Chapter Text
Bruce has heard, from several reliable sources, that when Superman does a rescue job, he does it right.
(Heard is maybe stretching it. Heard implies the cops talking about it at Gotham PD Central knew Batman was listening in.)
((They did not.))
Sure, if there’s a fifteen car pile-up or a building fire, an earthquake in Tunisia or a flash flood down the Gulf Coast - big, sudden, multiple casualty events - then it's different. Then the job’s all about dragging as many living bodies as he can out of the wreckage, then it's finding a clear path for rescue workers and medical teams to get to the victims. Then, the priorities are different.
But little things - kidnappings, violent assaults, pretty-reporter-strapped-to-a-bomb threats - things like that get Superman to stick around a while longer. Stay with the victim. Get them to a police station, or a hospital, or if they’re Lois Lane - and boy, they sure are Lois Lane often - to the rooftop of the Daily Planet.
Like Bruce said: Superman does it right.
So when Bruce decides it's time to get a good, close look at Tall, Dark and Primary-Coloured, he contracts a cheap team of mercs from Bludhaven through about sixteen shell companies to kidnap Bruce Wayne, rough him up a bit, and, as a contingency, instructs them to deliver him to the Red Hood for ransom, right after depositing the ransom money in one of Jason's perfectly untouched Swiss accounts.
It's foolproof.
It doesn't go as planned.
Bruce has one hand on the steering, as he coasts into Metropolis from the exit ramp off I-77. It's a blustery fall morning, the sky scrubbed with dark clouds, and the radio splutters from static into a newscaster’s tense voice.
“-reports are just now coming in from the Fukushima prefecture of Japan, reporting waves as high as six feet crashing against the coast. Rescue teams have been dispatched by Chinese and South Korean governments,” but Bruce had stopped listening already, hitting the speed dial for Alfred.
“Master Bruce?”
“Alfred. You need to call the mercs. You need to call it off now.”
“Sir?”
“There’s a fucking tsunami! In Japan! Superman’s not going to be in Metropol-”
The armored van comes out of nowhere, slamming into the hood of Bruce’s perfectly nice Lotus and throwing him in a gut-churning tailspin. His head whips around, slams into the side of the car with a gristly thud.
When the world fades to black, it's almost a relief.
“He out?”
“Like a light. Maybe we shoulda gone easy on the dosage. He was already unconscious from the car crash.”
“And have Bruce Wayne wake up and take a look at your ugly mug? I don't think so, dumbass. Any reply from our benefactor?”
“Nothing. Man, I don't like hanging around Metropolis for this long. Ain't there anybody else who wants the rich boy?”
“...damn, Bruiser. You just had the first clever idea of your life. How does that feel?”
“Choke on my dick, ratpack.”
“I’m all yours, darling. But first, I know just the man who'd want his hands on Wayne. You know a way we can contact the Black Mask?”
“Mr. Wayne,” a voice is calling out from far away.
There's something warm against his face, and Bruce is cold, so cold, he can feel it sliding under his skin, leaching into his bones - so he cats into the touch, nuzzles quietly against the heat. “Mr. Wayne?” the voice asks, suddenly closer now, and Bruce can feel warm breath against his chin, pleasant, and faintly smelling of coal smoke and ozone.
“Mm.”
A pressure against his orbital, and his eyelids are being prised open, into an ocean of bright, Mediterranean blue. “High blood pressure, increased core temp, uneven pupil dilation,” the voice is muttering, soothing and pleasant against Bruce’s ears. There is a thumb resting just under his lip, and Bruce wants to- wants-
“Mr Wayne, I don't know if you can understand me, but you’ve been dosed with some kind of… amphetamine, at a guess. I'm going to take you to a hospital, get you checked-”
Bruce's tongue flicks out, to taste that warm, thick thumb resting so close to his mouth - salt and smoke, oh god that's good, and there's blood rushing to his cock now, and that's Superman, Superman, some part of his brain provides, impossibly strong, unbelievably gentle, Superman, who could pin him to the ground, hold him down, fuck him, use him--Bruce moans, low and trembling, sucks in the digit into the burning wet heat of his mouth, peeling his eyes open to see Superman staring at him, shocked, pupils blown, still as a statue.
Bruce's hips buck from the chair, and the screech of wood against the granite flooring of the warehouse snaps Superman out of his daze, makes him fling himself backwards, eyes wide and undeniably dark.
“Hospital,” he rasps, like he's reminding himself.
Bruce lets his eyes slip down, where the dark blue of Superman's uniform hides nothing at all, the bulge of bright crimson so starkly evident. Bruce can feel himself clench at the sight, can feel a little wet dribble out of his cock.
“Hospital,” Superman repeats firmly, and in about three dizzying, blurred seconds, Bruce is being set down gently in the ER ward of Metro General, handed off to a foul-tempered nurse, shaky and weak-kneed and painfully, uselessly hard.
Three days later, Bruce goes to the balcony of the penthouse suite at the Apollonian in downtown Metropolis, and at a voice pitched only slightly above speaking, says, “Superman. I’d like a moment of your time, if that's possible.”
He stares up into the velvet sky, and slowly sips at the scotch in his cut-crystal snifter.
Nothing.
Well, it's not like he’d expected any better.
Bruce turns around with a quiet exhale, and- and Superman drifts down in front of him.
“You called?”
Bruce raises an eyebrow. Well, what do you know. “Do you turn up everytime someone calls?”
“When it's necessary,” Superman replies evenly, and goes up a few notches in Bruce's estimation, “yes.”
“And tonight it was... ‘necessary,’” Bruce repeats slowly.
“Yes. I believe there's an apology due.”
Bruce laughs hollowly.
Jesus. Of course. Of course, Superman can't be accused of being a fucking faggot, can he?
Bruce drains the rest of the damned scotch. “Right. I- Well, I was drugged, if that's any excuse. I do apologize for any unwanted adv-”
“What?!” Superman looks horrified. “No! I meant me!”
“...I beg your pardon?”
“I was the one who- You were drugged and I- I-”
...Big Blue, reduced to blushing, stuttering eighth-grader. This is fun. The scotch is singing pleasantly in his veins, and Bruce tilts his head to the side. Smiles.
“I’m honestly so sorry for-” Ocean bright eyes, narrowing at him. He should probably be more afraid. “Are you laughing at me?”
“Maybe.” He absolutely is. “I’ve been wondering… What would you have done if I hadn't been drugged?”
Oh but Bruce knows to watch for it, and there it is now, that tell-tale flare of irises, the dark that pools in his beautiful eyes.
“What?” Clark asks, hoarse, and Bruce allows himself a slow, lethal curve of a smile.
He steps forward, wraps a hand around Clark's wrist. Lifts it to his mouth. Drags his mouth against the pad of his thumb, full of clear, undeniable intent, slow against soft lips, hot breath, the silken rasp of his tongue. Wraps his mouth around the tip of Superman's index finger, sucks it in, in, past one knuckle, then two, tongue stroking down the bottom, cheeks hollowing out, their eyes locked. Two fingers, three. His hand is tight around Superman’s wrist, right up against his heartbeat when Bruce moans around his fingers, hungry, wanting, and feels Superman’s pulse stutter and trip and soar.