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Not Just An Act (Bruce/Clark)

Summary: Bruce Wayne is no stranger to flings and one night stands. He is an attentive lover, good at grand gestures, but it’s almost always come from a place of performance. Now, with Clark, he knows how to have sex, how to show him off at parties…But affection still feels foreign to him. (My lovely mutual @fickle-tiction sent me an idea via DMs and I ran with it. I hope you enjoy it!)

Bruce knows how to be romantic.

He’s never been in a long-term relationship, obviously. How would he explain the late nights, the myriad of injuries, and why he suddenly disappears whenever the bat-signal is in the sky?

But he’s dated. Well, he’s had flings. Affairs. One night stands.

Bruce knows how to have sex with one or two strings attached, more accurately. He can take a woman on a fancy date to an expensive restaurant, hold the door open for her, pay the tab. He can make sure that the paparazzi snap a photo or two of her on his arm. He can fuck her good and hard before sending her on her way without a phone number for her to reach him at, because he doesn’t really do second dates.

He supposes that doesn’t really count as romance — it’s more like a carefully constructed transaction: The women get to say they fucked Bruce Wayne, the richest man in Gotham, and tell all their friends how polite he was, how intelligent the conversation was, and how mind-blowing the sex was. And Bruce, in turn, gets the reputation of a player, a womanizer, a man who uses his wealth and status to get the girls and can always get them off.

It’s all part of his Brucie Wayne persona, the version of him that the tabloids love, the paparazzi drool over, the general public of Gotham hate or revere, depending who you ask.

He exists within these two states: Bruce Wayne, the philanthropic heartthrob, and Batman, an enigmatic vigilante. And the man in between…Well, he’s not sure he knows who he is without these two extremes.

There’s no particular thing about Bruce that he feels screams who he is. His home is finely decorated with expensive, minimalistic things. He drives cars because they are fancy and expensive, not because he necessarily likes them. His clothes are finely tailored, but show no personality. He doesn’t remember the last time he sat and listened to an album, watched a movie, or tried something new just for the hell of it.

He doesn’t have interests or hobbies, the way that the average person does. He works out, to maintain the strength and stamina that being Batman requires. He pretends like he does all these extreme sports to explain away the injuries and scars; he has technically paraglided and skydived before, just under very different circumstances than one would imagine. It wasn’t for the adrenaline rush or a fun vacation activity, it was necessity.

Yesterday, Clark asked him what his favorite color was, and Bruce couldn’t give him an answer.

“Black?” he said after a long stretch of silence. “But I’ve never thought about it before.”

Clark had stared at him like he had three heads. “I thought everyone had a favorite color.”

Bruce wasn’t sure why it made it feel so defensive. “Well, I guess I don’t.”

He cares what Clark thinks about him, tries his damndest to treat him with a sort of kindness Bruce usually reserves for the children, and even then, he knows none of them would consider him nice. Sure, he loves them and they know it, but it’s an unspoken thing that lurks in the way he trains them, protects them, worries for them.

But he wants Clark to think he’s nice.

All of this to say, Bruce has feelings for Clark Kent that are confusing and frankly annoying, because Bruce has better things to do, i.e. saving the world, than pining for his…friend? Well, he supposes that he and Clark are friends, and he knows that they should probably stay that way.

Because he doesn’t know how to do romance right, and Clark deserves better than this, his inability to express his emotions, his lack of an instinct for physical affection.

Clark is the human equivalent of an excitable Labrador, and Bruce’s energy is more that of a black cat who has been hit by several cars and still refuses to die.

They won’t work, and Bruce accepts that rather quickly, because what he does have a natural instinct for is suppressing his emotions.

***

Clark is going to be the death of Bruce Wayne, one way or another.

Whether it’s a Justice League mission gone wrong, Clark turning on him one day (which feels unlikely, but Bruce has learned to be prepared for anything), or a heart attack caused by those goddamn puppy-dog eyes, Bruce has accepted his fate.

Speaking of puppy-dog eyes, that was all it had taken for Bruce to agree to bring Clark as his plus-one to an event, which otherwise was not allowing the press inside.

So now, he’s standing in a new suit, nursing a glass of champagne, and biting his tongue as some pretty actress fiddles with Clark’s tie, clearly into him and too drunk to go about it tactfully.

Envy is a more unfamiliar emotion than most for Bruce; he has just about everything a man could want, in terms of wealth, reputation, and tangible objects.

When he was a child, the only thing he ever felt envy towards were the children who had living, loving families. Seeing a father scoop up his daughter at the playground, a mother kiss her son’s bruised knee while he went about his life used to make pain twist deep in his gut, and he would find himself thinking: Why does that child deserve parents, and I don’t?

He had learned early on to bury that feeling, too.

But now, watching Clark stumble over his words as he talks to this woman, Bruce feels absolutely pissed. He walks over before he can think it through, turns on that Brucie Wayne charm, and puts a hand on Clark’s shoulder.

“Did you want some more champagne, baby?” he asks, offering his glass.

Clark turns from the woman to him and back again, looking bewildered. “What?”

The actress has finally stopped touching him. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t know you were…with someone,” she says, eyeing Bruce curiously.

He gives her a smile. “I mean, who could resist this face?” he replies, taking Clark by the chin and squishing his cheeks between his thumb and fingers.

Bruce can feel the warmth of Clark’s blush on his fingertips.

Clark offered the actress a smile before she walked away, her plans foiled.

“Baby?” Clark says.

“You looked uncomfortable. I figured pretending you were taken would be the easiest way to get her to go away,” Bruce replies, like it was the obvious solution, a perfect plan.

Clark blinks at him, clearly still confused, but going along with it like the good sport he is. “You do know that she’s gonna take that information straight to the papers, right?”

Well, Bruce hadn’t really thought that part through, but whatever. He doesn’t care what the papers say; the persona he displays to the public is that of a playboy, anyway. Nothing he does to keep up the thrill-seeking businessman act embarrasses him anymore, and he certainly isn’t going to be embarrassed at the idea of being associated romantically with a good-looking, successful person simply because he happens to be a man.

He shrugs. “Well, we might as well give them something good to write about,” he replies, wrapping an arm around Clark’s waist and pulling him close.

With anyone else, this action would have meant nothing. He could have done it without a second thought, without even needing to be attracted to or interested in the person. But with Clark, the touch makes Bruce feel more conscious of his every move, more cautious than he normally would be.

Clark is one of the few people in this world that Bruce would utter the word friend in reference to, and truly mean it. He understands how a friendship is supposed to work, from an outsider’s perspective, and he’s pretty sure that fake-dating isn’t a normal activity that friends participate in.

There is no rulebook, no manual, no scientific study, and no perfectly scripted act that he can turn to now. It’s very rare that Bruce ever feels unsure of himself, but in this moment, touching Clark, he feels out of his element.

Two plans emerge before him in his mind: First, he could drop the act now that the woman is gone, stop touching Clark, clear his throat, and continue on with the night. Let the papers try to run the rumor, allow it to settle down and die when no one can prove it, and then he’ll be seen with a different woman next week, and he and Clark can forget it ever happened.

The second option is that he can put on his charm, flirt with Clark like it means nothing to him, every move methodical—fix his glasses right when the camera comes out, adjust one of those curls swooping down onto his forehead as a group whispers, make sure they all see what an attentive partner Bruce Wayne is, and then at the end of the night, he and Clark can pretend it never happened.

Strangely, he finds that he wants to do neither. He wants to keep touching Clark, without the prying eyes and flashing cameras, and he wants to mean it. He doesn’t want to flirt with Clark as the version of himself that the general public sees, to be fake with him. But he doesn’t know how to make it sincere, to turn off the carefully crafted persona and tell Clark how he feels.

Bruce knows that Clark can hear his heartbeat, but sometimes, he worries that Clark can read his mind. Perhaps it’s just the over-pouring amount of empathy that Clark has that makes Bruce feel that way, but it still surprises him when Clark leans close and murmurs, “We don’t have to stay.”

“You’re here to get a story,” Bruce replies, arm still wrapped around Clark’s waist.

He throws his arm over Bruce’s shoulder, squeezing him back in a one-armed hug. “I think anything I write will be overshadowed by our love affair, now,” he teases.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce says, and the words feel so foreign on his tongue, but Clark deserves an apology for this, letting his emotions get in the way of both of their jobs tonight.

Clark chuckles. “For what? I got to see one of these fancy parties, made some connections…And I got to see you smile, even if it was fake.”

Bruce suddenly feels very warm, and he removes his arm from around Clark’s middle. “It’s going to look even more scandalous if we leave early, you know.”

Something in his stomach flutters when Clark just grins.

Bruce can hear the clicking of cameras as they not-so-subtly sneak out of the event, fingers interlocked. The minute they’re outside, he drops Clark’s hand, and he thinks he imagines the disappointed look on Clark’s face.

***

Bruce is trying to not think too hard about what this means.

Clark is…Well, he’s Clark, he’s fucking Superman, and he’s beautiful. Don’t get him wrong, Clark’s a nerd, with bizarre music taste and too-big suits and crooked glasses, but his curls fall so perfectly in his face when he’s not smothering them in gel, and he’s grinning at Bruce so innocently, as if he didn’t just have his cock inside of him.

This is one of the few times in his life that Bruce feels that sex meant more to him than putting on a performance, adding a notch to his bedpost, with the added benefit of a little stress relief.

Sex is easy for him, while intimacy is not, and yet everything about the way Clark had touched him, how he’s looking at him now feels so intimate. Bruce has never allowed someone to have such power over him like that, and it’s the first time he’s ever felt that vulnerability made something better.

But now, Clark is seemingly trying to cuddle with him, and that is too much for Bruce to handle for one night, so he gets out of the bed and gets redressed.

But when he turns around and sees the look in Clark’s eyes, that kicked-puppy little pout, he sighs and crawls back into the bed, laying flat on his back, with a few inches of distance between them.

“Why do you do that?” Clark asks.

“What do you mean?”

“When we’re in public…In front of the cameras, you’re so touchy. Even when we’re around the League, you’ll touch me…A hand on my shoulder, at least. But when we’re alone, you never reach out first.”

Physically intimacy, he’s good at, in the form of rough, passionate kisses and wandering, steady hands. Even with the unfamiliarity of doing it with a man, Bruce had known his way around their earlier endeavors.

This is the part he’s awful at. Talking about his feelings is not something he’s ever really done, never had much of a reason to, and now he’s scared he’s going to fuck this up.

But he’s going to try to explain himself anyway, because Clark is the only person who has ever made him feel this light hopefulness in his chest, has made unable to swallow the instinct to smile. He figures that that’s as close to romantic as he’s ever gotten.

“When we’re in public, I’m always pretending to be someone I’m not,” he replies simply. “Either I’m playing up Bruce Wayne’s ‘whirlwind romance’ for the press, or I’m showing that Batman is a supportive teammate and friend. I’m never myself when there are other people around.”

“So, do you…not like it when I touch you?” Clark asks.

Such simple words feel ridiculously awkward coming out of his mouth. “I do,” he replies. “It’s just…Not in my instinct to do it back. Or first. I don’t know how to act like…your boyfriend. I’m not good at this.”

Clark tentatively scoots over on the bed, their shoulders brushing. “That’s okay. We’ll figure it out. Together.”

Together is also a word that rarely leaves Bruce’s mouth, but he echoes it back anyway, before capturing Clark’s lips in a kiss.

***

Bruce trails his fingers lazily over Clark’s back, almost absent-mindedly.

He’s surprised when Clark flinches away with a soft gasp. His fingers freeze in mid-air, eyeing the other man with curiosity and concern.

“Are you okay?”

Clark gives him a sheepish smile. “Yeah, just ticklish.”

“Oh.”

Bruce pulls his hand away then, awkwardly folding them across his stomach. Of course, when he tries to be sweet, he finds a way to mess it up.

Scooting closer, Clark says, “You don’t have to stop; it still felt nice.”

Then, upon seeing the apprehensive look on Bruce’s face, he backpedals. “Unless you don’t want to, it’s fine—“

There’s a fond smile threatening to tug at the corners of Bruce’s mouth, and instead of fighting it back, he allows it to spread. “I can keep going.”

Clark’s face looks pink in the dim light of the room, and Bruce returns his fingers, tentatively, to his back, still unsure of himself and unfamiliar with the tenderness of it all.

He hears the contended sigh of the man beside him, feels Clark practically melt under the touch, like a cat being pet. It’s sort of adorable, a word which had never really been in Bruce’s vocabulary before.

A rare feeling overtakes him: Mischief.

Clark is such an open book, and Bruce finds it incredibly endearing. He’s working on his ability to be open, too, but honesty comes as easy to Clark as breathing.

If Clark so willingly provided the information that he’s ticklish, then it wouldn’t be so bad if Bruce were to explore it, would it?

He lightens his touch, and Clark twitches slightly. He brings his fingers closer to Clark’s side, and hears a little huff of air, like he’s holding back a laugh.

Bruce pulls him closer, a newfound confidence in his actions surging through him. He presses his face into the side of Clark’s neck, brings all ten of his fingers to Clark’s sides, and strokes them slowly, softly.

The touch is so gentle, and yet Clark barks out a laugh immediately.

“Bruce!” he says.

“Yes?” Bruce replies, feigning innocence.

“It tickles.”

“I know. Do you want me to stop?”

Clark’s answer only comes in the form of giggling, and so Bruce doesn’t stop.

He keeps his touch gentle, exploratory. He traces his blunt nails all over Clark’s sides, his ribs, his stomach. He presses a few firm kisses into the crook of Clark’s neck, which also seem to cause bubbly laughter.

Bruce doesn’t even realize how hard he’s smiling until he finally lets Clark breathe, which he knows he technically doesn’t need to do, but still.

He gets the urge to pull away then, to stop touching him, maybe even apologize. But before he can do any of those things, Clark wraps his arms around him and hugs him close.

“That was mean,” he murmurs, but his body language speaks to the contrary.

Bruce lets himself relax into Clark’s hold, feels the heat radiating off of his blushing face, the way his chest rises and falls a little more rapidly than usual. “You could have easily stopped me,” he replies softly. “If it was really that mean.”

Clark tweaks his side, and Bruce flinches.

Their eyes meet.

“Don’t,” Bruce says, his voice barely a whisper.

Clark hesitates. “Actually?”

His instincts are telling him to say yes, actually, don’t you dare. If he sets the boundary, Clark will listen. But those instincts are the same ones that told him not to pursue this happiness, to stop touching Clark at that party, to shut himself off from other people and the world.

He’s trying to ignore those instincts more now. To stop putting on an act all the time.

The word feels awkward, heavy in his mouth, but Bruce says, “No.”

And Clark grins, and pounces.

It turns out that the laugh Bruce usually gave at parties, pretending to find some unfunny joke hilarious, sounds nothing like the real thing, the breathy giggling that escapes him when Clark’s hands latch onto his hips and squeeze them.

Before Clark came into his life, romance was just an act that served one of his alter egos well. But Clark has brought out the man between his personas, the Bruce that resides between playboy and vigilante.

And for a first time in a long time, this happiness is not an act.

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