Chapter Text
Monday:
Perched on a gargoyle high above the cesspool that is Gotham City, Batman watches and waits. Soon a crime will be committed. Someone will be robbed. Blood will be spilled. A body will drop. And when it does, Batman will be ready to spring into—.
“Bruce?”
“DAMMIT!”
Batman lurches forward, barely managing to restore his grip in time so that he doesn’t plunge five hundred or more feet to his death. Once he has regained his balance, and taken his anger level down a few notches, he turns to look over his shoulder.
“How.many.times.have.we.had.this.conversation?” Batman bites out in as many distinct syllables as he can throw at his unexpected - and uninvited - visitor.
With his bright red cape flowing in the midnight breeze, and his blue spandex reflecting the light emanating from every skyscraper window in the vicinity, Superman merely floats in midair and frowns.
You’re a fucking beacon, alright, Batman thinks to himself.
Batman has every right to be annoyed because Superman can be seen for miles in the dark. Everything else in Gotham is black or a morbid shade of grey, especially at night. Superman, however, might as well be a night light for how visible he is to the naked eye. He’s like a splash of insanely vibrant colors contrasting against a monotone landscape. He exudes radiance and warmth whereas everything else sucks up light and energy… and kills it. He can be seen while all other objects and people are meant to be overlooked.
Flashy.
Red and blue.
Beacon.
“I’m sorry, Bruce, it’s just that—,” Superman continues apologetically, completely oblivious to what it is he is doing wrong.
“Number one,” Batman curtly cuts Superman off, “What do you see me wearing right now?”
“Kevlar?” Superman sounds unsure of himself, as if he is afraid of giving Batman the wrong answer. And he ought to be, because it is the wrong damn answer!
“I’m in uniform,” Batman points out as he watches Superman just floating there, like a cheerful buoyant advertisement for happiness and all things positive. “When I’m in uniform, you’ve been told to refer to me as ‘Batman.’”
“Sorry, Bruce,” Superman says with even more regret in his voice. “I would play your control games on any other night, but I actually need your help right now.”
“Clark Joseph Kent!” Bruce growls in exasperation. He immediately regrets it - hell, he regrets even knowing Clark’s middle name - because he suddenly sounds like an old man. A parent. Ragging on an impudent child.
And what he absolutely does not want to have himself compared to is one of Clark’s parental figures.
“Sorry,” Clark mumbles again, only now he sounds like a whipped puppy.
Thanks to the dramatic change in Clark’s attitude, Bruce can no longer maintain the Batman persona. Just like Clark is making no effort to act Superman-like. Clark is here on unofficial business, which means that Bruce cannot berate him for breaking the ‘Golden Rule.’ Rule number two stipulates that they stick to code names while in uniform. Rule number one - the ‘Golden Rule’ - on the other hand, expressly forbids Superman from entering Gotham City uninvited. While Clark is free to come and go as he pleases, preferably as often as possible, Superman is prohibited from entering without permission. Why? Because Gotham City is not Metropolis. It is not full of rainbows and treed kittens. Instead of supervillains blasting buildings with their super powers, real nitty and gritty criminals gut people and slit throats in Gotham. Entrails are left as tokens of one’s affections. Organs go missing both on the streets and inside the hospitals. Superman’s brand of justice and law-enforcing will be ineffectual in Gotham. Worse yet, Gotham’s particular flavor of crime might just end up poisoning Superman’s optimistic personality and his all-things-are-soft-and-fluffy mind.
And the last thing I need is for my precious Superman to go nuts and get himself committed to Arkham.
Bruce shudders at the thought of Clark being locked up in Gotham’s mental health ‘prison.’ That place is so awful that it is guaranteed to permanently destroy even Superman’s sunny disposition.
After counting to ten, Bruce straightens up, leans forward onto the gargoyle’s head, and stretches his arms out. Predictably, Clark flies right into his embrace.
As Clark’s high-profile boyfriend, Bruce is more than capable of showering his beloved with lots of attention and affection. Batman, on the other hand, is completely against emotional displays of any kind. Bruce sure as hell doesn’t want Batman to be seen hugging Superman at the top of a skyscraper in the middle of the night. This is why he uses his cape - his very long black cape - to completely smother all of the bright colors that are molded to Clark’s very lovely physique. This action is less about the embracing and more about the concealing.
“First of all, I don’t play control games,” Bruce rumbles near Clark’s ear as he holds his boyfriend tightly to him. There is nothing to be seen now except for the bottoms of Superman’s red boots and the thick glossy waves of Clark’s wind-tousled hair. “I make rules for a reason. I thought that you understood that.”
“I do. But it’s just that… he’s in your city… and I couldn’t follow him as Clark Kent. Not with the way he scales buildings.”
“Who is ‘he’? And what is he doing in my city?”
“Peanut, my Thanagarian pet shylir.”
“Your what-the-fuck?” Bruce demands to know.
“He escaped while I was cleaning my bedroom,” Clark goes on without answering Bruce’s question. “I tried to catch him, but he’s very fast. And he burrows.”
Why me?
Bruce wonders why Clark can’t be like all the other fur parents on Planet Earth and take home something normal - like a dog.
Oh wait.
He does have a dog.
‘The’ dog that Bruce does not like.
The dog is why Bruce never visits Clark at the Fortress of Solitude. He’s been there three times in the past, but he vowed never to set foot in that place again after Krypto the psycho-dog tried to take a chunk of flesh out of his ass.
Don’t ask questions.
Just get a description of whatever the hell it is he’s lost, find it, and send him on his merry way.
“What does it look like?” Bruce asks.
Clark leans up against Bruce in a very distracting manner and smiles hopefully, knowing that Bruce will not let him down. Unfortunately, after a smile like that, there is a hell of a lot going ‘up’ and nothing going ‘down’, and Bruce has trouble remembering what it is he is supposed to be doing.
“‘He’,” Clark corrects Bruce. “He is furry and about this big.” He motions with his hands pressed against Bruce’s chest.
Not distracting at all, Bruce sarcastically thinks to himself.
“He has several antennae sticking out of his back… um… what else?”
“Antennae sticking out of his back?!”
“Oh, and wings on his head! And he has four sets of eyes.”
“Four sets of eyes,” Bruce says with a straight face. “Not four eyes. Four sets of eyes.” He ignores the confused look Clark gives him when he repeats himself. “Well, at least this thing won’t be difficult to spot. Why do you think it decided to come to Gotham instead of terrorizing Metropolis?”
“‘He’ eats dirt,” Clark replies as if there is nothing abnormal about that kind of behavior. “Gotham is a little… uh…” Finally, Clark realizes that maybe - just maybe - he is beginning to insult the sanctuary that Bruce calls home. “Never mind.”
“If you think Gotham is so dirty, maybe I should wash your mouth out with soap before I send you back to Metropolis,” Bruce playfully threatens. He enjoys the way Clark’s pretty blue eyes widen in fear as well as the way the young man tenses in his arms. “I’m joking, Clark. Relax.”
Are all Kryptonians this naive and easy to mess with?
Bruce sincerely doubts it. There is no one in the world as unique, or as beautiful, as his Superman. That is why he continues to humor his high-maintenance boyfriend, even though Clark’s peculiar hobbies and habits sometimes drive him up the wall.
“Okay, let’s find your freakish alien so I can get back to patrolling the streets.”
Peanut is surprisingly easy to find. Bruce locates the weird creature lurking around the warehouse district. Since the place is crawling with cockroaches, centipedes, and spiders - and is generally filthy as hell - Bruce is the one who has to recapture Clark’s bizarre pet. Not because Clark is trying to be extra difficult, but because Bruce does not want his perfect angel to get his hands dirty. Besides, he has heard the way Clark shrieks when Gotham’s prized cockroaches scuttle across his path. Bruce most certainly does not want to hear his boyfriend do so while he is dressed up as Superman.
“Here is your gross antenna-covered monster back,” Bruce announces as he passes the creature to Clark. He holds it by what he thinks is the scruff of its neck, not wanting to be responsible for breaking any of those antennae. He also does not want to support it from below because he knows where those furry feet have been.
“Thank you, Bruce!” Clark takes hold of the creature and hugs it firmly, gifting it with the type of unconditional love that only Superman possesses.
Bruce just watches, being thankful that he is wearing thick gloves and will never have to experience what touching that thing with his bare hands feels like.
“Peanut, you’ve been very naughty,” Clark scolds the creature affectionately. “You should thank Bruce for finding you. Gotham is a very terrible place to get lost in.”
Bruce feels one of his eyelids begin to twitch.
“Bruce, you’re the best!” Clark hugs Bruce with one arm, stretches up a bit on his toes, and kisses Bruce on the lips.
Ignoring the fact that there is an otherworldly peanut-shaped creature pressed between them, Bruce wraps his arms around Clark and clutches him tightly. He then turns the innocent kiss into an obscene mess of wet tongues, bruised lips, and firm groping.
“You’re welcome, baby,” Bruce murmurs after their very hot kiss leaves Clark swooning in his arms. “Feel free to lose another pet sometime soon. I’d be more than happy to help you find it.”