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Bruce stepped into the conference room, preparing to be chastised for running late to his first League meeting.
They wouldn’t get an apology out of him -- the League’s temporary headquarters were in Metropolis, because of course they were -- and traffic between the coastal city and Gotham hadn’t exactly been minimal.
He was here to meet the other members (not his idea), trial his participation (debatable), and lay out meta participation laws for Gotham (crucial). The fact that he’d only ever met Wonder Woman -- Diana -- in person was a disadvantage, but not one he couldn’t overcome.
As he entered the room, several heads swiveled toward him. The assembled League members stared openly at his cape and cowl, going silent.
At the head of the table, Superman looked up, his face falling in shock.
Superman, who looked suspiciously like Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter up close and in person. Who had the same hickey the reporter did on the left side of his neck, peeking out of the top of his suit.
A hickey Bruce knew about, because he’d left it there. Enthusiastically. Last night.
Bruce stared at the familiar pair of blue eyes, wide in a mirror image of recognition, and swore. So much for his secret identity.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he said, loud enough to carry across the suddenly-quiet room. “You’re Superman?”
“You’re Batman?” Superman asked, visibly stunned. He shook his head, rustling those thick curls Bruce had gripped tightly last night. “You?”
The other assembled Justice League members were looking between the two of them in disbelief.
“Fuck,” Bruce said eloquently, reaching up a hand to make sure his cowl was still in place. “You can’t even see my face.”
“I know what your heart sounds like!” Superman said, exasperated. Clearly, this wasn’t normal League behavior; even Diana was speechless, staring at the alien like he’d grown a second head.
“Why were you listening to my heart?” Bruce growled, “That’s an invasion of privacy--”
“Oh I’m sorry, I’ll just turn it off next time!” Superman went red, crossing his arms. Bruce shook his head, ignoring the sarcasm.
“You could have told me.”
“You could have told me, too!”
In the ensuing, awkward silence, Diana stood. With a wavering smile, she gestured Bruce toward an empty seat.
“Please welcome Batman to his first League meeting,” she said, voice even and steady, “He’ll be here as a trial member for Gotham-adjacent missions.”
Bruce took his seat, face burning under the cowl. Brucie didn’t have any shame, but apparently Batman did.
A few League members nodded at him. Flash and Green Arrow -- Oliver really couldn’t even bother with a decent mask, could he? -- both murmured welcomes. Superman was still pink at the head of the table, staring intently at Bruce’s cowl.
“Kal?” Diana prompted.
Bruce snorted, ducking his head. Superman -- Clark -- uncrossed his arms, looking murderous.
“You have a problem?” he asked, voice low. And yup, that was Superman, leader of the Justice League, symbol of the free world. Not an ounce of bumbling farm boy in that tone.
“No, Kal,” he said, mock-seriously, settling back into his seat. “Just realizing a few things.”
Clark Kent had been deceptively strong during their (extended) fumble. He’d lifted Bruce up against the wall and held him there for a long time, and Bruce had simply chalked it up to farmwork, gym time, and good genes.
Nope. Apparently, he’d let Superman fuck him against a wall until he’d babbled anything the other man wanted, just for him to go harder, faster, please Clark please--
The thought was distantly amusing. Here he was, negotiating for the inclusion of metas in his city, in Gotham, and he was doing it with a man whose O-face was burned into Bruce’s brain.
A man also currently holding the title of ‘best fuck in recent memory’, but that was beside the point. Superman -- Clark -- clearly knew that. And he knew that Bruce knew that, because he hadn’t exactly been quiet last night.
“Fine,” Superman said, curt and apparently avoiding that subject with a ten foot pole. “Let’s move on to the first agenda item…”
The meeting proceeded slowly, and Bruce mostly tuned it out, waiting for his moment to speak. In the meantime, he watched the hickey he’d left on Superman’s neck move as he spoke, disappearing into the neckline of his suit, then reappearing, livid purple and red against his pale skin.
It was an impressive hickey. Some of Brucie’s best work.
He had his own, of course, concealed under the suit and his armor. Clark hadn’t exactly been shy, and he bit hard. Hard enough to be a little suspicious, now that he was looking back on the interaction. But damn, had it felt good at the time.
When it was his turn to speak, he stood, ignoring the way Superman’s eyes roved up and down his body, settling on his lips. He outlined the rules he’d drafted for meta involvement in Gotham, feeling that gaze like a brand on his skin.
“Can I help you?” he asked as he finished, instead of letting it go.
So they’d fucked casually -- it happened. Quite a lot in Brucie’s world, unfortunately. It didn’t mean Clark had to be such a dick about it.
“You’re actually intelligent,” Superman said, looking genuinely shocked. His eyes were still on Bruce’s lips. “The whole thing was an act?”
“I’m sorry, what?” Bruce asked, “Are you actually asking me that right now? You? ”
They were walking the fine line of outing each other’s secret identities to the gathered members, but still. The audacity this man had.
“It’s not the same,” Superman bristled, crossing his arms again, “I’m doing it to protect people.”
“So am I!”
The other man let out a bark of laughter, shaking his head. “Like who?”
“I have four kids, asshole,” Bruce said, pointing at him. “Why do you think I told you to be quiet when you left?”
“You have kids?” Green Arrow helpfully interjected, still looking confused -- which was unfortunately Ollie’s default setting, most days.
“I thought you were trying to be--” Superman cut off, blushing again. “Nevermind. It doesn’t matter.”
Several League members exchanged looks, glancing between Bruce and Superman in confusion.
Their identities still seemed to be going over their heads, which was a small mercy. Then again, the odds of guessing Bruce’s identity were astronomically low -- even Clark probably wouldn’t have been able to figure it out, without his super senses.
Then again, he probably wouldn’t have guessed that Clark Kent -- beat reporter for the Daily Planet and all-around good fuck -- was actually Superman, without the hickey. They had the same features, but the mannerisms were entirely different. He held himself differently.
He’d seen hints of Superman the other night -- flashes of ferocity and burning self-confidence, layered in between gentle lovemaking and kissing. He’d fucked Bruce into the mattress just as intensely as he’d layered him in gentle kisses afterward, cleaning them both up with a washcloth he’d grabbed from the bathroom, entirely unprompted.
The overall impression had been refreshing, from Brucie’s perspective. He’d been fucked before, yes, but not so politely. Not so thoroughly. Refreshing enough that he’d been considering calling Clark later this week, and inviting him over again.
Now, he wasn’t so sure his invitation would go over well. If he even offered it…
Superman fell silent, and Bruce took his seat, nodding at Diana. She looked over the notes she’d taken as he spoke, frowning.
“I don’t see any immediate concerns,” she said, looking at Superman, who was still staring at Bruce. “We’ll need to adjourn for the day, but the vote on this draft should be soon.”
“Fine,” Bruce said, ignoring Superman and inclining his head to the Amazon. “You know where I’ll be.”
He stood, pushing back his chair and heading for the door. Things would be better if he was back in Gotham already, deep within his Cave and far away from those piercing blue eyes.
In the hallway, a gust of wind blew his cape sideways. Bruce ignored Superman as he fell into pace beside him, heading for the exit he’d used to enter the facility.
“Can we speak?” Superman -- Clark -- asked. Bruce eyed him sideways, lips twisting into a smirk.
“You need to cover that hickey,” he said, still walking forward. “People will talk.”
“They’re already talking,” Superman muttered sullenly, but he pulled the neck of his suit up.
“Not my problem,” Bruce said, shrugging. He pushed through the exit doors, taking in a lungful of nighttime air. The tumbler was a few blocks away, cloaked in an alley he’d scoped out a few hours earlier.
Superman was still following him. Which meant he had something to say, which meant things were only going to get worse.
“I’m sorry for what I said earlier,” the other man said, keeping pace with him effortlessly. Now that Bruce knew he had super speed, it wasn’t nearly as impressive. “I was in shock and didn’t…handle my emotions well.”
“You didn’t,” Bruce agreed, pausing at the mouth of the alley. His fingers slipped past his belt, not grabbing the key fob concealed there. “Are you done?”
“Can you look at me, please?”
Finally, he turned his gaze on the other man, exhaling through his nose. Clark -- and it was clearly Clark now, not Superman -- was staring at him, something distant and sad in his eyes.
“Bruce,” he said, and something twisted in his chest at the sound of him finally saying his name again, “I’m sorry. Can we…try this again?”
Bruce blinked slowly, turning the proposition over in his mind. Maybe they could. Maybe they could slip back to the Manor together, open another bottle of champagne, actually talk…
“You can’t get drunk, can you?” he asked, suddenly realizing. Clark shook his head, looking amused. “That was four million dollar champagne we had!”
“It tasted fine?” Clark said, a grin stretching across his face. “Like, definitely better than other champagne I’ve had?”
“You’re not touching my liquor cabinet again,” Bruce said, shaking his head as he offered that subtle olive branch. It was up to Clark to take it.
There was a pause, and even he could feel his heart hammering in his chest, waiting.
“You can have the whole bottle to yourself this time,” Clark agreed, accepting the offer with a knowing look. He tilted his head, boyishly charming again, like he had been the night before, “How does that sound?”
“Acceptable,” Bruce said, eyeing his tumbler through the shadows. “How fast can you get to Gotham?”
“I thought you didn’t want metas in Gotham,” Clark said. Bruce let out a snort.
“You definitely weren’t paying attention to my presentation,” he said, crossing his arms, “There’s a subclause that allows intracity liaisons. Subject to my approval, of course.”
Suddenly, Clark was between his legs, edging him back against the alley wall with a wicked grin.
“No, I wasn’t,” he admitted, leaning down until they were sharing breath, inches from each other, “I really wasn’t.”
Lips caught his. Bruce moaned softly into the kiss, letting Clark press him into the bricks with a firm hand across his chest. God, but the man was a good kisser. Suspiciously good.
“Mhm,” Clark said, in between kisses, “You, mhm, want to get out of here?”
Bruce tilted his head up, letting the other man kiss down his neck, pushing back the cowl slightly for better access.
“Sure.” he said, in Brucie’s high-pitched voice, just to watch Clark shudder.
“Don’t do that,” he said, nipping lightly at Bruce’s neck in retaliation. “God, I can’t believe your voice changes so much.”
“You liked it last night,” Bruce pointed out, getting a defeated huff against his neck for his trouble. “You did. Don’t lie.”
“I never lie,” Clark said, avoiding the question with another bite across his throat. Bruce made a dubious noise, arching into his touch. “Except for when I do. Shush.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
“Oh, now you can read thoughts, too?"