Chapter Text
Bruce is…drunk. Actually drunk, not tipsy, or relaxed, but so drunk that he is starting to get dizzy. Why is he at this stupid fucking gala again?
He never drinks. He despises the taste of alcohol, and nobody really noticed, or asked him about it. Only the bolder and richer try to give him shit about it, but he tries to stay away from them as politely as he can. Years after the Flood, he still doesn’t give a shit about his public image, but if being well mannered and polite at shitty galas makes Alfred’s life easier, so be it. Bruce owns him that much.
But this gala is particularly boring and pompous, and it is so clear that the hosts, Mr. and Mrs. Gallaway, don’t give a single flying fuck about the orfanage they are supposted to be sponsoring tonight, one that Bruce himself is trying in every way he can to help not shut down because of lack of funds, that he is starting to lose his mind. That, and the fact that the image of him having to get the corpses of three street kids he spoke frequently with, out of the sewers with his bare hands is engraved behind his eyelids.
He is exhausted. He couldn't sleep, and didn’t, too focused on trying to find the culprit, but he had to come to this self-proclaimed ‘charity’ gala, because as much as he doesn’t like the Gallaways as people, he knows they don’t steal the money they gather at these events.
So, there he is, not even two hours into the gala and he is trying not to claw his own hair out. It might be his exhaustion thinking for him, but he isn’t driving himself home, so he made his way to the open bar, sat the furthest away from whomever else was sitting on the stools, back to the wall, and started drinking.
The last time he remembers drinking that much was five years prior, after he went out as The Batman for the first time, on the eighteenth anniversary of his parent’s death. He was sick the whole day afterwards, with Alfred hovering over him, but he remembers that night with a weird mix of grief and…fondness. And with a much higher quality alcohol to drown his sorrows in.
He is trying to think about ways to make himself disappear as stealthy as he can when someone sits right next to him. He doesn’t remember crossing his arms on the wooden countertop and smushing his face between them, but he knows it’s not Alfred next to him.
Dark blue slacks of opaque polyester, gray trainers, a leather messenger bag. It takes him way more than usual to connect the dots, but the second he does he snaps his head up, trying not to fall from his seat.
“Oh, I’m sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”
Clark.
Sweet, intelligent, tired Clark, whom Bruce has been head over heels in love with for the better part of three years, and who still doesn’t know that Bruce is Batman, even though Bruce has known he’s Superman from the very first time Clark came in his office for an interview a year and a half ago, because his super effective way of masking his identity is fucking glasses-
“Clark.” Bruce rasps out, his vision a bit blurred around the edges. He has no filters, he feels it, but he just can’t remember why he needs them around Clark. He’s his best friend, the best person he has ever met, the most caring and beautiful being Bruce has ever laid eyes on-
“Oh, Mister Wayne, I didn’t recognize you at first,” Clark smiles, his dimples popping, and holy shit-
“You’re so pretty, what the fuck.” Bruce hears himself slur out.
Oh no, oh no, no, no, no.
Clark opens his mouth, stunned, turning red all over his cheeks and nose. Bruce didn’t know he could get even more handsome, he wants to see him blush for the rest of his life, holy fucking shit.
“And you're so smart, I read all of your art- articles.” Bruce turns his whole body towards him without even thinking about it, using only one of his elbows to hold his torso up and not topple face first into the ground.
“And you're so kind, too, you shouldn’t be so kind to people.” Bruce’s own brain is screaming at him to shut the fuck up, but his mouth seems to be directly linked to the deepest, most enamoured part of himself, because he can’t shut up. Not when Clark is right in front of him, with his curls all messy from the day, shoulder relaxed and face so red and adorably confused- “You shouldn't be kind to me, I’m a dick.”
Clark smiles again, softer this time, with the same patient face he puts on when Richard uses him as his personal jungle gym.
“You’re not a dick, but you are drunk,” He snorts, standing up beside him and telegraphing his movements until he puts his big, warm hands on Bruce's shoulders, helping him sit up properly. “Is Mister Pennyworth around? You should go home.”
Bruce leans his head back, staring up at him.
“No, wait, I’m doin’ this wrong, fuck.” He slurs, again, slowly and subconsciously leaning his whole weight on Clark’s side.
Bruce turns, facing Clark properly now and trying to focus on his speech, and not just how huggable Clark looks. The world is spinning around him, and his hungover is going to be a bitch, but. He’s never been so close to him, and it’s all his fault, because Bruce should not be close to him. Should not think about him this way. It’s dangerous, but.
“Will you go out with me?”
“Mister Wayne-”
“Doesn’t have to be dinner, we can do whatever you’re comfortable with” I just want to be with you, whenever, anywhere, for the rest of my life. “I know I’m– me, but. I– I can…listen.”
Clark sighs, his shoulders slumping. The softness in his face turns even warmer, so much that he almost looks…fond. But something is missing, something that Sober Bruce has been painfully aware of for the better part of three years.
“You’re very kind, Mister Wayne. That is clear to me,” Clark turned his head towards the center of the room, where Alfred is making their way towards them, perfect suit and polished cane, “but I do have a girlfriend.”
Oh. That’s what he was forgetting.
“But I’d love to be your friend, if you’ll have me.” Clark smiles another blinding smile, and even though Bruce’s insides are twisting in every direction he can’t be angry at him, how could he? It is all Bruce’s fault.
The rest of the night is a blur.
Somehow he gets to his bed, his mind a blur of blue eyes and curly hair, and he succumbs to a dreamless sleep, not thinking about what is coming next.