Lois loves Clark; she can tolerate Bruce. Bruce loves Clark; he can handle Lois.
Until, of course, they can't.
Notes
Title from Willi Carlisle's Your Heart's A Big Tent. This is complete at 57k and will be posted roughly twice per week, unless I change my mind and drop the whole thing in one fell swoop, who can say. Like many people I write comics fic as an amalgam of stuff I like from various continuities and runs. There is one probably-glaring exception here and that's Clark's family, because I was like "huh I wonder what's going on with the Kents in nu52 and later" and attempting to acquire that knowledge melted my neurons like if Chernobyl's radiation damage were animated by the guys who did the NOS shots in the Fast & the Furious. Stay safe out there.
Notes
Note the updated tags.
She was so fucking annoyed all the goddamn time.
Part of it was the wrist. A week in and it was healing, of course it was; it was immobilized and she was a perfectly healthy young-ish woman who'd been shoved into the arms of Metropolis's finest emergency care, and she was living in Bruce fucking Wayne's penthouse, which meant Batman was watching her every move. No, her wrist was fine. It was all the other stuff that kept getting on her nerves.
Firstly: the penthouse. It felt like Bruce was there all the time, even though that definitely wasn't true; he made himself scarce on Lois's days with Clark, and even on the other days, the penthouse had four bedrooms and took up two floors, so it wasn't like she and Bruce were ass to elbow on a starter apartment's tiny loveseat while Clark cooked, or anything. But -- well.
The problem was that they might as well have been, because no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't stop noticing him. Bruce's cologne under her bathroom sink, Bruce's suits shoved in a corner in the closet, Bruce's shoes in the doorway, Bruce himself on the couch or leaning against the kitchen counter or doing the dishes in a stupid apron or, just now, on Friday morning, emerging from the other bedroom, his hair a mess, a trail of red marks livid on his shoulders and neck, his collarbone distractingly bruised.
"That looks painful," Lois said, nodding at the bruise in question.
"It'll heal." Bruce squinted at her, then the drip coffee machine.
Oh, he was pathetic. She grabbed a mug and filled it up for him, no cream or sugar. "Your espresso machine supports automatic brewing, you know."
"Thank you." He took the proffered -- shoved, really -- drink, inhaling deeply and then taking a sip. "I don't keep a consistent enough morning schedule for that to work, unfortunately."
"If only you had a boyfriend with super-speed who could go turn it on for you. Shame."
Bruce snorted. "Clark's not a morning person and you know it."
And that -- huh. It was true, obviously; the man had superpowers and had grown up on a farm, but he'd sleep till ten if you let him. But Lois hadn't expected camaraderie from Bruce, of all people, whose partner she was arguably stealing. Monopolizing. With her human foibles and her lack of kevlar and vulnerable carpal bones. "I guess."
"Anyway, I tell myself I'll step down caffeine every few years. Well, Alfred tells me. Apparently chronic heavy use of stimulants isn't good for you."
"Huh, I had no idea."
"Who could've predicted?" An elegant, louche shrug: not quite Bruce Wayne, but not not, either. "I'm in one of my stepdown periods. I drink less coffee if I have to make it first."
"So, what, I'm enabling you?"
"Well," Bruce said, and his eyes crinkled at the corners as he took another drink.
That was -- annoying, Lois decided. It was annoying; he was annoying. She wanted to fuck him. It was incredibly irritating.
"I'll be tracking down one of the contacts Barbara sent me," Lois said. "I might be out late."
To his credit, he hid the frown quickly; still, Lois didn't feel like going easy on him. "I'm not going to stop doing my job because you and Clark think my bones heal more slowly than yours do."
"That's not what I think at all. But --"
"But Clark would rather I not risk myself. I know that. I'm going anyway; he knows I'll call for him if I need to."
"You didn't last time."
Low, bland, but an accusation all the same. "I'm not planning on turning my back on an open door this time."
Bruce took another drink of coffee. Looked to the side, out his massive wasteful window wall. Squinted into the sun, sipped his coffee again, and sighed. "I would also rather you not risk yourself, you know."
And that was also annoying, Lois decided. Deeply annoying. More annoying, even, than how badly she wanted to fuck him. "Trust me, I'm well aware your top priority is keeping Clark happy."
For some reason that seemed to surprise him. Long moments passed before he said, "I have other priorities. Justice, for one."
As if she needed a reminder that she stood across from the Gotham Bat. "I'm aware."
"Well, then. Good."
"Good."
Lois left before Clark could wake up, before Clark could come into the room with his wide, sleepy smile and say, "Hey, guys, what's up?" She left before Clark kissed Bruce good morning, and before he'd have a chance to do the same to her, awkward and hesitant, clearly wishing Bruce couldn't see.
Their relationship was good. It was all Lois wanted, a life she'd had plenty of time to think over and one she'd worked so hard to keep. But this part was still weird. Maybe it would always be a little strange, slightly off-kilter from what she'd thought adulthood would be like. She could handle that.
Fortunately, her agenda for the day didn't leave much time to dwell on her personal life. Barbara Gordon had sent her a nice, long list of names, one of whom was responsible, through fifteen shell corporations, for a remarkable thirty-six percent of contributions to the Metropolis For All PAC. A rich guy trying to buy a city wasn't the kind of story Lois needed to chase down personally, except that Gus Delvrey wasn't a rich guy: he was no one. He worked at a sandwich shop. He almost certainly didn't have half a million bucks to give to a center-right municipal PAC.
And Gus's sandwich shop was open today: hooray.
Lois did, technically, have a meeting. She'd called up her usual CPA consult, Jane McIntyre, who'd meet her at Lou's at 1PM. Until then, though, she planned to sip coffee, order a sandwich or two, and see how long it took before Gus got nervous.
The answer, apparently: a long-ass time. He served her two sandwiches, his eyes flicking down to her notebook and up to her face, and didn't so much as flinch. She met with Jane, going over the financial records she'd secured with a FOIA request, and still Gus didn't say anything. He closed out his shift and she bought another sandwich; he came back for store closing at eleven and didn't seem to care that she was still there. At eleven forty-five, he called out to the shop, empty except for Lois: "Closing in fifteen minutes, please wrap it up."
So, okay. He was definitely in deep.
She took the long way back to the penthouse, hoping she'd catch someone following her. But apparently Gus was smart enough not to put a tail on her even if he'd given himself away with his non-reaction to her camping out in the shop all day. She got back to the penthouse at one in the morning, completely exhausted yet buzzing with excitement, mind racing with possibilities for chasing her lead.
Because of her pounding heart and busy mind, it took her a minute to realize that the penthouse wasn't actually silent.
The problem was that Lois, with her fucked-up wrist, had taken the master bedroom, and Clark, with his annoyingly pure heart, had taken the first-floor guest suite. There were two perfectly good bedrooms upstairs that would provide significantly more privacy for their little timeshare arrangement. But it probably hadn't occurred to Clark that more space might be a good thing, and Lois was extremely confident that she and Bruce were stuck in a who-blinks-first kind of situation when it came to asking for a little more distance. And Bruce hadn't bothered having the doors replaced in this penthouse; why would he? Normally he just used it for assignations or field medicine.
All of which was to say, Clark was getting fucked right now and Lois could hear it.
Moans and gasps and sighs. Clark's breathy little 'please', and Bruce's almost-inaudible response. She drank her chamomile tea and waited for the ibuprofen to kick in and make the pain manageable enough that she could at least easily change into her pajamas, and -- did her best not to listen.
But she also didn't put her headphones on. So she knew this was on her.
She knew what was going to happen: she'd finish her tea, the pain would fade, and she'd go into the master bedroom alone to wiggle out of her blazer and get a good five, maybe even six hours of sleep. She was so committed to this vision that when Bruce exited the bedroom while her wrist still felt like it was being poked with hot little needles, she thought for a moment she'd just fallen asleep and was having a very strange and torturous dream.
But then Bruce cleared his throat and said, "Uh, hi," flexing his hand awkwardly. The hand that had probably been inside Clark. Lois wouldn't dream those sorts of details, she was mostly -- almost entirely -- sure.
"Hello," she said. She held up her mug. "Trying to wind down."
"You were out late."
"Yeah, turns out your Oracle's information is almost too good. She got me a guy who's deep in the shit."
"She's very good at what she does."
Lois had kind of expected him to deny the possessive pronoun. She watched him over her steaming mug, wariness creeping down her spine.
"I, ah. I'll just." Bruce wagged his finger vaguely forward. "Water."
He could reach it easily by going past her; the breakfast bar's stools weren't exactly huge. "Sure. Go ahead."
The penthouse's kitchen was enormous. He didn't have to pass her closely enough that she could feel the heat of his body or hear his stuttering breath. A pity, she thought, right up until Bruce skipped a finger, feather-light, over the cast on her left wrist.
She almost fell off her stool in her haste to move away. "Excuse you?"
"You look tired," Bruce said. Still so, so quiet, obviously not wanting to wake Clark up.
Another worrier. Of course. She kept her voice light when she said, "Well, I was working late. A lot of shit to get through."
"And your wrist hurts."
She didn't quite suppress her annoyed huff, and he didn't quite suppress the quirk of his lips when he saw he'd landed a hit. Trying and failing to sound normal, she said, "Of course it hurts, it was broken a week ago. You might have access to next-generation healing serums, but the rest of us have to deal with a normal timeline."
"I don't, actually. Have access to serums, I mean. If I did, you'd have access to them as well." Bruce drummed his fingers on the counter. "I bother Leslie -- that's my doctor -- for Batman, the doctor who knows about all that, not the one I see for...well. I bother Leslie for improvements. She provides superior pain management, the occasional surgical near-miracle, but she tells me bone healing can't be rushed. Though I've only needed that particular service a few times. The armor is very protective." He shut his mouth, teeth clicking.
It occurred to Lois that he was babbling, completely uncontrolled, obviously uncomfortable, practically squirming where he stood. She hadn't seen him like this ever before, not in public and not with Clark. Not at home, either. Not even the first time she shoved a tape recorder in his face after she and Clark had agreed Clark should start seeing him.
"I could also go back to bed," Bruce said, which was how Lois realized she'd been staring.
"It's fine. Big kitchen. Or, you know." She waved a hand, encompassing the sitting areas, the atrium, the balcony. "Great room."
"Clark keeps telling me it's too big."
"It is," Lois said, but she offered him a smile, hoping he'd take it in the spirit she intended.
For a moment she thought that might be the end of it. He dropped her gaze, thumb tapping the mug. She could see it clearly in her mind's eye: he'd say, 'Well, goodnight,' leaving the mug on the counter as he went back to bed. Cuddling up behind Clark, probably, and Lois would load the dishwasher with her mug before going to bed alone. It would be fine. Normal, even, or what passed as normal for her, them, these days.
Then Bruce spoke, velvet-soft in dim light. "I could help you, if you'd like. There's no need to sleep in your blazer just because it hurts too much to remove it."
She opened her mouth to say no, to imply are you fucking kidding me. But --
His eyes were trained on the counter; he clenched his mug in one hand. A very faint bruise lurked on the underside of his jaw, which could be from anything but which she suspected was from Clark. She knew Clark was worried about her and holding himself back simply because he got in his head about the demonstrated vulnerability of people he loved. And she knew Bruce understood, that he'd likely painfully fumbled his own way out of a blazer more than once. It wasn't a peace offering; that would imply they were fighting. And it wasn't a come-on, either.
But it was an offer. "All right."
"Great, thanks." He set his mug down. "Now?"
Fuck it. "Mhm." She drained her own mug, setting it in the dishwasher -- and then she almost jumped out of her skin, because Bruce was apparently prone to shame-by-example and was lurking behind her, waiting for his turn. It was only a moment of shared body heat, too-closeness that she'd normally be deeply irritated by, but somehow her wires got crossed anyway; she reached for the mug, her skin against his, and he let her take it, and then she was doing his fucking dishes for him.
Well, dish.
She was going to do her level best to forget all about tonight. "Come on. I'm exhausted."
He trailed her into the bedroom. It reminded her of having a cat, the way he'd come a little too close and then self-consciously back off. She left the bedroom door open, since Clark seeing her naked wasn't really a concern, but Bruce shut it behind him; asking him about it would take them down a road she didn't feel like traveling, so she just stood there as he approached her, trying not to bristle under his gaze.
"The goal is to avoid jostling your wrist. I'll hold this side of your blazer; if you can slip out with your good arm, then we can just ease it off. Do you want your pajamas?"
The subtext, of course, being: how naked are we getting you? And Lois had in fact slept in her work clothes a couple times already, changing only in the morning when the inflammation had gone down. But if Bruce thought she was going to give him the easy way out, they didn't know each other at all. "Ideally, yes, if you don't mind."
"Not at all. Pants first?"
Like they were at Girl Scout camp trying not to find out how they felt about seeing each other's skin. Lois failed to stifle her laugh, an undignified huff escaping through her nose. "Sure."
Bruce shuffled closer. He smelled nice, like oranges; he was unsurprisingly good at flipping the button on her slacks, easing them down over her hips. He let her handle the rest of the process until her pajama pants were halfway up her thighs. This was the least dignified part, where she'd normally hold the waistband and scooch until friction did its job and she was clothed again. Bruce, though, just reached out and pulled them up, so gentle she barely felt anything moving against her.
That did not help her situation, emotionally or physically. She hated trying to jerk off one-handed. "Thanks."
Bruce nodded, then held the left side of her blazer, looking at her expectantly.
His fucking hands were huge. No. She closed her eyes, shrugging her shoulder out of her blazer, wiggling to try and get her elbow past the seam. Bruce, damn him, noticed right away, using his spare hand to create space for her to ease herself free. Throughout this process, her left wrist stuck out like a mannequin's, and despite being braced for a jolt of pain, she felt absolutely fine. Nothing touched her, much less jostled her, no sparks of pain traveling up her forearm or making her fingers convulse. He gathered the loose fabric of her blazer and eased the left arm off so gently the cuff didn't even brush her hand, and then he went and hung it up, and the whole time Lois just -- let him. Felt like she'd been drugged, dropped in a strange universe where speech wasn't necessary.
It was so quiet that she could hear them both breathing.
When he returned, he lifted the hem of her blouse and raised an inquiring eyebrow. She felt like she was licking a potato battery in science class, she felt like she was about to lose her virginity for the first time, she felt horribly tempted to whisper Clark's name and equally tempted to kick Bruce in the nuts and chase a lead to Toronto, red-eye flight, note on the counter.
She didn't do any of that. She just said, "There's a button in the back."
"Ah. Right."
The flick of a finger, and pressure at her neck eased. After that it was easy: she raised her arms and he pulled the shirt off, tossed it into the hamper without even having to check his aim.
Her bra had a front clasp. She could handle it herself. She cleared her throat in preparation for telling him that, then felt his warm fingertips resting against her sternum.
It wasn't like she didn't trust him. It wasn't like Clark didn't love him. His eyes met hers, asking, and she nodded, and he opened the clasp with the ease of long practice, easing the straps over her shoulders, gaze scrupulously averted as he helped her into her nightshirt, which was just an old over-sized Raleigh Review tee. Easy-on, easy-off, though she wished she'd noticed before how it clung to her breasts.
She noticed now. Bruce probably noticed too. He was red from his ears to his chest, flush overtaking him like water from a burst dam. "Anything else?"
"Not unless you want to brush my teeth for me." She offered him a smile.
It was funny, watching the mask descend. He returned her smile with a smirk. "Some other time. Goodnight, Lois."
In all, it had taken them five minutes to get her changed. She got herself off so hard she saw stars and still had to wait another hour for sleep to come.
Lois knew Clark had to leave about a week before he said as much, because every time he looked at her or Bruce he gave a guilty little wince. She waited until Wednesday night spaghetti, her and Clark alone in Bruce's penthouse's kitchen, to say, "So how long will you be off-world?"
Clark laughed, a little rueful but not remotely surprised. "How'd you know?"
"You always look like I caught you with your hand in the cookie jar."
"Not that far off. A couple weeks, hopefully. Could be a couple months. J'onn's going with me."
Lois twirled her pasta, ate some. Poked a meatball. "And Bruce?"
"He says he's been away from Gotham long enough." Clark hesitated, chopping a spaghetti noodle into four pieces before finally managing to add, "Look, um. You'll probably notice him following you."
Oh, Christ. "I hope you realize I'll tell him to fuck off, then."
A fond half-smile. "He won't listen."
"And what, I'm just supposed to put up with it?" Lois made a frustrated noise. "No, I know. I don't have to put up with it, but he'll do it anyway. Christ, I don't know how you stand it."
"What do you mean?"
"He's your boyfriend."
For some reason that made Clark dribble out a little meatball. After he'd wiped his mouth, he said, "Most of his monitoring of me is like, what if I get mind controlled and kill people. You know. Threat analysis."
Wait a minute. "Kryptonite hurts you. Darkseid can kill you. Does he not think those threats are worth his attention?"
"No, he does. That's part of the threat analysis."
Making her own threats about why Bruce should see reason with regards to Clark's vulnerability would ruin dinner, so Lois let it go. But after she'd seen Clark off and spent a few days on her own, interviewing the remarkably broad pool of people whose names were on the All of Metropolis donor list despite never having heard of the PAC, she couldn't stop thinking about the conversation. It lurked in the back of her mind, an unwanted visitor.
Did Bruce seriously think Clark was a threat? In reality? Their Clark?
In that sense, it was a relief when she finally made contact with Leonard Dearborn, only a couple days after Clark left. Leonard's family's old waterfront townhome was associated with six contributions to All of Metropolis. He owned meatpacking and distribution companies throughout Gotham, not Metropolis, and swore up and down he'd never contributed a dime to the PAC. Lois was certain he was either deliberately money laundering or being set up as a fall guy. He'd ignored her calls till now, agreeing to meet at a shitty cop bar on the northeast side of town.
A cop bar. Lois hated when baddies had a sense of dramatic irony.
He showed up on time, at least. She was three-quarters of the way through a glass of beer, well aware that sources would sometimes show up early and bolt or come in, not see her on a glance-around, and leave right away, nerve lost. She flagged him down and pushed a Guinness at him, leaning back against the booth. "Thanks for coming. Got you something."
"My favorite."
"You mentioned it." She wouldn't bring up that he'd been audibly plastered if he didn't. "Leonard, it's nice to meet you in person. I'm Lois Lane, Daily Planet."
He gave her the evil eye over his pint. "I know."
"I'm really glad you decided to talk to me. I know I must've shocked you, calling out of the blue like that." She gave her aw-shucks smile, the one she'd never admit was kind of modeled after Clark.
And they were off: Dearborn digging into his financials, producing statements, mentioning and dodging follow-up questions about associates who would, in fact, use his name to launder their illegal contributions. He was being more forthcoming than she'd feared but less than she'd hoped, and he was lying his ass off about not knowing about the contributions on top of that. But he gave her a few more threads to pull, and he went on the record with financial information and speculation about why someone might want to use the PAC like this. By the time he drained his third pint and threw a couple bucks on the table, she was feeling good about the interview.
"I won't call you," he said, ducking out through the back. She made a note to look into ownership of this bar, too.
A bulky man slid into Dearborn's abandoned seat. "Well well well, pretty rude of a guy to up and leave a beautiful dame like that. What's his problem, anyway?"
She cataloged the details as her gaze moved from her notes up to the man's face: mothball-y perfume; lime green tweed; polyester bowtie, half-undone; patchy chin hair; hideous mustache. Unmistakable nose. Hard eyes. "Bruce, what the fuck."
Bruce, definitely Bruce, grinned around a toothpick. "Not my name, sweetheart. Name's Malone."
"You know it's rude to bully people into playing pretend with you? My mom had to teach me that one in the third grade."
"Can't say my ma had time to teach me much."
What was wrong with him. "Low blow. What the fuck are you doing here?"
"Heard a rumor a cute lil somethin' might be lurkin' around hopin' to talk to Lenny. Seems my little birdie was right. He tell you anything interesting?"
For a moment she earnestly entertained the idea of kicking his shins and ditching, leaving him with the tab and, if she managed a second kick, bruised nuts. But then she thought of Clark's big, mournful eyes, and how sad he'd be if she told him he went off-planet and she neutered his boyfriend. Ugh. "How about you finish up your community theater act and we can discuss it later?"
"Nah, I got a date later. And not the cute kind. Business, ya see?"
"For fuck's sake, Bruce."
"Told you, I dunno who that is. Lotta Bruces in Metropolis. I look like your cousin or somethin'?"
"I don't need a babysitter. If you'd asked Clark he'd have told you as much. Now fuck off."
"Not in the habit of askin' other men about my assignations, you understand what I'm sayin'? But I'm sure he's a nice guy. Real class."
"Kind of seeming like he's an idiot right now, actually. And so am I." His eyes were still so blue. Did this disguise fool other people? God, could Lois only see through it because she had a stupid, humiliating little sexual fixation? What an awful thought.
"Hey, sweetheart, can I get the check? Thanks so much. Keep the change." Bruce dropped four dirty twenties on the tray, way too much, not even giving the waitress a chance to check in on other people before he sent her off again. Didn't pause, either, before turning back to Lois and saying, dead serious, still with that ridiculous fucking accent: "We both know he ain't stupid."
It would be a hell of a lot easier to get over all this if Bruce loved Clark, understood Clark, even slightly less. Lois willed herself to say it: fuck off, I don't care, leave me alone, restraining order, etc.
All she could come up with was, "There's another bar down the street. Gertie's? Have a whiskey with me. On one condition."
"Talk a little less like dis?"
"Talk a little less like that."
"I'll need a dark corner. Some guys around here, they know me, capisce?"
There was no way that the guys who knew him around here didn't already know the accent was fake. Still, Lois understood what might happen to a guy like 'Malone' if he were overheard sounding like someone who went to Princeton -- and talking to a journalist, at that. "Gertie's is a dive. There'll be a corner."
And there was. Gertie's was perfect for a conversation like this: low lights, darts and pool in a space a little too small for all the noise, random tables stranded in sticky-floored corners. Lois grabbed a couple drinks and picked the table right by the bathroom, the better to squash her wayward libido; Bruce joined her barely five minutes later, adjusting his cuffs as he slid into his chair.
"Did you seriously get in a fight on the way here?"
"Dispatched an observer." Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Of you, in case that wasn't clear."
"Yeah, thanks, I got that." It was bizarre to watch, like Clark's Superman routine on steroids. His posture was different, of course, and the accent was gone, but it went beyond that. He held his whole face differently. His hands looked softer, somehow.
He looked a lot stupider in his ugly suit, also. "Did your character have to be so...ridiculous?"
"It deflects attention from what I'm actually doing. Why is a story on municipal political funding getting you such determined stalkers in Gotham?"
"If I could answer that question with any level of confidence, my story would already be filed."
"No sneak peeks for a good friend?"
Ah. Lois pushed one of the whiskies across the table, picking up her own and taking as big a sip as she could manage without coughing. "Is that what's going on here? We're good friends?"
"I have no idea what we are." Bruce raised one smelly, lime-green shoulder. "Friends is as good as any descriptor, don't you think?"
"Well, technically there are terms."
Bruce made a face.
"Yeah." Another long drink of whiskey for her; another impatient tap of the table for him. "Well whiskey's not good enough for you?"
"You're drinking well whiskey?"
The lie was worth the horror on her face. She couldn't keep herself from laughing. "Oh, calm down, I'm not an animal. It's Green Spot. Bartender's recommendation."
"Well, then." He picked up his glass. She watched him almost swirl it, stop himself at the last moment. Huh.
He knocked the glass back, burping ostentatiously, winking at her when she leaned back in disgust. "Thanks, doll."
"You almost slipped a second ago."
He stopped moving, completely. Didn't so much as blink. "I have no idea what you mean."
"Yeah you do."
"You are..." He picked up his glass again, staring at the bottom like more whiskey might just materialize. "Immensely frustrating, for someone so thoroughly embedded in my life."
"You're forgetting I've been to your house. You've embedded plenty of frustrating people."
"Not like you," he said, bitten-off syllables. He raised his gaze to hers, very briefly. His eyes looked so bright even in the half-shadows. Bright and brittle. "Believe me when I say this. Please. I have never once had to deal with anything, anyone, like this. You."
And there was an obvious question there, on the tip of her tongue: what about Clark? If he meant what she suspected, how she suspected, then it was a fair question to ask. Sure, he was in love with Clark now, but it had to have started like this, right? With distracting lust, irritation. Maybe confusion too, this time, given that they were both in a committed relationship with the same guy -- but the basis had to be the same.
But she didn't want to hear it. Or more honestly: she didn't want him to guess she had something to offer; she didn't want to try and fit her mind around the shape of her own -- ugh -- feelings. "Fine. You're buying the next round."
It was a very bad idea, but if she tended to let that stop her she wouldn't be in this situation to begin with. They got rip-roaringly drunk. Mostly they traded stories about politics, gaffes they'd seen and juicy-but-inconsequential gossip they'd heard. But as midnight stretched into one AM, the conversation drifted, doomed, to Clark.
"How'd you know?" Lois asked. Well, slurred. It was fine, she'd been drinking plenty of water. "Clark, I mean, how'd you know how you felt?"
"How did you know?" Bruce was just as drunk as she was, but he kept his linguistic facilities a little better. It was annoying. She wanted to see him as fucked up as she felt.
"I mean," Lois said, "obviously I knew. Look at him. Listen to him, he's..."
"Amazing."
"Everything."
Bruce sipped his water. Sloppily. Ha. "You don't mean that. You have your work."
"He has his too. Still."
He looked at her. She looked right back. She got the feeling he wanted her to elaborate, but, joke was on him: she was drunk and stubborn. She narrowed her eyes at him and waited.
"I've always had an everything." He broke her gaze. "The concept of splitting, diluting, the mission -- I didn't think you'd want it any more than I do."
The squirmy nervous affect didn't do his horrible outfit any favors. It almost made her think about having this conversation somewhere more private -- no. "I don't. My point is Clark doesn't want that for me. For either of us. Or either of us." She waved a hand between them. "You know, I'm drunk. Obviously. But this whole threesome thing makes it really damn hard to speak in euphemisms."
"The crosses we must bear." Another inelegant sip. "To answer your non-question, yes. Me too. Obviously."
Meaning, she couldn't even be mad at Bruce for not loving Clark enough: he did. He probably had this whole time. It made Lois want to fuck him even more, God damn it. "So."
"So."
From the bar bathroom, flatulence.
Bruce broke first. "You hate the jacket, huh."
"C'mon, man, it's hideous."
"Ah, but useful. It's got all these pockets. And it fits my look, don't ya think?"
"Watching you slip into that is horrific. And don't think I won't be looking into him, either."
Warm, warm, Bruce's cold ungenerous eyes were so warm in the shitty bar lighting. "I wouldn't expect anything less."
And then, well.
"I've got the three AM train back to Metropolis," Lois said at one point, staring out into the darkness of the harbor. The water lapped against the cement sea wall. Listening to it too hard made her dizzy.
Bruce turned a doleful gaze on her. "Lois. It's four AM."
"Ah, shit."
"But I! Have a condo!"
"Bruce, shh!" But there was no one around, really. Last call had been at three, and they'd been walking around since then. Her feet hurt. "I know you have a condo."
"I mean a different one. An empty one. For you."
Something weird was happening; even Lois, extremely drunk, could tell. But it wasn't obvious enough for her to tell what. "I'm not having a sleepover, Bruce. We're not in that kind of polycule."
Bruce's face sure did something at that. What it was doing, who knew. Not drunk Lois. Probably not sober Lois, either, but she wasn't available right now. "I know that. I'm saying it's a place, that you can use, for sleeping, for yourself. I'll go home. Obviously."
"Home and not..." She waved a hand vaguely dockside.
"I can't even walk in a straight line. No, I'm going home."
"Fine. Tell me where the condo is."
She got an address and an elevator key code, and also an awkward confirmation that the doorman had standing instructions to let her in. Bruce flagged her down a taxi and practically shoved her in it without giving her a chance to say a formal goodbye. For once that kind of high-handedness was fine with her: she was exhausted.
Exhausted, but still unused to what happened when you accepted a favor from Bruce Wayne. The "condo" of course was actually a penthouse, whose private elevator opened directly into the three-story monstrosity. There was a glass balcony, a fountain, and a luxury, seemingly never-used kitchen. Another fucking open floor plan, too. Lois needed to get better at her job, rip more of these motherfuckers off their perches. No one should be this rich.
But the bed, though. The bed was perfect. Soft and firm, clean-smelling with the now-familiar hint of the lavender that must have been from Alfred's preferred detergent. There was a dresser in the corner with Bruce Wayne-ish miscellany, cuff links that probably cost more than her rent and stuff like that. There was nothing here to indicate it was a bolt-hole for Bruce when he was being Malone: no polyester scarves, no tweed jackets. She thought about going through the drawers, but she was under the comforter, and. No. That would have to wait. She was so drunk, and she had a huge glass of water to get through. Clark would probably know all about 'Malone', anyway.
She tried not to think about that. Clark, Bruce. Bruce's stupid Malone act. The way he'd been all night, eyes on her, his half-joking protectiveness, his deadly serious insistence that she stay here for the night. She'd rather have found it annoying, or at least puzzling. An inconvenience she'd hoped to avoid until Clark was back.
But, no, he'd dispatched an observer, he'd told her to watch herself. He'd pretended to be anyone other than Bruce, Clark's boyfriend, who'd helped her out of her coat when it still hurt to move her arm. He'd been so careful of her wrist tonight, not asking about her progress but angling his body to prevent her from even brushing against a bush as they'd made their way to the water, offering his arm as she slid out of the booth and carefully not commenting on why. And the worst part was that it had been nice -- appealing -- even in his hideous costume with its cloying mothball scent and painfully clashing patterns. She'd wanted more: more closeness, more touch. If she'd been even slightly drunker, she'd have invited him up.
If he'd been even slightly drunker, would he have accepted?
It was a thought she didn't want to have but one she couldn't banish after it slipped into her mind. Bruce saying yes; Bruce following her into this bedroom. Pressing her down on the mattress. Trying to use his stupid, corny dockside accent until she smacked him, then laughing and going silent, using his broad shoulders to push her legs apart and eating her out.
Shit, shit. But it was too late to slam the lid closed on those thoughts. She bit her lip against making any noise, even though she wasn't naive enough to think Bruce wouldn't know what she'd done here. He probably bugged this room with an ultra-sensitive audio feed that would catch the little gasps she couldn't manage to repress.
Or just video feed, full color. He'd look away, of course, once he realized what she was doing. But. Fuck, why was that hot? Was it hot, or was being drunk-horny just making her insane? She was already so wet just thinking about Bruce's eyes on her, remembering how infuriated he'd been at that gala, before she knew his secret. Back when she'd thought he was just a vapid idiot that her boyfriend was into for unknown reasons, had he wanted to prove her wrong? Go toe to toe with her, show her what he could really do --
Bend her over, fuck her dirty and fast in some out-of-the-way corner, Clark standing watch but almost getting them caught anyway, his superpowered hearing useless when pitted against their ability to distract him. Fuck.
If there was a mic anywhere in the apartment, it would pick this up. Lois could bite back her moans, she could try to control her breathing, but she couldn't help the noises her cunt made as she slipped two fingers inside, wet and desperate. A horrible angle, too, not very satisfying at all, but she was too keyed up to care about that. She fucked herself desperately, pressing down on her clit as warmth slid through her limbs, her legs locking up as she chased an orgasm -- and then another, and a third, too drunk and just plain sloppy to stop herself from thinking about riding Bruce in this bed, fucking Clark while Bruce watched, leaning down with a hand around Bruce's neck and taking until she was finally satisfied.
Green Spot sucked. She woke up four hours later, head spinning, exhausted beyond belief, her pants tangled around her calves, her hair the worst rat's nest she'd had since college.
And worse, Bruce haunting her: a train ticket for the 1PM back to Metropolis, and an encrypted contact card with this condo's address and entry codes.
Fuck.
thedeadparrot
Updated: 27 Jul 2024Confirm Delete
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