy: he was no one. He worked at a sandwich shop. He almost certainly didn't have half a million bucks to give to a center-right municipal PAC.

And Gus's sandwich shop was open today: hooray.

Lois did, technically, have a meeting. She'd called up her usual CPA consult, Jane McIntyre, who'd meet her at Lou's at 1PM. Until then, though, she planned to sip coffee, order a sandwich or two, and see how long it took before Gus got nervous.

The answer, apparently: a long-ass time. He served her two sandwiches, his eyes flicking down to her notebook and up to her face, and didn't so much as flinch. She met with Jane, going over the financial records she'd secured with a FOIA request, and still Gus didn't say anything. He closed out his shift and she bought another sandwich; he came back for store closing at eleven and didn't seem to care that she was still there. At eleven forty-five, he called out to the shop, empty except for Lois: "Closing in fifteen minutes, please wrap it up."

So, okay. He was definitely in deep.

She took the long way back to the penthouse, hoping she'd catch someone following her. But apparently Gus was smart enough not to put a tail on her even if he'd given himself away with his non-reaction to her camping out in the shop all day. She got back to the penthouse at one in the morning, completely exhausted yet buzzing with excitement, mind racing with possibilities for chasing her lead.

Because of her pounding heart and busy mind, it took her a minute to realize that the penthouse wasn't actually silent.

The problem was that Lois, with her fucked-up wrist, had taken the master bedroom, and Clark, with his annoyingly pure heart, had taken the first-floor guest suite. There were two perfectly good bedrooms upstairs that would provide significantly more privacy for their little timeshare arrangement. But it probably hadn't occurred to Clark that more space might be a good thing, and Lois was extremely confident that she and Bruce were stuck in a who-blinks-first kind of situation when it came to asking for a little more distance. And Bruce hadn't bothered having the doors replaced in this penthouse; why would he? Normally he just used it for assignations or field medicine.

All of which was to say, Clark was getting fucked right now and Lois could hear it.

Moans and gasps and sighs. Clark's breathy little 'please', and Bruce's almost-inaudible response. She drank her chamomile tea and waited for the ibuprofen to kick in and make the pain manageable enough that she could at least easily change into her pajamas, and -- did her best not to listen.

But she also didn't put her headphones on. So she knew this was on her.

She knew what was going to happen: she'd finish her tea, the pain would fade, and she'd go into the master bedroom alone to wiggle out of her blazer and get a good five, maybe even six hours of sleep. She was so committed to this vision that when Bruce exited the bedroom while her wrist still felt like it was being poked with hot little needles, she thought for a moment she'd just fallen asleep and was having a very strange and torturous dream.

But then Bruce cleared his throat and said, "Uh, hi," flexing his hand awkwardly. The hand that had probably been inside Clark. Lois wouldn't dream those sorts of details, she was mostly -- almost entirely -- sure.

"Hello," she said. She held up her mug. "Trying to wind down."

"You were out late."

"Yeah, turns out your Oracle's information is almost too good. She got me a guy who's deep in the shit."

"She's very good at what she does."

Lois had kind of expected him to deny the possessive pronoun. She watched him over her steaming mug, wariness creeping down her spine.

"I, ah. I'll just." Bruce wagged his finger vaguely forward. "Water."

He could reach it easily by going past her; the breakfast bar's stools weren't exactly huge. "Sure. Go ahead."

The penthouse's kitchen was enormous. He didn't have to pass her closely enough that she could feel the heat of his body or hear his stuttering breath. A pity, she thought, right up until Bruce skipped a finger, feather-light, over the cast on her left wrist.

She almost fell off her stool in her haste to move away. "Excuse you?"

"You look tired," Bruce said. Still so, so quiet, obviously not wanting to wake Clark up.

Another worrier. Of course. She kept her voice light when she said, "Well, I was working late. A lot of shit to get through."

"And your wrist hurts."

She didn't quite suppress her annoyed huff, and he didn't quite suppress the quirk of his lips when he saw he'd landed a hit. Trying and failing to sound normal, she said, "Of course it hurts, it was broken a week ago. You might have access to next-generation healing serums, but the rest of us have to deal with a normal timeline."

"I don't, actually. Have access to serums, I mean. If I did, you'd have access to them as well." Bruce drummed his fingers on the counter. "I bother Leslie -- that's my doctor -- for Batman, the doctor who knows about all that, not the one I see for...well. I bother Leslie for improvements. She provides superior pain management, the occasional surgical near-miracle, but she tells me bone healing can't be rushed. Though I've only needed that particular service a few times. The armor is very protective." He shut his mouth, teeth clicking.

It occurred to Lois that he was babbling, completely uncontrolled, obviously uncomfortable, practically squirming where he stood. She hadn't seen him like this ever before, not in public and not with Clark. Not at home, either. Not even the first time she shoved a tape recorder in his face after she and Clark had agreed Clark should start seeing him.

"I could also go back to bed," Bruce said, which was how Lois realized she'd been staring.

"It's fine. Big kitchen. Or, you know." She waved a hand, encompassing the sitting areas, the atrium, the balcony. "Great room."

"Clark keeps telling me it's too big."

"It is," Lois said, but she offered him a smile, hoping he'd take it in the spirit she intended.

For a moment she thought that might be the end of it. He dropped her gaze, thumb tapping the mug. She could see it clearly in her mind's eye: he'd say, 'Well, goodnight,' leaving the mug on the counter as he went back to bed. Cuddling up behind Clark, probably, and Lois would load the dishwasher with her mug before going to bed alone. It would be fine. Normal, even, or what passed as normal for her, them, these days.

Then Bruce spoke, velvet-soft in dim light. "I could help you, if you'd like. There's no need to sleep in your blazer just because it hurts too much to remove it."

She opened her mouth to say no, to imply are you fucking kidding me. But --

His eyes were trained on the counter; he clenched his mug in one hand. A very faint bruise lurked on the underside of his jaw, which could be from anything but which she suspected was from Clark. She knew Clark was worried about her and holding himself back simply because he got in his head about the demonstrated vulnerability of people he loved. And she knew Bruce understood, that he'd likely painfully fumbled his own way out of a blazer more than once. It wasn't a peace offering; that would imply they were fighting. And it wasn't a come-on, either.

But it was an offer. "All right."

"Great, thanks." He set his mug down. "Now?"

Fuck it. "Mhm." She drained her own mug, setting it in the dishwasher -- and then she almost jumped out of her skin, because Bruce was apparently prone to shame-by-example and was lurking behind her, waiting for his turn. It was only a moment of shared body heat, too-closeness that she'd normally be deeply irritated by, but somehow her wires got crossed anyway; she reached for the mug, her skin against his, and he let her take it, and then she was doing his fucking dishes for him.

Well, dish.

She was going to do her level best to forget all about tonight. "Come on. I'm exhausted."

He trailed her into the bedroom. It reminded her of having a cat, the way he'd come a little too close and then self-consciously back off. She left the bedroom door open, since Clark seeing her naked wasn't really a concern, but Bruce shut it behind him; asking him about it would take them down a road she didn't feel like traveling, so she just stood there as he approached her, trying not to bristle under his gaze.

"The goal is to avoid jostling your wrist. I'll hold this side of your blazer; if you can slip out with your good arm, then we can just ease it off. Do you want your pajamas?"

The subtext, of course, being: how naked are we getting you? And Lois had in fact slept in her work clothes a couple times already, changing only in the morning when the inflammation had gone down. But if Bruce thought she was going to give him the easy way out, they didn't know each other at all. "Ideally, yes, if you don't mind."

"Not at all. Pants first?"

Like they were at Girl Scout camp trying not to find out how they felt about seeing each other's skin. Lois failed to stifle her laugh, an undignified huff escaping through her nose. "Sure."

Bruce shuffled closer. He smelled nice, like oranges; he was unsurprisingly good at flipping the button on her slacks, easing them down over her hips. He let her handle the rest of the process until her pajama pants were halfway up her thighs. This was the least dignified part, where she'd normally hold the waistband and scooch until friction did its job and she was clothed again. Bruce, though, just reached out and pulled them up, so gentle she barely felt anything moving against her.

That did not help her situation, emotionally or physically. She hated trying to jerk off one-handed. "Thanks."

Bruce nodded, then held the left side of her blazer, looking at her expectantly.

His fucking hands were huge. No. She closed her eyes, shrugging her shoulder out of her blazer, wiggling to try and get her elbow past the seam. Bruce, damn him, noticed right away, using his spare hand to create space for her to ease herself free. Throughout this process, her left wrist stuck out like a mannequin's, and despite being braced for a jolt of pain, she felt absolutely fine. Nothing touched her, much less jostled her, no sparks of pain traveling up her forearm or making her fingers convulse. He gathered the loose fabric of her blazer and eased the left arm off so gently the cuff didn't even brush her hand, and then he went and hung it up, and the whole time Lois just -- let him. Felt like she'd been drugged, dropped in a strange universe where speech wasn't necessary.

It was so quiet that she could hear them both breathing.

When he returned, he lifted the hem of her blouse and raised an inquiring eyebrow. She felt like she was licking a potato battery in science class, she felt like she was about to lose her virginity for the first time, she felt horribly tempted to whisper Clark's name and equally tempted to kick Bruce in the nuts and chase a lead to Toronto, red-eye flight, note on the counter.

She didn't do any of that. She just said, "There's a button in the back."

"Ah. Right."

The flick of a finger, and pressure at her neck eased. After that it was easy: she raised her arms and he pulled the shirt off, tossed it into the hamper without even having to check his aim.

Her bra had a front clasp. She could handle it herself. She cleared her throat in preparation for telling him that, then felt his warm fingertips resting against her sternum.

It wasn't like she didn't trust him. It wasn't like Clark didn't love him. His eyes met hers, asking, and she nodded, and he opened the clasp with the ease of long practice, easing the straps over her shoulders, gaze scrupulously averted as he helped her into her nightshirt, which was just an old over-sized Raleigh Review tee. Easy-on, easy-off, though she wished she'd noticed before how it clung to her breasts.

She noticed now. Bruce probably noticed too. He was red from his ears to his chest, flush overtaking him like water from a burst dam. "Anything else?"

"Not unless you want to brush my teeth for me." She offered him a smile.

It was funny, watching the mask descend. He returned her smile with a smirk. "Some other time. Goodnight, Lois."

In all, it had taken them five minutes to get her changed. She got herself off so hard she saw stars and still had to wait another hour for sleep to come.

Lois knew Clark had to leave about a week before he said as much, because every time he looked at her or Bruce he gave a guilty little wince. She waited until Wednesday night spaghetti, her and Clark alone in Bruce's penthouse's kitchen, to say, "So how long will you be off-world?"

Clark laughed, a little rueful but not remotely surprised. "How'd you know?"

"You always look like I caught you with your hand in the cookie jar."

"Not that far off. A couple weeks, hopefully. Could be a couple months. J'onn's going with me."

Lois twirled her pasta, ate some. Poked a meatball. "And Bruce?"

"He says he's been away from Gotham long enough." Clark hesitated, chopping a spaghetti noodle into four pieces before finally managing to add, "Look, um. You'll probably notice him following you."

Oh, Christ. "I hope you realize I'll tell him to fuck off, then."

A fond half-smile. "He won't listen."

"And what, I'm just supposed to put up with it?" Lois made a frustrated noise. "No, I know. I don't have to put up with it, but he'll do it anyway. Christ, I don't know how you stand it."

"What do you mean?"

"He's your boyfriend."

For some reason that made Clark dribble out a little meatball. After he'd wiped his mouth, he said, "Most of his monitoring of me is like, what if I get mind controlled and kill people. You know. Threat analysis."

Wait a minute. "Kryptonite hurts you. Darkseid can kill you. Does he not think those threats are worth his attention?"

"No, he does. That's part of the threat analysis."

Making her own threats about why Bruce should see reason with regards to Clark's vulnerability would ruin dinner, so Lois let it go. But after she'd seen Clark off and spent a few days on her own, interviewing the remarkably broad pool of people whose names were on the All of Metropolis donor list despite never having heard of the PAC, she couldn't stop thinking about the conversation. It lurked in the back of her mind, an unwanted visitor.

Did Bruce seriously think Clark was a threat? In reality? Their Clark?

In that sense, it was a relief when she finally made contact with Leonard Dearborn, only a couple days after Clark left. Leonard's family's old waterfront townhome was associated with six contributions to All of Metropolis. He owned meatpacking and distribution companies throughout Gotham, not Metropolis, and swore up and down he'd never contributed a dime to the PAC. Lois was certain he was either deliberately money laundering or being set up as a fall guy. He'd ignored her calls till now, agreeing to meet at a shitty cop bar on the northeast side of town.

A cop bar. Lois hated when baddies had a sense of dramatic irony.

He showed up on time, at least. She was three-quarters of the way through a glass of beer, well aware that sources would sometimes show up early and bolt or come in, not see her on a glance-around, and leave right away, nerve lost. She flagged him down and pushed a Guinness at him, leaning back against the booth. "Thanks for coming. Got you something."

"My favorite."

"You mentioned it." She wouldn't bring up that he'd been audibly plastered if he didn't. "Leonard, it's nice to meet you in person. I'm Lois Lane, Daily Planet."

He gave her the evil eye over his pint. "I know."

"I'm really glad you decided to talk to me. I know I must've shocked you, calling out of the blue like that." She gave her aw-shucks smile, the one she'd never admit was kind of modeled after Clark.

And they were off: Dearborn digging into his financials, producing statements, mentioning and dodging follow-up questions about associates who would, in fact, use his name to launder their illegal contributions. He was being more forthcoming than she'd feared but less than she'd hoped, and he was lying his ass off about not knowing about the contributions on top of that. But he gave her a few more threads to pull, and he went on the record with financial information and speculation about why someone might want to use the PAC like this. By the time he drained his third pint and threw a couple bucks on the table, she was feeling good about the interview.

"I won't call you," he said, ducking out through the back. She made a note to look into ownership of this bar, too.

A bulky man slid into Dearborn's abandoned seat. "Well well well, pretty rude of a guy to up and leave a beautiful dame like that. What's his problem, anyway?"

She cataloged the details as her gaze moved from her notes up to the man's face: mothball-y perfume; lime green tweed; polyester bowtie, half-undone; patchy chin hair; hideous mustache. Unmistakable nose. Hard eyes. "Bruce, what the fuck."

Bruce, definitely Bruce, grinned around a toothpick. "Not my name, sweetheart. Name's Malone."

"You know it's rude to bully people into playing pretend with you? My mom had to teach me that one in the third grade."

"Can't say my ma had time to teach me much."

What was wrong with him. "Low blow. What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Heard a rumor a cute lil somethin' might be lurkin' around hopin' to talk to Lenny. Seems my little birdie was right. He tell you anything interesting?"

For a moment she earnestly entertained the idea of kicking his shins and ditching, leaving him with the tab and, if she managed a second kick, bruised nuts. But then she thought of Clark's big, mournful eyes, and how sad he'd be if she told him he went off-planet and she neutered his boyfriend. Ugh. "How about you finish up your community theater act and we can discuss it later?"

"Nah, I got a date later. And not the cute kind. Business, ya see?"

"For fuck's sake, Bruce."

"Told you, I dunno who that is. Lotta Bruces in Metropolis. I look like your cousin or somethin'?"

"I don't need a babysitter. If you'd asked Clark he'd have told you as much. Now fuck off."

"Not in the habit of askin' other men about my assignations, you understand what I'm sayin'? But I'm sure he's a nice guy. Real class."

"Kind of seeming like he's an idiot right now, actually. And so am I." His eyes were still so blue. Did this disguise fool other people? God, could Lois only see through it because she had a stupid, humiliating little sexual fixation? What an awful thought.

"Hey, sweetheart, can I get the check? Thanks so much. Keep the change." Bruce dropped four dirty twenties on the tray, way too much, not even giving the waitress a chance to check in on other people before he sent her off again. Didn't pause, either, before turning back to Lois and saying, dead serious, still with that ridiculous fucking accent: "We both know he ain't stupid."

It would be a hell of a lot easier to get over all this if Bruce loved Clark, understood Clark, even slightly less. Lois willed herself to say it: fuck off, I don't care, leave me alone, restraining order, etc.

All she could come up with was, "There's another bar down the street. Gertie's? Have a whiskey with me. On one condition."

"Talk a little less like dis?"

"Talk a little less like that."

"I'll need a dark corner. Some guys around here, they know me, capisce?"

There was no way that the guys who knew him around here didn't already know the accent was fake. Still, Lois understood what might happen to a guy like 'Malone' if he were overheard sounding like someone who went to Princeton -- and talking to a journalist, at that. "Gertie's is a dive. There'll be a corner."

And there was. Gertie's was perfect for a conversation like this: low lights, darts and pool in a space a little too small for all the noise, random tables stranded in sticky-floored corners. Lois grabbed a couple drinks and picked the table right by the bathroom, the better to squash her wayward libido; Bruce joined her barely five minutes later, adjusting his cuffs as he slid into his chair.

"Did you seriously get in a fight on the way here?"

"Dispatched an observer." Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Of you, in case that wasn't clear."

"Yeah, thanks, I got that." It was bizarre to watch, like Clark's Superman routine on steroids. His posture was different, of course, and the accent was gone, but it went beyond that. He held his whole face differently. His hands looked softer, somehow.

He looked a lot stupider in his ugly suit, also. "Did your character have to be so...ridiculous?"

"It deflects attention from what I'm actually doing. Why is a story on municipal political funding getting you such determined stalkers in Gotham?"

"If I could answer that question with any level of confidence, my story would already be filed."

"No sneak peeks for a good friend?"

Ah. Lois pushed one of the whiskies across the table, picking up her own and taking as big a sip as she could manage without coughing. "Is that what's going on here? We're good friends?"

"I have no idea what we are." Bruce raised one smelly, lime-green shoulder. "Friends is as good as any descriptor, don't you think?"

"Well, technically there are terms."

Bruce made a face.

"Yeah." Another long drink of whiskey for her; another impatient tap of the table for him. "Well whiskey's not good enough for you?"

"You're drinking well whiskey?"

The lie was worth the horror on her face. She couldn't keep herself from laughing. "Oh, calm down, I'm not an animal. It's Green Spot. Bartender's recommendation."

"Well, then." He picked up his glass. She watched him almost swirl it, stop himself at the last moment. Huh.

He knocked the glass back, burping ostentatiously, winking at her when she leaned back in disgust. "Thanks, doll."

"You almost slipped a second ago."

He stopped moving, completely. Didn't so much as blink. "I have no idea what you mean."

"Yeah you do."

"You are..." He picked up his glass again, staring at the bottom like more whiskey might just materialize. "Immensely frustrating, for someone so thoroughly embedded in my life."

"You're forgetting I've been to your house. You've embedded plenty of frustrating people."

"Not like you," he said, bitten-off syllables. He raised his gaze to hers, very briefly. His eyes looked so bright even in the half-shadows. Bright and brittle. "Believe me when I say this. Please. I have never once had to deal with anything, anyone, like this. You."

And there was an obvious question there, on the tip of her tongue: what about Clark? If he meant what she suspected, how she suspected, then it was a fair question to ask. Sure, he was in love with Clark now, but it had to have started like this, right? With distracting lust, irritation. Maybe confusion too, this time, given that they were both in a committed relationship with the same guy -- but the basis had to be the same.

But she didn't want to hear it. Or more honestly: she didn't want him to guess she had something to offer; she didn't want to try and fit her mind around the shape of her own -- ugh -- feelings. "Fine. You're buying the next round."

It was a very bad idea, but if she tended to let that stop her she wouldn't be in this situation to begin with. They got rip-roaringly drunk. Mostly they traded stories about politics, gaffes they'd seen and juicy-but-inconsequential gossip they'd heard. But as midnight stretched into one AM, the conversation drifted, doomed, to Clark.

"How'd you know?" Lois asked. Well, slurred. It was fine, she'd been drinking plenty of water. "Clark, I mean, how'd you know how you felt?"

"How did you know?" Bruce was just as drunk as she was, but he kept his linguistic facilities a little better. It was annoying. She wanted to see him as fucked up as she felt.

"I mean," Lois said, "obviously I knew. Look at him. Listen to him, he's..."

"Amazing."

"Everything."

Bruce sipped his water. Sloppily. Ha. "You don't mean that. You have your work."

"He has his too. Still."

He looked at her. She looked right back. She got the feeling he wanted her to elaborate, but, joke was on him: she was drunk and stubborn. She narrowed her eyes at him and waited.

"I've always had an everything." He broke her gaze. "The concept of splitting, diluting, the mission -- I didn't think you'd want it any more than I do."

The squirmy nervous affect didn't do his horrible outfit any favors. It almost made her think about having this conversation somewhere more private -- no. "I don't. My point is Clark doesn't want that for me. For either of us. Or either of us." She waved a hand between them. "You know, I'm drunk. Obviously. But this whole threesome thing makes it really damn hard to speak in euphemisms."

"The crosses we must bear." Another inelegant sip. "To answer your non-question, yes. Me too. Obviously."

Meaning, she couldn't even be mad at Bruce for not loving Clark enough: he did. He probably had this whole time. It made Lois want to fuck him even more, God damn it. "So."

"So."

From the bar bathroom, flatulence.

Bruce broke first. "You hate the jacket, huh."

"C'mon, man, it's hideous."

"Ah, but useful. It's got all these pockets. And it fits my look, don't ya think?"

"Watching you slip into that is horrific. And don't think I won't be looking into him, either."

Warm, warm, Bruce's cold ungenerous eyes were so warm in the shitty bar lighting. "I wouldn't expect anything less."

And then, well.

"I've got the three AM train back to Metropolis," Lois said at one point, staring out into the darkness of the harbor. The water lapped against the cement sea wall. Listening to it too hard made her dizzy.

Bruce turned a doleful gaze on her. "Lois. It's four AM."

"Ah, shit."

"But I! Have a condo!"

"Bruce, shh!" But there was no one around, really. Last call had been at three, and they'd been walking around since then. Her feet hurt. "I know you have a condo."

"I mean a different one. An empty one. For you."

Something weird was happening; even Lois, extremely drunk, could tell. But it wasn't obvious enough for her to tell what. "I'm not having a sleepover, Bruce. We're not in that kind of polycule."

Bruce's face sure did something at that. What it was doing, who knew. Not drunk Lois. Probably not sober Lois, either, but she wasn't available right now. "I know that. I'm saying it's a place, that you can use, for sleeping, for yourself. I'll go home. Obviously."

"Home and not..." She waved a hand vaguely dockside.

"I can't even walk in a straight line. No, I'm going home."

"Fine. Tell me where the condo is."

She got an address and an elevator key code, and also an awkward confirmation that the doorman had standing instructions to let her in. Bruce flagged her down a taxi and practically shoved her in it without giving her a chance to say a formal goodbye. For once that kind of high-handedness was fine with her: she was exhausted.

Exhausted, but still unused to what happened when you accepted a favor from Bruce Wayne. The "condo" of course was actually a penthouse, whose private elevator opened directly into the three-story monstrosity. There was a glass balcony, a fountain, and a luxury, seemingly never-used kitchen. Another fucking open floor plan, too. Lois needed to get better at her job, rip more of these motherfuckers off their perches. No one should be this rich.

But the bed, though. The bed was perfect. Soft and firm, clean-smelling with the now-familiar hint of the lavender that must have been from Alfred's preferred detergent. There was a dresser in the corner with Bruce Wayne-ish miscellany, cuff links that probably cost more than her rent and stuff like that. There was nothing here to indicate it was a bolt-hole for Bruce when he was being Malone: no polyester scarves, no tweed jackets. She thought about going through the drawers, but she was under the comforter, and. No. That would have to wait. She was so drunk, and she had a huge glass of water to get through. Clark would probably know all about 'Malone', anyway.

She tried not to think about that. Clark, Bruce. Bruce's stupid Malone act. The way he'd been all night, eyes on her, his half-joking protectiveness, his deadly serious insistence that she stay here for the night. She'd rather have found it annoying, or at least puzzling. An inconvenience she'd hoped to avoid until Clark was back.

But, no, he'd dispatched an observer, he'd told her to watch herself. He'd pretended to be anyone other than Bruce, Clark's boyfriend, who'd helped her out of her coat when it still hurt to move her arm. He'd been so careful of her wrist tonight, not asking about her progress but angling his body to prevent her from even brushing against a bush as they'd made their way to the water, offering his arm as she slid out of the booth and carefully not commenting on why. And the worst part was that it had been nice -- appealing -- even in his hideous costume with its cloying mothball scent and painfully clashing patterns. She'd wanted more: more closeness, more touch. If she'd been even slightly drunker, she'd have invited him up.

If he'd been even slightly drunker, would he have accepted?

It was a thought she didn't want to have but one she couldn't banish after it slipped into her mind. Bruce saying yes; Bruce following her into this bedroom. Pressing her down on the mattress. Trying to use his stupid, corny dockside accent until she smacked him, then laughing and going silent, using his broad shoulders to push her legs apart and eating her out.

Shit, shit. But it was too late to slam the lid closed on those thoughts. She bit her lip against making any noise, even though she wasn't naive enough to think Bruce wouldn't know what she'd done here. He probably bugged this room with an ultra-sensitive audio feed that would catch the little gasps she couldn't manage to repress.

Or just video feed, full color. He'd look away, of course, once he realized what she was doing. But. Fuck, why was that hot? Was it hot, or was being drunk-horny just making her insane? She was already so wet just thinking about Bruce's eyes on her, remembering how infuriated he'd been at that gala, before she knew his secret. Back when she'd thought he was just a vapid idiot that her boyfriend was into for unknown reasons, had he wanted to prove her wrong? Go toe to toe with her, show her what he could really do --

Bend her over, fuck her dirty and fast in some out-of-the-way corner, Clark standing watch but almost getting them caught anyway, his superpowered hearing useless when pitted against their ability to distract him. Fuck.

If there was a mic anywhere in the apartment, it would pick this up. Lois could bite back her moans, she could try to control her breathing, but she couldn't help the noises her cunt made as she slipped two fingers inside, wet and desperate. A horrible angle, too, not very satisfying at all, but she was too keyed up to care about that. She fucked herself desperately, pressing down on her clit as warmth slid through her limbs, her legs locking up as she chased an orgasm -- and then another, and a third, too drunk and just plain sloppy to stop herself from thinking about riding Bruce in this bed, fucking Clark while Bruce watched, leaning down with a hand around Bruce's neck and taking until she was finally satisfied.

Green Spot sucked. She woke up four hours later, head spinning, exhausted beyond belief, her pants tangled around her calves, her hair the worst rat's nest she'd had since college.

And worse, Bruce haunting her: a train ticket for the 1PM back to Metropolis, and an encrypted contact card with this condo's address and entry codes.

Fuck.

Bruce

"Welcome home, Father. The family missed you last night. Judging by your state of disarray, I assume your fixation once again led you astray."

"Her name is Lois," Bruce said. Calm, careful, deliberately mild. No need for Damian to hear any tonal inconsistency and draw undesirable conclusions. "She's investigating some irregular Metropolis campaign funding."

"Hmph. Are the Waynes implicated?"

"Of course not. But her investigations took her to Gotham, where she was followed. I...tracked her pursuer."

"You interfered with a journalist's investigation."

"Dispatching of an observer when the journalist in question recently experienced an attempt on her life is not 'interference'."

Damian crossed his arms. "And does Miss Lane agree?"

Bruce fervently disliked the occasional, extreme difficulty he experienced in attempting to lie to his children. He hesitated a fraction of a second too long, and Damian said, "Hm!"

Time to try a different tack. "I think we both know that journalists working in our city are under the Bat's protection."

"Everyone in the city is under our protection, Father. Do you follow Gotham General Hospital's chief surgeon? Gordon? The mayor?"

"I understand," Bruce said, striving to control his heartbeat, to model mature conflict resolution, "that you may be feeling confused, or even simply uncomfortable, with my behavior. If inviting both Lois and Clark to your birthday was too much, I'm happy to adjust. Just let me know what you need."

"Father." Damian, Bruce realized slightly belatedly, was staring at him like he'd inhaled fear toxin.

Well, no. He was staring at Bruce like Bruce had told him to be careful going up the stairs. "Ah. I've misjudged the reason for your frustration."

"You've misjudged my emotional state as well. I'm not frustrated or jealous or confused. I'm annoyed. With you, Father. Lois Lane has three Pulitzers. If she successfully connects her Metropolis elections research to global financial malfeasance, she'll have four. I understand that you are concerned for her safety, but your behavior is intrusive and disrespectful. When I attempted to secure the Kents from impending cicada-related injury, you informed me I was exceeding my mandate as a crime-fighter. Are you a hypocrite, Father? Are you a chauvinist?"

The strangest thing about parenthood, Bruce had found, was that every single child had the capacity to annoy him slightly differently. Damian was unique among them in that he could make Bruce feel almost exactly as if he'd been scolded by Alfred -- right down to Bruce's irritatingly acute awareness that Damian wasn't entirely incorrect.

"I'll be filing a report this afternoon regarding Lane's Gotham pursuers. Your review would be appreciated."

It was the kind of apology Damian knew how to accept. He nodded curtly and picked up his toast, nibbling at it in a manner he'd be furious to discover Bruce thought endearingly childish.

Naturally, being absorbed in Metropolis municipal politics for several weeks meant that Bruce had some catching-up to do. Three blissfully ordinary days passed: portraying Bruce Wayne before several groups of important Wayne Enterprises board members or executives, chasing multiple midlevel mobsters into sewer tunnels, reviewing Tim's market projections, and avoiding thinking about Clark and Lois as much as he could. They were a gravity well, the two of them; Bruce relished the opportunity to act as if unattached, to tend to his city and his people without inconvenient emotions interfering with his work.

Then, of course, Martha Kent showed up for dinner.

It was neither wholly unexpected nor unprecedented. Bruce and Alfred had both ensured that Martha was aware she had an open invitation at the Manor, and that invitation was naturally more relevant when Clark was away. Nonetheless, Bruce almost choked on his soup when Martha said, "Lois told me all about your little adventure together, Bruce! She's a little annoyed about all the shadowing. But she told me she made it up to Bludhaven just fine without your interference."

Well, Dick knew how to follow at a distance and didn't -- in this specific case -- suffer from Bruce's impulse control issues. "Good for her. I have every confidence in her story."

"But of course, she doesn't even really know what the story is yet. Did you know she tracked some money to Switzerland? Switzerland! Not really an original place to hide your dirty money, of course, but a long way for it to travel for city politics."

The same thought Bruce had had when Barbara had let him know Lois had found the accounts. "I agree."

"Did she mention any theories regarding motivation?" Alfred asked.

"I would think it was obvious, Pennyworth," Damian said.

Alfred briefly met Bruce's gaze. Bruce gave an infinitesimal nod. Alfred said, "I suppose you'd better tell us, then."

"National corruption." Damian tore into his bread with obvious satisfaction. "The Presidency. Luthor preparing a run, or preparing to back a run, of course."

"Well, naturally that was her first thought." Martha spoke with the kind of fond dismissiveness that only the elderly could easily conjure. She didn't seem to care that she'd chosen to direct it at a reformed assassin. "But there's none of the usual evidence, and there would have to be evidence: running for office creates a paper trail, we all know that. No, she's still not sure, though I believe she thinks it's related to some big federal contracting nonsense."

Weapons, then, or major infrastructure projects. It was a good guess. Probably more than a guess, if Lois felt confident enough to discuss it with Martha. Bruce could help, if she brought him in. But then, Bruce had spent a lot of time lately daydreaming about Lois Lane inviting him to do all kinds of things. His judgement was compromised. "Interesting. I suppose she'll keep us updated."

And Martha, who really couldn't help herself, twinkled at him. "Humph," Damian said into his soup. Alfred sent him a reproving glance, of course, but Bruce was inclined to agree.

Later, after Alfred's vegan cassoulet and poached pears for dessert, Martha set her coffee cup down on the side table nearest the fireplace and said, "Alfred told me a guest room has been made up."

"Of course. Unfortunately, Bruce Wayne has appearances to make tomorrow morning, but Alfred can see you home, too."

"Thank you for your hospitality."

"Of course."

He glanced over at her just in time to see her gentle, almost pitying smile. Christ. "You said that already, Bruce."

"So I did." He cleared his throat. "Damian loved the quilt. He's still a little...rough around the edges."

"Well, I knew that already. But he only covered my exits a few times. I'm proud of him." A long pause; Bruce couldn't look away from her kind face, her gentle eyes. She did not, strictly speaking, particularly resemble Clark. But she was his mother. Bruce saw Clark in the careful expression, the rueful smile. "How are you, really? I asked Lois about things with you and Clark and her and she turned redder than a tomato fresh off the vine."

"Ohhhhhh," Bruce said, more wheeze than word. "We're. We're fine."

"Well, honey, that's all any of us can hope for. But you need something, you talk to me, all right? I'll bolt the door and we'll have a nice long chat."

A lovely offer, and one he'd never take her up on. "Thank you."

She patted his hand. "Don't worry, I know you won't do it. Your butler sure makes a mean cup of coffee, though."

From there the conversation was safe: coffee preparation methods and Alfred's finicky sourcing of beans, Bruce's frequent indifference to anything but the drink's stimulating qualities, Martha's indignation and issues replacing her 30-year-old Mr. Coffee machine. Bruce made a note on that last one - he could find a high-quality machine that would fit in the Kent farmhouse kitchen, he was certain.

And then Martha went to bed, and Bruce and Damian went out to continue their work.

Bruce had, of course, resolved to speak with Clark.

He'd gone too far with Lois. He knew it, Lois knew it, Martha Kent knew it. Continuing to keep Clark out of the loop would have been unconscionable, and anyway, Lois wouldn't keep secrets from Clark, so there was no point in Bruce even trying.

Clark returned on a Wednesday. Presumably he and Lois experienced a touching reunion. Bruce made it known he would be in the Metropolis penthouse on Thursday night, and when he entered at 4:30 AM, Clark was waiting for him.

"Hi, I missed you, also I kind of worry that you don't sleep," Clark said breathlessly, thumb dragging over one of Bruce's cheekbones with giddy possessiveness.

"Well, I guess you'd better help me wind down, then." Seeing Clark made him dizzy. Bruce kissed him, swaying into Clark's grip, fumbled with his pajama shirt (why even bother putting one on, Clark), and made his way out of everything but the Bat-boots before he remembered. "Shit. Clark. I need to -- damn it." He took a step away, took a deep breath. "We need to talk."

He watched it ripple through Clark: the slightly widened eyes, the near-palpable disappointment. "All right. I mean, yes, of course, what's wrong?"

Bruce blamed it on being exhausted, which he was, and stupid, which Clark made him. He gave up on subtlety, abandoned the idea of approaching it sideways. "I've been accused of being fixated on Lois. By Lois." Be honest, Bruce. "And Damian. And Dick, and Barbara. And myself."

"Bruce I really don't think being emotionally honest with yourself counts as an outside accusation," Clark said, forehead furrowed. Then the words seemed to sink in. "Oh. Oh, wow. And by 'fixation', you mean...?"

"I mean I want to fuck her," Bruce snapped.

This was the part of himself that he disliked the most: the way his words made Clark go still, as if in anticipation of impossible physical harm. The slight widening of his eyes, the backward list of his body. If he apologized now, Clark would drop it, and things could remain as they had been.

He stayed silent. He watched Clark swallow, come to terms with it. "Oh. Well, um, does she want to...?"

"Why on Earth would I know that?"

"Well, I was traveling. I figured maybe it came up, you know, during conversation."

"It didn't."

"Oh," Clark said again. Bruce was about to take pity on them both and volunteer his return to Gotham when Clark added, "Hey, Bruce. You know I love you?"

"Of course."

"Okay. So I mean...I think you're lovable."

The brief flare of annoyance was almost welcome. "Yes, Clark, that's usually implied in 'I love you'."

"No, I know, I just mean -- well. Um." Clark squinted at the ceiling. "Lois...I mean, I'm just not sure she would, uh, want that. With you."

Good grief. "Clark, you don't need to let me down easy on your partner's behalf. I'm well aware of Lois's dislike." He was also well aware of Lois's attraction towards him, but she'd clearly decided not to do anything about it. Who was Bruce to tell Clark otherwise?

"Okay. Well, that's good then, right?"

"That she dislikes me?"

"No! I mean -- auugh." Clark pressed his face into his hands, then dragged his fingers through his hair. It was interesting, Bruce thought distantly, to see him so discomposed. Clark presented himself with an artlessness that few understood to be partially artifice. Had Bruce been panicking slightly less, he'd be taking notes. "I only mean it's good you're aware. On the same page. I want you to be happy. If Lois wanting to date you would make you happy, then I'd want that. For both of you."

"I didn't say I wanted to date her."

Clark gave him a flat look. "Sure."

Well, that wasn't an argument that would take them anywhere worth going. "I apologize for springing this on you. I spent time with her while you were gone -- she probably told you."

"She told me about the stalking and the drinking, yeah. Did you seriously hit on her undercover as Matches Malone?"

"It was an operational necessity."

"Uh-huh." And Clark, impossible Clark, sounded fond, like Bruce confessing to emotional infidelity was some kind of charming little quirk. "How'd she like it?"

"She didn't tell you?"

"She said you smelled and acted weird."

"We took a walk. I think she liked that part." And after...well. If she'd asked, he'd have accepted. He'd thought she might ask. He had overestimated his own loyalty, and underestimated hers.

"Got it." Clark blinked, looking Bruce up and down like he'd just appeared. "So, are you going to take the boots off?"

After that it was all hot kisses and desperate fumbling, Clark shivering like he hadn't been touched in weeks, Bruce biting his lip to keep from asking what Lois had done, how she'd kissed him, if she'd fucked him. This was enough: Clark on his hands and knees, Bruce bent over him, skin to skin, his mouth on Clark's neck, his hand on Clark's cock. Clark cradling him in his body, impossibly strong and gentler with them both than Bruce had ever managed to be.

"We should get dinner."

Clark looked at his chicken, then Bruce's, then Lois's, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

She rolled her eyes at him. "One Bruce in this apartment is enough, thanks. I mean we should get dinner out again. This is nice, right? Imagine how nice it would be if one of us didn't have to do the dishes afterwards."

"You have a point," Clark said.

Bruce stayed silent; he couldn't think of anything to say, Golden Rule adherent or otherwise. Since Lois broke her wrist, Thursday night dinners at home had become an increasingly regular routine, one he loved and hated in equal measure. They'd had it at the manor last week, a quirk of scheduling that became Lois staying overnight. She'd even tolerating Damian's obsessive questioning in the morning. Admittedly, Alfred's pancakes had persuaded more than one overnight guest to be kinder to his son, but. Well. It was all too intimate and not intimate enough, like a lot of Bruce's life these days.

"Bruce, what do you think?"

Bruce met Lois's gaze, and what he saw there had him biting back you know what I think. Reporters. "We were sloppy to do it so many times before. Restaurants are difficult to secure. And Clark's not a famous reporter, but you are."

"Ah. You think people will eventually want to know why Bruce Wayne is giving the Planet an exclusive."

Bruce nodded.

And then he saw the trap: a tiny, tiny hint of a smirk right before Lois said, "But no one will care if Clark and I have dinner with Matches Malone."

Clark howled with laughter. Hooted, even, like they were at a Smallville High football game. Lois didn't bother to hide her smirk, and Bruce couldn't stop the blush that had already begun, turning his entire face and chest humiliatingly bright red.

"Very funny," he managed to say. Not as dry as he wanted to be. "I'll need at least a few more glasses of wine before I seriously consider that idea."

"Well, bottoms up." Lois refilled his glass, then her own, saluting him with an ironic tilt of her eyebrow.

It was different, with Lois there, in ways that couldn't be reduced to 'having dinner with two people is different from dinner with one'. Lois had extraordinary capacity for kindness and gentleness, but she didn't try to hide her edges with Clark: didn't pretend to be nicer than she was, didn't refrain from a bawdy joke or a firm disagreement. Clark responded so well, lighting up at the chance to argue with her, teasing her right back when she needled him. Bruce had spent the last several months of this relationship on his best behavior, ever-wary of demonstrating all the reasons why Clark's little detour into polyamory was, in fact, a detour. Lois seemed to have no such qualms. And Bruce...Bruce found himself responding. Participating.

Case in point: Clark couldn't get drunk, but human psychology demonstrated that the placebo effect applied to alcohol; ingestion of water among intoxicated persons could produce emotions and behavior similar to those experienced while intoxicated. There was no reason to think Clark's psychology deviated from human norms in this area. He drank his wine and laughed, cheeks flushing, when Lois said, "Careful, you don't want Bruce to have too much wine."

Her heel bumped into Bruce's shin. She was running her foot up and down Clark's calf under the table.

At that point, Bruce should have excused himself, or told Lois to excuse herself. It was Thursday night: Bruce's night. But he'd had three overfull glasses of wine and he wasn't feeling particularly giving, so he winked at her and said, Bruce-Wayne-smooth, "Don't worry, sweetheart, if all else fails I've got two good hands."

She understood the joke, the switch: she laughed. "Oh, I bet you do."

"The greater risk is assassination," he said, dropping the affect.

"I know you're a big-time CEO, but I'm pretty sure you can still have dinner without being shot. Especially if Clark's there."

"Assassination of you, Lois," Bruce said, and then for some utterly incomprehensible reason, she kissed him.

He couldn't help the way he melted into it. Lois kissed like she could use it to extract information, like she knew precisely the things you wanted most and demanded fealty for even a glimpse of them. It was as compelling as Bruce had imagined it might be all those times he'd watched her do this to Clark. She grabbed him by the collar and yanked him towards the sofa, and he didn't even hesitate before letting her do it, his eyes meeting Clark's as she shoved him down onto the cushions.

He'd had countless women on his lap; hell, he'd had countless women on his lap on this very sofa. It didn't matter. There was no sense of familiarity in Lois straddling his thighs and gripping his hair, yanking his head back so that she could kiss him again. He was firmly on the couch, in no danger of moving at all unless he wanted, but he still had to brace his hands on her hips as she fucked her tongue into his mouth, a maelstrom of sensation he could only hope to withstand.

He jumped when she snapped her fingers. She tightened her other hand's grip on his jaw, holding him still even as she snapped again, one-two-three.

"Oh," Clark said. "Oh! Yes. One moment."

Clark. Fuck, Clark, who'd apparently been sitting at their table hard as nails, judging by the state he was in when he came to stand by them. He dropped to his knees and looked at Lois with wide eyes as he said, "May I?"

Lois pulled away from Bruce with one last, dirty lick. "Be my guest." She let go of Bruce's jaw, patting his cheek gently, and Bruce --

Bruce humiliated himself, unable to bite back a thin, desperate whine.

"Oh my God," Clark said helplessly, and Bruce was falling into a kiss again.

They traded him back and forth for a little while. Clark didn't try to take Lois's spot on Bruce's lap, but he did plaster himself against Bruce's side, so that when Lois pulled away from Bruce, he could just turn his head and catch Clark's lips.

"God, look at you." Lois leaned in to catch Clark's lips, open-mouthed and wet and inches from Bruce. He couldn't keep himself from pressing his cock against Lois, basking in the way she rode him right back, hot and soft and just a little dirty.

"I want to fuck him," Lois told Clark. She was stroking his temple, ludicrously tender; Bruce watched greedily as Clark swallowed, his expression getting even dumber.

"I want," Clark said. "I -- I want to hold him. While you fuck him."

Lois smiled, sharp. "Sounds like we have a deal."

It occurred to Bruce, offensively belatedly, that he hadn't agreed to any of that. He cleared his throat. "Glad that's decided."

Clark had the decency to blush. Lois only raised a single eyebrow. "I'm glad, too. Take your pants off."

This was how it was going to be, then. Bruce made quick work of his slacks. He'd lost his button-down already, but he took his undershirt off as well. His briefs he tried to leave on, until Lois made an impatient noise and gestured at him, at which point he resigned himself to the dry cleaning bill and stripped down fully.

"Come here." Clark had been naked since Lois had given the order, pretty much, all but vibrating with impatience. Now he yanked Bruce into his arms, hotter than a fucking furnace, cock smearing pre-come all over Bruce's lower back. He felt insane, out of his own body, watching Lois use her good hand to rub her own clit, all the while staring at them with fire in her eyes.

"You fuck him raw," she said to Clark. Not really a question, but then he suspected that was the point: Clark took a shuddery breath, his cock twitching against Bruce's back as he said, "Yeah, I do."

"Good." Lois sank down on Bruce's bare cock in one smooth, easy move.

She was all wiry strength and demanding pace, her perfect cunt tight and wet around him. He could smell her sweat, could feel her nipples hard against his chest. Bruce had thought about being ridden flat on a bed with Lois looming above him, but instead he had this: slick, hot bare skin against his front and his back, Lois leaning in for another kiss even as her cunt flexed around him, a deep and utterly filthy grind.

He wanted. He wanted, he wanted, he was so fucking desperate that when their kiss ended he craned his neck back, offering himself to Clark so that his tongue could gently explore the space Lois's had already fucked.

Which of course just made him think of the bed, more than big enough for the three of them; of Clark hovering over Bruce, feeding him his cock, then pulling out so Lois could ride Bruce's face for a bit. Trading off, kissing each other above him, until Lois came on his face, Clark down his throat, as wet and messy as they could make it. Giving him a hand after, maybe, but making him do most of the work, lazy in their satisfaction.

It was Lois, predictably, who noticed. "Look at him," she murmured. "He's on another planet. Bruce. Hey, babe." Her thumb, pressing against his mouth. He licked it, sucked it in, catching her index finger too when it brushed his lips.

"Jesus." That was Clark, sounding like Bruce had socked him with a Kryptonite glove.

"Yeah," Lois said, and then she leaned back to start riding Bruce in earnest.

He had the presence of mind to catch one of her tits in his hand, pinching and biting as she fucked herself on him. His synapses overloading, his mind spiraling, he only registered warm skin and firm support at his back until Clark brushed two thumbs in the dip of his ass and said, "Can he take me like this, do you think?"

"Fuck," Lois said, clenching around Bruce.

"Can you?" Clark asked. He was whispering now, his lips brushing Bruce's ear. "I think you can. No one's more controlled than you, more capable. I think it would be good. Do you?"

He couldn't -- he wasn't -- Lois and Clark surrounded him like this. He was utterly at their mercy. He wanted so much, so acutely, skin sparking and head spinning. He probably would have agreed to anything Clark asked him for just then. Lucky him that what Clark wanted was feasible, if not simple.

"Lube," he said. Clark accommodated him, slicking himself up with a hint of his speed, holding Bruce up all the while. Lois ground down on Bruce's cock and said, "Like we talked about?"

Oh, God. He missed Clark's response, too busy breathing through it as Clark pressed his cock against Bruce's ass, slick and warm and feeling intimidatingly huge.

"Hold still for me," Clark said. "There we go." He spread Bruce with both of his hands, thumbing casually at his hole. "Relax into it."

And that was a bit much. "I know how to relax a muscle, Clark," Bruce said, a little drier and meaner than he meant to be. Lois laughed, and Clark snorted, and then he pressed, and Bruce lost it a little.

The stretch, the burn. The pain, despite his careful breathing, until the head of Clark's cock was inside, and then all Bruce could feel was the stretch, rocking back on Clark's cock and then forward into Lois, a careful dance of balance that was only possible because Clark's impossible strength braced all three of them.

"Oh God," Clark said, sounding as close to broken as Bruce had ever heard. "Lois, are you...?"

"Yes." She clenched around Bruce, grinding her hips down. "He feels so good."

"He does." A hand sliding up Bruce's chest, cupping his jaw. "Kiss him again."

Lois laid her hand over Clark's for the kiss, her cast rough against Bruce's skin, her tongue sliding back into Bruce's mouth with easy ownership. He permitted it, all of it: the messy kiss, Clark's mouth biting the back of his neck, Clark's cock splitting him open, Lois's cunt holding him in a vice grip. He was lost between the two of them, utterly adrift and happier for it. It must have looked ridiculous, the three of them moving together like this, but he didn't care; none of them did. Lois reached down to her own clit and Bruce said, "Please, let me," and for one horrible suspended moment he thought she might not permit it; but her thighs clenched and she let out a ragged, "All right," and then leaned over Bruce's shoulder to kiss Clark while Bruce brought her off, a shivery orgasm followed by a a cresting one, until she was wrung out with him still buried inside her.

Then Clark said, "He'll like this part," and started fucking Bruce in earnest, after which he remembered very little: friction, heat, the two of them turning him inside out. Coming with Lois, panting into her neck as she did her best to tear his hair out by the root. Feeling Clark, too, whispering soft loving things, coming inside Bruce like he'd never considered anything else, like Bruce was his to do whatever he wanted with. For the next hour or so Bruce would accept it gladly.

He had a plan for afterwards: they would clean up, get to bed, plan to deal with the couch in the morning. Some time would pass, and then Bruce would leave.

What actually happened was that Clark fell asleep first, in the middle of the master bedroom's enormous bed, whose ownership Bruce couldn't bring himself to assign. Lois watched Bruce for a long time, eyes bright and sharp, but eventually succumbed to exhaustion.

Bruce lay awake fighting sleep and found he couldn't bring himself to leave the bed, much less the building, long after his allotted couple hours had passed.

Meditation granted some small measure of peace. Bruce allowed himself to drift for half the night, focused on emptying his mind, calming his breath. He had meditated on cliffs' edges and in the eyes of hurricanes, while recovering from sepsis and while trying to survive beatings. He had staked his life and his city, his family's legacy and the Bat's reputation, on mastery of his mind-body connection; but when Clark's pinky brushed over his navel he had to fight panic, and when Lois's lips pressed against his shoulder he found himself staring at the ceiling, eyes wide open, serenity nowhere to be found.

Eventually, he moved to the kitchen. 3:45AM, too early to pretend he needed to get ready for Wayne Enterprises meetings but too late to take the plane to Gotham and continue his other work. He made himself coffee instead, sitting at the breakfast bar in his boxers.

This penthouse wasn't home. Home would always be the Manor, where his children were and where Alfred had raised him. But Clark's grocery list was on the refrigerator here and Lois had left a stray notepad next to the percolator. Hell, the existence of the percolator: Clark wouldn't use Bruce's espresso machine. The most expensive percolator Mr. Coffee had to offer was only for him.

It wasn't home, no, but the penthouse had ceased to be a disposable safe house a long time ago.

There was no reason to panic. Bruce closed his eyes, breathed. No reason at all except his own emotions, his own history, his frustration with himself and his terror that Lois and Clark would remember they'd been better as a Metropolis duo, no involvement from Gotham needed or wanted. No reason to panic except his regrettably human emotional weaknesses, often resented but not yet successfully excised.

No reason at all except Clark, footsteps soft but deliberately, Bruce suspected, audible, even to weak human ears.

"Hey," Clark said. "Everything, um, okay?"

Bruce closed his eyes. Sipped his coffee. Fixed a wry smile to his face. Tried, failed, tried, and failed to calm his heartbeat.

He had his face pretty well under control by the time he turned around. "Of course. I hope I didn't wake you. I don't know about you, but that was the most tiring night I've had in awhile. Fun, though."

"Bruce --"

"Don't worry, Clark. I'm usually up at this hour. A little espresso and I'll be right as rain."

Clark frowned. Opened his mouth.

Bruce prepared himself to lie.

Clark

Bruce really was just so full of shit. It would be kind of cute if Clark didn't feel like he was trying to trap a maybe-rabid raccoon nesting in Ma's attic. "Whatever you're about to say? Don't, please."

When Clark had first learned to fly -- when he'd figured out that he could in fact fly very large distances without really getting tired or even needing a break -- he'd spent an awful lot of time flying over corn fields. He'd been scared to leave Kansas, having nightmares about military strikes and tabloid sightings, and he'd kind of gone in circles for awhile. It was August, so a storm had rolled through, the air going horribly still right before the lightning started. Clark, hovering just below the cumulonimbus clouds, had watched as the wind died and the corn stalks stopped rustling. Even the bees and the squirrels seemed to have been waiting for the first strike.

Bruce's face right now kind of reminded him of that. All that emotion, buried in the blink of an eye, replaced with Bruce Wayne's vapid blankness as he murmured: "I don't know what you mean."

"I think you do," Clark said. "You were going to blow me off. You are blowing me off."

A flash of irritation. "Clark, did it occur to you that I just want to drink my coffee in peace?"

If it were Lois out here, they'd already be fighting. Clark was very sure of that. Lois didn't like snippy blow-offs, didn't like when people pretended they weren't feeling something they were obviously feeling. Actually, if Clark was honest, she mostly didn't like feelings at all. But Clark could go with the flow if it meant Bruce wouldn't totally shut him out. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and said, "Sure, yeah. Okay. Do you mind if I make some?"

Bruce waved a hand at the counter. "The Mr. Coffee's all yours."

"It's kind of funny how you make that sound like an insult," Clark said, going through the motions of filling the percolator's reservoir. "This is the nicest coffee machine I've ever learned how to use."

The pot was only half full when Bruce said, "I thought of leaving and never coming back."

"...ah."

"I'm not going to." Bruce tapped two fingers on the countertop. "Obviously."

"I'm glad." As glad as he could be while feeling like his stomach might compress itself into a black hole, anyway.

Bruce rewarded his circumspection with a narrow smile. More of a grimace, really. "I've never done anything remotely like this before."

"Neither have I."

"Well, of course not."

"Lois hasn't either," Clark offered, because Lois was definitely more sexually adventurous than Clark, and maybe Bruce, too. But Bruce only shook his head.

"None of us have done this before, Clark, because what we're doing is insane. If we were three, I don't know, bank tellers at Gotham National Bank, that would be bad enough. But we're not. We're collectively two superheroes, one extremely well-known and talented reporter, and one perfectly serviceable national desk reporter."

"Hey," Clark said. He liked to think he was pretty good, at least.

"You'll note I didn't even mention my ostensible position at WE." Bruce shrugged. "When this goes badly, the fallout won't be pretty."

And, okay. Technically true. But: "Why does it have to go badly?"

Bruce made a face at him.

"No, I'm serious. Why? I know it might, but sometimes things go okay."

"We can't all be the Kents."

And we won't all be the Waynes. Clark bit his tongue. Literally. "I get that. But that's not what I meant."

"If Lois had been even slightly unlucky in her fall, she'd have died."

Clark couldn't quite bury his grimace. "Trust me, I know."

"It's not like I'd break it off with you if you became human tomorrow. But when I agreed to this arrangement, I understood the risks. That you'd realize you preferred monogamy, that I'm simply not what you're looking for in a second partner, that attempting a relationship with me is more frustration than it's worth no matter how much you might otherwise want it." He held up a hand when Clark opened his mouth to argue. "I know you don't feel that way. But it's a set of risks I analyzed, and I decided the reward was worth it."

"And the reward with Lois...isn't?"

Another sip of coffee, another frown down at the table. Bruce's voice was distant when he said, "That's what I'm trying to work out."

Clark had no right to feel like someone had stuck Kryptonite down his collar. He'd known the limits of their relationship from the start. Last night had been everything Clark had been wanting and then some, but it wasn't a promise or a guarantee from either of them.

But, God, it hurt. "All right. Thanks for telling me."

You'd think he'd said 'let's go Stars', with the face Bruce made. "You're welcome," he finally managed to grunt.

Clark took pity on him after that, going back into the bedroom and petting Lois's hair while she slept. He was still a bit of a coward, though: after Bruce had left but before Lois's alarm, he got dressed and headed out to work.

He and Lois texted throughout the day. Bruce was sitting in boring meetings every time Clark tuned in. By the time four rolled around, Clark felt antsy, like he was halfway to the Mars and realizing he'd forgotten something on his nightstand.

"Clark! You look glum. Did they close down our Portillo's?"

Clark pasted on a smile for Jimmy. Well, he tried. Jimmy didn't look too convinced. "Nah, just a little tired."

"I saw you with the city water records. That's enough to ruin anyone's day. I actually swung by to see if we were still on tonight, but if you'd rather skip, we can take a rain check."

Oh, no. That was way too tempting. "Well --"

"Clark, bailing on date night? Not a chance," Lois said. "You should go."

Clark looked over their desks at her. Lois raised her eyebrows and sipped her water at him.

"Wouldn't miss it," Clark told Jimmy. "We should go to that place with the grilled cheeses."

At the place with the grilled cheeses, way too early in the evening for faux-drunken confessions, Clark said, "Unfortunately I made some mistakes."

Jimmy patted Clark's forearm. "Here it comes."

"Dating mistakes."

"Lois'll fix it for you guys."

"Polyamorous dating mistakes."

Jimmy's mouth fell open.

Clark slurped his beer. He'd never wished it worked more. "Yeah."

"Well, well, well," Jimmy said. "I think we're going to need some more sandwiches."

They didn't actually talk about it more. The grilled cheese place had basketball on, and Jimmy was out of his seat for the last ten minutes of the fourth quarter -- on the game clock. For half an hour Clark's only job was to cheer the Generals on to, as it turned out, another humiliating loss.

"I'm thinking about asking my neighbor out," Jimmy said after the bar had emptied out a bit. "I think you met her at my New Years' party, her name is Nina."

"I remember." A very tall, pretty woman who'd spent half the night staring at Jimmy. Even Lois had been charmed. "She was nice."

"She is. And our whole shared wall is a tank for her turtle. She wanted to make sure he had enough space. I'm obsessed with her, but do you think it would be creepy to ask her out? Since we're neighbors? Like, I don't want to be the guy who gives off a 'you can't reject me because we share a wall' creepy vibe, you know?"

There was a lot to absorb there. Clark took a very long sip of beer to give himself a second, but unfortunately all he could come up with was, "If she has a big turtle tank maybe that's protection?"

"Clark," Jimmy said, putting his head down on the table.

"Sorry, sorry. Honestly, she seemed like she really liked you at New Year's. And it was a nice party, but most people don't go to someone's party if they think they're going to be creepy like that. Especially not at New Year's."

Jimmy sighed. "I wanted to put the moves on her so bad."

It was Clark's turn to pat Jimmy's arm. "No time like the present, bud."

Obviously it was hard not to take his own advice, especially not when Jimmy was off grabbing another round of drinks or having an existential crisis in the bathroom. Clark kept -- slipping, tuning in to them even when he didn't mean to. Bruce had heated up some food and they were eating it together, not really talking much at all. Every so often Lois would read something from her socials or Bruce would mutter about what he'd just read and they'd discuss it for a few minutes.

It was incredibly, painfully domestic. Clark yanked himself away from the scene for the sixth time that night as he handed Jimmy off to his light rail stop.

And then, seconds later, he was home.

Bruce was still at the kitchen island, doing something on his laptop involving typing and glaring. Lois was on the couch, feet propped up, papers strewn all around her. Clark could feel his fondness in his toes. "Don't tell me you're both working late."

Lois tilted her head up for a kiss; after he obliged, she said, "Okay. I'm not working late."

"The Metropolis United For A Better Future financial statements are recreational reading, then."

"Absolutely," she said, and pulled Clark down for a longer, hotter kiss.

He broke away a few moments later to see Bruce staring at them, lips wet like he'd just licked them. Clark's stomach did a horrible, sick little swoop. This is what they were here for, he remembered: sexual compatibility, mutual interest. Bruce and Lois loved Clark, and they wanted to fuck each other. That was what this was.

And he still wanted it. "Hey, come over here."

Bruce swallowed, closed the lid of his laptop. Obeyed.

They fucked that night and the next, and then, only three nights since Clark had seen Lois and Bruce kiss for the first time, Lois took a call halfway through dinner.

Clark tried not to listen, he really did. But he heard a bit anyway: "...understood. All right. And you can't delay him? -- no, I get it. Okay. Thanks."

"Nothing good?" Bruce said in an undertone.

Clark shook his head.

"So I'm being set up," Lois said, returning to stab at her gnocchi.

"Pushing you off the fire escape didn't take, so they want to finish the job," Bruce said.

"Something like that. Or, well, they're trying to bury the story, anyway, I don't think they actually want to kill me. I just cleared it with Perry to take the bait."

Again, like wind dying before the storm: Bruce went still, blank, absent. "Where?"

"London."

"Oh," Clark managed to say. "Oh, wow. Be careful."

She gave him a tight smile. "You know me. I'll be as cautious as I can."

They got the conversation back on track after that, but the knowledge sat like a brick in the back of Clark's mind. He almost wasn't surprised when the argument exploded, only an hour before Lois was supposed to leave for the airport, with Clark holding up a failing dam halfway around the world.

"-- with Clark not even here, you're just going to abandon everything?"

"No, I'm going to go do my job, Bruce! It's not abandonment! Do you think Clark doesn't realize our work involves risk?"

"I think he hates it, and you know that, and you make him go along with it anyway."

"Oh, wow, thanks so much, what an expert analysis. You'd know, huh?"

"What exactly is that supposed to mean?"

"Fucking -- it means he worries about you too, just like he'd worry about anyone else he loves, me very much included -- but it's worse with you, because you're a self-destructive moron!"

"If you think making this about me will be an effective distraction, you're about to be sorely disappointed."

"Guys," Clark said out loud, then winced when the two engineers with him gave him inquiring looks. "Sorry, never mind. Um, just thinking out loud."

He had to tune out of the conversation then, but paying attention to his immediate surroundings was almost worse: he could hear the water seeping through the dam and the worried conversation happening a few hundred yards away.

Tuning it out also didn't work very well. He couldn't keep from hearing Lois make an infuriated noise. "Why are you even here? Clark might not be back for days."

Oh, come on, Lois. Clark wasn't -- well, maybe Clark was delusional. Bruce probably wasn't still there because he was head over heels for Lois, no matter how badly Clark wanted him to be. But he was there for Lois all the same.

"I was just wondering that, myself," Bruce said coolly. Oh boy.

"So go, then. Take the Batjet --"

"-- it's a Batplane, actually --"

"-- and just go."

Silence. Clark adjusted his shoulder against the dam's concrete.

When Bruce spoke again, his voice was soft, almost gentle. Conciliatory the way only Bruce could be: a non-apology that would honestly mostly just annoy you. "When do you need to leave?"

"I've got a taxi coming in fifteen."

"What's the nature of the trap you intend to spring?"

"That would take longer than fifteen minutes to explain. I'm chasing down more of the same campaign finance stuff, some people involved think I don't know this tip-off is also bait."

"...in London."

"Money goes far when it's all scrubbed clean."

That was one of Clark's favorite tones: wry, a little mean. She was probably smiling a bit, even if she was mad. God, Clark hoped Bruce also loved her like this. That was the problem with all this; Clark couldn't imagine the sex working if he didn't like this part of her at least a little.

"Perry's sending security with you?"

"Nah. Whoa, hey, calm down. The trap's not attempted murder again, we don't think. They just want to steal my data so they can figure out how much dirt I've got on them. I'm staying at a hotel, all my meetings are in the lobby. It'll be fine."

"You don't know that for sure."

"I've worked in much more dangerous situations. They will definitely try to rob me. We're ready for that, and we have contingency plans if it gets worse. Okay?"

More silence. Clark dug his fingertips into the concrete, just a little. Not even hard enough to dent.

"If things get bad, call me. Please. I don't care where you are, what time it is, anything. Call me. I know you'll call Clark." Rushed, like Lois had been about to interrupt. "But...tell me you'll call me too."

Clark felt like someone had crushed all the air out of his lungs. He couldn't imagine how Bruce felt, waiting, maybe looking at her, maybe closing his eyes. He didn't hear them kissing, didn't hear so much as Bruce shifting his weight. All the way around the world, in their stupidly large penthouse, they must have been frozen staring at each other.

"I'll call," Lois said. "I'll definitely call. Shit, but I have to go."

Silence, after that, like Bruce suspected even a sigh would catch in Clark's ears.

Sixteen hours later, Clark was back in Metropolis but Bruce was back in Gotham. Clark didn't wait for an invite: he showed up at the Manor with a bottle of red, which Alfred took before informing him he'd already set an extra place.

When Bruce returned from patrol, he didn't even bother with his boots, just pulled his cowl off and shoved Clark against the bedroom wall, kissing him desperately. He'd bought a second heavy wood wardrobe, Clark had seen. Now he realized the bed was wider, too.

"Oh, wow," he said as Bruce nipped at his thighs, pushed his legs apart.

Bruce stopped. "What?"

"You, the room." Clark waved at the extra wardrobe, the bed, hoping the point was obvious enough that he wouldn't have to say you want Lois to do some overnights with us.

"Ah," Bruce said. Pink dusted his cheeks. "Yes. It seemed prudent."

"I heard your, um, discussion with Lois. Earlier."

Bruce looked at Clark, then at Clark's dick in his hand, then back up at Clark.

A fair point, but Clark didn't feel like backing down. "Yeah. Sorry."

Bruce sighed, releasing Clark's dick and crawling up the bed to flop on his chest. It was kind of funny, seeing the Batman's cape pooled over Clark's pajama-clad legs. "Jimmy Olsen is not adequate security."

"Perry has a team for that stuff. Lois really is good at risk management, you know."

"She nearly died. She's not careful enough."

Clark didn't bother pointing out the obvious: that a shove had been the best they could do because Lois was careful, and that Bruce got lucky in a similar way every other week. He only petted Bruce's shoulder a little while his heartbeat slowed, then said, "It'll always be like this, you know."

Bruce made an inquiring noise.

"When she leaves. When you leave, too, actually. It's always like this."

"There's no possible way you could understand. You can go to her in minutes."

And oh, oh, oh, Clark hoped that meant what he thought it might. "We can go to her in minutes."

Bruce grabbed Clark's hand and squeezed so hard Clark worried about his joints. "Barbara thinks I'm an idiot."

"She thinks most people are idiots."

"In this case, I can't claim to think she's wrong."

"What, for caring?"

"For being entangled. For worrying. Do you just ignore how helpless you feel all the time?"

Clark hid his smile against Bruce's hair. Only Bruce would feel hopeful at the prospect, like maybe Clark had some great repression-related life hacks to share. "Not really. I just kind of breathe through it, like Ma and Pa taught me to."

"Country wisdom," Bruce muttered darkly.

And it was so like Lois, ridiculously so, that Clark couldn't help but laugh -- turn Bruce over -- press him into the mattress. Kiss him for all he was worth, then get to work on the rest of the stupidly complicated Batsuit, hope fluttering in his chest the whole time.

This was the first open-ended trip Lois had taken since the three of them had started all this. Last time, Clark had only been dating Lois, and Bruce had been...he actually couldn't remember. He hadn't seen Bruce, he remembered that part, but he thought maybe Bruce had been in deep cover or something. He hadn't been around, anyway. Clark distinctly remembered that part, because he had other friends and hobbies and his superhero work, and he still remembered feeling kind of lonely.

This time around, Bruce dedicated himself to lurking. They were splitting their time between Gotham and the penthouse, kind of like normal -- or like their new normal, at least, but thinking about it too hard made Clark feel self-conscious. Anyway, the point was, it had been five days, nothing was normal, and Bruce was lurking in the shadows, dressed like Matches Malone, while Clark attempted to have a semi-civil conversation with a LexCorp bot he'd caught injecting fish with a glowing yellow serum.

"I just think," Clark said, "that maybe instead of injecting fish for some kind of unauthorized experiment, you could not do that. And go home. I honestly don't even care why you were doing it, I just want you to stop."

"Error 403. Unknown unpermitted request. Error 403. Unknown unpermitted request."

Clark gritted his teeth. That was the same error as the last suggestion Clark had made, and the one before that, and the one before that. "Okay. Um, how about, leave right now or I'll smash you."

"Error 403. Unknown unpermitted --"

Clark hated doing it. Luthor's robots weren't sentient, or at least, the ones he sent to do this kind of work weren't. But they were expensive and intricate achievements of technology, and even if everything LexCorp touched was moderately to extremely evil, it still felt horribly wasteful to ruin them.

"For what it's worth, I don't think even the big ol' Gotham Bat coulda fixed dat one."

"Thanks," Clark said flatly.

"Eyy, what's wrong with me givin' my opinion? You got somethin' against Italians?"

"Pretty sure you're not Italian, Matches."

"Close enough." Bruce chewed on his toothpick. At least one of them was enjoying themselves; he looked pretty satisfied with himself, all things considered. "Boss wanted me to run an errand."

"Boss?"

"Sure, you know her, nice tall dame, real mean if you look at her funny?"

Why on Earth had Lois called Bruce? "Okay? What'd she say?"

"Says she's gonna be headin' down into da country today. Wants you to keep an ear out. Says maybe a little sumpin' might be in the stars for her."

Clark wondered if Bruce realized the accent slipped a little when he was stressed. Not much, probably not at all to an ordinary ear. It made sense why it would be happening now, though. At least this explained why Lois hadn't spoken to him directly; she wouldn't have wanted to distract him, and knowing she was taking a 6AM-London-time drive out into the country was indeed distracting. "Got it. Thanks for letting me know."

"You're gonna keep an ear out, right? In case a little birdie gets to sqwuakin'?"

For heaven's sake. "Yes, Br -- Matches, I'm keeping an ear out."

"Good deal," Bruce said, and finally melted back into the shadows.

In the end, nothing happened except for Perry yelling at Clark a little that morning; Clark didn't physiologically need to sleep, but his brain could get a little tired, and he never slept that well when Lois was gone. And he hadn't slept at all when he'd gotten back to his apartment (his apartment, not the penthouse; if Bruce wondered why, he didn't mention it), so it was a three-alarm Perry kind of day.

He called Lois around three, on his afternoon walk. She was already half-asleep, propped up against a pillow in her hotel room's tiny twin bed. "Smaller space, easier to sweep," she'd explained. Clark bit his tongue against offering to sweep it, like, six times.

"Bruce is kind of stalking me," he admitted when Lois danced around asking how they were doing.

"Stalking?"

"He lurks as Matches, then comes out to tell me stuff. That's how I found out you wanted me to keep an ear out."

"Thanks for that, by the way." She tilted her head, her bright eyes amused. "Did he use the voice?"

Clark couldn't quite hide his grimace. "Of course he did."

"I hate when he does that."

"Has he done it to you more than once?"

"Honestly, once was enough."

Clark told himself firmly not to hope. Matches being memorable meant nothing; he was supposed to be memorable, that was the point of him. Lois being distracted, captivated, disgusted by Matches Malone, none of that mattered; she liked Bruce enough to sleep with him, and that was really a huge stroke of luck all on its own. "Yeah. I get that."

"Do you? I kind of got the feeling you were head over heels for Bruce no matter how awful his clothes are."

"And his accent. Don't forget the accent."

"Don't dodge my question, Kent."

Clark squinted up at a bird perched on top of the covered bus stop on the corner. "Ohhhh, well. You know. Kind of?"

"Aww, cute."

"Can you blame me?"

"Can I blame you for falling in love? As your girlfriend, I'm gonna have to say no."

Talking to her about falling in love with Bruce, oh geez. "Tell me about London," Clark said, mostly in a desperate gambit to keep from talking about his feelings more; he'd been to London, with Lois even, and didn't really need a description of Big Ben. "Or the case. How are things?"

Most of the people Lois worked with probably didn't get to see much of this side of her: the mercy inherent in the way her expression softened and she immediately launched into telling Clark about her interviews with low-level bankers and relocated Sicilian mobsters, dropping her line of questioning entirely even though he was very obviously squirming. She'd spent a whole day with a British accountant and she had a lot of things to say about them versus their American counterparts, and then she had a whole story about tracing accounts all the way to Switzerland, All of Metropolis money mixed in with campaign contributions from other sources, along with money that seemed to come from nowhere at all, associated with LLCs that spanned the globe and were owned by dead people. It was Luthor, of course, at least partially; Lois thought he was conspiring with others, the moguls and rogues who'd benefit from his national candidacy. Clark had notes by the end of the call, stuff to chase down to earn his own byline. Nothing with Lois came easily, but it was always worth it.

"So, I'm guessing you haven't booked a flight home yet."

Lois snorted. "You guessed right. There's still a lot to get through. If only dirty money stayed state-side."

"Hey, if Luthor has his way..."

"Oh, God." But it made her laugh, like Clark had intended, her cheeks turning bright red and her nose scrunching up. God, he loved her, today and every day. "Okay, I have to go. I've got one last meeting at a pub before bed. But we'll talk tomorrow?"

"Of course. I love you."

For just one moment he tuned in to her across the ocean, too, so that he got to hear it in stereo: "I love you too, Clark."

"You're distracted," Bruce said that night.

Clark had been eating his burger and listening to Lois snore. "Oh. Um."

A tiny smile, almost a smirk. "What's she doing?"

"Snoring."

"Good. She doesn't sleep enough."

Clark looked at the ceiling of Dino's, then at Bruce, then at the ceiling again. He reviewed Ma's prayer for patience ('oh, Lord, grant me patience right now please, I can't be patient about that part').

"Point taken," Bruce said, kicking Clark's shin a little. Clark let himself relax into it, hooking his own foot across Bruce's calf.

Bruce chewed on one of his potato wedges. He took a really long time, but the wait was worth it, because then he slurped his Coke and sort of mumbled, "I didn't know she snored."

Clark bit back his smile. Well, he tried to. He didn't think it worked very well. "Mostly when she's alone. She piles up pillows and jams her face in them."

"Cute."

Clark told himself it was only a little delusional to think Bruce sounded wistful. But Bruce let Clark fly him back to the penthouse for once, and after they drank tea together, Bruce making grumpy noises about how the cold definitely hadn't bothered him, it was Bruce who cornered Clark against the master bedroom's dresser and kissed him, long and deep and longing, like they hadn't done this in months instead of barely twenty-four hours.

"Is she still snoring?" Bruce murmured against his lips.

"Ummm," Clark said.

"Not as a kink." Bruce nipped at Clark's chin. "I just..." A sigh, hidden in the curve of Clark's neck, breath brushing against his collarbone. "I like to know."

Clark tried to answer. The words wouldn't come.

"Because I miss her," Bruce said, the words breathed out against Clark's ear, a confession and a defense all at once.

Clark wanted to say I know. He wanted to say she misses you too. But they hadn't had enough time before she'd left, not enough time and not enough space, almost too much talking even as it definitely hadn't been enough at all. Lois and Bruce had almost slept together when Clark was off-world, Clark knew that. But knowing hadn't clarified much of anything so far.

He let impulse carry him. "Tell me why you miss her."

Bruce paused, really noticeably: hands frozen around Clark's collar, breath still. Even his eyelashes no longer brushed against Clark's skin. Clark was pretty sure most people needed to blink, but Bruce held out for several long moments before relaxing again, kissing Clark's neck and saying, "You're happier when she's here."

Oh. "Oh."

Bruce groaned against Clark's neck. "Smallville," he said, and something -- it felt --

It wasn't like how Lois said it, but it felt like how she said it, and Clark's knees were buckling before the rest of him really had any time to provide input. He lay down and Bruce covered him, kissed him, said, "It's better when she's here with us. I feel less like I'm going to -- do something stupid, say something stupid, push you away. Clark, I thought you'd marry her and break it off with me," and before Clark had a chance to protest that of course he would never do that, Bruce added, "And now I know you wouldn't, so I miss her. I want her here, making rude insinuations and pushing me more than I ever thought I'd allow. She's wormed her way into everything -- Barbara likes her more than she likes me at this point, I'm pretty sure."

Which, okay, Barbara had a few reasons to be mad at Bruce in semi-perpetuity. But Clark still felt like he was melting. "Kiss me."

Bruce did. Over and over, and when Clark whispered, "Oh, her alarm's going off," Bruce groaned and bent him over and fucked him all the way to incoherence, exactly how he wanted.

It kept him awake afterwards, though. Because he'd tried to let Bruce down easy; he'd thought it was necessary. Remembering Lois's fond looks, he thought it still might be. Lois had a huge heart, bigger by half than she let most people realize, but she'd been so mad at Bruce. She always pushed him and pushed back against him. Missing him a little when they were on different continents might not mean much.

But Bruce...there couldn't be any faking there. Maybe he didn't realize how deep his feelings went, and maybe Clark would never be able to see him realize it, but he was now completely sure the feelings were there. Bruce wanted Lois, he liked Lois: at some point, if you cared about someone and admired them and missed them and wanted to fuck them and be around them all the time, that was love, right? It was love. Clark was ninety percent sure that was what was going on there.

And he definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent could not call Lois and say, 'hey, how's the super complicated moderately dangerous case going, by the way do you love Bruce, because he's head over heels for you and you did say you were a little into Matches Malone'. So he just kind of sat with it. And sat, and sat, and did his best not to hope the whole time.

End Notes

Portillo's? Yes. Metropolis is Chicago.

Speaking of: the grilled cheese place referenced isn't a Cheesie's location, but it's not not a Cheesie's location. Jimmy Olsen is basic and he's about to learn sooooo much about turtle husbandry.

Lois

Notes

Some creative journalistic ethics in this chapter...don't worry about it.

Also, this is the last full chapter! The last bit is an epilogue. 

She wasn't lonely. She was fine, same as always. Busy as hell, in fact. She just really missed both Bruce and Clark, and that made her realize that she'd gotten very used to spending time with at least one of them. And, more recently, both. But that wasn't a problem. It wasn't even really loneliness. It was just her missing her routine and the people who populated it, which was normal, and fine.

It had been a day, though, which was a little worrying.

The loneliness felt like a rock in her shoe or a bug bite in a really embarrassing place. She didn't want to address it, didn't really have time to address it, yet at eight AM London time on her fourth day overseas, she found herself texting Bruce: meeting with sources. Recs in central ldn?

The response came almost immediately: Surely you have your own list

maybe im curious about yours

I don't spend much time in London proper. Bruce Wayne loves tawdry steakhouses and pubs that have long since become Tory haunts. I doubt your sources would be interested in either.

you've spent time there on your own surely

Nothing. Well, it was two fifteen Gotham time, late even for the Caped Crusader. She resigned herself to another day of Starbucks and went to meet Yara, an account manager's assistant's assistant, to discuss discrepancies in Lena Luthor's husband's nephew's savings account.

That evening, during the ten-minute wait for the Planet's security guys to sweep her hotel room, she thumbed through her texts again. Pictures and notes from Clark, which made her ache with loneliness even as she liked and replied, notes from Jimmy's day in Liverpool, confirmations from two sources she'd meet up with tomorrow...and a text from Bruce, linking to a Google document that turned out to be a comprehensive list of coffee shops and dive bars not just in London but also in multiple cities and townships across the UK. Christ, it was thorough, with notes from N, O, R, S, and H, a veritable treasure trove of spooks' favored haunts. Lois was torn between taking the recommendations and investigating every single one on the grounds that a Gotham bat's interest was all but proof of criminality.

But she had four people to meet with today, so she took the recommendations and put investigation on the back burner.

She reconvened with Jimmy on day five of her trip, taking an early lunch at a Pret all the way up in St Albans. "How'd Liverpool treat you?"

"Oh, it was fine," Jimmy said, "but Hot Rod Danny didn't have any cars and he denied being in debt to Cosa Nostra, so you know."

"He's been bought by a bigger fish."

"Maybe." Jimmy took a huge bite of his tuna and cucumber sandwich. "Awr a moonargh ohehn."

"Try that again."

A big, gulpy swallow. "Or a meaner one."

"Luthor?"

"Could be. No one would tell me. Not even a, you know, lurk outside this building at this time and you might find out kind of tip." Jimmy sipped his seltzer. "You've got enough evidence without this side quest, right?"

"It's not a side quest. I need all the evidence I can get, you know that." The allegations she planned to publish were, in some ways, small-scale. Petty corruption, normal municipal-fraud stuff. Of course, the reason Lois was chasing down this lead herself was because she believed, and was rapidly gathering evidence to substantiate, that the municipal fraud was just the opening volley from a much broader conspiracy. Jimmy had basically helped to foreclose some leads, a service a lot of people would regard as useless, but which Lois had long since come to appreciate. "Let me buy you another sandwich."

"Oh, thanks, but I'm not Dagwood, I think this is all for me." Jimmy took his last bite of tuna. "Anyway, how are things for you?"

"A lot of interviews, a lot of evidence. You know how it goes."

"I do, I do." He crumpled his napkin. "So...I guess you probably know part of my job is electronic surveillance."

"Yep."

"A LexCrop subsidiary is. Uh. There's no nice way to put this." Jimmy squinted at the table. "They're stalking you. And, unfortunately, they are stalking you via physical access to your room."

Already? Jesus. "Let me guess, I've got a new reservation."

"And Perry told me to help you back."

So she moved, and Jimmy and her source agreed to an eight o'clock the next morning, and then she called Bruce.

He answered with video, which she honestly hadn't been expecting. Great view, though: early afternoon sun over Gotham, warm light streaming into Bruce Wayne's glass-walled office. Even less privacy than the penthouse, of course, but you really couldn't expect anything else from WE's dilettante CEO. "Mr. Wayne, hey."

"Lois Lane." A tilt of his head. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"If you've got a second, I'd rather speak with Bruce."

It wasn't, actually, any kind of subterfuge they'd rehearsed. She watched a muscle tick in his jaw and wondered if this was the moment he told her to fuck off, reminded her that Clark, not Lois, was the one who had the right to make demands of him.

But it was Bruce who said, "What do you need?"

Off-kilter, made dumber by surprise, she blurted, "Maybe I just missed you."

"Ha. Funny." And wasn't that a kick in the head, the way he didn't miss a beat. "But seriously, what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, exactly." Kind of the opposite -- not that she thought he'd appreciate her explaining that Lex Luthor stalking her was the most promising possible development. "But I'm headed out into the country tomorrow. Long drive, lots of alone time. And yes, I'm taking precautions. But I was hoping Clark could keep an ear out."

Not even a twitch this time. He just waited.

"...and no, I'm not asking him because he'd freak out."

"It mystifies me that you don't want him there with you."

She decided they could have the whole you're-a-hypocrite-mister-Gotham-is-my-city fight later. "He has a different job. A different beat. And if he's with me, if he's the reason I'm safe here, you know it'll tear him up to leave."

"And he will leave." A beleaguered sigh. "Yes, I understand."

"You'll ask him?"

"Of course I'll ask him," Bruce all but snapped. Lois watched, almost amused, as horror flickered over his expression. "I mean --"

"No, no, it's all good. Thanks, Bruce." She gave in to her reporter's instincts and pettiness, hanging up before Bruce could try to get the last word in. The text an hour later, He'll be listening., she just replied to with a thumbs up. No need to pretend asking Bruce to be a go-between was anything more than it was.

A couple days after that, the day after Lois had talked to Clark, Bruce called at seven in the evening London time. Another video call, bizarrely: Bruce Wayne's suit and Bruce's expression, afternoon sunshine making him look unfairly gorgeous, the penthouse's stupid view clearly visible over his shoulder. Lois was in yet another shoebox hotel room, eating frankly substandard takeout and going through an invoice line-by-line. She told herself it would be ridiculous to feel jealous. "Playing hooky, huh?"

"Is it hooky if they practically kick you out?"

"Very funny. I've seen your office, the work you do is real."

"The work I do in Bruce Wayne's name, though? Eh." But he didn't seem too angsty about it today; a lazy shrug, a smile that looked more or less genuine.

If he had seemed unhappy, Lois thought she probably could have kept ignoring it. If he'd needed a favor, or was still mad at her for taking this trip, or was worried about Clark, then Lois the reporter or Lois the friend-and-fellow-Clark-dater could've handled things, arguing back or solving problems. So she actually did kind of blame Bruce for what happened next, which was that her whole chest clenched and she thought, as unavoidable as if she'd screamed it in her own ear, I love him.

She did the only sensible thing you could do after that, jamming the feeling in a box and refusing to think it again, or look at it, or consider it at all. The cognitive load of all of that meant she missed whatever Bruce said, completely tuned out until he said, "Lois? Are you okay? Did I call too late?"

"You know it's only seven," she said, forcing her brain back into gear. "Sorry, I had a busy day, I just spaced a little. What did you need?"

It was probably just her phone's color correction making his eyes look soft and impossibly blue as he frowned at the camera. "I just wanted to check in. Story's going well?"

She couldn't keep herself from sounding a little smug when she said, "I can't discuss that on an unsecured line."

"That good, huh?"

She shrugged, biting back a smile.

"Well." Another frown, another pause that felt more meaningful than it possibly could be. She wanted to -- nope, absolutely not, she wasn't thinking about that right now. "I should probably let you go, then. It just occurred to me to check in, when I had a bit of spare time."

"Sure. Thanks."

"Thank you, too." He wiggled his fingers at the phone, an awkward half-wave, and ended the call.

The takeout was still aggressively subpar, the paperwork still mind-numbingly boring, but that was fine. Any port in a storm. Literally anything to focus on if it wasn't whatever the hell that had just been.

A couple weeks into her trip, she'd gotten the necessary on-the-record information and the documentation to support it. She'd moved hotels three times and had her purse stolen twice, and it had only slowed her down a little, not even cost her a day's work.

(Dumbasses. She only kept sensitive information on her phone, and that was in an internal coat pocket.)

Piecing all that work together, it was what she'd convinced Perry to suspect: PAC money split between laundering for Luthor's aspirations to national office and laundering for overseas antiquities purchases. Lois couldn't prove Luthor intended to use the antiquities to consolidate control, political and otherwise, but she could write a hell of an article that let the reader conclude that, given Luthor's own history and what evidence she did have. It was a good week of work; she had one last meeting and then she'd be done.

It was knowing that this would all end soon that had her on edge, in fact. The space between filing a draft and the piece being published wasn't particularly relaxing: she'd have revisions, fact-checking, and figuring out her next story. But it involved a lot more downtime than right now. Time to think, time to doubt herself. Time to doubt this whole thing with Bruce and Clark, too.

After seventeen days in London, she got her last puzzle piece: an archive with scanned documents from six different Luthor-owned shell corps that clearly showed the money flowing out of All for Metropolis and into LexCorp accounts. She ended up at an Islington pub with a bunch of local journos, getting rip-roaringly drunk to celebrate her investigation wrapping, one of their Tory colleagues' public humiliation, and something involving Liverpool soccer that Lois was both too American and too tipsy to fully understand.

"Have another!" June Weaver, a London Watchword photographer, said, shoving a beer -- porter? Lois had no idea - into her hand. Lois toasted the crowd and tuned back in to the debate over...relegation? Non-relegation? Again, she had no idea. Were they still talking about the Tory? Also no clue.

It was a good night, but an intense one. She ducked out to get some air close to midnight, closing her eyes and trying, failing, but trying to ignore the pathetic sucking pit in her chest, her loneliness curling around and inside of her like one of Poison Ivy's fucking vines.

At this rate she'd be writing a personal essay about her pining soon. Fucking hell.

"I'm done, Clark," she whispered into the air. "I'm coming home tomorrow. I miss you."

But that wasn't very honest, was it? She was drunk enough to admit that part to herself. It wasn't honest because it wasn't Clark she missed. Or, it wasn't only Clark.

"I miss both of you."

Still, not quite.

She closed her eyes against the cloudy night. "I love you."

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She didn't really need to check to know who it was, but she pulled it out anyway, seeing Clark's face. She couldn't hold back her smile: of course he wanted to talk. He'd probably open by asking for some clarification on that last point, like he was interviewing her. Or maybe he'd talk around it and around it, telling her about Bruce and the farm and his Ma and everything else that had happened, until he'd painted her a beautiful picture that only needed her clarification to be complete.

She hit 'Decline'. "We'll talk tomorrow," she said, and went back into the chaos of the pub.

So, yes, at Heathrow she was so hungover she almost gave up on the walk to Departures. Technically, she could've just called Clark, but he'd definitely make fun of her hangover and Bruce would be judgemental, even if he wasn't there at the time. And knowing Perry, he'd somehow figure out she hadn't even taken her flight. No, better to walk, head pounding, all the way to her gate.

She landed in Metropolis with a text from Diana. Nothing antiquities-related, thank God, just a coffee invite. They arranged to meet the day after tomorrow and then it was just Lois, her suitcase, and the taxi home.

Well. The taxi back to the penthouse.

She hadn't thought about what to expect at 3PM on a Thursday. It was halfway through Bruce's two-day stretch with Clark, and with her wrist almost healed, she could have just gone back to her apartment. Should have, maybe, except she didn't even really realize what day it was until she was stepping out of the elevator to see Bruce and Clark sitting across from each other at the kitchen island, full wine glasses in front of them, probably gazing into each others' eyes right before the elevator door opened. Now, though, they were both staring at her. Shit.

"Sorry," she said. "It's nine London time, I'm wiped, I didn't think -- obviously I'll go back to my place." Where she hadn't really been in weeks. But that was fine. As long as she didn't open any of her leftovers, she'd just have a little dust to contend with. She adjusted her grip on her suitcase, pushed her purse up on her shoulder, and turned to leave.

"Lois."

She'd expected Clark. This was Clark's thing: no, don't go, there's room for one more, et cetera. It was why they were here, doing this, at all. She expected Clark so much that when she turned back to look at them, she said, "Clark --", and only stopped when she realized Clark hadn't spoken at all.

It was Bruce who said, for the second time, "Lois. We were waiting for you, actually. Clark said you preferred to make your own way home from the airport."

Right. Well. Technically true, but. "It's Thursday."

"So my executive assistant tells me." Dry as a bone, in classic Bruce fashion, but then he looked down at the island again. At the wine, specifically, uncorked and sitting between him and Clark, three full glasses waiting for them.

Three glasses. Not two.

"Oh."

"Uh-huh," Clark said. "I told Bruce we should just text you. Here." He was by her side in a flash, taking her purse and hanging it up, grabbing her suitcase before she could protest that the splint barely even did anything anymore. "Hi."

She felt it in her stomach when she looked up at him, that horrible twisting edge-of-a-cliff terror that meant she was experiencing being in love a little more acutely than usual. "Hey."

"Welcome home," Clark said, and kissed her. Just a little peck on the lips, but he was there, solid and sweet, and he smelled like Bruce's pear-scented shampoo. Lois felt warm all over as she kissed back.

Clark didn't let her unpack, all but dragging her back out to the kitchen. For a moment she felt like an undergrad again, wondering if Bruce would try to kiss her too, or if he'd swing the opposite direction and make one of his wry little comments that meant he didn't want her around at all. That worry didn't survive eye contact with him, though. He offered her a smile and pushed one of the glasses toward her. "I heard you had a productive trip."

She took a welcome gulp. "No you didn't. Perry's not leaking to Bruce Wayne."

"Oh, no, not Perry. But Weaver tells me you hold your Guinness impressively, and I quote, 'for a little American'."

"Little. She's shorter than me! And don't even try to tell me you know, I've already figured out why you might have a London photographer's cell."

"Oh boy," Clark said. He was sitting across from the two of them, cheeks bright red, lips wet from the massive gulp of wine he'd just taken. His shirt was unbuttoned a little, Lois realized belatedly, and crumpled in that way she knew -- she'd now seen -- meant Bruce had grabbed him, hauled him close, and kissed the hell out of him. Maybe done a bit more, too, but she wasn't Gotham's best detective, so she couldn't have said if Bruce's mouth was swollen or if his voice was a little scratchier than usual.

...and she'd trailed off to stare at Clark. Oops. "Anyway, it was a good trip, and I did get what I was looking for. I'll be filing a draft tomorrow."

"Congratulations," Bruce said.

Something about the unreadable expression on his face made her want to do something stupid. Break the ice, rattle the bars of his cage, whatever. She settled for toasting him and tossing him a wink. "Don't tell your broker anything about LexCorp stock."

"You think I have LexCorp in my portfolio?"

"We do," Clark said, laughing at the appalled look on Bruce's face. "In the pension plan, Bruce! Not on purpose!"

"Though, actually, if Lex is determined to keep dirty dealing, maybe the Planet should divest," Lois said. Or tried to say. She got halfway through 'divest', and then Bruce stole her move: he kissed her.

Not slow, not gentle, not a happy hello or an affectionate peck. Open-mouthed and dirty, so hard and abrupt she might have fallen off the stool if he wasn't holding on to her hip.

"Shit, Bruce," Clark said, and Lois almost pulled away -- almost apologized -- but Bruce only moaned, low in the back of his throat, slumping against the counter and pulling Lois in until she was half in his lap.

Fuck it. Her wrist still hurt, damn it, and she was jetlagged, and her hangover had only just faded. She wasn't going to do the work here. She braced her foot on the island's footrest and hauled herself the rest of the way onto him.

The stools weren't that big, but Bruce was broad enough to make an easy, secure seat. She swallowed his gasp with another kiss, using her newfound height advantage to tilt his head back, running her good hand through his hair and then grabbing it for a nice, solid yank.

He gasped into her mouth, of course he did, and she took advantage of it. Fucked him with her tongue a little, rocked against his dick when she felt him getting harder. She glanced over at Clark in time to see him lick his lips and swallow, eyes fixed on them. He had his fingers pressed against the countertop in that particular way he had when he was trying not to damage anything.

She caught his gaze as she broke the kiss, yanking Bruce's hair again and watching as his eyes fluttered shut, his hands flexing uselessly on her hips. "Look at him," she told Clark. "Pretty, huh?"

"Pretty," Bruce found the breath to mutter. She rocked back against his dick, unable to repress her smile as the movement made him moan.

"Pretty," Clark echoed. "Yeah. He is, you really are." This last directed at Bruce, who swallowed and opened his eyes, staring up at Lois.

Big pupils, lost expression. God, she wanted to fuck him up. This was so stupid. She definitely shouldn't.

But.

"Come to bed," she said, hopping off Bruce's lap. And of course they both followed.

They'd been at Sip'd Cafe for an hour before Diana put Lois's background report down, her expression very grave. "You've assembled a compelling case, if most of this makes it into the article."

"Enough will." Had, actually; Lois had sent her first draft out this morning. It had been almost easy at that point: tons of evidence, a compelling narrative.

"I'm no stranger to the corruption humanity is capable when there's pride at stake or money to be made, of course." Diana shook her head. "But this is one small, petty thing. Not your story, obviously, but --"

"Municipal politics. I know." There were dozens of cities Metropolis's size all over the world. Lois focused on her corner of the world because that was her job, but plenty of other evil assholes were doing similarly evil asshole things, and at least some of them might get away with it. "You're not usually the one who's feeling down about this kind of stuff. What happened?"

Diana grimaced. "What didn't? A disagreement with my sisters over the Lantern Corps, mainly. But I've found myself at odds with my sisters often, of late."

"They're opposed to your, ah, interplanetary work?"

Diana raised a shoulder. "They claim not to oppose anything. Politics, you know. But I think they look at my work, and they look at the sheer scope and scale of suffering, and they wonder if it's enough. If any of it, us, are enough."

"Amazons?"

"Heroes."

"Well." Lois sipped her latte. Too much lavender, ugh. "I guess that's why there's the rest of us."

"Precisely. Now, tell me where you plan to interview, after this comes out and everyone wants to know how you chased the story down. Pod shows?"

"Podcasts, and maybe. I've been talking with a guy who does longform interviews, actually."

They kept shooting the shit for almost an hour after that, the conversation eventually meandering to less serious things: Diana's new hybrid citrus tree, Lois's cousin trying to talk her into doing roller derby. Two days later, she was still thinking about Diana's knowing, "You do have the elbows for it. And the energy," when the Planet's phones lit up, a cacophony of alerts through landlines, cells, and cable.

An emergency, of course, but not one Superman could help with, nor one Wonder Woman could fix. A more ordinary emergency: the mayor had been arrested on charges of corruption, and the Daily Star had broken the news.

"Why the fuck weren't we tipped about this!" Perry roared.

"Because it wasn't an active investigation," Lois said.

"Luthor," Clark murmured, and then they were off.

Interviews first: cops, who lied, and the DA's office, which lied slightly less on average, but was definitely lying right now. A quick break to coordinate with Jimmy, then she was chasing down a fired paralegal who'd apparently decided haunting the bar at Manny's Steakhouse was the best way to spend her unemployment.

It was an exhausting day with no solid answers at the end of it. She didn't see Clark the whole afternoon or evening, and only stopped by the penthouse because she realized she'd left her entire dopp kit there. It was nine PM; the lights were on, Clark working on his laptop in the not-actually-a-room living room, his feet propped up on the coffee table.

Bruce was nowhere to be seen, but presumably that was a temporary thing. "I just need my dopp kit, then I'll be out of your hair."

Clark blinked up at her. He wasn't tired, Lois knew, at least not the way she was; he couldn't be. But a different kind of fatigue shadowed his expression all the same. "My hair?"

"It's Monday."

"Bruce is in Gotham. He'll be back late. He told me -- I mean, we spent the weekend together."

They had, and Lois was honestly doing her best not to think about that. They'd been in Gotham on Saturday, eating Alfred's cooking and spending lots of time working on their own projects in the Manor's comically enormous living room. Lois had discussed high-frequency trading with Tim and criminology with Steph. Clark had spent a bunch of time throwing knives at Dick on the roof. It had been a good weekend, and whether at the penthouse or at the Manor, they'd retreated at the end of each day to fuck each other, to kiss, to sleep.

The whole time, Lois had felt like she was standing on some kind of precipice. And now, with the shadow of a cover-up hanging over Metropolis, a cover-up she hadn't even sniffed the existence of before it happened, she felt...well, she felt kind of insane.

"Lois?"

Shit. She blinked at Clark's frown. "Sorry. I'm scattered. The DA's office -- not important. Yes, we spent the weekend. I figured you'd want some alone time with him."

"Not really. I mean, yes, alone time, our overtime's going to be crazy covering this mess. But I guess, well, I just thought -- never mind, it's not important." He offered her a smile. "Too many people hung up on me today. I saw your dopp kit in the bathroom." He disappeared and reappeared inches away from her. "Here you go."

She had to shift to take it with her good hand; it was heavy, evidence of just how many toiletries she'd semi-permanently moved to the penthouse. She felt like she was blowing an interview. Not good. "Thanks."

"No problem."

For a moment they just stood there, all but toe to toe, staring at each other. Something was going on in Clark's mind right now, something complicated and more hidden than he usually managed with her. She wanted to pick at it, and she wanted to leave. Clark had never been a stranger to her. Hell, he'd never even been hard to read before. The idea that the weekend, that kissing Bruce, that fucking them both, could do that to him -- to them --

Yeah, she needed some space. "I'll see you tomorrow."

For a second she was sure he was going to reach out and pull her close. Worse, she would have let him in that second, before she remembered why she needed the distance. But Clark only swallowed, leaning in for an almost-impersonal peck on the lips before saying, "Text me when you get home?"

"Of course."

She did, in fact, text him. And she texted Bruce. And on Tuesday and Wednesday she got tapas with Clark and worked with him into the night, chasing down the threads of this story: donations, machinations, evidence both planted and real. It wasn't Lex's work, but it wasn't a normal criminal case, either. They'd get to the bottom of it eventually. Clark didn't tell her where Bruce was those nights, and she didn't ask. She responded, "Ha.", to a picture of Damian reading the proof of her article that she'd given Bruce, but she didn't ask him how he was doing, and he didn't tell her that he missed Clark.

It was fine. A return to normal, in fact, which was good. She texted Bruce a few times, once in response to his question about her favorite coffee (espresso, thank you, Clark was the one who liked gas station swill and honeysuckle lavender lattes; she was never letting Diana talk her into being adventurous again), and once to confirm receipt of some information on the frame-up. She didn't particularly need or want to see Bruce outside those brief conversations, and when Thursday came she was happy to clear out, returning to her own apartment for some desperately needed dusting and laundry.

She sustained that delusion until 6:30 on the dot, when she and Bruce and Clark would normally be pouring wine and settling in for their evening's work: patrolling, data analysis, reaching out to EMEA contacts, whatever needed doing. It had been easier when it was the three of them, turning a noticeable lack of work/life balance into something companionable, almost homey. Now she was alone and Bruce and Clark were enjoying each other, together in their own private little bubble for the next two days.

You agreed to this, Lois reminded herself. It didn't help. She was jealous and annoyed and lonely. She missed Clark, and worse: she missed Bruce, who she hadn't had any time with at all for the last several days.

God, she missed Bruce so much.

The text was a relief: a cryptic message from a paralegal at the DA's, recently hired and, if Lois was any judge, very likely a mob asset who regretted their choices. She arranged to meet them at Micah's After Hours, a seedy bar on the edge of Metropolis's theater district. One cab ride later and she was getting reams of printouts related to the charges.

After the informant -- Christopher, a forgettable name for a forgettable guy -- left, Lois ordered herself a shot to celebrate the big stack of documents in her bag. Then a pint of beer just because she could. No one was waiting for her at home, after all.

"Big night, eh?"

Lois didn't let herself tense up. She glanced at the woman who'd slid onto the stool next to her, crooking a smile when she saw that she was tall and strong-looking, her hair clipped short, her ears sporting a couple small rings each. "You could say that. I was just meeting someone here for a little intel."

"PI?"

"Reporter."

"Could've fooled me. Most journos I've seen are on the nerdy side."

And, okay, Lois was wearing jeans, but: "Does assuming people are private investigators usually work for you? I guess it's flattering in the abstract, but I'll be honest with you, I've met too many PIs to consider it a compliment."

She meant to be, well, off-putting. Unavailable enough that this undeniably gorgeous woman would move on. But the woman threw her head back, laughing so loudly and unashamedly that Lois found she couldn't look away.

"I'm Kaylee," the woman said, "and you're exactly as tough a nut as everyone says you are, Lois Lane."

"Ah."

"Uh-huh."

"I don't suppose you'd want to rewind the last five minutes? I'm not usually quite this mean to random strangers."

"Why would I do that, it was hot." Kaylee nodded at her drink. "Get your next one?"

That was when she realized what was happening here, or thought about it consciously, at least. She was about to politely decline when she noticed the ID card sticking out of Kaylee's vest: LexCorp.

Honeypot? Random coincidence? It didn't really matter. Lois had never met a lead she'd walk away from. "You know what? Yeah. Get my next one."

Midnight found them outside together, Lois leaning against the brick wall as Kaylee leaned in for a drunken kiss. She worked in robotics, Lois had heard, and she was at a dive bar on a weeknight because 'something happened' that she didn't want to talk about.

Something the DA would have been interested in, Lois suspected. She'd paced herself carefully, tossing away drinks when Kaylee went to the bathroom, having plenty of water in between the beers. As a result, she was almost sober, wide-eyed and alert when Kaylee leaned in to kiss her. One kiss, Lois figured, and she could extricate herself and go home with Kaylee's number. Then the real work would start.

Only, she never got her kiss. She saw the shadow of a cape first, registered its color second -- or rather, its lack of color. Half a breath later, Batman stood beside them, close enough that Kaylee yelped and jumped away from them both, her flailing limbs jostling Lois's bag.

Not a pickpocketing attempt: the documents were still there. But Lois lost just enough time double checking that she only caught the tail end of Batman's speech: "...and thank your lucky stars that no one alerted Luthor to your loose lips."

"Homophobic," Lois muttered. Batman didn't react. It was Kaylee who straightened her jacket and said, "Right, well, Lois...see you around," then turned and jogged -- not quite running away, but not really dignified either -- towards the nearest Brown Line stop.

Batman whirled on Lois. Lois crossed her arms. "What are you doing in Metropolis?"

"You know what I'm doing in Metropolis, Lois. I think the better question is what you think you're doing, cheating on Clark like this."

"Cheating -- oh my god, Batman, be serious. That's a potential lead. I promise you, Clark and I have discussed what's we're okay with when it comes to work."

"I'm sure you have, since work is by far the most important thing to you."

And that was -- ridiculous, was what it was, and rude as fuck, and also Batman wasn't even using his signature growl. He just sounded like an asshole Lois would slap at a gala. He sounded like Bruce Wayne. "Big words from a man dressed up like a bat running around a city that isn't even his. Did you at least wait for Clark to fall asleep, or did you leave as soon as you both got off?"

A heavy thud of Batman's boots as he took one step closer, then another. If Lois so much as twitched a leg, they'd be touching. The crumbling brick of the bar's back alley was cold against her shoulders. "I'm surprised you're even bothering to ask. It seems to me that you've made your position very clear: nothing we do together is really your business, is it?"

It occurred to her, extremely belatedly, that Bruce was making a fool of himself and risking his identity more than she'd ever seen him do before, all because he was pissed at her. And her heart was racing about it. Classic. "I don't know, Batman, kind of seems like if it wasn't my business you wouldn't fucking be here. But I know you've been obsessed with Clark since you met him. I'm just surprised you're out here instead of with him, trying to make sure he doesn't leave you for someone who's less of a fucking asshole!"

She thought maybe he'd leave after that not-particularly-impressive sally. She absolutely did not expect Batman to erase the last inch between them, swaying forward to kiss her.

It should have been hard, mean. The kind of kiss you gave someone you didn't like, the kind of kiss Lois assumed Matches fucking Malone handed out like candy. Instead it was just as heart-twistingly awful as all their other kisses had been: soft, desperate, urgent. Pretty much the same way Bruce had kissed her that night she'd come back from London, leaning up into her with his hands resting so carefully on her hips.

It hurt, damn it. She broke the kiss with a gasp, reaching up to wipe her mouth like -- like what? Like she was cheating on Clark? Like she'd cheated on Bruce those two days she'd just taken alone with Clark? Like she was lying even now, insisting she wasn't lonely, that she was happy to leave them to each other? She had old takeaway rice in her fridge with mold in colors she didn't realize were possible. No, she wasn't happy.

She couldn't see any of Bruce's face except for his mouth. She tapped his helmet, and somehow he understood, disengaging the lenses so that she could see his eyes.

It didn't really help. He looked as panicked as she felt.

"Is this cheating?" she blurted out.

Bruce flinched like she'd shot him. "I don't -- we aren't -- look. Lois, I don't know what this is, and I haven't for awhile."

And, well, okay, another thing they had in common, not that Lois had been planning to admit that now or ever, ideally. "What did Clark say?"

Bruce's mouth pulled at the corners. Oh wow. "You didn't talk to Clark?"

"You didn't talk to Clark."

"Well, no, I hate talking about this kind of thing."

Bruce leaned his forehead against hers. Whatever composite his helmet was made of was startlingly warm against her skin. "We can't be seen leaving together. I'll get myself home, to the penthouse."

Ah. "Clark, can you come pick me up in three minutes? I'm outside Micah's."

As she said three minutes, Batman stepped away, grapple gun at the ready. By the time Clark lowered himself onto the pavement, he was long gone.

"How much of that did you hear?"

"Oh, most of it." Clark held out a hand. "I think I sort of can't pretend I didn't hear any of it this time. I mean. I can't ignore it."

"Apparently that makes three of us."

"All righty then." Strong, warm arms around her, accompanied by a blink-and-you'd-miss-it kiss to the top of her head. Even flying normal speed, it wasn't exactly a long trip: a couple minutes, maybe, and then Clark was gently setting her down on the balcony.

Bruce sat waiting for them, hair a little mussed, wearing a tank top and sweats. It was as casual as Lois had ever seen him outside of pure nakedness; it made something twist in her chest. "Hey."

He nodded at her, completely expressionless. Ouch. Well, at least she knew where they stood.

"I think we all need to talk," Clark said from behind her.

"No need," Bruce said. "I know where we stand."

"My thoughts exactly," Lois said. "Things are fine, we just got a little annoyed with each other. Normal conflict resolution stuff. Right?"

Bruce's eyes flickered to the (authentic; horrible) Pollock on the wall. "Right."

"That's not true," Clark said. He moved to stand between them, his brow furrowed, his hands curled like weird little claws. Stopping himself from reaching out, Lois guessed, though she wasn't sure to whom. "Come on, Bruce, Lois, don't -- I know you guys don't think that's true."

"Do you now," Bruce murmured. He didn't look away from the painting.

Lois cleared her throat. "He's more perceptive than you give him credit for. You should listen to him."

"You should listen to me too!" Clark said. "Cripes, Lois, I'm at my wit's end with both of you. Why can't you just admit you want to spend time together? Is it really so awful? Or are you just sexually attracted to each other and you'd rather not -- if it's not real, if none of it's real, then just tell me, okay? And each other, ideally. But it seems real. It, it feels real, too."

He was bright red by the end of his mini-speech, breathing as hard as Bruce would've been after thirteen flights of stairs, voice cracking like he had a lump in his throat. Lois had once thought Clark was just a really good mimic, but she knew better now; Clark had been raised human, had watched his mother and father cry and laugh and probably even argue. These were real reactions she was seeing, because they'd both really upset Clark.

Shame washed over her. Judging by the look on Bruce's face, she wasn't the only one. "Shit, Clark, I'm sorry."

"It's okay." He screwed his eyes shut, taking several deep breaths before opening them again. "Really, Lois, it's -- it's fine, or it will be. I just. I thought? Or, I'd hoped? That things were starting to change. And it's really okay if they're not. They don't need to be. It's not what we agreed, I know that."

It was Bruce who answered, his voice low and almost-furious: "Don't recite what you think you should be saying. We screwed up. We hurt you."

"Well." Clark opened his eyes now, but only to grimace at the ceiling. "Yes. But, um, not because you kissed each other, just to be clear."

And that was just -- fuck.

She'd denied what she was feeling, repressed it, looked at it head-on only for as long as it took to admonish herself for having feelings at all. She'd tried to forget about Bruce, tried to remember all the reasons she didn't want him, tried not to think about that last time they were all together, Bruce open and needy under her while Clark kissed her, eyes wide open, putting his whole heart into it. She'd told herself it didn't have to mean anything, but right now she felt like she had a fish hook in her belly, one unthinking yank away from ripping her apart. Of course it meant something. It always had.

Clark must have seen something in her expression. He kissed her, very carefully, leaning in just a little. Barely more than a peck. "If you guys need to talk privately, you can, of course. I'll go somewhere else, I won't listen in."

"We know that, Clark, don't be ridiculous," Bruce said.

Speaking of ridiculous: the warmth in Lois's stomach, entirely unexpected, at hearing 'we'. "Yeah, Smallville, you know my biggest issue with you is you're a little too careful about when you use your superhearing."

"Like you don't have the most stringent ethics in the newsroom. No, Bruce, don't make that face, she does!"

"You know what she was doing when Batman interrupted."

"I know she was kissing a possible source when you got jealous, yeah," Clark said. "But first of all, the rules most journalists bend would probably make you blush, and second of all, Lois uses deception to speak truth to power in a way very few journalists worldwide are willing to, and yes, Bruce, I'm quoting you, because it was bullshit that you said that to me and then said 'don't tell Lois'! This whole thing is ridiculous."

At least he was cute like this, arms folded and scowling. Lois couldn't resist glancing over at Bruce -- and then her eyes were caught on his red face, his fidgeting. "Wow. Really?"

"Which part?"

She rewound: ah. "I meant the compliment, but if you were jealous then I'd love to hear about it."

"I'm not a particularly graceful covetant." His lip curled. "How could I be? I was raised with everything I could possibly want."

Lois glanced back at Clark, who was still staring into space, swapping between the wall and the floor, but now with a frown that looked less like anger and more like puzzled resignation. She thought about the very obvious detail Bruce had omitted: that an orphan could hardly be described as having everything he could possibly want. That Bruce was really, really obvious when he was trying to deny what he was feeling; that Lois easily recognized it because she had the exact same tendencies.

Right.

"Well, me neither. You saw what I'm like with a story. I get obsessive. I get selfish. And hey, that's what the job takes, and Clark knows it. But I also get stubborn, when it's something I want, circumstances I can't control. Or." Fuck, Lane, spit it out. "Someone I want. That's what you saw tonight."

Bruce narrowed his eyes at her. "You're saying what Clark wants to hear."

"Nope."

"You're saying what you think will resolve things most easily, without needing to devote more of your free days to...this."

To us, he meant. To me. Lois shrugged. "I mean, I am kind of tired of juggling schedules like this, yeah."

"Lois," Clark said reprovingly.

"Clark. He knows what I mean." How could he not? She'd already been so obvious, in so many different ways.

Only -- wow, he really didn't, Lois realized, taking a step towards the couch in spite of herself. Stiff shoulders, bright red blush high on his cheeks, jaw set. Bruce didn't look like she'd just told him she wanted to turn their little triad arrangement into more of a throuple. He looked like she was winding up to kick him in the gut, rhetorically or maybe even literally. "Jesus, Bruce."

"I told you," Clark muttered. Which, okay, he had, in a dozen different ways. She hadn't realized just how true it was, though.

Staring Bruce down now, she knew that even if she'd taken Clark's every word to heart, she still probably would have ended up here: Bruce looking up at her with barely-disguised nerves, his clenched-together hands showing white knuckles and blue veins, his throat working as he swallowed down what she assumed were dozens of questions, or excuses, or accusations. Shit.

She'd come here with no intention of revealing herself, was the thing. She knew Clark would've been happy if she'd decided to suddenly become really emotionally forthcoming, and Bruce would use the intel the same way he used any information: as he saw fit. But she sure as shit wasn't planning on opening a vein in front of them both just because Clark would appreciate it. She didn't have that much self-preservation when it came to either of them, but she had some, at least.

Or, well, she'd thought she did, until she was faced with Bruce's vulnerability and Clark's pain, at which point she just sort of crumbled.

"I was obsessed, you know. I basically compiled a dossier on you. Not on you. On Bruce Wayne. I wanted -- to understand, I guess, because Clark is the most perfect person I've ever met -- close your mouth, Clark, I'm talking and it's true -- and he loved Bruce Wayne, so I figured there must be something else there. I didn't expect the something else to be Batman."

"People rarely do," Bruce said.

"Right. But then it was. And then you were around, all the time, being your full self instead of a ghoulish facsimile."

"Mean," Clark said.

"Accurate," Bruce said.

It was kind of hard to believe, right now, with sinus pressure giving her a headache because she refused to cry about this, and Clark and Bruce both being annoying as hell, that she wanted this. That she was trying to fight for it. But she did and she was, so she said, "Ask me what happened next."

Bruce's smirk disappeared like he'd never worn it. He looked up at Lois with wide eyes, betraying the weird, on-edge nervousness that she could already tell she was going to be obsessed with. She wanted to reach inside him and pull.

But right now he wasn't responding. "Bruce. Ask me what happened next."

"What happened next," he said, almost too low for her to hear.

"I understood Clark a little more." Weasel-worded, the editor that lived in her head howled. God damn it, she'd make such a happy coward. "Ugh. I mean I fell in love too, okay? Hook, line, and sinker."

Bruce tilted his head, looking like he was on slightly more solid ground. Ominous. "You think I baited you into falling in love?"

"Bruce," Clark said, but he was drowned out by Lois saying, "For fuck's sake no you asshole, I just did it anyway," and then kissing him.

It wasn't a particularly good kiss. Bruce's hands were too tense on her hips, his lips so stiff it felt like trying to make out with a Rodin. He was gulping big breaths of air in between kisses, and when she pulled back enough to meet his gaze again, she understood why: he was trying get it together, too.

Big fingers combed through Bruce's hair, gently tilting his head up. Lois followed the movement: Clark, standing beside them, eyes shining. "You really...? Both of you?"

"You have to have known. I was humiliatingly obvious."

"I wasn't," Lois said.

"You never are." Clark sounded equally affectionate and exasperated, which in turn made her feel squirmy, ridiculous: seen, and understood, and somehow still loved. Awful. Humiliating. She wanted to make him say it again.

"I've had an easier time unraveling aliens' motives," Bruce said. "You play it close to the chest, Lois."

It was very stupid, she told herself severely, to feel shivery and turned on just because of how Bruce said her name: hot, fond, irritated. But then Bruce said, "Lois. Hey. I fell too," and she gave up on self-control.

It was so satisfying to do this again with no hesitation, no second-guessing: to lean in and bite Bruce's lip, to swallow his gasp. She collapsed onto the couch and they both held her, Bruce from between her thighs and Clark plastered against her back. Chapped lips dragged kisses down her neck as Bruce whispered, "The only time I want any of us to sleep elsewhere is when we're at the Manor. All of us. For God's sake, I invited you to my son's birthday party."

"I just really --" She brushed her lips against his jaw, then did it again when she felt his cock jump against her hip. "-- thought you were trying to smooth over the awkwardness. I thought you hated sharing him."

"Is now a good time to admit I hated sharing both of you," Clark mumbled against her neck.

Another horrible-wonderful thing: the way she and Bruce both snorted the same laugh at the same time, shaking in mirth as Clark buried his blush in Bruce's neck, then wedged himself between them so he could kiss them both, one after the other, with impossibly sweet, transparent need.

She caught Bruce's gaze. "We've been too hard on him. Stressed him out."

"Mmm, indeed. Clark, let me guess, the edict of open communication doesn't apply to you because falling in love with two people whose lack of affection for one another pains you to think about is a walk in the park? No reason for us to worry about your heart in all this?"

"Okay, hey," Clark said, but Bruce cut him off with a vicious kiss, shoving him down to the floor.

And then, well. What was Lois going to do, not follow? The penthouse had heated floors and unbelievably plush, thirty thousand dollar area rugs. She took advantage of the element of surprise to get Bruce flat on the floor.

Correction: almost flat. When Clark pinned him with a hand to the shoulder, his cock twitched and he arched his back. "You look nice like this," Lois said, pinching his thigh just because it was there and she could. She could. He wanted her here.

"Very nice," Clark agreed. He tugged Bruce's shirt off and leaned down to kiss his way across Bruce's pecs, tonguing at his nipples. Lois pressed a hand against his still-covered cock, too gentle to be satisfying, and watched as Bruce lost the war with himself.

"Please," he finally said, naked desperation etched into every line of his body. He moved just a tiny bit, a little hitch of the hips that she got to watch transform into a beautiful full-body shudder.

She squeezed his cock again, a little harder this time, and decided there was nothing wrong with re-using an effective rhetorical trick. "Ask me what I wanted to do the last time we were all together."

"Lois --"

It was Clark who fit his hand around Bruce's jaw, applying just enough pressure to tilt his head. Lois could barely breathe as Clark said, "Bruce. Ask her."

Blue eyes fixed on her. "What did you want?"

"I wanted you bent over for Clark." A tremor ran through him. "And I wanted to be the one keeping your mouth busy."

Bruce groaned, thrashing a little as he rocked his hips up into her grip. "If you want all that, you need to -- fuck -- go a little slower on all this. I won't last."

Part of her wanted to just floor it, take them all over the edge like this. But there'd be plenty of time for that later; right now, she really did want to take Bruce apart. "Clark?"

"On it." He scooped his arm under Bruce and sped them both to the bedroom. Lois followed a little more slowly, mostly because she knew that if she waited for a minute or so, she'd walk in on Clark pressing Bruce into the bed, kissing down his spine in that sweetly dirty manner he was so skilled at.

Making Bruce moan, it turned out, his hands clenched around their duvet as he arched his back, begging for more.

"Wow," Lois said from the doorway.

Clark paused long enough to turn and look at her. His mouth was shiny, fuck, fuck, she was absolutely going to be taking advantage of his refractory period tonight. "Come here."

No need to argue with that. Lois fumbled her way out of her clothes as she went, so that when she slid under Bruce, she was completely naked and beyond ready to be touched. "Hey, Bruce."

"Lois."

"Fancy meeting you here."

"I don't think it's that surprising, myself."

"Oh my God, seriously?" Clark muttered from his spot face-down in Bruce's ass.

Bruce caught Lois's laugh with a kiss, bearing her down into the mattress with his hips, his cock pressed between them. She was already brutally turned on, but when he started playing with her nipples and biting at her lips, her mind emptied itself of anything except the need to be touched. To be fucked.

And Bruce, of course, could read her arousal as easily as an enemy's feint. "Like this," he said, urging her up the bed until she was lounging on three people's worth of pillows, her head propped against the headboard. He had the room to kiss her tits, to drag his teeth over her collarbone, and then to slide down, down, until he was pressing his tongue against her clit.

He didn't go slowly and he wasn't gentle. He sucked her clit and slid two fingers into her right away, a stretch just on the good side of uncomfortable, flattening his tongue against her and using his other hand to urge her to move, to fuck herself against him, on him. Even Bruce couldn't hold himself up with just his core for too long, but that was fine; he braced himself on the bed again and she used his shoulders for leverage, tangling her fingers in his hair and fucking his face.

She had no idea how he was even breathing like this. All she knew was the feeling of those fingers curling in her so deliciously, over and over, the way he rubbed against her g-spot and smiled when she couldn't repress a noise. He worked her closer and closer to the edge, and then grunted as she fell over it, his fingers and mouth exquisitely still until she started to come down.

Then, movement. Just a little. The aftershocks of a thrust. She opened her eyes to see Clark staring at her, at them, working himself into Bruce with tiny rocking movements.

"God, you're fucking gorgeous," she said. She meant Clark, but she also meant Bruce, his messy dark hair all she saw when she looked down. She combed her fingers through it again, pulling him up and shimmying down until she could see his wet mouth, his dazed eyes.

"Gorgeous," she said again, kissing him open-mouthed and dirty.

"Lois." Just a mumble, really, like he was already too gone to articulate any actual thoughts. Her mouth went dry.

"Yeah?"

"I need..." He swallowed around a moan as Clark snapped his hips. "Oh God."

It wasn't new, to look at Clark and know just what he was thinking. But this part was new, a little: looking over Bruce's shoulder, up at Clark, and knowing they were both thinking of Bruce, hard and needy, his whole body begging to be taken apart.

"Do you want to fuck me?" she asked, nipping Bruce's lower lip.

Red, red, red, on his cheeks and down his shoulders. It was a perennial delight, knowing just how shy Bruce could get like this. He didn't even respond verbally; he only nodded and then closed his eyes, moaning as Clark increased his pace.

And, well, no need to belabor the point. She slid down on the bed a little more, grabbed him and pressed him inside her. He gasped something garbled and kissed her, fucking into her -- no. Moving his body with Clark's thrusts, letting Clark fuck him and her.

God, that really did it for her. And she could probably make things even better. She broke the kiss to whisper, "Do you want him to come inside you? Is that why you're waiting? You want to feel him fall apart before you let go?"

Bruce cracked an eye open. "He can hear you, you know."

Just for that, she contracted her pelvic floor for all she was worth, not bothering to hide her smugness when he choked off an almost certainly humiliating noise.

"Yes," Bruce said. He pressed his forehead to hers. "Clark..."

"On it," said their overgrown Boy Scout, applying himself immediately to the task at hand.

It didn't take long. Clark was quiet when he came, usually, but he had some tells: increased speed, screwed-shut eyes, not-quite-bruising grip. Lois fit her hand over his on Bruce's hip, stroked his fingers, then dug her nails into the soft, sensitive skin between his knuckles. "Ohhhh," Clark said, a shivery, happy sort of noise -- and then he was coming, buried deep inside Bruce, his thighs trembling where Lois had her calf pressed to him.

She expected Clark to move away, maybe even to use his speed to rearrange them. She very much didn't expect him to pull out and then put his hands back on Bruce's hips. To move Bruce against, into, Lois.

To fuck Lois, with Bruce's body.

"Oh fuck," Bruce said, and then it was game over for both of them, Bruce coming inside her and Lois following pretty much the moment he pressed his thumb against her clit.

It was Clark who took care of them afterwards, fluffing the pillows and arranging the blankets before placing himself in between them. Lois snuggled close with her eyes shut, only realizing she and Bruce had the same idea when her attempt to put her hand on Clark's chest encountered a large, scarred barrier.

She was woman enough to admit that she was the one who almost made it weird by pulling away. Bruce moved faster, though, rolling his wrist and capturing her hand in a strikingly gentle grip. Well, fine, she could take a hint.

Despite everything, she didn't fall asleep easily. She wasn't sure it was possible for her to have enough sex or relationship drama to move the needle on her habitual insomnia. But she did, eventually, fall asleep, her hand linked with Bruce's and pressed against Clark's skin, listening to the even rhythms of their breathing.

Another ding on her perceptiveness: she'd really thought it would be harder to adjust to this new thing, all the togetherness they hadn't bothered to talk through. She figured there would be a ton of awkward moments and some stress and maybe a fight or two before they either gave up or set some ground rules.

She was dead wrong. They woke up the next morning and settled into what Lois realized had become their usual routine: coffee at the breakfast bar, then a walk to the train for Lois and Clark and a train back to Gotham for Bruce. The only real difference was that when Lois and Clark were ready to go, Bruce kissed Clark goodbye and then turned to Lois, raising his eyebrows like he thought she needed a chance to reject him.

"Trust me, if I don't want to be kissed, you'll know," she told him. She had a split second to commit his surprised blush to memory before she pulled him in by the tie, landing one on him and then sort of just -- fleeing.

And, okay, they talked about that a little: "He was acting weird, right?" Lois said as they climbed the stairs to the platform.

"Well, you're kind of intimidating," Clark said. But then she smacked his shoulder, and he laughed and changed the subject, and Lois let it happen because there really wasn't much else to talk about.

But there was no big threeway conversation or fight; there was no real tension or anxiety between them when they reconvened at the Manor for wine and a movie. They were just how they had been, except a little more, all the pieces Lois had tried so hard to deny she'd been missing.

She didn't realize she was making herself crazy over how bad things weren't until Bruce appeared at her elbow one night, back early from patrol but late enough that Lois should have already been asleep. "You're up late. New story?"

"Uh, no," she said. And, okay, it was really weird to even think about admitting what was going on when the person lurking next to her on the penthouse balcony was Batman. "Sorry, I have a mental block, can you maybe take the mask off?"

"Plenty of cameras, even this far up." But he disengaged the lenses, at least. She did her best to anchor herself in his concerned gaze.

The cape was not exactly easy to ignore, though.

"I'm kind of freaking out about this," she finally admitted, waving her hand between the two of them, as if there was even a faint possibility he wouldn't know what this meant unless she spelled it out.

"Ah."

"And I don't want to talk about it."

"Well, no."

"Clark would say we should, if he were here."

Bruce smiled faintly. "He's probably saying it to himself right now."

"Oh, I'm sure."

"If it helps, I'm terrified."

She hadn't expected the way his voice dropped and his gloved hands flexed on the balcony's railing. He was being honest, vulnerable. Pulling his heart out for her to see. She did her best to crush her first and second instincts, which were something like Hey, put that back and Well I wish you wouldn't. "Yeah. I guess it does."

"Liar."

"I mean, I really don't want to talk about it."

"What if we go inside and don't-talk about it?"

And -- maybe she shouldn't. Maybe, despite Clark being able to hear them, despite Clark's boundless love of them both and ridiculously full heart, he'd be disappointed they'd taken some time to fuck each other without him.

Yeah, no, even in her head that sounded ridiculous. "Come on."

She could only get about half the uniform off: cowl, cape, gauntlets, belt. He disengaged some of his own layers, but he kept getting distracted by her, fumbling with her blouse and leaving wet, desperate kisses all down her neck. She had to put her foot down, finally, shoving him against the wall of the living room and saying, "Bruce. Get naked now."

And oh, it felt good to watch his eyes widen, the way he rushed to obey. When he was naked he slumped back against the wall, watching her, his hands slack at his sides, and she just...wanted.

She stepped forward, boxing him in. His skin under her hand was warm and a little too dry; a side effect of his ridiculous lifestyle, she assumed. But she liked the other side effects: the corded muscles of his thighs, the way his pecs twitched when she leaned in and ghosted her lips over his jaw.

"What do you want?"

He let out a ragged breath. "Fuck, Lois, I don't know. What will you give me?"

What a question. "More than you probably think."

His hands curled around her arms, an unbreakable grip that made her shiver. "I want to fuck you. Not in the bedroom. Right here."

Bruce might be a founding member of the Justice League, but Lois wasn't sure she wanted to test the limits of gravity like that. Fortunately, she wasn't under any illusions about who was in charge right now. She grabbed him by the wrist in just hard enough of a grip to be mean, tugging him over to the couch and then arranging him how she wanted. Each movement was so satisfying: the tug, the shove, the kick to get his knees a little farther apart. He let her do it all, wide eyes fixed on her face, fingers digging into her hips.

"Like this," she said, and guided him inside of her.

The stretch, almost painful this time and yet exactly what she wanted. The way he gasped against her collarbone, and then, as she clutched at the unforgiving upholstery of his -- their -- stupidly expensive couch, the way he kissed her, not hard or demanding at all but softly, sweetly, asking her for more.

She took a moment to adjust, to feel herself all around him. Then she said, "All right, Bruce. Okay," and began to move.

It was so good like this. She curled a hand in his hair and kissed his jaw, sweat between them making everything a little slippery, a little intense. She'd need to touch herself at some point, or make Bruce do it, but right now she was just...feeling. Playing, like Bruce was an instrument, noting when he shivered or bit back a moan. He liked when she pressed her nails into his nipples, sharper than she'd ever want anyone to do to her. He turned into putty when she squeezed herself around him. And when she tugged his hair sharply and gave him a biting kiss, saying, "Come on, Bruce, I know you don't have a lot of leverage but you're Batman, right? Fuck me," he moaned so unbelievably loudly, hiding his blush against her shoulder even as he obeyed.

He was holding onto her like her body was a rescue buoy, and so she was the one who reached down and pressed her finger against her clit, not even really needing to move, their combined momentum creating the friction she wanted. She kissed him once more, forcing his head back and back until he was splayed beneath her, vulnerable, a supplicant. And then, with Bruce sheathed inside her, her teeth digging into his shoulder, she came.

"Lois," Bruce whispered. "Lois, fuck, Lois," a few undignified grunts, a moan, rocking his hips desperately.

She smiled and shifted a little, encouraging his arm to wrap around her back. "Come on, Bruce. Take what you want."

What he wanted was to fuck her so hard she'd have bruises in the morning, kissing her neck and playing with her tits. What he wanted was to stare up at her, watching her with suddenly-sharp eyes as he shifted his angle, played with her clit, until -- fuck, there it was. She couldn't repress the noise that came out of her, a weird undignified whistle-moan, but it didn't matter; as soon as he found the right angle he was fucking into her desperately, over and over, clearly trying to drive her over the edge again.

Normally she'd have told him to stop trying. Nine times out of ten she needed a little more recovery time and something smaller, more targeted, to come from this. But only nine times out of ten.

Humiliatingly, all it took in the end was this: Bruce's thumb, calloused and rough on her clit. Bruce's voice in her ear. "Lois," he whispered, dragging his tongue over his earlobe. He fucked up into her, vicious little thrusts, and she just --

Let go.

Somewhere between the whiteout and the almost-painful pleasure, she heard him say her name again, ragged and desperate this time, and she felt him coming, too, his fingers clamping down on her hips, his cock twitching inside her. She couldn't care about that very much, though, compared to how she felt, pleasure shaking her down to her toes, her cunt rippling around him, the pleasant, accommodating firmness she needed when she was this far gone.

They'd barely caught their breath, leaning against each other, Lois still sitting with her legs splayed around Bruce's hips, when Bruce kissed her temple and whispered, "Clark."

Lois barely had to blink before Clark was in front of them, breathing hard and looking absolutely wrecked. He choked out, "Lois, Bruce, you -- I -- please."

And then he was on his knees, on the living room floor, staring up at them like they'd caught him in a bear trap. Fuck, he looked good like that. Lois licked her lips, glancing down at Bruce to see him focused, at least as turned on as Lois herself.

"Get on the bed," Lois told Clark. He disappeared from view; she heard the sheets rustling. She climbed off Bruce's lap and held out her hand.

"Come on, no need to make our guy wait too long."

Epilogue: Clark

Bruce had hemmed and hawed and talked around it until Clark had channeled Ma, throwing up his hands and saying, "For Pete's sake, Bruce, if you want us to come to family dinner just say that!"

Then Bruce had turned beet red while Lois grinned at him, shark-like, and Clark had felt bad for needling him. Well, a little bad. But they got that invite.

Dinner this time was a low-key affair. Alfred set the kitchen table for eight: himself, Bruce, Lois, Clark, Damian, Duke, Babs, and Dick, the latter two clearly visiting to gawk at Bruce's newly semi-public relationship. Babs would definitely call it gathering intel, but Clark suspected Dick would happily admit to gawking. (Someone had to, anyway; Clark knew Steph would want any and all Bruce gossip, but she and Cass were 'out, and don't call it a date or they'll get really mad', per Dick.)

Clark couldn't even blame Dick for being willing to gossip about this. Bruce was flushed and happy despite only having had coffee with dinner. He laughed at Lois's jokes and left his foot resting against Clark's under the table. Babs was as unreadable as ever, but Dick's head whipped between the three of them with undisguised fascination. It made Clark want to needle Bruce even more, make him laugh while leaning into Lois, brag about what he was so, so lucky to have.

Probably, though, that would be sort of weird to do in front of Bruce's kids. So he kept his hands to himself. Mostly. At least until after dinner, when he pushed Bruce and Lois both against the wall of the hallway, carefully kissing each of them, unable to contain his smile. Bruce snorted and pushed him away. "We'll be helping Alfred clean up after coffee, you know."

"I know." Clark dipped his head to kiss Lois, then brushed his lips against the corner of Bruce's mouth, just one more time. "I just couldn't wait."

"Or you were antagonizing them," Lois said dryly.

She couldn't possibly have heard Babs' garbled, mostly-suppressed What the fuck, whispered at the end of the hallway right as Clark had slipped Bruce some tongue. But she might have seen them, since she'd been the least occupied of the three of them just then. "Well, maybe a little."

"Antagonizing who, exactly," Bruce said, but Clark and Lois were used to demands for their sources; they only laughed.

Much later, after dinner and several urgent Justice League issues and two more Lois Lane Pulitzers, Clark would wrack his brain trying to remember how, exactly, Alfred had managed to get him and Lois alone in the kitchen that night. He'd sent Bruce out for...something, but Clark didn't remember the request, or why Bruce had agreed to it when he had to know what would happen next: Alfred cornering Lois and Clark and affixing them with a gimlet stare.

"I'm very glad Master Bruce has you both."

"Um." Alfred's apron had kittens all over it. Clark focused on a calico as he said, "Yeah, um, me too? I mean I'm glad to have him. Them. Both of them."

"I'm glad Bruce has you, too, Alfred," Lois said. "Should I be making vague threats about what'll happen if you try to move to Cabo when you retire?"

"Butlers don't usually retire to Cabo, Miss Lane. And I'm not sure what I'd do if I retired, but rest assured I would remain in Gotham."

"Well. Good."

"Quite."

"...anyway, who wants some cookies? I've got a care package from Ma." Clark didn't mention that the care package was thanks for an ultra-high-end compact espresso machine that he very much had not researched or purchased. Lois and Bruce, respectively, wouldn't take direct thanks, and Ma knew it.

He didn't even have to pretend to be surprised when Bruce appeared in the nearest doorway, nor when Duke, Babs, and Dick melted out of shadows at the entrance all the way across the room. There'd be plenty of sneaky eavesdropping in his future, Clark figured. As long as it came with the kind of kiss Bruce planted on him as he grabbed a cookie, as long as Lois was there with him to say, "Very subtle, guys," he figured it was a pretty good deal.

End Notes

Covetant: a word I made up. Thank you to the tl for reminding me it's legal to do even if you're not Shakespeare.

One last stray note, 70k tons of concrete came from concrete network dot com's calculator, based on 12 inch thick walls and a 1000x1000 ft layout. Back of the envelope math. Construction is terrifying. Between that and the flights, Bruce's carbon footprint...I don't want to talk about it. There SHOULD be a Bat-train. (But not that kind...haha, unless...?)