"Welcome home, Father. The family missed you last night. Judging by your state of disarray, I assume your fixation once again led you astray."

"Her name is Lois," Bruce said. Calm, careful, deliberately mild. No need for Damian to hear any tonal inconsistency and draw undesirable conclusions. "She's investigating some irregular Metropolis campaign funding."

"Hmph. Are the Waynes implicated?"

"Of course not. But her investigations took her to Gotham, where she was followed. I...tracked her pursuer."

"You interfered with a journalist's investigation."

"Dispatching of an observer when the journalist in question recently experienced an attempt on her life is not 'interference'."

Damian crossed his arms. "And does Miss Lane agree?"

Bruce fervently disliked the occasional, extreme difficulty he experienced in attempting to lie to his children. He hesitated a fraction of a second too long, and Damian said, "Hm!"

Time to try a different tack. "I think we both know that journalists working in our city are under the Bat's protection."

"Everyone in the city is under our protection, Father. Do you follow Gotham General Hospital's chief surgeon? Gordon? The mayor?"

"I understand," Bruce said, striving to control his heartbeat, to model mature conflict resolution, "that you may be feeling confused, or even simply uncomfortable, with my behavior. If inviting both Lois and Clark to your birthday was too much, I'm happy to adjust. Just let me know what you need."

"Father." Damian, Bruce realized slightly belatedly, was staring at him like he'd inhaled fear toxin.

Well, no. He was staring at Bruce like Bruce had told him to be careful going up the stairs. "Ah. I've misjudged the reason for your frustration."

"You've misjudged my emotional state as well. I'm not frustrated or jealous or confused. I'm annoyed. With you, Father. Lois Lane has three Pulitzers. If she successfully connects her Metropolis elections research to global financial malfeasance, she'll have four. I understand that you are concerned for her safety, but your behavior is intrusive and disrespectful. When I attempted to secure the Kents from impending cicada-related injury, you informed me I was exceeding my mandate as a crime-fighter. Are you a hypocrite, Father? Are you a chauvinist?"

The strangest thing about parenthood, Bruce had found, was that every single child had the capacity to annoy him slightly differently. Damian was unique among them in that he could make Bruce feel almost exactly as if he'd been scolded by Alfred -- right down to Bruce's irritatingly acute awareness that Damian wasn't entirely incorrect.

"I'll be filing a report this afternoon regarding Lane's Gotham pursuers. Your review would be appreciated."

It was the kind of apology Damian knew how to accept. He nodded curtly and picked up his toast, nibbling at it in a manner he'd be furious to discover Bruce thought endearingly childish.

Naturally, being absorbed in Metropolis municipal politics for several weeks meant that Bruce had some catching-up to do. Three blissfully ordinary days passed: portraying Bruce Wayne before several groups of important Wayne Enterprises board members or executives, chasing multiple midlevel mobsters into sewer tunnels, reviewing Tim's market projections, and avoiding thinking about Clark and Lois as much as he could. They were a gravity well, the two of them; Bruce relished the opportunity to act as if unattached, to tend to his city and his people without inconvenient emotions interfering with his work.

Then, of course, Martha Kent showed up for dinner.

It was neither wholly unexpected nor unprecedented. Bruce and Alfred had both ensured that Martha was aware she had an open invitation at the Manor, and that invitation was naturally more relevant when Clark was away. Nonetheless, Bruce almost choked on his soup when Martha said, "Lois told me all about your little adventure together, Bruce! She's a little annoyed about all the shadowing. But she told me she made it up to Bludhaven just fine without your interference."

Well, Dick knew how to follow at a distance and didn't -- in this specific case -- suffer from Bruce's impulse control issues. "Good for her. I have every confidence in her story."

"But of course, she doesn't even really know what the story is yet. Did you know she tracked some money to Switzerland? Switzerland! Not really an original place to hide your dirty money, of course, but a long way for it to travel for city politics."

The same thought Bruce had had when Barbara had let him know Lois had found the accounts. "I agree."

"Did she mention any theories regarding motivation?" Alfred asked.

"I would think it was obvious, Pennyworth," Damian said.

Alfred briefly met Bruce's gaze. Bruce gave an infinitesimal nod. Alfred said, "I suppose you'd better tell us, then."

"National corruption." Damian tore into his bread with obvious satisfaction. "The Presidency. Luthor preparing a run, or preparing to back a run, of course."

"Well, naturally that was her first thought." Martha spoke with the kind of fond dismissiveness that only the elderly could easily conjure. She didn't seem to care that she'd chosen to direct it at a reformed assassin. "But there's none of the usual evidence, and there would have to be evidence: running for office creates a paper trail, we all know that. No, she's still not sure, though I believe she thinks it's related to some big federal contracting nonsense."

Weapons, then, or major infrastructure projects. It was a good guess. Probably more than a guess, if Lois felt confident enough to discuss it with Martha. Bruce could help, if she brought him in. But then, Bruce had spent a lot of time lately daydreaming about Lois Lane inviting him to do all kinds of things. His judgement was compromised. "Interesting. I suppose she'll keep us updated."

And Martha, who really couldn't help herself, twinkled at him. "Humph," Damian said into his soup. Alfred sent him a reproving glance, of course, but Bruce was inclined to agree.

Later, after Alfred's vegan cassoulet and poached pears for dessert, Martha set her coffee cup down on the side table nearest the fireplace and said, "Alfred told me a guest room has been made up."

"Of course. Unfortunately, Bruce Wayne has appearances to make tomorrow morning, but Alfred can see you home, too."

"Thank you for your hospitality."

"Of course."

He glanced over at her just in time to see her gentle, almost pitying smile. Christ. "You said that already, Bruce."

"So I did." He cleared his throat. "Damian loved the quilt. He's still a little...rough around the edges."

"Well, I knew that already. But he only covered my exits a few times. I'm proud of him." A long pause; Bruce couldn't look away from her kind face, her gentle eyes. She did not, strictly speaking, particularly resemble Clark. But she was his mother. Bruce saw Clark in the careful expression, the rueful smile. "How are you, really? I asked Lois about things with you and Clark and her and she turned redder than a tomato fresh off the vine."

"Ohhhhhh," Bruce said, more wheeze than word. "We're. We're fine."

"Well, honey, that's all any of us can hope for. But you need something, you talk to me, all right? I'll bolt the door and we'll have a nice long chat."

A lovely offer, and one he'd never take her up on. "Thank you."

She patted his hand. "Don't worry, I know you won't do it. Your butler sure makes a mean cup of coffee, though."

From there the conversation was safe: coffee preparation methods and Alfred's finicky sourcing of beans, Bruce's frequent indifference to anything but the drink's stimulating qualities, Martha's indignation and issues replacing her 30-year-old Mr. Coffee machine. Bruce made a note on that last one - he could find a high-quality machine that would fit in the Kent farmhouse kitchen, he was certain.

And then Martha went to bed, and Bruce and Damian went out to continue their work.

Bruce had, of course, resolved to speak with Clark.

He'd gone too far with Lois. He knew it, Lois knew it, Martha Kent knew it. Continuing to keep Clark out of the loop would have been unconscionable, and anyway, Lois wouldn't keep secrets from Clark, so there was no point in Bruce even trying.

Clark returned on a Wednesday. Presumably he and Lois experienced a touching reunion. Bruce made it known he would be in the Metropolis penthouse on Thursday night, and when he entered at 4:30 AM, Clark was waiting for him.

"Hi, I missed you, also I kind of worry that you don't sleep," Clark said breathlessly, thumb dragging over one of Bruce's cheekbones with giddy possessiveness.

"Well, I guess you'd better help me wind down, then." Seeing Clark made him dizzy. Bruce kissed him, swaying into Clark's grip, fumbled with his pajama shirt (why even bother putting one on, Clark), and made his way out of everything but the Bat-boots before he remembered. "Shit. Clark. I need to -- damn it." He took a step away, took a deep breath. "We need to talk."

He watched it ripple through Clark: the slightly widened eyes, the near-palpable disappointment. "All right. I mean, yes, of course, what's wrong?"

Bruce blamed it on being exhausted, which he was, and stupid, which Clark made him. He gave up on subtlety, abandoned the idea of approaching it sideways. "I've been accused of being fixated on Lois. By Lois." Be honest, Bruce. "And Damian. And Dick, and Barbara. And myself."

"Bruce I really don't think being emotionally honest with yourself counts as an outside accusation," Clark said, forehead furrowed. Then the words seemed to sink in. "Oh. Oh, wow. And by 'fixation', you mean...?"

"I mean I want to fuck her," Bruce snapped.

This was the part of himself that he disliked the most: the way his words made Clark go still, as if in anticipation of impossible physical harm. The slight widening of his eyes, the backward list of his body. If he apologized now, Clark would drop it, and things could remain as they had been.

He stayed silent. He watched Clark swallow, come to terms with it. "Oh. Well, um, does she want to...?"

"Why on Earth would I know that?"

"Well, I was traveling. I figured maybe it came up, you know, during conversation."

"It didn't."

"Oh," Clark said again. Bruce was about to take pity on them both and volunteer his return to Gotham when Clark added, "Hey, Bruce. You know I love you?"

"Of course."

"Okay. So I mean...I think you're lovable."

The brief flare of annoyance was almost welcome. "Yes, Clark, that's usually implied in 'I love you'."

"No, I know, I just mean -- well. Um." Clark squinted at the ceiling. "Lois...I mean, I'm just not sure she would, uh, want that. With you."

Good grief. "Clark, you don't need to let me down easy on your partner's behalf. I'm well aware of Lois's dislike." He was also well aware of Lois's attraction towards him, but she'd clearly decided not to do anything about it. Who was Bruce to tell Clark otherwise?

"Okay. Well, that's good then, right?"

"That she dislikes me?"

"No! I mean -- auugh." Clark pressed his face into his hands, then dragged his fingers through his hair. It was interesting, Bruce thought distantly, to see him so discomposed. Clark presented himself with an artlessness that few understood to be partially artifice. Had Bruce been panicking slightly less, he'd be taking notes. "I only mean it's good you're aware. On the same page. I want you to be happy. If Lois wanting to date you would make you happy, then I'd want that. For both of you."

"I didn't say I wanted to date her."

Clark gave him a flat look. "Sure."

Well, that wasn't an argument that would take them anywhere worth going. "I apologize for springing this on you. I spent time with her while you were gone -- she probably told you."

"She told me about the stalking and the drinking, yeah. Did you seriously hit on her undercover as Matches Malone?"

"It was an operational necessity."

"Uh-huh." And Clark, impossible Clark, sounded fond, like Bruce confessing to emotional infidelity was some kind of charming little quirk. "How'd she like it?"

"She didn't tell you?"

"She said you smelled and acted weird."

"We took a walk. I think she liked that part." And after...well. If she'd asked, he'd have accepted. He'd thought she might ask. He had overestimated his own loyalty, and underestimated hers.

"Got it." Clark blinked, looking Bruce up and down like he'd just appeared. "So, are you going to take the boots off?"

After that it was all hot kisses and desperate fumbling, Clark shivering like he hadn't been touched in weeks, Bruce biting his lip to keep from asking what Lois had done, how she'd kissed him, if she'd fucked him. This was enough: Clark on his hands and knees, Bruce bent over him, skin to skin, his mouth on Clark's neck, his hand on Clark's cock. Clark cradling him in his body, impossibly strong and gentler with them both than Bruce had ever managed to be.

"We should get dinner."

Clark looked at his chicken, then Bruce's, then Lois's, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

She rolled her eyes at him. "One Bruce in this apartment is enough, thanks. I mean we should get dinner out again. This is nice, right? Imagine how nice it would be if one of us didn't have to do the dishes afterwards."

"You have a point," Clark said.

Bruce stayed silent; he couldn't think of anything to say, Golden Rule adherent or otherwise. Since Lois broke her wrist, Thursday night dinners at home had become an increasingly regular routine, one he loved and hated in equal measure. They'd had it at the manor last week, a quirk of scheduling that became Lois staying overnight. She'd even tolerating Damian's obsessive questioning in the morning. Admittedly, Alfred's pancakes had persuaded more than one overnight guest to be kinder to his son, but. Well. It was all too intimate and not intimate enough, like a lot of Bruce's life these days.

"Bruce, what do you think?"

Bruce met Lois's gaze, and what he saw there had him biting back you know what I think. Reporters. "We were sloppy to do it so many times before. Restaurants are difficult to secure. And Clark's not a famous reporter, but you are."

"Ah. You think people will eventually want to know why Bruce Wayne is giving the Planet an exclusive."

Bruce nodded.

And then he saw the trap: a tiny, tiny hint of a smirk right before Lois said, "But no one will care if Clark and I have dinner with Matches Malone."

Clark howled with laughter. Hooted, even, like they were at a Smallville High football game. Lois didn't bother to hide her smirk, and Bruce couldn't stop the blush that had already begun, turning his entire face and chest humiliatingly bright red.

"Very funny," he managed to say. Not as dry as he wanted to be. "I'll need at least a few more glasses of wine before I seriously consider that idea."

"Well, bottoms up." Lois refilled his glass, then her own, saluting him with an ironic tilt of her eyebrow.

It was different, with Lois there, in ways that couldn't be reduced to 'having dinner with two people is different from dinner with one'. Lois had extraordinary capacity for kindness and gentleness, but she didn't try to hide her edges with Clark: didn't pretend to be nicer than she was, didn't refrain from a bawdy joke or a firm disagreement. Clark responded so well, lighting up at the chance to argue with her, teasing her right back when she needled him. Bruce had spent the last several months of this relationship on his best behavior, ever-wary of demonstrating all the reasons why Clark's little detour into polyamory was, in fact, a detour. Lois seemed to have no such qualms. And Bruce...Bruce found himself responding. Participating.

Case in point: Clark couldn't get drunk, but human psychology demonstrated that the placebo effect applied to alcohol; ingestion of water among intoxicated persons could produce emotions and behavior similar to those experienced while intoxicated. There was no reason to think Clark's psychology deviated from human norms in this area. He drank his wine and laughed, cheeks flushing, when Lois said, "Careful, you don't want Bruce to have too much wine."

Her heel bumped into Bruce's shin. She was running her foot up and down Clark's calf under the table.

At that point, Bruce should have excused himself, or told Lois to excuse herself. It was Thursday night: Bruce's night. But he'd had three overfull glasses of wine and he wasn't feeling particularly giving, so he winked at her and said, Bruce-Wayne-smooth, "Don't worry, sweetheart, if all else fails I've got two good hands."

She understood the joke, the switch: she laughed. "Oh, I bet you do."

"The greater risk is assassination," he said, dropping the affect.

"I know you're a big-time CEO, but I'm pretty sure you can still have dinner without being shot. Especially if Clark's there."

"Assassination of you, Lois," Bruce said, and then for some utterly incomprehensible reason, she kissed him.

He couldn't help the way he melted into it. Lois kissed like she could use it to extract information, like she knew precisely the things you wanted most and demanded fealty for even a glimpse of them. It was as compelling as Bruce had imagined it might be all those times he'd watched her do this to Clark. She grabbed him by the collar and yanked him towards the sofa, and he didn't even hesitate before letting her do it, his eyes meeting Clark's as she shoved him down onto the cushions.

He'd had countless women on his lap; hell, he'd had countless women on his lap on this very sofa. It didn't matter. There was no sense of familiarity in Lois straddling his thighs and gripping his hair, yanking his head back so that she could kiss him again. He was firmly on the couch, in no danger of moving at all unless he wanted, but he still had to brace his hands on her hips as she fucked her tongue into his mouth, a maelstrom of sensation he could only hope to withstand.

He jumped when she snapped her fingers. She tightened her other hand's grip on his jaw, holding him still even as she snapped again, one-two-three.

"Oh," Clark said. "Oh! Yes. One moment."

Clark. Fuck, Clark, who'd apparently been sitting at their table hard as nails, judging by the state he was in when he came to stand by them. He dropped to his knees and looked at Lois with wide eyes as he said, "May I?"

Lois pulled away from Bruce with one last, dirty lick. "Be my guest." She let go of Bruce's jaw, patting his cheek gently, and Bruce --

Bruce humiliated himself, unable to bite back a thin, desperate whine.

"Oh my God," Clark said helplessly, and Bruce was falling into a kiss again.

They traded him back and forth for a little while. Clark didn't try to take Lois's spot on Bruce's lap, but he did plaster himself against Bruce's side, so that when Lois pulled away from Bruce, he could just turn his head and catch Clark's lips.

"God, look at you." Lois leaned in to catch Clark's lips, open-mouthed and wet and inches from Bruce. He couldn't keep himself from pressing his cock against Lois, basking in the way she rode him right back, hot and soft and just a little dirty.

"I want to fuck him," Lois told Clark. She was stroking his temple, ludicrously tender; Bruce watched greedily as Clark swallowed, his expression getting even dumber.

"I want," Clark said. "I -- I want to hold him. While you fuck him."

Lois smiled, sharp. "Sounds like we have a deal."

It occurred to Bruce, offensively belatedly, that he hadn't agreed to any of that. He cleared his throat. "Glad that's decided."

Clark had the decency to blush. Lois only raised a single eyebrow. "I'm glad, too. Take your pants off."

This was how it was going to be, then. Bruce made quick work of his slacks. He'd lost his button-down already, but he took his undershirt off as well. His briefs he tried to leave on, until Lois made an impatient noise and gestured at him, at which point he resigned himself to the dry cleaning bill and stripped down fully.

"Come here." Clark had been naked since Lois had given the order, pretty much, all but vibrating with impatience. Now he yanked Bruce into his arms, hotter than a fucking furnace, cock smearing pre-come all over Bruce's lower back. He felt insane, out of his own body, watching Lois use her good hand to rub her own clit, all the while staring at them with fire in her eyes.

"You fuck him raw," she said to Clark. Not really a question, but then he suspected that was the point: Clark took a shuddery breath, his cock twitching against Bruce's back as he said, "Yeah, I do."

"Good." Lois sank down on Bruce's bare cock in one smooth, easy move.

She was all wiry strength and demanding pace, her perfect cunt tight and wet around him. He could smell her sweat, could feel her nipples hard against his chest. Bruce had thought about being ridden flat on a bed with Lois looming above him, but instead he had this: slick, hot bare skin against his front and his back, Lois leaning in for another kiss even as her cunt flexed around him, a deep and utterly filthy grind.

He wanted. He wanted, he wanted, he was so fucking desperate that when their kiss ended he craned his neck back, offering himself to Clark so that his tongue could gently explore the space Lois's had already fucked.

Which of course just made him think of the bed, more than big enough for the three of them; of Clark hovering over Bruce, feeding him his cock, then pulling out so Lois could ride Bruce's face for a bit. Trading off, kissing each other above him, until Lois came on his face, Clark down his throat, as wet and messy as they could make it. Giving him a hand after, maybe, but making him do most of the work, lazy in their satisfaction.

It was Lois, predictably, who noticed. "Look at him," she murmured. "He's on another planet. Bruce. Hey, babe." Her thumb, pressing against his mouth. He licked it, sucked it in, catching her index finger too when it brushed his lips.

"Jesus." That was Clark, sounding like Bruce had socked him with a Kryptonite glove.

"Yeah," Lois said, and then she leaned back to start riding Bruce in earnest.

He had the presence of mind to catch one of her tits in his hand, pinching and biting as she fucked herself on him. His synapses overloading, his mind spiraling, he only registered warm skin and firm support at his back until Clark brushed two thumbs in the dip of his ass and said, "Can he take me like this, do you think?"

"Fuck," Lois said, clenching around Bruce.

"Can you?" Clark asked. He was whispering now, his lips brushing Bruce's ear. "I think you can. No one's more controlled than you, more capable. I think it would be good. Do you?"

He couldn't -- he wasn't -- Lois and Clark surrounded him like this. He was utterly at their mercy. He wanted so much, so acutely, skin sparking and head spinning. He probably would have agreed to anything Clark asked him for just then. Lucky him that what Clark wanted was feasible, if not simple.

"Lube," he said. Clark accommodated him, slicking himself up with a hint of his speed, holding Bruce up all the while. Lois ground down on Bruce's cock and said, "Like we talked about?"

Oh, God. He missed Clark's response, too busy breathing through it as Clark pressed his cock against Bruce's ass, slick and warm and feeling intimidatingly huge.

"Hold still for me," Clark said. "There we go." He spread Bruce with both of his hands, thumbing casually at his hole. "Relax into it."

And that was a bit much. "I know how to relax a muscle, Clark," Bruce said, a little drier and meaner than he meant to be. Lois laughed, and Clark snorted, and then he pressed, and Bruce lost it a little.

The stretch, the burn. The pain, despite his careful breathing, until the head of Clark's cock was inside, and then all Bruce could feel was the stretch, rocking back on Clark's cock and then forward into Lois, a careful dance of balance that was only possible because Clark's impossible strength braced all three of them.

"Oh God," Clark said, sounding as close to broken as Bruce had ever heard. "Lois, are you...?"

"Yes." She clenched around Bruce, grinding her hips down. "He feels so good."

"He does." A hand sliding up Bruce's chest, cupping his jaw. "Kiss him again."

Lois laid her hand over Clark's for the kiss, her cast rough against Bruce's skin, her tongue sliding back into Bruce's mouth with easy ownership. He permitted it, all of it: the messy kiss, Clark's mouth biting the back of his neck, Clark's cock splitting him open, Lois's cunt holding him in a vice grip. He was lost between the two of them, utterly adrift and happier for it. It must have looked ridiculous, the three of them moving together like this, but he didn't care; none of them did. Lois reached down to her own clit and Bruce said, "Please, let me," and for one horrible suspended moment he thought she might not permit it; but her thighs clenched and she let out a ragged, "All right," and then leaned over Bruce's shoulder to kiss Clark while Bruce brought her off, a shivery orgasm followed by a a cresting one, until she was wrung out with him still buried inside her.

Then Clark said, "He'll like this part," and started fucking Bruce in earnest, after which he remembered very little: friction, heat, the two of them turning him inside out. Coming with Lois, panting into her neck as she did her best to tear his hair out by the root. Feeling Clark, too, whispering soft loving things, coming inside Bruce like he'd never considered anything else, like Bruce was his to do whatever he wanted with. For the next hour or so Bruce would accept it gladly.

He had a plan for afterwards: they would clean up, get to bed, plan to deal with the couch in the morning. Some time would pass, and then Bruce would leave.

What actually happened was that Clark fell asleep first, in the middle of the master bedroom's enormous bed, whose ownership Bruce couldn't bring himself to assign. Lois watched Bruce for a long time, eyes bright and sharp, but eventually succumbed to exhaustion.

Bruce lay awake fighting sleep and found he couldn't bring himself to leave the bed, much less the building, long after his allotted couple hours had passed.

Meditation granted some small measure of peace. Bruce allowed himself to drift for half the night, focused on emptying his mind, calming his breath. He had meditated on cliffs' edges and in the eyes of hurricanes, while recovering from sepsis and while trying to survive beatings. He had staked his life and his city, his family's legacy and the Bat's reputation, on mastery of his mind-body connection; but when Clark's pinky brushed over his navel he had to fight panic, and when Lois's lips pressed against his shoulder he found himself staring at the ceiling, eyes wide open, serenity nowhere to be found.

Eventually, he moved to the kitchen. 3:45AM, too early to pretend he needed to get ready for Wayne Enterprises meetings but too late to take the plane to Gotham and continue his other work. He made himself coffee instead, sitting at the breakfast bar in his boxers.

This penthouse wasn't home. Home would always be the Manor, where his children were and where Alfred had raised him. But Clark's grocery list was on the refrigerator here and Lois had left a stray notepad next to the percolator. Hell, the existence of the percolator: Clark wouldn't use Bruce's espresso machine. The most expensive percolator Mr. Coffee had to offer was only for him.

It wasn't home, no, but the penthouse had ceased to be a disposable safe house a long time ago.

There was no reason to panic. Bruce closed his eyes, breathed. No reason at all except his own emotions, his own history, his frustration with himself and his terror that Lois and Clark would remember they'd been better as a Metropolis duo, no involvement from Gotham needed or wanted. No reason to panic except his regrettably human emotional weaknesses, often resented but not yet successfully excised.

No reason at all except Clark, footsteps soft but deliberately, Bruce suspected, audible, even to weak human ears.

"Hey," Clark said. "Everything, um, okay?"

Bruce closed his eyes. Sipped his coffee. Fixed a wry smile to his face. Tried, failed, tried, and failed to calm his heartbeat.

He had his face pretty well under control by the time he turned around. "Of course. I hope I didn't wake you. I don't know about you, but that was the most tiring night I've had in awhile. Fun, though."

"Bruce --"

"Don't worry, Clark. I'm usually up at this hour. A little espresso and I'll be right as rain."

Clark frowned. Opened his mouth.

Bruce prepared himself to lie.