Sometimes, Always, Never

Clark Kent doesn't own many suits.

There's the one he keeps for the usual occasions: weddings, funerals and assignments to the city's endless procession of galas and fundraisers. The others are a mish-mash collection of pants and shirts and blazers, sport coats and off-the-rack suit jackets, whatever fits across his shoulders and isn't too short in the arm. These have a habit of losing their buttons or getting torn. Or stained, or burned, or sliced to ribbons. Sometimes they're salvageable, caught on a telephone wire or abutment or fluttering in the breeze above the Metropolis skyline, but mostly not.

Honestly, it costs Clark a small fortune, but the integrity of his clothes or his wallet tends to be the last thing on his mind when he hears a panicked shout, gunfire, screaming.

He doesn't think much of it, day to day. The Daily Planet bullpen is all slacks and rolled-up shirtsleeves, where nobody minds if your shirt is 65% polyester and you got a bit of your lunch down your five-dollar tie. But tonight Perry's got him covering a high-society charity soirée, so out comes Clark's Sunday best.

It cost him the best part of his first paycheck. Technically, it's a ready-to-wear affair with a serendipitous cut that he took to a tailor for some minor adjustments. Hardly bespoke, but it fits better than any suit he's ever owned, bar one. It's classic black gabardine, flat across his shoulders and smooth down his chest, a half-inch of linen at his wrists. It accentuates his physique more than he'd like, but he can't bring himself to slouch while he's wearing it.

He combs his hair, slides on his glasses and grins at the mirror. "Look at you, Smallville," he says, and then ruins the line of the jacket by putting his voice recorder in one pocket.

It's approaching midnight when Clark thinks about wrapping it up; most folks have had enough champagne that any further thoughts they have on the Southside regeneration projects are somewhat fuzzy at best and meandering into interminable anecdotes about people Clark has never even heard of at worst. He's outside loosening his tie when a vintage Aston Martin pulls up, and there's a commotion among the glitterati who have drifted onto the front steps throughout the evening.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," one of them says dryly. "Fashionably late, as always."

"He's here for last week's party," another says, laughing.

The man unfolds himself from the back seat of the vehicle and smooths down his coat. And that, Clark thinks, is an expensive suit. It's easy to tell, even to an inexperienced eye: rich black wool over a black shirt and a charcoal silk tie that sets off the touch of gray at the man's temples. It's an exceptional fit; it moves with him like a second skin—it doesn't ride up or rumple or crease in the wrong places as he raises a hand to the straggle of remaining photographers. Clark doesn't even want to think about what it might have cost.

"Gentlemen," the man says with a warm smile and eyes that are harder than flint, and heads to the foyer, passing Clark on the way.

He stops short, turns around and gives Clark a long, considering look, head to toe then back up again. It is thoroughly embarrassing in a way Clark can't put his finger on, only that he hasn't felt like such a country bumpkin since his first week in Metropolis.

This time the lopsided smile touches the man's eyes, though it's only a fraction friendlier for it. "Kind of a faux pas, son," he says, then slides a finger inside Clark's jacket, runs it down and unfastens the last button.

The man was apparently Bruce Wayne, to Clark's surprise—and to Perry's deep despair, when it arose that Clark had spoken to him and yet has nothing useful to show for it. And no, Kent, fashion tips don't count.

Which is probably why he's being assigned to each and every high-profile socialite gathering that Perry gets wind of. If Clark has to eat one more experimental variation on a smoked salmon canapé this week he will genuinely cry. These ones appear to be mousse extruded into salmony ribbons on postage-stamp-sized bruschetta, and if anybody ever needed proof that there is no God, Clark would present that as exhibit A.

Exhibit B would be when he spots Bruce Wayne, impeccably groomed, cufflinks and collar pin glinting under the crisp gallery lights as he gestures in conversation with an attentive woman. Wayne catches Clark's eye before he can look away, and the man raises his eyebrows as if to say: really?

That is when Clark remembers that he's wearing the same suit as last time they met. He feels heat rise in his face, along with an indignation because honestly, not everyone can afford a rotating wardrobe of tailored Italian three-piece suits with fluid, unbroken lines, shot through with pinstripes that... accentuate an obviously great body. Wide shoulders, narrow hips, and—

Clark realizes that he's staring and covers it by shoving the canapé into his mouth. He regrets it pretty much instantly; firstly because it's like eating fishy soapsuds and secondly because Wayne is heading right at him.

He swallows, makes eye contact and in an act of defiance, fastens the last button of his jacket.

Wayne raises his eyebrows again and shakes his head very slightly. "Bruce Wayne," he says and offers his hand. "I believe we've almost met."

Clark takes his hand with caution. His knuckles are dappled with faded bruising, which is interesting. Bruce Wayne strikes him as the kind of man who might start a fight, but wouldn't necessarily stick around to see it through. "Clark Kent, Daily Planet."

Wayne gives him a single, firm shake and then slides the hand into his pants pocket, breaking the sleek lines of his suit with casual indifference. "You look a little out of your depth, Mr. Kent," Wayne says. His gaze drops from Clark's face to his tie and then to the buttons of his jacket. Clark hears the faintest stutter in his breath, a fractional uptick in his heart rate. "How about we blow this joint?"

"You'll talk to me? Give me an interview?" Clark asks, carefully. He has absolutely no idea what to make of this—whether his minor sartorial rebellion has incensed Wayne somehow, or if he's signaled something that he didn't entirely intend.

Not entirely.

Wayne leans in, voice low and dark in Clark's ear, a spark of roughness like metal on a grindstone. "Sure, I'll talk to you."

Which is how Clark ends up in this ridiculous automobile with its mirrored windows and cream leather upholstery, while its owner, who is apparently as indiscreet and indiscriminate as the tabloids like to imply, splays over the back seat and tells him to take his goddamn jacket off.

"I like this jacket," Clark tells him as he unfastens the top button and wonders if he's making probably the worst career decision of his life. "It's my best jacket."

Wayne just takes Clark's lapel and tugs him over. He doesn't kiss him (Clark suspects they are not going to kiss, which is somehow disappointing but also a relief as he's pretty sure his breath smells of salmon) but grates the stubble of his cheek against Clark's chin and then encourages him to climb across his lap. Clark has to duck his head and arch over to fit against the low ceiling of the car.

"It's a nice jacket," Wayne says up at him, which is obviously not what he thinks at all, though Clark appreciates the tact even if it's low-effort, "but it's too tight on you."

"It's hard to find anything that fits."

"I can see that." There's a faint note of approval in Wayne's voice that makes Clark shiver. Wayne's hand slides up the tail of his jacket and tugs his shirt loose from the waistband of his pants. Clark experiences a split-second of hesitation even though he knows he's not wearing the suit, but Wayne's hand is warm, flattened against the skin he's bared at the small of Clark's back. A heat uncoils through Clark's body; he shifts his hip and pushes up closer like the hand at his back wants him to.

Wayne makes another approving noise, and presses back in response. Clark can't help but watch the shift of fabric, the way the pinstripes of Wayne's suit distort around his erection.

"I could give you the name of my tailor," Wayne says, rocking slow, just enough to gather some friction but nothing more. His cologne is strong in Clark's nose, rich and spicy, activated by the heat from his skin. There's also a low note of something like engine grease riding under the decadent fragrance, something metallic and earthy. It's weird, but Clark can't quite get his brain to focus on it right now.

"That's, that's really not what… " Clark loses his thread as his hands fumble at Wayne's jacket, slipping the buttons. He spreads it open, and his vest, surrounding Wayne in satin lining against the leather upholstery. He tries his luck with the tiny buttons on his dress shirt, but Wayne pushes him off and encourages him to wrap a hand around his tie instead. The fabric is smooth and cool in Clark's fist; he takes a hold and presses that hand against the headrest to keep the tie in tension and Wayne pinned to the seat.

"You'd look good in blue, with a stripe." Wayne grins, a white slash of teeth in the semi-dark, and Clark hears the gentle shush of a zipper being pulled open. Wayne's hand touches him. "American cut, but double vents, maybe."

Clark inhales shallowly and closes his eyes. He hears a second zipper. "I have no idea what that means," he says, then Wayne's hand is around them both, pressing them together and Clark doesn't know what to do with his other hand so he just pushes it into Wayne's hair, messing it up without meaning to, not really.

"I know," Wayne says tightly, and Clark bucks into his hand, rising in counterpoint to Wayne rocking under him in that maddeningly steady rhythm, the slip of wool over their thighs and the close heat of their bodies. It doesn't take long, not when Wayne keeps palming at Clark's hip with his free hand, fingers running over the waistband of his pants, just barely skimming his stomach.

"Oh—" Clark gasps. Wayne holds him still, giving him no choice but to come over the crisp white of his dress shirt. "God."

Wayne closes his eyes, gives both of them a couple more firm jerks, and does the same.

"Jeez, I'm sorry, your shirt," Clark says, patting at his pockets for a handkerchief, but Wayne waves him off.

"It's fine, Mr. Kent." Wayne fastens his vest and then the jacket over the whole mess. Clark is kind of enthralled and also kind of feeling sorry for whoever does his dry cleaning. Wayne combs his hair back into place with his fingers and then straightens Clark's tie for him. "Is there somewhere I can drop you off?"

"Uh, that's okay," Clark says, leaning to open the car door. He feels a little dazed. "Thank you, but I could do with some air."

Perry is about as happy as expected to hear that once again, Clark got nothing from Wayne, and no, Kent, fashion tips don't count, this ain't Vogue.

The parcel doesn't help.

"If I‘ve told you once," Perry says, slapping it onto Clark's desk, "I've told you a thousand times. Don't get your eBay junk sent here."

"Sorry, chief," Clark says. He fixes Perry with a smile he hopes is both charming and contrite until he wanders off to give an intern a rousing pep talk over their lede. Clark slides his glasses down his nose so he can take a look at what's inside.

It stops him short. Folds of fabric samples, mostly dusky blues and grays, both pinstriped and plain. There's also business card, embossed with a tailor's logo but with neat, blunt handwriting on the back:

Do me a favor and get yourself properly fitted. It's on me.

FYI: the Gotham Charity Ball is next month.

BW

Bruce Wayne owns a lot of suits.

Italian cut Caraceni in navy, wool-silk blend; a London three-piece charcoal business suit with silk tie; Savile Row tuxedo with crisply starched shirt, bow-tie, cufflinks. Every conceivable combination of cuff and collar, stripe and check, button and lining. An entire drawer of collar pins and tie clips. They might be expensive, the collection vast, but fact is they're just costumes. Artifice.

That's not to say he doesn't like them—there is, after all, nothing quite like a man in a good suit—but their primary function is to give Bruce Wayne, who has been constructed with as much attention to detail as any part of his ensemble, a certain verisimilitude. None of them have been spared a drink down the front at one point or another.

His best suit, though, the one that, if pressed (pressed very hard), he'll admit has a borderline fetishistic importance, that suit is worth more than all of them put together. As black as Gotham's darkest shadow, tighter than his own skin, it's a kevlar and leather creature that helps keep the howling void of his heart from collapsing him into a black hole.

It's armor. It's a weapon. It's the truth of him.

Kent turns down his gift, of course. He sends a letter, hand-written and carefully worded—oh, so carefully worded—as though he fears Bruce will read it as a rejection of more than just the suit.

But Bruce is excellent at reading between the lines, and can only be pleased by the show of integrity even if Kent is wavering on the interpersonal side of things. He may project an air of youth, but is not as easily malleable as Bruce first thought. He is not as naive as he seems. Bruce is familiar with such fronts, and it makes him wonder what secret Kent might be hiding.

It is by no means important that he find out, but Bruce is not one to ignore a mystery, nor back down from a challenge.

He chooses to be more punctual for engagements on his own turf, as it's the kind of thoughtless self-centredness that people expect from him. The car pulls up and he closes his eyes briefly, takes a breath and prepares to go through the motions. Slink out of the back seat, button his jacket. Shake with whomever offers a hand; pause halfway up the hotel steps and smile, vacant and glassy-eyed, to the paparazzi. Enter Bruce Wayne, stage right.

It's black tie tonight so his outfit didn't need much consideration. Midnight evening suit, bow-tie imperfectly fastened—just slightly off, barely noticeable but subtle enough to make him seem more approachable than usual; he's the louche playboy this evening, not the acerbic big-shot. He has a feeling in his gut, a low-key portent that he trusts well, so there are also narrow blades in the seams, smokescreen tabs in hidden pockets, a tranq dart up his sleeve.

He takes a flute of champagne from a passing tray, turns to mingle with the hall of suits and low-backed dresses and extravagant glitter, and instead is presented with Clark Kent in profile, standing across the floor, gesturing with a canapé to an entertained-looking woman.

Bruce's heart skips. This is the first clue that he has misjudged something. The second clue comes a fraction of a second later when Kent stops mid-sentence and turns to look directly at him, precisely where he stands among all the other identical black ties in the room.

Bruce watches as Kent says a few words to his lady friend, all self-deprecating smiles and apologetic gestures: work, you know? Then he's striding towards Bruce, extending his hand before he's even a half-dozen paces away, gauche and unassuming as though he hadn't just pinpointed Bruce in a crowded room before he could even take a breath.

And, of course, he's wearing that same cheap goddamn suit. With a bow-tie this time, which is emphatically not an improvement.

Bruce takes his hand, fixes a smile on his face and draws him in close to mutter in his ear, "Dial it back a bit, son. I have a reputation to maintain."

"And we all know how much you value your reputation, Mr. Wayne," is Kent's soft reply, eyes sharp behind the glasses. Still, he drops Bruce's hand, takes a step back. "I wanted to thank you," he says, more warmly. "In person. It was a generous gesture, but you understand why I couldn't—"

"Of course," Bruce says. He talks slightly over Kent's shoulder, brief reconnaissance while he figures out his next move. He reaches a decision, licks his lips. "We can discuss this in private, if you like. I have the penthouse suite booked." Smile, friendly pat on the shoulder. Exit stage left.

"And I just wanted to make sure you knew," Kent says, a little flustered as Bruce edges him into the corner of the elevator. "I didn't think you were trying to, to buy me, or…"

Bruce grasps the elevator bars either side of Kent's arms, caging him in. Their reflections spread into infinity along the mirror walls, that damned suit reflected over and over again, too tight across his chest, twisted around his wide arms, creased at his hips. "Good," he says. "Because I'm not."

"It's just, ethically," Kent says. The elevator dings at the seventh floor and Bruce leans in and applies a bit more pressure in the form of his lips near Kent's mouth. He's panicking a little, and if he's going to slip, it will be now. "Mr. Wayne. Mr. Wayne, please."

But Kent doesn't try to physically move him or move around him, or any otherwise interesting tricks. The doors slide open, and he sags with relief when he sees there's nobody waiting to witness this little indiscretion of his.

"Please, what?"

Kent just lets out a breath and a nervous laugh, and tugs at Bruce's lapel. The doors glide shut again and the elevator continues upward.

The room is predictably ostentatious: low-lit gold and cream, thick pile and polished surfaces. Outside the immense windows, Gotham shimmers beneath them like a smoke haze. Kent takes it all in with unadorned delight and it kind of pisses Bruce off that the fresh-faced farmboy thing isn't actually an act.

(He's done a little research: Clark Joseph Kent is a Kansas boy through and through. Apparently.)

"This thing is probably bigger than my actual bedroom," Kent says. He leans onto the bed and makes the mattress dip.

Bruce sighs internally and unfastens the button of his jacket, sits on the edge of the bed and gestures for Kent to come closer. He does, obedient in a way that sets Bruce's teeth on edge, because he can tell that is more like an act. It's frustrating, trying to get a solid read on the guy.

"Take that damn jacket off," Bruce says.

Kent smiles wide as he slips the buttons then shrugs it to the floor, and Bruce knows that he has been waiting for him to say that.

"You wore it deliberately." Bruce tugs Kent's shirt free from the waistband of his slacks. "Didn't you?"

"I told you, it's my best jacket."

"It's not a jacket, it's a crime." Bruce slides his palm under Kent's shirt, against the flat of his stomach; he feels the shift of muscle at Kent's gentle laugh. He'd be well-built for a physical trainer. For a reporter, he's outright ludicrous. Bruce's chest tightens with suspicion even as he pushes the shirtcloth aside, even as he cups Kent's hips and lowers his head to kiss his stomach, as he mouths at his warm, unscarred skin.

He hears Kent's breath hitch, and again when Bruce presses the heel of his hand over him, already firming under the gabardine of his pants.

"On your knees," Bruce says quietly, his mouth against the arch of Kent's hipbone.

He splays his legs and Kent drops between them, fingers shaking a little as he unfastens Bruce's fly. His glasses are slightly askew. Bruce goes to adjust them or take them off maybe, but Kent ducks his head away. "Don't," he says, clipped.

"Why not?" Bruce asks. It's roused his suspicion further, but not enough to ruin the evening. He tries again, fingertips brushing a lens before Kent jerks away again.

"Because without them I'm blind," Kent says, his hand around Bruce's cock, warm and still. He fixes Bruce with a steady gaze. "As a bat."

It's a common turn of phrase. Bruce shakes off the sudden spike of adrenaline and grins lazily, holding both hands up in mock surrender. Kent thins his lips but starts sliding his hand down Bruce's cock, which means Bruce can sigh and loll his head back and make indulgent, distracting noises.

"Good," he murmurs, when Kent finally puts his mouth on him. He's clumsy, obviously hasn't done this before but he's trying hard to please, and something about that is threatening Bruce's control. His heart skips again, putting a dent in his iron resolve, and again he gets that feeling that he's misjudged something, he's missed some critical clue.

(He does this very infrequently, contrary to the prurient speculation in the gossip rags. And never with the same person twice, never—)

"Up," Bruce says, and then gestures for Kent to lean in so Bruce can unfasten his bow-tie and tug his collar open and drag his mouth against Kent's neck until his stubble's warmed his skin. He hooks his thumb into the placket of Kent's shirt. "Get this off."

Kent leisurely unbuttons, eyes flicking between Bruce's mouth and his cock, wet and curved against the dark of his suit. "You're really into this, huh?" he says. He shrugs off the shirt to reveal a body that would put a pantheon of Grecian sculptures to shame.

It's not untrue, but Bruce isn't the only one who's hard here. Kent is flushed from cheekbones to chest, the fall of his pants conspicuously interrupted. Bruce just raises an eyebrow as Clark gets back to his knees.

He touches Kent's face as he sucks him, runs his thumb across Kent's strong jaw, softly pats his cheek to let him know he's doing good, he's learning. By the time Kent figures out what to do with his tongue, Bruce is almost there anyway. It edges him over to think on it; he has to pull himself from between Kent's lips so he can come over the hard curve of his collarbone and the hollow of his throat.

Kent jerks himself while Bruce watches, one hand splayed over Bruce's leg, pulling the fabric taut. His mouth is slack. Bruce rubs his thumb across his lower lip. "Tell me what you're thinking about."

"You," Kent says, and licks at Bruce's thumb. "Last time, in the car."

"What about it?"

"I—wanted to kiss you."

"Why didn't you?"

"I don't know." Kent's face is tight as he works at himself. "I didn't think—didn't think you would—"

Bruce takes his chin, tips his head back and kisses him firmly, holding him like that until he finishes shuddering and gasping against Bruce's mouth. He lets go and Kent goes lax, leaning in to rest his cheek against the inside of Bruce's thigh.

Bruce pets his hair while making a show of checking his watch and trying not to be enamored. "Listen, I have to go say a few words downstairs soon. Get yourself cleaned up."

"I have a question," Bruce says, as they stand in the elevator foyer. The bell dings and the doors slide open. "Downstairs, earlier. How did you mark me so quickly?"

Kent starts almost imperceptibly, and his expression becomes carefully still. Then he shrugs and offers what is definitely a disarming smile. "I'm not sure. I just knew."

"Out of an entire hall full of people."

Kent nods and steps into the elevator. Bruce doesn't follow; he'll take the adjacent one. "Well, you know. Some questions are hard to answer," Kent says, pressing at the panel of buttons. He pauses, indecision plain in the furrow of his brow, then holds the doors before they slide completely shut. "For instance, why are you armed to the teeth, Bruce Wayne?"

The Bat crouches atop one of Gotham's spires, looking out over his city, waiting. It was pretty damned obvious, in retrospect, and he would feel like an idiot if the guy hadn't fooled the rest of the world along with him. Still, for his efforts, he's managed to learn a few things that he doubts anyone else knows.

(He thinks about Kent wanting to kiss him, and his heart skips.

It doesn't take long for him to be found.)

"Hey," Superman says as he touches down next to him. "Nice suit."