It isn't immediately apparent to him.
In retrospect, the money and fame should have been tip-offs. Bruce Wayne was the richest man alive-and the tabloids didn't let anyone in Gotham, much less the eastern seaboard, forget that.
Wayne Industries was at the top of its game, taking down competition with one hand tied behind its back. Even Stark's stock had dropped in the past five years; Clark had seen enough of the other man to know it infuriated him. Money made itself under Lucius Fox's careful watch, and just a few "suggestions" from Mr. Wayne.
The stock markets were happy; the board members were very happy. And Bruce was...strangely oblivious to all of it. The man was a genius, of that, Clark was sure-Batman didn't just outsource his devices and antidotes. The Justice League benefited from his expertise in planning battles, whether they approved of his grumpy tone or not.
But Bruce had never showed himself to be what everyone expected to see-a glitzy billionaire throwing money at anything that moved-taking advantage, with little care for those underneath his custom wingtips.
Their first date had been the most incredible thing ever-Clark, knee bouncing under a coffee table in Gotham as Bruce Wayne slid into the seat across from him, dressed in a charcoal sweater and dark jeans, hair slightly mussed. Human, he'd thought to himself for a split second-then those ice-blue eyes had caught his, and he'd forgotten everything else.
Bruce was nothing like Brucie.
Or so Clark had thought. Clark was wrong a lot, though. Especially about Bruce.
Bruce gets the call right as they're settling back into his bed, Clark mouthing at his neck. The pillows are luxurious in the Manor, and Clark can't get over how it feels just to lay on them, much less have sex on them. Bruce's four-poster bed only adds to that spectacular image as he crawls on top of the other man, breathing heavily.
"Clark," Bruce murmurs as he works his pants off. "Phone."
"Mmm," Clark says in response, feeling skin burn hot under his hands. He's got Bruce's hipbone in his sights a second later, and he dips down. Bruce groans.
"Clark, not that I don't appreciate all of this-" Clark looks up, something buzzing at the back of his mind as he meets Bruce's eyes. "But my phone is ringing."
"So?" Clark pants, confused. Bruce has the front of his pants open, teasing, and it's killing him. "You never answer your phone."
"Gotham Academy's ringtone," Bruce says, groaning as Clark bends back over. "Cla-rk. It's their-school. I have to-"
Clark grabs the phone in a millisecond, back on top of Bruce before the other man can even register his absence. The covers flutter briefly as he presents the phone to his lover. "Go ahead."
Bruce catches his smirk with a frown that promises recompense later, jabbing at the infuriating device. Clark lowers himself until he's between Bruce's legs, blowing softly.
It's a superhuman effort, but Bruce schools his features into his Brucie mask. His voice is only a shade lower than usual-only Clark would really pick up on it, unless the caller listened very closely. "Bruce Wayne."
"Mr. Wayne," a voice buzzes on the line. "I'm calling from Gotham Academy, about your son-"
Clark really gets into it then, just to prove it to Bruce, and bobs his head in rhythm. Bruce remains stony-faced, white-knuckled around the phone. If the device had only been plastic, it would have shattered by now. "Yes, Damian. Uh huh. Oh, how terrible."
"We really do need you to come in-" The woman says after a long summary of whatever Damian's done this time (something Clark didn't catch, except for the words three week suspension and noncompliant use of hazardous materials) "When can we expect you, Mr. Wayne?"
Bruce's grip is about to break his phone-Clark can actually hear the plastic creaking and smiles to himself. Bruce's hips buck underneath him, searching for release and Clark only works harder, drawing up and down in slow motions, smooth and controlled, driving him insane.
"Ten million dollars." Bruce gasps out, dipping a little higher than his usual "Brucie" register.
"I'm-I'm sorry?" The woman asks, flabbergasted. "Mr. Wayne-"
"Ten million dollars," Bruce repeats, and when he looks down at Clark, he swears a wave of fear goes through him. "I know you were looking to renovate your library. The-the Wayne Foundation would be glad to assist. With stipulations, of course…"
Bruce holds himself back from groaning this time, shoving the cell phone to the side as Clark adds a hand, vibrating under his fingers.
"Are you-are you attempting to bribe me, Mr. Wayne?' the woman asks, sounding mildly outraged. "Your son destroyed thousands of dollars in property-"
"One hundred million," Bruce says, just a little too quickly. Clark grins. "Take it or leave it."
There's a sound of a clearing throat, like she's the one who's flustered, and the crackle of someone else grabbing the phone. Clark can hear Bruce's heartbeat and knows it'll be any second now-he slows his pace, feeling Bruce clench in irritation. He can't help teasing him a little-seeing Bruce irritated and unable to fix something himself is Clark's favorite. The glare he sends him could melt steel. Hah.
"I think we've come to an agreement, Mr. Wayne," the woman says after a few moments, pacified. "Now, if-"
"Great, thanks, bye." Bruce hangs up and throws the cell phone across the room. He groans as Clark finally speed up again, making those little breathy moans under his breath, like Clark can't hear them. "Jesus."
A few seconds later, he can't talk at all, sputtering under Clark's mouth and hands. He grabs Clark lazily, yanks experimentally, and finds him hard. A few strokes later and he's coming too, hot and quick across Bruce's chest.
They lay there, heaving, for a good thirty seconds before Clark speaks.
"Did you just….bribe a school so you could get a blow job?"
Bruce looks at him, frowning. He looks utterly debauched, hair mussed, two spots of color high on his cheekbones. "No. Why would I do that?"
"That's-that's kind of what it sounded like." Clark says, sitting up. "In fact, that was exactly what it sounded like."
"It was just a library," Bruce says, shrugging it off. Master of segues that he is, he directs Clark's attention across the room. "Wow, look at that! I ripped the Rembrandt!"
Clark looks up. Indeed, the Rembrandt that had sat at the corner of Bruce's master bedroom has a suspiciously cell phone-shaped tear in its center. The Rembrandt. Jesus.
"What the fuck, Bruce?"
Bruce just stands, grabbing the phone from the floor. "Want some lunch? We have an hour before Alfred gets back from the store."
Clark just stares at the painting, the bed, his lover, and sighs. "I...sure."
Fool that he is, he passes off the "Gotham Academy" moment as a fluke and falls back into his normal "relationship" routine. Bruce is suitably Bruce-like for the next few weeks, grumpy in the League meetings and as reticent as ever when Clark finds him in the cave, six monitors running tests concurrently.
Damian, for his troubles, gets to clean the entirety of the batcave by hand. Bruce never mentions what it exactly was the younger child did, but it seemed adequate punishment. Gotham Academy, true to Bruce's word, gets a shiny new library less than six months later, complete with VR screens and ten 3D printers.
Clark attends his first party with Bruce as a couple in May. It's the first time he's been invited to one of these events without having to wear a press pass, and the 'other side' couldn't have been stranger. Now he was expected to make small talk about everything-the weather, his relationships, Gotham politics.
Bruce holds his hand throughout the night, dazzlingly charming like he always is, just a little turned down. Brucie and Bruce seem to be warring in every gesture. Clark reaches for a drink and is promptly handed one by Bruce, only to find him leering at some debutante across the room. Clark got the impression it was more habit than actual intent, but the upper-crust crowd eats it up like normal, so he settles.
He cringes a little on the inside as Bruce is drawn away from him, engaged in some pithy conversation with a nosy socialite. The woman has one hand on his elbow and another on the small of his back, and Brucie laughs as he lets her lead him around the room, cracking jokes with a slight slur to his words.
Clark sighs, turning to face the man he'd been speaking to for the past five minutes, already dreading the conversation without Bruce's presence at his back. Buchanan-head of a construction conglomerate in southern Gotham. Rich. Boring.
"So, Mr. Buchanan," he says pleasantly, only to see the older man sneer at Bruce's retreating back. He pauses. "Where were we?"
"How is it exactly that you and Bruce met?" Buchanan asks suddenly, disdain clear in his tone. "I know you're not exactly a supermodel, Kent. Bit of a homebody, if you ask the right people…"
Clark feels the knife's edge between irritation and anger, and takes a breath. "We met during an interview. Bruce was-"
"Yeah, yeah," Buchanan says, cutting him off with a hand. "Did you boink him for a scoop? Is he keeping you because you know something?"
Clark freezes, astonished. "I assure you, there's no such-"
"Whoops!"
Clark watches as Bruce trips gracelessly in front of him, tumbling straight into Buchanan's chest. The two-no, three-glasses of champagne he was carrying shatter and spill all over the man's suit. Buchanan shoves Bruce off of him, enraged.
"Wayne!"
"Buchanan!" Bruce cries, stumbling to a standing position. His cheeks are flushed, eyes glassy. "Why, I didn't see you there! So sorry about the suit…"
Sure enough, there's a distinct wet spot at Buchanan's crotch. Clark smothers a giggle under cough. He didn't. He looks at Bruce, who pouts.
"I was just trying to get us some drinks, Clarkie…" Clark hates that name, but for a moment he's so utterly grateful he plays along, smiling demurely.
"Three glasses, babe?"
Bruce looks down at the shattered glasses. "And maybe one for the road…Oh, Roger," he says to Buchanan, "You shouldn't rub Armani. Always dab."
Buchanan glares at them as Clark tugs Bruce away, awkwardly patting at his crotch. Bruce winks at everyone before he shoves him into the Porsche, debauched as ever. They all laugh and titter at Brucie's antics-it wouldn't be a Thursday night without them, would it?
The next morning, Wayne Enterprises buys up a majority of shares in Buchanan's company. As far as corporate takeovers go, it's highly lucrative. No one saw it coming.
Bruce deflects when asked about it the next morning. "Oh, we've been looking at breaching new markets for a while. Good business in construction, Clark. Lots of money."
"Uh huh," Clark says, looking over the Gotham Gazette dubiously. "Specifically, Buchanan's money?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Bruce says, frowning at his coffee, and that's that.
Once Clark had glimpsed that side of Bruce, there was no going back. The reporter in him cringed at the abuse of power, but the playful side of him was overcome with glee. Bruce was, as far as Superman was concerned, only levelling the playing field.
(Besides, you couldn't fault a man who'd lost both parents as a child for having a sense of humor, strange as it was)
He didn't have to wait long.
"So," Bruce ventures one afternoon, curled up on the couch. He has a newspaper in one hand, a pair of reading glasses resting on his nose. Clark finds the whole scene utterly adorable, reeking of domesticity, really. Something about Bruce peering down at his articles, circling the discrepancies, makes him warm inside. "I'm going to that bachelor bid tomorrow night."
"Uh huh," Clark says, still caught in one of the Planet's stories about a crime ring in the southern suburb. "Bachelor bid?"
"Where you bid on handsome men. For charity." Bruce wrinkles his nose, but Clark senses his heart speeding up and glances at him. "I was thinking you could come with me."
"A….lright." Clark says finally, frowning. "Any reason why? You need a cover for something?"
Bruce looks down at his newspaper, fiddling with his glasses. "Nope."
The next night, Clark sits demurely next to Bruce in a New York ballroom, smiling for the limited press allowed into the event.
He spots Tony Stark off to his right, tinted glasses in place. He waves at Bruce dismissively, grabbing a scotch from the bar. A few reporters snap pictures of him, getting a peace sign in return.
"No." Clark says, turning to Bruce. "No."
Bruce frowns at him innocently. "What?"
"Are you thinking about doing what I think you're about to do?" Clark says, looking up at the stage. They're already six bids in, and Bruce hasn't raised their paddle yet. "Because if so…"
"No idea what you're talking about, Kent," Bruce says, and that should be the tip-off that Bruce's mind is elsewhere, because he never calls him "Kent" unless they're three hours deep into an argument on the Watchtower, and Batman is thinking about something completely different. "Oh, look, they're back."
Stark settled a few seats away, fiddling with something in his ear. Clark glances at it, super hearing picking up more than a few dirty words. He guesses it's beaming straight into the ear of-
"Captain America!" the announcer declares, leading the man onto the stage. "Everybody give it up for Steve Rogers!"
Stark whistles lewdly. Clark looks at Bruce and shivers. There's a wicked grin hiding just beneath his mask. He raises his paddle immediately. "600,000."
"I've got six hundred over here on my left," the auctioneer says, pointing at Bruce. "Can I get one million? One million?"
Stark turns to glare at Bruce, raising his paddle. "Nice try, frat boy."
Bruce smiles, ignoring him. "Ten million." He says, raising his paddle."
"Ten million!" the auctioneer cries, pointing. "Can I get fifteen? Fifteen?"
"Twenty," Stark says, narrowing his eyes at Bruce. He fiddles with his earpiece. Clark hears Steve Rogers swearing under his breath and grins a little. What a poor shmuck. "Stay out of my lane, Wayne. Everyone from here to Canada knows Steve is mine."
"Thirty million," Bruce says instead of replying, raising an eyebrow at Clark. He finally smiles a little, leaning in to whisper in his ear. "Now would be a good time to stop listening, babe."
Clark frowns. "Wha-"
Bruce presses down on something in his hand, and suddenly there's a high-pitched whine in his ear, digging into his brain. He bites down on his lip, shoving his hands over his ears.
Next to him, Tony Stark gives a shout and hurls something away from him-something that looks a lot like a shattered earpiece. Clark winces as the sound finally dies down, his ears still ringing.
The room is silent; he puts two and two together, and guesses that no one else heard the sound. There's still bidding going on, but it sputters out with a good Bat-glare or two. Clark feels his boyfriend grin beside him and sighs.
Bruce raises his paddle, a smug finality to his voice.
"Fifty million dollars."
"Fifty million. Going once," the auctioneer glances at Tony, like he's expecting him to bid, but the other billionaire is still rubbing his ear, murmuring to himself. "Going twice...sold, to the gentleman on the right!"
Bruce breaks into a wide smile, nodding at Captain Rogers. Stark finally seems to realize what happened, looking up in shock.
"What the fuck?" he splutters, head whipping from Bruce, to the auctioneer, then back again. "What the hell, Wayne? No, this is not-"
Bruce ignores him, getting out of his chair and offering Clark a hand. Together, they walk up to the stage, where Bruce gets his ticket signed, handing over a check worth more money than all of Smallville combined. Steve Rogers looks down at them uncertainly, eyes flicking back to his boyfriend.
"It's an honor to meet you, Captain." Clark says as a way of tiding things over, sending a glare at Bruce's head when the man isn't looking. "My name is Clark Kent. This is Bruce."
"Pleasure," Rogers says, shaking their hands, because of course he's the politest thing since apple pie. "I-uh. I guess I'm a little surprised."
"Uh huh," Clark says, glaring at Bruce again. The other man smirks a little while co-signing the check, like he can feel Clark looking at him. "Me too. Well, honey?"
Bruce smiles, giving the poor captain the full Brucie treatment. "Let's go do shots!"
Clark's respect for Captain America grows when the other man doesn't immediately run away. Most socialites do when Brucie Wayne breaks out the hard liquor. "I, uh. Can I just speak to Tony for a quick moment, Mr. Wayne?"
"Oh, you have to call me Brucie!" Bruce says, latching onto his arm. Clark sees where this is going pretty quickly and, despite his own disapproval, follows behind the pair. "Tony! Long time no see. Steve and I were about to go do shots!"
"Don't you have a boytoy of your own, Wayne?" Stark seethes, face turning an impressive shade of red. "How about one that isn't mine?"
"Hey, it was nice seeing you anyway," Bruce deflects, leaning heavily on Steve. He bats his eyelashes, almost a touch too much, but Clark says nothing. "I promise I'll return him in one piece."
Tony gritted his teeth audibly. "Wayne-"
"Bye, Tony!" Bruce grabs Clark and Steve, towing them away from the frustrated billionaire. Once they're in the parking lot, he lets his hands fall. The Brucie mask slips away for a moment, leaving Bruce looking smug, but not ostentatious. "So, Captain Rogers…"
"Just Steve is fine, sir," the other man says as they slip into Bruce's Ferrari. Clark realizes it's the four seater and curses himself. He should have seen this coming when they'd been getting ready earlier. "I thought we were going to the bar, Mr. Wayne…"
"Oh, that?" Bruce waves him off, starting the car with a rev that makes even Clark jealous. "That wouldn't be very much fun now, would it?"
They take Steve Rogers to a retro dance hall. The super soldier grins the entire night long, humming along to every other song. He seems relaxed in the hall in a way Clark's never seen on television, settling into his seat with a cranberry juice.
When Bruce asks him to dance, Clark can't help but laugh. He dances for a while to swing, lindy hop and the jitterbug, embarassed to a fault as his feet trip themselves up. Bruce holds him the entire time, laughing along with his missteps.
They keep an eye on the Captain, who asks not one, but two women standing against the wall to dance. His laughter is the loudest out of everyone's.
So maybe Bruce being petty had its perks. Clark's willing to admit that. Just maybe.
"We need to do better," Jim Gordon says at the funeral of a fallen cop a month later, face lined. "We need to respect one another….work with one another. A Gotham where a man is shot in the back in his patrol car is not our city. It never should be."
Bruce's hand tightens around his, eyes fixed to the television. Clark hears him mutter something about body armor, barely audible. His eyes are an icy blue, unyielding.
The TV clicks off suddenly. Dick dances into the room, hollering about Jason's bike, and the moment slips away, stashed for another time.
Or so he thought.
Clark covers Lex Luthor's visit to Metropolis with his usual cocktail of fear, self-deprecation and righteous hatred. He refuses Bruce's offer to steal the other man's plane and go joyriding, doubting it was a serious proposal. Clark Kent doesn't like covering Lex Luthor's thinly-veiled projects; Superman hates it. Bruce just simmers.
"Mr. Luthor," a hand from the press pool shoots up, daring to interrupt the businessman, "Is it true you're buying property along the port?"
Lex smiles, and the gesture sends chills down Clark's back. "Yes. Next?"
"Wouldn't your proposal for the port renovation displace thousands of low-income housing projects?" Clark dares, lifting a hand. "Three of those buildings are slated for renovation by local charities. What is you plan for those impacted?"
Lex narrows in on him, a smirk dancing across his lips. He schools his features well for the cameras; Clark can almost pretend the obvious disdain on the man's face isn't there for a second. "LexCorp is in contact with local charities, Mr. Kent. I'm sure everything will be accounted for."
"You don't sound sure,' Clark says before he can stop himself, freezing when all eyes turn towards him. "S-Sir." he adds, redundantly. Damn it, Kent. Bumbling farm boy, remember?
Lex looks at him, and he ducks his head. Later, Bruce mocks him mercilessly for the moment, going as far as to replay it on three screens in the batcave.
"Did you see that?" Bruce asks again, getting out of his chair and pointing. "There. Right there. You called his bluff, and he froze for just a second. He was lying."
Clark had his head in his hands, turning a nice shade of pink. "You don't think I know that, Bruce?"
"I'm thinking you were too Superman to be Clark Kent," Bruce said strangely, sitting back down in a flourish. "I'm going to call up Lexy. It's been awhile since we've have dinner."
"You're having dinner with him?" Is all he can gasp, shocked. Clark stands, fists clenching. "He almost killed me last week! Parasite-"
"He almost killed Superman," Bruce says, eyes calculating. He didn't look up from his phone, dialing some complicated number. "He'll make an exception for Bruce Wayne's squeeze of the week."
"Did-" Clark frowns as Bruce holds up a hand. "Did you just call me a squeeze, Bruce?"
"Lexy? It's Brucie!" Bruce's voice was high and flirtatious, echoing strangely in the cave. It was baffling to hear Brucie's words while Bruce still wore the Batman suit. Clark looks away before the image could get worse. "No, no I'm fine. Look, I was hoping to catch up soon. I hear you're in Metropolis-uh huh. Mhmm. Yeah, that'd be great. A tour? Oh I couldn't possibly-oh, Lexy, you're the best! Mhmm. Yeah. Bye!"
Clark stared at him once he'd hung up. "You didn't."
"Dinner's at five tomorrow," Bruce replied. He smirked, setting the phone down. "And you say I don't have a sense of humor."
"Lex Luthor is not funny."
Bruce raises an eyebrow, turning back to his work.
"Says you."
Bruce kvells about everything Lex throws in front of him during that godawful tour, making googly eyes about every little doohickey and piece of crap interface they look at it. Clark can hardly bear Lex's nasal voice anymore, whether it's because of his super hearing or just the fact that Lex's voice is really that annoying.
"...and that's how I set a new profit margin record." Lex was finishing some grand story; Bruce had been hanging on every line, rapt with attention. Clark was politely examining the product in question, squinting through the glass box.
"Body armor?" He asks. Lex nods curtly, still looking at Bruce.
"I made enough for decades on just two sales. This is the best in the world." Lex sniffs. "Not my fault the government can't afford it."
"Wow," Bruce says, "You're so mean, Lex. I love it."
Luthor preens obviously. "Well, I hate to cut our visit short, but our reservations are soon…"
"Oh, but Lexy," Bruce purred, grabbing his arm. He nodded towards a door to their left. "What's in that room? You're being so secretive."
Lex looks down at Bruce with something like lust, and Clark feels the urge to beat his body down into the earth until they reached the core. Shut the hell up, Clark. "Oh, you know I can't show you that, Bruce. The way business is between us two, as it is…"
"Oh, I just let Lucius handle all of that," Bruce waves an arm. "I don't know the difference between a NDA and DNA. Clarkie, be a dear and wait out here? We'll be just a minute, won't we, Lex?"
Lex looks down at Bruce again, obviously torn between pride and suspicion. Lust must win out again, because he smiles. "You're going to love this, Brucie."
Clark watches as Lex leads Bruce into the secure room. His x-ray vision comes in handy, and he gets the impression Bruce was counting on it. He settles against the wall, pretending to check his phone as he watches them.
"Oh, a computer!" Bruce is saying, leaning forward in front of a three-paneled monitor. "This must be where everything happens. Lex, did you build this?"
Lex smiles again, poking at a couple buttons, and Clark can't believe he falls for the Brucie act so easily, time and time again, but it seems to be his...heh...kryptonite. "Wanna see it in action?"
Clark swallows his disgust as Bruce purrs again, frowning slightly. Lex turns on the computer and begins navigating through a couple interfaces. He's seen better. Actually, he did just an hour ago-Bruce computer in the batcave was light years ahead of all of Lex's flashy toolbars and boxes.
Lex lets Bruce play with the mouse, watching him closely. Clark smirks at that-once paranoid, always paranoid. Even with Brucie. So maybe Lex wasn't as stupid as he'd thought.
Bruce clicks randomly, going through Lex's open windows. Lex humors him and enters his password, letting him play with some voice technology. Clark looks at his watch, wondering if there was a point to this.
"Lex?" Bruce asks sweetly, "Do you think you could see if Clark's still outside? I hope he didn't just wander off…"
Lex grits his teeth-Clark can see the bones creak. "I'm sure he's fine, Bruce."
"Please?" Bruce asks, batting his eyelashes. Lex isn't looking, but he's managed to navigate to what looks a lot like the sketchy Cayman Islands account page Bruce uses to move around money. "I just worry, Lexy. I wouldn't want him to miss the rest of the night! He thinks so highly of you!"
Lex forces a smile. "Sure, Bruce. I'll go look."
Clark takes that as his cue, backing into a nearby hallway. Lex stalks after him, muttering under his breath. He has to bite his tongue as Bruce drops his mask, entering a salvo of numbers into the computer. No way. No way.
A small ding seems anticlimactic for the transfer of 400 million dollars, but it's the only sign anything happened at all. Bruce erases his work and wipes Lex's tapes expertly, raising an eyebrow at Clark through the wall. Done, he mouths.
Lex takes them both to dinner, still watching Bruce too closely. Clark can't tell if it's confusion or desire, but decides he doesn't like it right between courses. He steals Bruce off to the bathroom, makes him moan against the stall, loud enough that even Lex has to hear it.
They come back rumpled, an obvious mark on Bruce's throat. Lex glares at him the whole night, but Clark can't find it in him to care. He kisses Bruce before they leave, drawing it out until even Bruce notices his possessiveness. Watch, he wanted to say. I can be petty too.
The next morning, Gotham PD receives an anonymous donation of an undisclosed amount. The scoop is fairly innocuous: Commissioner Gordon immediately orders high-scale body armor from LexCorp for the entire force. Wearing the armor becomes mandatory, effective immediately.
Since Lex's accounts weren't even in his name, there isn't much he can do about his missing money. The port buy-out derails immediately, leaving the low-income housing untouched. Lex fires half of his financial staff in one day in some bizarre witch hunt that makes papers across the country.
Clark sees him next month in Gotham, shaking Jim Gordon's hand as the Commissioner thanks him profusely for his product, posing for a picture. He looks miserable.
"You are the pettiest man I've ever met," He confesses to Bruce later that night, after they're done without round two. He holds Bruce close, breathing a little heavy. "Literally, the pettiest. You go on about right and wrong to Dick and Jason, but I know better. You think this is funny."
He pokes Bruce in the chest, making his point further. "Petty."
"What are you talking about?" Bruce asks him, but there's a curve to his lips that says he's close to smiling. "You love it though."
Clark smiles softly, carding a hand through Bruce's hair. "Maybe I do."
"Now who's lying?"
He flips them so he's on top of Bruce, leaning over him. "'Petty: characterized by an undue concern for trivial matters, especially in a small-minded or spiteful way. From the French petit, meaning little."
A quick, hot kiss, and Bruce groans under him again. "I'm not sure."
"What?"
Bruce smirks up at him. "You don't feel so little to me."
"We're talking about this tomorrow," Clark warned, leaning down. "We're going to have a discussion about lying."
"Uh huh," Bruce says, his tone constituting anything but agreement. "Do that again."
"What?"
"That thing without your hips. Right-there."
And that's that.
THE END