Trick of the Trade by saraid
"Look at that."
Tuning in his hearing from the bathroom, Clark Kent came out. The sadness in his wife's voice drew him like a moth to the flame. Whatever had made her sound like that was something he needed to deal with.
Lois was standing in the living room, one shoe on, the other in a dangling hand, staring at the television set.
Clark went up behind her and looked over her shoulder. She leaned into him, fitting so nicely that he shot a glance at the clock, just to see if they had time - no, they'd been late already once this week. Perry was understanding, but not stupid.
The small screen showed a horrendous scene. Bodies strewn across what had been a lovely grassy law. They wore gowns and tuxedos. There were tables spread with crystal and white linen tossed about. It all looked like some monstrous child had gotten angry with her Barbie dolls and thrown them in a fit.
Then poured red paint everywhere.
No one was saying anything. The scene spoke for itself
Clark wrapped his arms around Lois as a familiar figure came into view.
The cape dragged the ground as if pulling him down. His head was bowed, shoulders back.
In his arms was the body of a small child. So brutally torn that sex could not be identified except by the color of the scraps left on it; pink.
Pink lace, turned to rust by blood.
Only bullets did that much damage.
Clark buried his face in Lois' neck, sucking in her scent. It meant home and comfort and love.
"You better go in alone today. Tell Perry I'm sick, or off doing research."
"You're going to see him?"
Clark pulled away and met her eyes. He would never lie to her - but there were times she didn't ask the right questions.
"Lois - you know how much he's helped me when I needed it. I can't leave him to face this alone. Robin's only a kid, this isn't something he's ready for." "He frightens me, Clark." Lois leaned over, a hand on his chest for balance, and put her shoe on.
"You've only met him twice." Clark softened the words with a smile.
"I wouldn't have known I was meeting him if you hadn't told me." She smiled back. "His disguise is way better than yours."
"It fooled you."
"Only because I was blind!" She went to tip-toe and kissed him firmly. "Just don't stay too long. You can come back and get me if you think he needs a woman's wisdom."
Clark saw his wife to the door and then did a quick-change to the blue suit. He needed to get to Gotham as quickly as possible. In the past he'd found that when Batman had a bad day it could spread to a lot of people. Superman could help him deal with it, if Batman would let him.
Clark smiled grimly as he ducked out the window. It was barely light out, the fog hadn't completely burned off yet.
It was an expression very few people had seen on Superman's face.
Most of them wouldn't have liked it.
Gotham looked the same as always. Landing on a dimly-lit street that should have been bright with dawn, Clark spun and stepped out of the alley in his suit.
He sometimes thought he could smell Gotham, from a hundred miles away. It wasn't that it was any dirtier than any other large city. It was more an effect of the perpetual gloom and the ongoing street wars.
Bruce fought them as best he could, but no one man was ever going to save Gotham.
He was briefly thankful he lived in Metropolis. The thought was unworthy, but true.
He thought about taking a cab, but now that he was here a sudden feeling of hesitancy feel upon him.
He had done this before. But Bruce had never exactly welcomed him with open arms.
Reconsidering, he decided to walk for a bit.
The attack they'd seen on tv had only taken place a couple of hours ago. While he walked - passing people that didn't look up - Clark listened in to several news broadcasts and pieced together the whole story.
A war had broken out between two factions of one of the organized crime families that infested Gotham. Batman had been doing a pretty good job of keeping it out of the public and keeping the public safe, until last night. A fancy dinner party on the grounds of the Gotham Museum had been turned into a bloodbath by a gang of hired guns. And Batman, though he did all he could, was only one man.
It sounded to Clark like Bruce really had done all he could. He'd taken out a dozen killers and shielded bystanders with his cape and body.
Everyone was calling him a hero; not always the word used to describe him.
The more he heard, the more worried Clark became.
Bruce had a tendency toward depression under the best of circumstances; a natural result of his lifetime spent in obsession.
Now Clark hailed a cab and climbed in, just telling the driver to take him to Wayne Manor. He had been there once before. Hopefully Bruce wouldn't be too terribly angry if he dropped in on his own.
Arriving as Clark Kent would help protect Bruce's identity.
Clark smiled, amused.
It was something you learned, as a superhero; a trick of the trade.
The manor looked as imposing and dignified as before.
The first time Clark had visited he'd come in the dead of night, carrying a semi-conscious Batman that had only managed to give the most rudimentary directions.
It was a good thing there was no other house like this for fifty miles, or Superman would have been stranded.
That night hadn't been the first they spent together.
Clark got out of the cab and paid the driver while he thought. The front door of the mansion opened and he saw a tall, white-haired man.
If there was guilt to be felt, Clark knew he would feel it afterwards. There were some things no one in his life would understand; not his friends, not his parents, and not his wife. Lois would feel every bit betrayed by what he planned to do as he would if she did the same with someone else - no matter the reasons.
It wasn't something he could justify. Wasn't something he could explain.
It just was.
"Master Kent." Alfred greeted him, subdued. "Master Bruce is upstairs. he claims to be napping. Shall I tell him you're here?"
"No, Alfred." He'd had his parents, God love them, and Bruce had had Alfred. He'd gotten the better deal, but Bruce hadn't suffered.
Yes, he had. Clark corrected himself.
"I'll just go up and check on him. Alright?"
"Excellent, Master Kent." Alfred stepped out of the way and Clark walked into the huge entry.
He mounted the giant staircase with a hint of trepidation. Would Bruce welcome this visit? Would he send Clark away? Or would he be expecting Superman and not his mild-mannered alter-ego?
"Master Kent!" Alfred called up when Clark got to the landing.
"Yes, Alfred?"
"Tell Master Bruce that I will be going out to the market. I should be gone at least two hours."
"Thank you, Alfred, I will."
That answered another question; if Alfred knew. Clark had never been caught with Bruce in any kind of compromising position, but he had wondered...
Faced with a long hallway with regularly spaced doors, Clark had to stop and think. It had been a year or more since he was here last.
He'd almost missed his second anniversary with Lois that time.
It was a relationship he tried hard to not think about. It didn't need to be catalogued or studied.
This was one of the few places in his ever-more complicated life that Superman just went with the flow.
Memory served, as always. He walked forward, his goal the fourth door down on the right. The last door led to Bruce's parents' bedroom, it had been pointed out to him during the brief tour he'd received.
He paused, but decided that knocking wouldn't help. Barging in wasn't Clark's forte, but Superman could do it.
He opened the door and stepped inside the large bedroom, then closed the door behind himself.
"I told you I don't want anything, Alfred." The voice was surly, and sounded exhausted.
"I didn't bring any tea." Clark remembered Alfred's mother-hen nature well.
The butler had simply refused to believe that Superman didn't need the same sort of attention anyone else did. It made Clark smile.
Now Bruce sat up. He shot up, actually, and glared at Clark.
"What are you doing here?"
"Saw it on television."
"Damned reporters."
Bruce fell back on the bed, but he kept an arm raised, as if warding Clark off.
"I don't want you here."
Clark stuffed his hands in his pockets, wrinkling his suit, and scuffed a foot, looking down at the floor.
"I'm not all that sure I want to be here."
"Then go."
"It's not that easy, Bruce." Clark approached the bed slowly, not sure what he expected. When Bruce only lowered his arm and curled over on his side, he was surprised. This wasn't a typical Bruce Wayne/Batman aggressive stance. Not at all.
Bruce made some incoherent grunting sound. Clark stopped by the side of the bed. It was so large Bruce was still only just within arm's reach. "Call it a character flaw. Once I know what someone needs, it's hard for me to not give it to them. Especially if Superman is the only one that can give it to them."
"And if they don't ask? If they don't want it?" Bruce shouted, turning over and throwing a punch at Clark; he let it land, knowing Bruce would only hurt his hand.
"Shit." Bruce swore. Clark had felt the strength of the blow, he'd hit as hard as he could. "What do you want here, Big Red?"
"To help you."
"A pity fuck?"
"No. A friend offering you what you need."
"I don't have any friends. I have Alfred for Bruce and Nightwing for Batman. But *I* don't have any friends."
"You sound really pathetic." Clark chuckled and sat on the bed. Feeling *really* sorry for yourself this time?"
"Get out, Clark."
Ignoring the anger he heard, Clark listened, and fund, the deep sadness in the voice. He leaned over and stroked Bruce's back gently.
"You don't have to prove anything to me, Bruce. You don't have to be strong when I'm here. I'm strong enough for both of us."
"That's it?" Bruce snorted, and pulled away. He rolled off the bed and when he stood Clark saw that he was wearing only a pair of sweats, and they were dark with old sweat. he'd pushed himself hard today. "That's the best you can do? I've heard better lines on soap operas!"
Startled, Clark just sat and watched as Bruce stripped off and stalked to the bathroom. After a minute he heard water running.
It took a few minutes, but he thought about it, and got himself into the right mindset.
Then he got up and took off his suit; jacket, shirt, slacks, and shorts.
Shoes and socks. Everything laid neatly on a convenient armchair.
He walked around the bed to check the nightstand. It was still there, only a quarter used.
With a smile, Clark slid into the bed and fluffed the pillows, picking up the top book on the stack and opening it.
Bruce had been reading the penal code of California. Interesting, but dry.
Clark listened to the water running and read the exceedingly long definition o f malicious mischief.
He heard the water stop, looked up in time to see Bruce come back into the bedroom, a towel wrapped snugly around his hips.
"Making yourself at home?" the other man asked dryly.
"It's a comfortable bed."
"Not like the one -" Bruce closed his mouth so fast his jaw snapped. Clark almost flinched, but met the other man's stare steadily.
"It's a comfortable bed." he repeated
"Right." Bruce dropped the towel on the floor and walked over. He sat on the bed, then turned himself, as if it was an effort, and climbed under the blankets and down comforter.
"It's always cold here." He said, a seeming non-sequitur.
Clark pushed himself up and propped his back against the headboard, then looked over at Bruce.
"I don't think it's cold. Alfred would never let that happen."
"I'm cold." Bruce insisted stubbornly. He was also sitting with his back to the headboard, but his chin was hanging down and his hands were loose in his lap.
"I know you are." He'd thought this would be hard. That it would take some sort of effort on his part; a re-arranging of mental boundaries. Something.
But it was *easy*.
Clark reached out and put both arms around Bruce. He didn't object. He was pliant and motionless.
Batman let Clark Kent pick him up and pull him close. He let Superman tuck him against the broad chest and cradle him close as if he were a child.
As if he were the child Batman had failed to save that morning.
"I know," Clark said. "I know that cold. I know how it gets inside you and eats at you until you think you'll never be warm again."
Bruce didn't say anything. His firm body lay against Clark's, only the flicker of his roaming eyes proof he was awake.
His breath was cool and damp on Clark's shoulder. Holding him under the layer of blankets - there were too many to be really comfortable, actually, Alfred was always trying to take care of Bruce - Clark could feel the faint, cool damp of Bruce's skin, and the steady, slow beat of his heart.
He was physically cold. Slightly worried, Clark raised his hands high enough to warm them with his heat vision, then began rubbing Bruce's arms gently. He wanted to warm him up, but not hurt him or get him worked up.
"Bruce?" Was he going into shock? It could be delayed sometimes. Bruce carried such a huge load on his shoulders; far heavier than Superman's.
Only a man. No super powers, nothing but his determination and drive. These were the only weapons Bruce Wayne brought to the battle.
Whenever Clark felt like he could take on the world, when he new he was the best thing since sliced bread, he thought about Bruce. It was easy to do what he did with the gifts he'd been given. Bruce did the same thing. In a harsher place, against truly violent people.
Clark smiled to himself as he warmed his hands again.
He could think about Bruce, or he could let his mom scold him. That was a no-brainer.
This time he stroked Bruce's chest and muscular belly, letting his hands linger just above his waist.
Bruce made a soft sound and turned his head into Clark's shoulder.
His hair smelled faintly of leather and woods.
Clark nuzzled into it, enjoying the heavy texture. The difference from Lois'.
He had to cut that thought off. As much as he loved his wife, she didn't belong here.
There was this elite society that he belonged to. He and Bruce and a scant handful of others on the planet. Someday there would be more, Clark knew, but for now there were only the few of them.
No mater how hard everyone else tried, they couldn't quite understand. Not the cops, not the feds. They still went home at the end of the day and took off their guns.
Superman could never not be Superman.
And Batman could never not be Batman.
Even when they were just Clark and Bruce, reporter and billionaire.
Clark closed his eyes and parted his lips, sucking air through Bruce's hair, tasting him.
There was no one else who could give this man what he needed.
That placed this into another category. He wasn't cheating on his wife. The two just weren't comparable.
"Kal?"
Bruce sounded hesitant. He moved, one hand stealing up to lay on Clark's chest.
"Yes, Bruce?" He marveled that he could sound so polite at a moment like this. His mother had certainly drilled it into him.
He suspected she had never imagined this circumstance, though.
He sort of hoped not.
Bruce hadn't said anything else. Clark stopped his wandering thoughts and used one hand to tip the other man's head back so he could look at him.
It was dark now, but he could see perfectly.
"What do I need to say, Bruce?" he asked, shifting so that they fit together more tightly. Bruce's butt was firmly in Clark's lap now. "What do I need to do?"
A lift of shoulder. Half a shrug. Bruce wasn't going to be helpful.
Well, that was sort of why they did this. Clark had puzzled it out way back when.
Bruce couldn't stop being Batman. He couldn't be just Bruce.
Unless someone stronger than he was made him.
And there was no one stronger than he was, mentally.
Except Superman. And only then when Bruce was vulnerable.
Tonight Clark would be the strong one. It was a role he was familiar with. Not to this extent, usually, but he could expand his horizons once more.
With one hand cradling the back of Bruce's head and the other splayed on his chest, Clark leaned down and kissed him gently. Then, when there was no response, more firmly, letting his tongue push its way into Bruce's mouth and explore the differences there.
Bruce expelled a deep sigh that washed Clark's face, and leaned into the kiss, returning it slowly.
He didn't respond otherwise; just leaned in and kissed back. His body was still cool and still on Clark's.
Clark let this continue for a few minutes, then decided to change things up. It wouldn't be long before his own body started taking this seriously, and then he wouldn't be able think much at all.
He had a goal and he'd work toward it, but how they got there - that was his choice.
Using only a touch of his strength, he lifted Bruce and turned them both over in midair. That woke him up a bit - Bruce made a startled sound and grabbed at him. He was tremendously strong for a human; Clark enjoyed feeling that strength as Bruce's arms wrapped around him and Bruce's knees clamped on his thighs.
"Showing off, Kal?" Bruce tried to keep the same slightly-pissed, distant tone, but it didn't work now.
"You know you're the only person in my life that calls me that?"
"It was *your* idea." Bruce snarled now. They were floating a little higher now, about five feet off the bed. Almost precisely between the bed and the ceiling.
"One of my better ones." Clark nuzzled Bruce's neck and whispered in his ear. He felt the shiver that ran through the other man's body as if it were his own.
The first time they had done this, Bruce hadn't called him anything. There had been few words that night; only "Please." and "Yes." and "God."
The second time, Clark had had some time to think about what happened. He'd felt guilty, and then started the list of rationalizations. He knew this would hurt Lois, if she ever found out. He intended that she never would.
But to have Bruce call him 'Clark' in passion felt like more of a betrayal than the actual sex did. Lois knew his birth name, but she had never used it. it wasn't who he was, to her.
It was the part of him that was *most* privately Superman's.
So he gave it to Bruce.
The only man he had ever, or would ever, know this way.
The only man he had ever loved?
Of course.
"I love the way you say my name." He whispered.
He was different with Bruce than he was with Lois. And they were the only lovers he had to compare.
"You're a damned bully, Kal." Bruce eased his grip, finally. As if he were accepting that Clark could and would hold him here. Keep him safe.
"Tell me you don't want this and I'll go." With the freedom to move a bit more, Clark ran a hand down Bruce's chest between them and stroked his stomach. The muscles there quivered. "I'm going to take care of you, Bruce," he promised when Bruce didn't answer him. "I'll give you what you need."
"Keep talking, Kal -" Bruce wiggled, his movement purposeful. Before Clark realized what he was up to, he was within reach of a bedpost. With a quick, malicious grin, he grabbed it and yanked; successfully pulling himself from Clark's surprised arms.
He hung onto the post just long enough to drop to the bed, where he sat up, smirking at Clark, his arms crossed over his chest.
"Bet your wife couldn't have done that."
Clark flipped over in the air and took a sitting position, crossing his own arms. He wasn't sure if he should be angry or amused.
"She usually isn't trying to get away. Bruce..."
Bruce just smirked.
"Fine. We'll do it your way." Clark mock-sighed, and started to float back down.
He wasn't all that surprised when Bruce jumped off the bed, dodged Clark's snatch-and-grab maneuver, and high-tailed it out of the room.
"Don't forget to count to ten!" His voice rang in the room as Clark landed, half-laughing, and stared dumbly at the open door.
Okay.
Bruce Wayne was running naked through his mansion, waiting for Superman to catch him.
This had possibilities, as Mulder would say.
It would have been sporting to give him a bigger head start, but this place was packed with secret doors and passages; he didn't want to have to break down any walls.
That was a mite too violent for his tastes.
Naked himself, Superman took off after Batman.
Thirty minutes later he wasn't sure this was a good idea after all.
The rooms weren't lined with lead -- he hoped -- but he hadn't found Bruce anywhere.
There couldn't be another human alive that could be this quiet.
Clark had listened and smelled and looked, but found no sign of Bruce.
He was beginning to think it hadn't been meant as a game after all.
Then he heard one little sound.
A tiny 'click'.
It sounded like a television being turned on.
With less time than it took to think it, he was back down the stairs - he flew down them, literally, the rushing air added fuel to a physical fire that the chase had been feeding - and into the small den that had been Bruce's father's office.
It was where Bruce went when he was most unhappy. Alfred had casually mentioned that once.
He lit on the floor a few feet from the door, and walked the rest of the way. He wasn't cold, he never got cold, but he was sure Bruce would be.
He looked in.
Bruce was sitting slumped on the small leather sofa, the remote control in hand.
Playing on the TV was a video of the morning news footage.
Complete with strewn dead bodies and one lifeless little girl in Bruce's arms.
"This won't make it any better." His words startled Clark, who had gotten caught up in the nightmare vision. "You'll leave and it will still have happened."
"Yeah." There was no way to argue that. "But you'll feel better."
"Won't." Bruce sighed and put his face in his hands, the remote falling to the floor and cracking, batteries scattering, rolling across the floor.
"Will." Clark retorted, softly. He went across the room and gathered Bruce up again.
"It won't. It won't. Nothing will." Bruce began to fight him, hitting him. His punches landed on Clark's chest with little effect, though they were hard enough that Clark knew he had to be hurting himself.
"will," he whispered, holding him tighter. "will."
He let Bruce exhaust himself, let Bruce hit and kick him until the anger drained and Bruce sagged in his arms.
Much like he had started out the evening; cool and still and pliant in Clark's arms.
Now was the time.
Clark's body had been patient. It was trained to respond to very specific stimuli, and just being here in Bruce's home was enough to set him off.
He kissed hi way down Bruce's body, the other man sprawled bonelessly on the sofa. Clark tasted him in that secret place, where he'd never tasted anyone else, not even Lois. It was a mysterious, spooky taste.
And he loved it.
He laved the pucker, wet it thoroughly, dug his tongue in, always ware that he could hurt, even in this small act.
Always careful. Always so careful. What was it like for others, to not have to hold back? To let go, even once?
He would never find out.
And he had other things to do at this moment.
No time to feel sorry for himself. Bruce was the one that needed attention. Not Clark.
When the little hole was as loose and wet as he could get it, Clark stood. He wiped his face with a throw pillow. The baseness of the act seemed to make him harder. Make him want it harder.
With a smooth movement he lifted Bruce's hip, using his elbows to spread the other man's legs.
"Coming in," he whispered. Bruce grunted, but didn't answer.
Clark pushed steadily. He was aware that Bruce was almost impossibly tight, the muscles bound by years of working out.
He knew it must be hurting, but he didn't stop. Once he was in he could take care of the pain.
Bruce moaned, and then again. The third one rose in his throat and his hands clawed at the slick surface of the sofa. He kicked with legs that couldn't find any purchase and Clark tightened his hold just a teensy bit. He wanted to hold onto him, not break him.
Bruce thrashed his head side to side and screamed.
"that's it," Clark whispered. He would have liked to bend over and kiss Bruce, kiss the back of his neck, but he couldn't, not and hold onto him. He was only halfway in.
He shoved in farther, feeling the slight give as tissues decided to stretch and not tear. That was good.
When his balls were close enough to Bruce's to feel the heat of them, he stopped.
Bruce moaned again.
With a rough sallow, Clark pulled halfway out and shoved in again.
Bruce screamed.
Clark hoped Alfred took longer at the store than he'd said he would.
Bruce set up a pattern of screams for the first few strokes, then abruptly cut them off.
The silence felt strange.
Clark knew the TV was still running behind him and was glad neither of them could see it.
With a lunge Bruce managed to get his upper torso off the sofa and grab onto the back of it. Then he arched violently, and he was suspended between Clark and the sofa, only his hands and the spot where they were joined supporting him. That was going to kill his back. Clark had to admire the power and determination the move took even as he shook his head at the cost.
He fucked Bruce hard and steady. He could tell the other man was getting close, but Bruce refused to move. Refused to respond outwardly in any way.
Clark smiled grimly, his teeth biting into his lower lip. This was the way it went. The way it was supposed to be.
Bruce had to be pushed to the edge.
Had to be forced to admit he wasn't the strongest, that he couldn't do anything he wanted.
He couldn't save everyone. he was just one man. Only a man.
Superman fucked Batman. Fucked him steady. Fucked him hard.
He waited for the tremor that would give Bruce away.
The sign that Bruce's body was rebelling from the iron control. That it was ready to take over.
His hands held Bruce's hips tightly. Bruce was tight around him, warm against him. Bruce's hands were white-knuckled where they gripped the sofa.
"Let it go," Clark urged quietly, almost too softly to be heard of the sounds of harsh panting and flesh slapping. "Let it go, Bruce."
"noooo," Bruce moaned.
"Let it *go*," Clark hissed, forcing himself to keep the pace steady.
"No, can't ." Bruce thrashed his head, and turned it to bite at his arm. Clark pounded into him, keeping it hard, keeping it strong.
"Bruce."
"No!"
"Can't save them all."
"NO!"
"Bruce -" It was getting too much, Clark felt his body coil like a spring, knew the moment had come - "They die. Humans *die*."
"NOOOO!" Bruce's howl was accompanied by a sudden jerk of his body. He jerked and then began fighting, twisting and writhing, refusing to let his body do what it wanted to, refusing to let himself feel the relief he needed...
Clark thrust in one more time, pretty damned hard, and held Bruce there, with his cock set over Bruce's prostate and Bruce fought it for another full minute before he lifted his legs and tried to grab at Clark with them. He humped back and fucked himself on Clark's cock, making himself scream, and then he came.
Clark held him as hard as he dared. When Bruce sagged in his grasp, his pants becoming sobs, Clark released his own control and came. His orgasm was almost an afterthought. At the moment Bruce was what mattered.
As soon as he could, Clark pulled out and collapsed tot he sofa, cradling Bruce close to him. They were sweaty and stinky and sticky. He petted Bruce's hair and whispered in his ear and held him against the storm as Bruce sobbed in his arms.
The way he should have cried when his parents died.
The way he should have cried when Dick left him.
The way he should have cried this morning.
The way men cried. Even super men.
Between sobs Bruce tried to gasp out words. Clark couldn't tell what he was saying, exactly, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was that he listened. He heard his name a few times - Kal - and redoubled his efforts to comfort his friend.
There was a heaviness to his heart, with the deed done. He'd given Bruce what he needed. The storm would pass and Bruce would be better. Stronger, more sure of himself. Sated and centered. Clark would go back to the wife he adored.
Bruce would be left alone.
Some heroes could only live that way.
End.
