Chapter Text
Clark was covered in ash and soot and smelled of something pungent, but his smile was so radiant and his arms were so inviting that Bruce couldn’t deny him the hug. It was a ritual of sorts for them. Clark needed to hold him, to feel his weight and warmth and be reminded that he was alive. And judging from the way Bruce (who wasn’t petite by any means) instinctually curled up against Clark’s body, the Omega needed this as well.
“Greeting the hubby at the door? Why, Bats! You’re shaping up to be a half decent housewife!” Joker pipped. He appeared behind Clark, standing on his tippy toes to peer at Bruce.
Bruce ignored him. He wasn’t real: Clark couldn’t hear him, and the Fortress’ defense system didn’t react to him.
“Oops, my bad!” Joker slapped his forehead. “Totally forgot that you’re not even banging yet.”
“Shouldn’t you be at the Daily Planet?” Bruce said, breaking the embrace. It was Tuesday… or was it Wednesday? Thursday? Anyway, Clark Kent (the reporter) worked from Monday to Friday, and the editor-in-chief didn’t take kindly to him playing truant.
“It’s 12 PM in Metropolis, Bruce. I might’ve said some unkind things about Perry, but he’s a good boss. We’re allowed lunch breaks.” Clark whined.
Joker leaned on Bruce as if they were best chums. “Psst! Crazy idea, but I think Big Blue wants to grab a bite with you. How sweet… NOT!” He gagged. “What is he, some kind of farm boy? It’s gonna take more than that to woo a Gothamite! Right, Bats? Bats? Hey, where are you going?”
Bruce headed back inside to avoid the chill air since he was only wearing sweats. It was always a little colder in the foyer. He addressed the robot caretaker on standby: “Kelex, prepare us-”
“Actually,” Clark spoke up, grinning bashfully as he trailed after him. “I was thinking that maybe we could… go out?”
“I can’t leave the Fortress, you know that.” Bruce said, a scowl set on his face.
“Why not? You’ve been stable for half a year, and you’ve locked yourself in here for twice as long! Don’t you want to see Gotham? Alfred? Barbs and the boys?”
Of course he did. There wasn’t a single day when Bruce wasn't worried about them. “Not at the risk of innocent people, no.”
Clark grabbed his wrist. “I can keep you in line.” Facing Bruce’s blank stare, he quickly added: “If you want me to.”
Certain individuals might take pleasure in making the Man of Steel nervous, but Bruce didn’t. Clark had done so much for him, and all he’d done in return was giving him headaches. “Fine, but you’re paying.” Bruce said. “And I’m suiting up.”
When Clark found him, there was neither Bruce Wayne nor Batman. There was only a dead man walking.
He had been stabbed, shot, poisoned, hit over the head one too many times... He wanted to fall apart, but the tightly-woven Batsuit kept his body together, and he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to thank Lucius or curse him out for the excellent craftsmanship. There was a ringing noise in his left ear (from being too close to an explosion), and Joker’s wheezy laughers in his right ear.
[The hallucination had been waiting for him, sprawling on the steps that led down to the Batcave. “You really thought you could get rid of me that easily? Oh no, Bats, Batsy, Bruce ! I am here to stay!”
The shock had stopped him in place and nearly killed him. It had been Joker who had reminded him of the bombs.
“Tick tock, the manor’s gonna explode ! You don’t wanna be Bat-smithereen, do you?”
For a second, Bruce had.]
“Now that’s what I call: ‘going out with a bang’!” Joker was still talking, always talking. “What’s next? Break some legs? Prank call the commissioner? Oh, I know! Paying the loser club in prison a visit! I can’t wait to see the look on Harvey’s faces .”
Harvey… who’d loved Bruce Wayne… who hated Batman. One had been the love of his life, the other had ruined him.
Joker was crouching over him. Bruce realized that he had ended up on the ground. “Bats, you look terrible.”
“You should take an itty bitty tiny nap.” A second Joker suggested, emerging from the elongated shadow of the first one.
“Yeah! In the meantime, we’ll take your body for a spin.” A third Joker said. This one Bruce couldn’t see, but he felt a pointy shoe digging into his back. “Show Gotham the new and improved Freak-in-tights!”
“So whaddya say, Bats?” The original asked.
They snickered at him, their ear-to-ear grins like triplet crescent moons. The real moon hung just over their head, and in its sickly pale light he saw salvation. A name escaped his chapped lips.
"Clark."
It wasn't what the Jokers wanted to hear.
“That wasn’t a valid answer.” One Joker dead-panned.
“It’s either a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’, detective !” Another shrieked, sounding almost like Ra’s as he did. “It’s not that hard!”
Bruce struggled to his feet, prevailing over the all consuming hurts just as he’d done countless times during that insufferably long night. All of his senses were occupied by Clark, who was larger than life (who was Superman). He could hear neither the Jokers nor the ringing. The alley, too, disappeared.
Clark was just out of arm’s reach, his expression a mix of doubt and hope. “Oh Rao…” He choked up. “Rao, Bruce… you’re alive.”
Bruce took off the cowl. It wasn’t a big deal, everyone knew Bruce Wayne was Batman.
“Clark.” He said, vocal cords reverberating painfully from pronouncing one simple word. He swallowed the bloody lump in his throat and tried to speak again: “Is it really you?”
Are you real? Or are you just another trick of my sick head?
“Yes, yes, It’s me, Bruce.” Clark’s virile scent wrapped around them both like a weighted blanket, and it was something that the hallucinations couldn’t replicate. It really was him. Freed at last from the obligation to keep going, keep fighting, Bruce crumbled with a pitiful Omegan wail.
Clark caught him as he fell. “Shush, don’t cry, Bruce. Don’t cry.” He stroked Bruce’s hair back from his eyes, noticing how green they were when they should be blue. If he was disturbed by the wrongness, for Bruce’s sake, he didn’t show it. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t there to stop them, but I’m here now, and I won’t let anyone hurt you anymore.”
Bruce had never wanted to do anything as much as he wanted to kiss Clark at that moment. Just being in Clark’s arms made him feel reborn, the frailness of a downtrodden man becoming the frailness of an innocent infant. He was a newly hatched chick, and Clark was the first thing he saw.
Later, Bruce was glad that he hadn’t done it.
Bruce was sitting in a diner with a large duffel bag that contained his uniform’s cape, belt, cowl, and armored pieces. Clark was outside, speaking on the phone. The clock on the wall lent some insight into the content of the call. It was 12:45, meaning that chances of Clark having lunch with him and still returning to work in time were next to zero. Clark must be notifying someone that he would be late.
“You have your boy whipped, Bats.” Joker commented.
Changing into the Batsuit had costed them 10 minutes, then it had been another 10 minutes of flight time, and, finally, waiting for Bruce to strip down to the body tights and put on civvies had raked up an additional 15 minutes. He hoped that Clark wasn’t getting into any trouble because of him.
Joker gave him a consoling pat on the shoulder. “Don’t feel bad. Superdork could’ve dressed you at Mach 5 and…” he wagged his eyebrows, “... copped a feel while he was at it. Really, it’s his fault that he’s gonna be late.”
On the TV behind the bored receptionist, the mid-day news was reporting on a volcanic eruption in Philippines. It was disproportionately more mind-stimulating than the clown prince’s yapping.
<<... there was no casualty thanks to the timely arrival of Superman! >>
So that explained the state Clark was in when he returned to the Fortress.
<<Now back to you, Vicki!>>
Ms. Vale’s hair was shoulder-length and loosely curled to hug her face. It suits her more than the bob cut , Bruce thought.
<<Thank you, Alan. On our side of the pond, the Dark Knight memorial in Gotham square is officially open to public viewing. I’m sure we all still remember Batman - or Bruce Wayne as we’ve come to know him, who…>>
A soft chime sounded in his ears. Bruce remembered it, no announcement in Arkham had begun without it. He blinked. Ms. Vale’s face was chalk white, her lipstick was smeared and her eyes were startlingly green. She loomed over the table, bringing her face to within an inch of the camera.
<<Anyone seen the big bad Bat? I warn you. He may look like an idiot and talk like an idiot, but don't let that fool you. He really is an idiot>>
He blinked again. He was tied up. An arm grew out of the backrest and gripped his jaw. With his limited vision, Bruce spied a black glove and a white sleeve.
“You’re a truly extraordinary specimen. I look forward to breaking you.” Hugo Strange said.
From the glove sprouted five thick needles that were full of a viscous orange liquid. And the smell… like rain and sewage water, like a dark alley where no family of three should tread.
“After tonight, there will be no more hope, no more legend. No more Batman.” Scarecrow said.
“Bruce?”
He somehow missed both the waitress’ arrival and Clark’s return. There was his order (one shrimp burger with a side of fries) on the table and Clark’s fingers around his wrist.
“Huh, Boy Scout has big hands, who woulda thought.” Joker said from the side. It was impressive, the length he would go to not call Clark by any of his given names. Then, again, hearing the word “Clark” coming out of Joker’s mouth would likely shatter the universe’s integrity.
“Are you alright?” Clark asked.
“You know what they say about men with big hands!” Joker insinuated.
“Just worried about being recognized, I guess.” Bruce lied. He drew from memory how Brucie had smiled and coordinated the muscles on his face to do just that. “Bruce Wayne can’t be caught dead wearing plaids.”
Joker slapped his own knee. “Oh Bats! You actually have a sense of humor!” He leaned on Clark and said to the man: “Get it? Bruce Wayne - dead?”
Clark naturally couldn’t hear him. He was still staring at Bruce. In hindsight, breaking into a smile might’ve been the worst thing the Omega could’ve done. Bruce could pretend to be calm all he wanted, but hiding the uptick in his heart rates from Superman was a fool’s dream.
Joker jerked away, pouting. “So much for superbrain. I don’t know how any kind of joke can fly over that forehead.”
“Clark, you can let go of my hand now.” Bruce suggested.
“Oh, my bad.” The Alpha apologized. He stole several fries from Bruce’s plate and stuffed them into his mouth. While chewing, he returned: “And Ithinkyoulookgoodinplaids.”
Cheeky bastard, but Bruce had raised three children, deciphering food-infused speeches was his thing.
“So I look good in plaids huh?” The ex-billionaire playboy teased.
Clark didn’t blush as he had expected. Behind the glasses, his gaze sharpened with predatory intent. It dawned on Bruce that he had walked straight into a trap. You look good in plaids . He was wearing Clark’s plaids because his clothes had disintegrated with Wayne manor and he hadn’t needed to dress up for an entire year.
You look good in my clothes.
“Yeah,” Clark confirmed, reaching for his coffee.
Bruce couldn’t let his mind go there, no matter how much he wanted it to. He clumsily changed the subject. Where was Brucie’s suaveness when he needed it? “Who was that just now on the phone?”
“Perry.”
Bruce glanced at the clock. 1:07. “I’m Sorry.”
“What for?”
“Making you late for work. I shouldn’t have insisted on…”
Clark was forever understanding, forever forgiving. “It’s OK. You need the suit, Bruce. I’m not such a bastard that I’d make you go without it.”
[Nothing short of a complete memory wipe would let Clark forget the first night Bruce had spent at the Fortress of Solitude. He had made the mistake of attempting to get him out of the Batsuit and got a feral Omega for his effort. Bruce, who had been docile until then, had gone straight for the throat, swiping at it with the sharp fins on his gauntlet.
“Bruce! I’m trying to help you!” Clark had raised his voice an octave. He hadn’t meant to, but he was flesh and blood through and through, and there had been a distressed, wounded Omega hurting himself trying to hurt him. Several times, Bruce’s teeth had nearly shattered on invulnerable skin had Clark not stopped him. “I need to take this off. The med pod can’t heal you if it can’t scan you for injuries.”
Bruce had settled down only after Clark had utterly suppressed him (a hand on his neck and thighs across his stomach and arms), and Clark had thought it was over. He had started looking for hidden latches on the Batsuit (because it costed more than the Daily Planet was worth and Clark’s descendants would be paying his debt hundred years down the line if he had torn the suit).
Then Bruce had started chuckling, then full out laughing. And Rao, had his lips always been that blood red, and his eyes that acidic green? He had laughed until some color returned to his corpse-like complexion. His hands had broken free of their cage to caress Clark from neck to cheeks, their touches leaving goosebumps all over his skin.
“Clark, Clark, Clark… you want to fuck me so badly, don’t you?”
That had been Clark’s first brush with the new madness coursing through Bruce’s veins.]
“Besides, I now have the whole afternoon off.” Clark beamed.
“Tell me you didn’t get fired,” Bruce said.
“ No . Perry wants me at the memorial. Interview some locals, that sort of thing.”
Bruce squinted at him with eyes that were blue under some lights and green under others. “You planned this.”
Although Clark didn’t deny it, he still had the audacity to look shy. “I thought you’d like it.”
Bruce took a savage bite out of the burger, cheeks bulging like a hamster, crumbs raining from his mouth. He swallowed the rebuttal like he swallowed the greasy bun and patty. “I’m not against it," he said at last.
This pleased Clark, freshened the smile on his lips and lifted the invisible weight off his shoulders. He was so dazzling then that it was without a flicker of doubt Superman in glasses sitting opposite Bruce.
Sparse raindrops began to patter against the windows while they were finishing up their meals. Knowing Gotham’s temperament, Bruce thought their plan for the afternoon was ruined, but the rain let up despite the heavy dark clouds and they were able to walk to their destination. It helped that the diner was (strategically) only two blocks over from Gotham Square.
“So, what do you think?” Clark prompted.
“Could’ve gone for a more theatrical approach, if you ask me.” Joker said, amused.
Bruce made a dismissal noise.
The statue was about 9 feet tall, bronzed, depicting Batman standing tall, his head slightly inclined as if to watch over passerby. His left arm was covered. His right arm was revealed under the parted cape, showing him touching the utility belt. At the foot of the statue was a plaque that was currently rendered unreadable by several bouquets of flowers and dozens of cards.
Bruce wrinkled his nose disdainfully at the pink envelopes that evoked memories of the love letters Brucie used to receive before emails became the norm. He shouldn’t be surprised that they ended up here. Bruce Wayne had been a heartthrob despite his many failings in intellect, and Batman had also attracted a cult of followers (or sadomasochists, as Dick liked to call them).
Clark followed his gaze. “Someone is popular.” He said, tone all awe and pride. Sometimes, he was too naïve for his own good (or at least Bruce thought so).
“Unfortunately.” The Omega snorted. If the cards were anything like those letters, at least one of them would compliment Bruce Wayne’s childbearing hips and ample bosom.
Clark considered his remark with a head tilt. It was a textbook confused puppy’s look, which shouldn’t fit a muscular man in his thirties as much as it did.
Bruce remembered. “Aren’t you supposed to interview someone?”
Although the weather wasn’t ideal, there were many potential interviewees, enough for Clark to put together a draft and appease Perry for the time being. Clark made a soft “Ah” sound, then he shrugged. “Who’s more suitable for talking about Batman, than Batman himself?”
“I can’t promise you an unbiased opinion, Clark.” Bruce said in amusement (he should be furious that his title had been dropped so casually).
“Opinions are biased. I’m asking what you think, not what you think everyone is thinking.”
“Hm. I think a guy who dresses up as a bat must clearly have some mental health issues.”
“Hey!”
Clark’s good mood was infectious. Bruce found himself grinning mindlessly at the other's lame jokes. The hallucinations weren’t there to make him self conscious about it, either. He forgot where he was, and he paid for that lapse in judgment. When he noticed the hooded youth, they were only some 20 feet apart. The (not) boy had a scar in the shape of the letter “J” on his left cheek (a brand , burned into his face). And even if Bruce missed it (impossible), he knew that gait: restless yet stealthy, gunpowder rage barely bottled up to allow its owner some degree of finesse.
He had heard Crane ask the Arkham Knight: “Why do you hate him so much?” and he had wondered the same thing too. There had seemed to be no origin to the Arkham Knight’s malice.
Oh, but there had.
Joker returned. “Better start moving, Bats. Little birdie is P-I-S-S-E-D.”
Bruce saved his breath. A firm grip on Clark’s forearm got the urgency across. They walked and fell in line with a group of tourists (not running, because the youth wasn’t running either). Round a corner, they broke away and found another stream of pedestrians to mingle, and another. Clark was impatient, constantly trying to catch a glimpse of their pursuer. Bruce threw an arm over his shoulder to steer him in the right direction and to pretend to be a couple.
“Don’t look back.” He leaned in close and breathed the words into Clark’s ear. “Act natural. He must not suspect that we know.” Only Jason’s doubtfulness of his identity (and not the presence of others) was keeping Bruce from being filled with bullet holes. He hadn’t cared about civilians when he teamed up with Scarecrow to destroy Batman, why should he start now?
All his thoughts came to a screeching halt when Clark put a hand on the small of his back. It was only acting, but his steps faltered and the duffel bag slipped off his shoulder. He barreled into a woman who screamed in alarm (a reasonable reaction to being shoved by a six feet two stranger, it is Gotham).
“Are you alright, Miss…” Bruce looked at her, the apology dying on his tongue.
In her place, Joker covered his mouth, laughing. “My, aren’t you a dashing gentleman, Bats. Of course I’m fine!”
Alarmed by the scream, several bystanders turned to them. Bruce saw their green eyes, their chalk white faces, their smeared lipsticks…
“Sorry, my friend’s feeling under the weather.” That was Clark’s voice.
He picked up the bag and ushered Bruce along. The woman (not Joker) eyed them as they passed, holding onto her purse. If it hadn’t been for Clark (corporal, solid, real), Bruce would’ve been paralyzed by her gaze or, worse, broken into a sprint, drawing even more attention to them. Stumbling into a deserted street, Clark immediately hugged him and took to the sky.
They must have flown from one side of Gotham to another when Bruce’s heart finally stopped beating so damn loud that he couldn’t hear Clark speak. In that time, the rain had returned, now a torrential downpour that soaked them to their bones.
“That was him, wasn’t it?” Clark was asking, maybe for the first time, maybe he was repeating. Previously, Bruce might’ve seen his mouth move to form this exact question.
“Yes.”
The emergency takeoff hadn’t allowed them any time to adjust their postures. Usually he would have his back to Clark’s chest. Less often, if he was injured, Clark would carry him by supporting his back with one arm and his legs with the other (no matter what Dick said, it wasn't bridal style). They were facing each other. Bruce only had to tilt his chin up to brush his lips with Clark's.
Well, why wouldn’t he?
“He’s alive?” asked Clark, finally.
“All these times,” Bruce said, turning his head to the side. “I… never found him.”
( “How long before you stopped searching for me? Hmm? How long before you gave up ?” )
Clark didn’t know how to breach the subject. “Is he… is he the…”
Bruce didn’t let him. “Take me to your place, Clark.”
The way he spoke was peculiar. Bruce was never ambiguous with requests. If he wanted to go back to the Fortress, he would say that, word for word. “My place?” Clark asked, just to be sure.
“Your flat in Metropolis. Take me there.”
Bruce felt the hands on his hips give a squeeze and scented the spike of interest in Clark’s pheromone. He didn’t need to press an ear to the Alpha’s chest to know that the heart beneath it was beating as fast as his own. Clark liked him, and he was a little infatuated with Clark too. They pretended that their feelings were secrets, but that couldn’t be further from the truth.
[The Fortress couldn’t purge Bruce of Joker’s blood. Scarecrow’s fear toxin had mutated it, and his negligence had let it deal irreparable damage. There was no cure. Hyena-like laughters accompanied him from the moment he rose to the moment he fell asleep, as loud as thunder, as quiet as a mouse, or as anything in-betweens. This must be what Jason had to experience every day too.
(“ I can still hear him LAUGHING! HE’S STILL IN MY HEAD! ”)
So Bruce volunteered to stay in the Fortress of Solitude, where he could be monitored and hurt no one. He trusted Clark with his life (which was worth nothing, because both Batman and Bruce Wayne were dead). He believed that Clark was strong enough to subdue him when he lashed out (which, looking back, had been selfish of him, putting Clark through that).
They fought over Bruce's arrangement. He wanted to be locked in a cell with cameras on 24/7. Clark would not have his best friend be treated like an inmate, swept away from sight and forgotten. Bruce offered to part with the Batsuit. Clark wanted him to keep it. The suit had been Bruce’s constant lifeline when Scarecrow and the Arkham Knight had wreaked havoc in Gotham. Taking it from him amounted to ridding a tiger of its teeth and claws, and any animal once cornered will always bite.
“I won’t be your warden, Bruce.” Clark said, brows knotting together in determination and displeasure. It was a scary look on him. Batman might have built his shtick around fear, but an angry Superman was much more terrifying than a guy who dressed like a flying rodent.
“I’ll ask the Fortress to fix the suit for you, but you don’t have to give it to me if that makes you uncomfortable.” Clark said, smiling that dimpled smile of his. He thanked Bruce for being brave, when Bruce should be the one thanking him.
They reached a compromise. When Clark wasn’t in, Bruce could freely enter and use any facilities in the Fortress that the two of them had marked as “safe”: the foyer, his room, Clark’s room (although this was an unspoken rule), the hobby room… He would also be accompanied by Kelex and Jor-El, an AI based on Clark’s biological father.
In return, Bruce handed over the Kryptonite ring Clark had given him at the start of their partnership. That sparked another disagreement.
“What if it’s me who’s out of control?” Clark argued.
Bruce calmly explained that if Superman went berserk, the JLA would be the first to be on site to deal with him. Meanwhile, he would be of no use, stuck in an impenetrable stronghold in an icy wasteland. Plus, Batman was meant to be out of commission (dead) anyway.
“What if I hurt you?”
Bruce said: “I believe in you.”
Clark reluctantly agreed to take the ring back, grimacing like Bruce had told him to chuck a basket full of kittens into the sun.
And Joker said: “Someone has a little crush.”]
“Sha-la-la-la-la-la
My oh my
Look like the Bats too shy
He ain’t gonna kiss the boy!”
Bruce came to an epiphany while he was staring at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror, and Joker was sitting on the toilet, bellowing a bastardized version of Kiss the girl from The little mermaid . As soon as they had arrived at Clark’s apartment, he had excused himself and gone to take a shower. “Don’t want to catch a cold.” He had said, but really he just needed a break from Clark before he did something he might regret.
I can’t keep doing this to him .
Bruce hadn’t finished undressing. The first two buttons of the borrowed shirt were undone, showing off a patch of shiny wet Kevlar. The dark material highlighted how sick he was: gray, lifeless complexion, twisting purple veins bulging under the skin, and red-rimmed eyes gazing blankly. He hates his eyes the most. Brucie used to be praised for his baby blues, but that robin eggshell blue was now polluted by speckles of green. This was him at his sanest. His eyes would only get greener, shifting hues at the same pace as the insanity in him mounted.
Clark deserves better.
Before Arkham city, Bruce would’ve been open to the idea of having Superman as his lover. As things stood, he was a ruined man. Whatever Clark saw in him, the ruthless Dark Knight or the pretty playboy, Bruce was neither of them anymore. He had changed so much, fallen so far, that he couldn't recognize himself.
Then he wondered, what if Jason hadn't recognized you, either? He saw your green eyes and pale face and thought he was chasing that damn bastard.
The bastard in question said: “You might wanna get out of those, Bats. Remember, if you get sick, I get sick too! I am you!”
Bruce stripped, ignoring the wolf whistles and the sticky fluid between his legs. He carefully folded Clark’s clothes and put them in the sink whilst leaving his own tights in a heap on the bathroom’s tiles. Then he stepped into the shower and closed the curtain on Joker’s face.
Alone at last (but not really), Bruce acknowledged that he was wet. He’d got wet from flying with his best friend, like a hormonal teenager.
It’s a normal reaction. Clark’s a healthy Alpha, the sickness doesn’t affect your sense of smell or your sexual function.
Plus he had been abstinent for an entire year. He couldn’t just up and find someone to fuck him in the Arctic. His outlets were limited to beating up dummies in the training rooms and, only when the needs became too much, his fingers.
From the other side of the curtain, Joker said generously: “Go ahead. I won’t peep.”
Bruce turned on the shower, closed his eyes to keep out the jets (and to not have to see Joker’s face, in case he decided to pop in). He inserted a digit into his hole. The instantaneous relief left his knees weak and his mind blank. Luckily, the pitter-patter of water masked his sigh, and he remembered to cover his mouth before pulling the finger out, then pushing it back in again.
“You know, Bats, I’ve been thinking long and hard .” Joker said when he had three fingers deep inside his throbbing cunt. “Superboytoy took you in, fixed you - not that you can be fixed or need to be fixed - and put up with our tantrums… He deserves a thank-you gift. And, no offense, but you have nothing to your name now. No money, no fancy gadgets…”
Bruce whimpered, desperately trying to scratch that itch inside himself.
“Now… your body... Oh mama , it’s a work of art, but you’ve already known that.” Joker’s voice was suddenly right next to his ear, moist breaths carrying the foul stench of illness. “Naughty little bat, you drive us crazy with spandex and leather, and yet you never put out, not for Harvey, not for Selina, not for your old pal Joker! And here I thought we had something special!” Joker sniffled. “Too late! I’m a pile of ash in a stinky urn.”
“But it’s not too late for us, B.”
Bruce whirled around so fast that he lost his balance. He latched onto the shower shelf in time to stop the fall, but all the shampoos and lotions were knocked over and plummeted to the floor with loud clashes. His heart was beating in his throat as he gawked at the fake Superman.
“Show me how much you need me, how thankful you are for me.”
“Bruce? What was that sound?” The real Clark asked.
“I want to see how pretty you’ll look, squirming on my cock.” The hallucination said. “C’mon, B, show me. You owe me, remember?”
Bruce shouldn’t do it, Clark was just outside the bathroom, but he slid down the wall until he was sitting with his legs wide open. His fingers found the loosened hole and stabbed in.
Was Clark watching him? The apartment’s walls had no lead, and after hearing the ruckus, surely he would check on Bruce with X-ray vision. Bruce felt… hotter, knowing this. He fucked himself faster, harder, biting his lip to stanch the moans.
“B-bruce?” Clark stuttered.
“Y-yes?” Bruce’s voice was breathless. “I’m f-fine.” I’ll be better if you’re in here with me.
The fingers weren’t enough. His eyes (slim rings of green surrounding blown out pupils), strayed on a bottle that appeared to be of sufficient girth and smoothness. Clark’s… ah bigger. Bruce had looked into Kryptonians biology. It had been a harrowing experience, listening to a projection of his friend’s dad describing how endowed the species’ Alphas were.
“I’ve got to go!” Clark’s voice broke him out of the trance. “There’s a… fire, yeah.” A faint shuffling could be heard over the shower. “Will you be alright on your own?”
“Ask me to stay, B.” Superman encouraged.
If he did... Clark would be on him, rutting into him, ruining his hole for anyone else. It was the right thing to do. He liked Clark. Clark liked him. Clark was good to him. He couldn’t repay Clark with money or fame, so why not use his worthless body?
But Bruce couldn’t let it happen.
He forcefully took the fingers out with an audible squelch. “Uh huh.” He grunted, sagging against the wall. “Just leave. Please.”
His teeth were chattering when he got out of the shower. Hot water had run out about half an hour ago, but he hadn’t been able to muster up the courage to leave. Although Clark hadn’t returned yet, his scent was everywhere. The potent Alpha musk attacked Bruce the moment he opened the bathroom’s door.
“Boo!” Joker made a thumb-down. “You screwed up! I expected more from a playboy wearing gimp suits in his free time!”
Bruce made up his mind. He went back in for the Kevlar tights, then picked up the duffel bag on the sofa and dumped its contents onto Clark’s grandma rug.
Joker paused mid rant. Those wild eyes of his somehow managed to get even more deranged. “Is this… Are we running away? Are we leaving?”
Bruce put on the Utility belt. The weight of it around his waist calmed his nerves and cleared his head, although not enough to make him realize what a terrible mistake he was making.
“I know you still have it in you! Watch out, Gotham, Batman and Joker are back in town!”
The cowl was the last to come on.
“I’m sorry, Clark.” Bruce said, and slipped away through the window.