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."