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.